VINCENT: In good faith, uncle, as for the shame, you shall need to
take no more pains. For I suppose surely that any man who hath
reason in his head shall hold himself satisfied with this.
But, of truth, uncle, all the pinch is in the pain. For as for
shame, I perceive well now that a man may with wisdom so master it
that it shall nothing move him at all--so much so that it is become
a common proverb in almost every country that "shame is as it is
taken." But, by God, uncle, all the wisdom in this world can never
so master pain but that pain will be painful, in spite of all the
wit in this world!
ANTHONY: Truth it is, cousin, that no man can, with all the reason
he hath, in such wise change the nature of pain that in the having
of pain he feel it not. For unless it be felt, perdy, it is no
pain. And that is the natural cause, cousin, for which a man may
have his leg stricken off at the knee and it grieve him not--if his
head be off but half an hour before!
But reason may make a reasonable man not to shrink from it and
refuse it to his more hurt and harm. Though he would not be so
foolish as to fall into it without cause, yet upon good
causes--either of gaining some kind of great profit or avoiding
some kind of great loss, or eschewing thereby the suffering of far
greater pain--he would be content and glad to sustain it for his
far greater advantage and commodity.
And this doth reason alone in many cases, where it hath much less
help to take hold of than it hath in this matter of faith. For you
know well that to take a sour and bitter potion is great grief and
displeasure, and to be lanced and have the flesh cut is no little
pain. Now, when such things are to be ministered either to a child
or to some childish man, they will by their own wills let their
sickness and their sore grow, unto their more grief, till it become
incurable, rather than abide the pain of the curing in time. And
that for faint heart, joined with lack of discretion. But a man who
hath more wisdom, though without cause he would no more abide the
pain willingly than would the other, yet, since reason showeth him
what good he shall have by the suffering, and what harm by refusing
it, this maketh him well content and glad also to take it.
Now then, if reason alone be sufficient to move a man to take pain
for the gaining of worldly rest or pleasure and for the avoiding of
another pain (though the pain he take be peradventure more, yet to
be endured but for a short season), why should not reason, grounded
upon the sure foundation of faith, and helped toward also with the
aid of God's grace--as it ever is, undoubtedly, when folk for a
good mind in God's name come together, our Saviour saying himself,
"Where there are two or three are gathered together in my name,
there am I also even in the very midst of them." Why should not
then reason, I say, thus furthered with faith and grace, be much
more able first to engender in us such an affection, and afterward,
by long and deep meditation thereof, so to continue that affection
that it shall turn into a habitual purpose, fast-rooted and deep,
of patiently suffering the painful death of this body here in earth
for the gaining of everlasting wealthy life in heaven and avoiding
of everlasting painful death in hell?
VINCENT: By my troth, uncle, I can find no words that should have
any reason with them--faith being always presupposed, as you
protested in the beginning, for a ground--words, I say, I can find
none with which I might reasonably counter-plead this that you have
said here already.
But yet I remember the fable that Æsop telleth of a great old hart
that had fled from a little bitch, which had made pursuit after him
and chased him so long that she had lost him, and (he hoped) more
than half given him over. Having then some time to talk, and
meeting with another of his fellows, he fell into deliberation with
him as to what it were best for him to do--whether to run on still
and fly farther from her, or to turn again and fight with her. The
other hart advised him to fly no farther, lest the bitch might
happen to find him again when he would be out of breath by the
labour of farther fleeing, and thereby all out of strength too, and
so would he be killed lying where he could not stir himself.
Whereas, if he would turn and fight, he would be in no peril at
all. "For the man with whom she hunteth," he said, "is more than a
mile behind her. And she is but a little body, scant half so much
as thou, and thy horns can thrust her through before she can touch
thy flesh, by more than ten times her tooth-length." "By my troth,"
quoth the other hart, "I like your counsel well, and methinketh
that the thing is even soothly as you say. But I fear me that when
I hear once that cursed bitch bark, I shall fall to my feet and
forget all together. But yet, if you will go back with me, then
methinketh we shall be strong enough against that one bitch between
us both." The other hart agreed, and they both appointed them
thereon. But even as they were about to busk them forward to it,
the bitch had found the scent again, and on she came yalping toward
the place. And as soon as the harts heard her, off they went both
twain apace!
And in good faith, uncle, even so I fear it would fare by myself
and many others too. Though we think it reason, what you say, and
in our minds agree that we should do as you say--yea, and
peradventure think also that we would indeed do as you say--yet as
soon as we should once hear those hell-hounds the Turks come
yalping and howling upon us, our hearts should soon fall as clean
from us as those other harts fled from the hounds.
ANTHONY: Cousin, in those days that Æsop speaketh of, though those
harts and other brute beasts had (if he say sooth) the power to
speak and talk, and in their talking power to talk reason too, yet
they never had given them the power to follow reason and rule
themselves thereby. And in good faith, cousin, as for such things
as pertain to the conducting of reasonable men to salvation, I
think that without the help of grace men's reasoning shall do
little more. But then are we sure, as I said before, that if we
desire grace, God is at such reasoning always present and very
ready to give it. And unless men will afterward willingly cast it
away, he is ever ready still to keep it and glad from time to time
to increase it. And therefore our Lord biddeth us, by the mouth of
the prophet, that we should not be like such brutish and
unreasonable beasts as were those harts, and as are horses and
mules: "Be not you like a horse and a mule, that hath no
understanding." And therefore, cousin, let us never dread but what,
if we will apply our minds to the gathering of comfort and courage
against our persecutions, and hear reason and let it sink into our
heart and cast it not out again (nor vomit it up, nor even there
choke it up and stifle it with pampering in and stuffing up our
stomachs with a surfeit of worldly vanities), God shall so well
work with it that we shall feel strength therein. And so we shall
not in such wise have all such shameful cowardous hearts as to
forsake our Saviour and thereby lose our own salvation and run into
eternal fire for fear of death joined therein--though bitter and
sharp, yet short for all that, and (in a manner) a momentary pain.
VINCENT: Every man, uncle, naturally grudgeth at pain, and is very
loth to come to it.
ANTHONY: That is very true, and no one biddeth any man to go run
into it, unless he be taken and cannot flee. Then, we say that
reason plainly telleth us that we should rather suffer and endure
the less and the shorter pain here, than in hell the sorer and so
far the longer too.
VINCENT: I heard of late, uncle, where such a reason was made as
you make me now, which reason seemed undoubted and inevitable to
me. Yet heard I lately, as I say, a man answer it thus: He said
that if a man in this persecution should stand still in the
confession of his faith and thereby fall into painful tormentry, he
might peradventure happen, for the sharpness and bitterness of the
pain, to forsake our Saviour even in the midst of it, and die there
with his sin, and so be damned forever. Whereas, by the forsaking
of the faith in the beginning, and for the time--and yet only in
word, keeping it still nevertheless in his heart--a man might save
himself from that painful death and afterward ask mercy and have
it, and live long and do many good deeds, and be saved as St. Peter
was.
ANTHONY: That man's reason, cousin, is like a three-footed
stool--so tottering on every side that whosoever sits on it may
soon take a foul fall. For these are the three feet of this
tottering stool: fantastical fear, false faith, and false
flattering hope.
First, it is a fantastical fear that the man conceiveth, that it
should be perilous to stand in the confession of the faith at the
beginning, lest he might afterward, through the bitterness of the
pain, fall to the forsaking and so die there in the pain, out of
hand, and thereby be utterly damned. As though, if a man were
overcome by pain and so forsook his faith, God could not or would
not as well give him grace to repent again, and thereupon give him
forgiveness, as he would give it to him who forsook his faith in
the beginning and set so little by God that he would rather forsake
him than suffer for his sake any manner of pain at all! As though
the more pain that a man taketh for God's sake, the worse would God
be to him! If this reason were not unreasonable, then should our
Saviour not have said, as he did, "Fear not them that may kill the
body, and after that have nothing that they can do further." For he
should, by this reason, have said, "Dread and fear them that may
slay the body, for they may, by the torment of painful death
(unless thou forsake me betimes in the beginning and so save thy
life, and get of me thy pardon and forgiveness afterward) make thee
peradventure forsake me too late, and so be damned forever."
The second foot of this tottering stool is a false faith. For it is
but a feigned faith for a man to say to God secretly that he
believeth him, trusteth him, and loveth him, and then openly, where
he should to God's honour tell the same tale and thereby prove that
he doth so, there to God's dishonour flatter God's enemies as much
as in him is, and do them pleasure and worship, with the forsaking
of God's faith before the world. And such a one either is faithless
in his heart too, or else knoweth well that he doth God this
despite even before his own face. For unless he lack faith, he
cannot but know that our Lord is everywhere present, and that,
while he so shamefully forsaketh him, he full angrily looketh on.
The third foot of this tottering stool is false flattering hope.
For since the thing that he doth, when he forsaketh his faith for
fear, is forbidden by the mouth of God upon the pain of eternal
death, though the goodness of God forgiveth many folk for the
fault, yet to be bolder in offending for the hope of forgiving is a
very false pestilent hope, with which a man flattereth himself
toward his own destruction.
He who, in a sudden turn for fear or other affection, unadvisedly
falleth, and after, in labouring to rise again, comforteth himself
with hope of God's gracious forgiveness, walketh in the ready way
toward his salvation. But he who with the hope of God's mercy to
follow, doth encourage himself to sin, and thereby offendeth God
first--I have no power to keep the hand of God from giving out his
pardon where he will (nor would I if I could, but rather help to
pray for it), but yet I very sorely fear that such a man may miss
the grace to ask it in such effectual wise as to have it granted.
Nor can I now instantly remember any example or promise expressed
in holy scripture that the offender in such a case shall have the
grace offered afterward, in such wise to seek for pardon that God,
by his other promises of remission promised to penitents, would be
bound himself to grant it. But this kind of presumption, under
pretext of hope, seemeth rather to draw near on the one side (as
despair doth, on the other) toward the abominable sin of blasphemy
against the Holy Ghost. And against that sin, concerning either the
impossibility or at least the great difficulty of forgiveness, our
Saviour himself hath spoken in the twelfth chapter of St. Matthew
and in the third chapter of St. Mark, where he saith that blasphemy
against the Holy Ghost shall never be forgiven, neither in this
world nor in the world to come.
And where the man that you speak of took in his reason an example
of St. Peter, who forsook our Saviour and got forgiveness
afterward, let him consider again on the other hand that he forsook
him not upon the boldness of such a sinful trust, but was overcome
and vanquished by a sudden fear. And yet, by that forsaking, St.
Peter won but little, for he did but delay his trouble for a little
while, as you know well. For beside that, he repented forthwith
very sorely that he had so done, and wept for it forthwith full
bitterly. He came forth at the Whitsuntide ensuing, and confessed
his Master again, and soon after that, he was imprisoned for it.
And not ceasing so, he was thereupon sore scourged for the
confession of his faith, and yet after that imprisoned again
afresh. And, being from thence delivered, he stinted not to preach
on still until, after manifold labours, travails, and troubles, he
was in Rome crucified and with cruel torment slain.
And in like wise I think I might (in a manner) well warrant that no
man who denieth our Saviour once and afterward attaineth remission
shall escape through that denial one penny the cheaper, but that he
shall, ere he come to heaven, full surely pay for it.
VINCENT: He shall peradventure, uncle, afterward work it out in
the fruitful works of penance, prayer, and almsdeed, done in true
faith and due charity, and in such wise attain forgiveness well
enough.
ANTHONY: All his forgiveness goeth, cousin, as you see well, but
by "perhaps." But as it may be "perhaps yea," so may it be "perhaps
nay," and where is he then? And yet, you know, he shall never, by
any manner of hap, hap finally to escape from death, for fear of
which he forsook his faith.
VINCENT: No, but he may die his natural death, and escape that
violent death. And then he saveth himself from much pain and so
winneth much ease. For a violent death is ever painful.
ANTHONY: Peradventure he shall not avoid a violent death thereby,
for God is without doubt displeased, and can bring him shortly to
as violent a death by some other way.
Howbeit, I see well that you reckon that whosoever dieth a natural
death, dieth like a wanton even at his ease. You make me remember a
man who was once in a light galley with us on the sea. While the
sea was sore wrought and the waves rose very high, he lay tossed
hither and thither, for he had never been to sea before. The poor
soul groaned sore and for pain thought he would very fain be dead,
and ever he wished, "Would God I were on land, that I might die in
rest!" The waves so troubled him there, with tossing him up and
down, to and fro, that he thought that trouble prevented him from
dying, because the waves would not let him rest! But if he might
get once to land, he thought he should then die there even at his
ease.
VINCENT: Nay, uncle, this is no doubt, but that death is to every
man painful. But yet is not the natural death so painful as the
violent.
ANTHONY: By my troth, cousin, methinketh that the death which men
commonly call "natural" is a violent death to every may whom it
fetcheth hence by force against his will. And that is every man
who, when he dieth, is loth to die and fain would yet live longer
if he could.
Howbeit, cousin, fain would I know who hath told you how small is
the pain in the natural death! As far as I can perceive, those folk
that commonly depart of their natural death have ever one disease
and sickness or another. And if the pain of the whole week or twain
in which they lie pining in their bed, were gathered together in so
short a time as a man hath his pain who dieth a violent death, it
would, I daresay, make double the pain that is his. So he who dieth
naturally often suffereth more pain rather than less, though he
suffer it in a longer time. And then would many a man be more loth
to suffer so long, lingering in pain, than with a sharper pang to
be sooner rid. And yet lieth many a man more days than one, in
well-near as great pain continually, as is the pain that with the
violent death riddeth the man in less than half an hour--unless you
think that, whereas the pain is great to have a knife cut the flesh
on the outside from the skin inward, the pain would be much less if
the knife might begin on the inside and cut from the midst outward!
Some we hear, on their deathbed, complain that they think they feel
sharp knives cut in two their heartstrings. Some cry out and think
they feel, within the brainpan, their head pricked even full of
pins. And those who lie in a pleurisy think that, every time they
cough, they feel a sharp sword snap them to the heart.