Under Decius and Valerius, the persecutors, at the time when Cornelius at
Rome, and Cyprian at Carthage, were condemned in blessed blood, a cruel
tempest swept over many Churches in Egypt and the Thebaid.
Christian subjects in those days longed to be smitten with the sword for
the name of Christ. But the crafty enemy, seeking out punishments which
delayed death, longed to slay souls, not bodies. And as Cyprian himself
(who suffered by him) says: “When they longed to die, they were not
allowed to be slain.” In order to make his cruelty better known, we have
set down two examples for remembrance.
A martyr, persevering in the faith, and conqueror amid racks and red-hot
irons, he commanded to be anointed with honey and laid on his back under
a burning sun, with his hands tied behind him; in order, forsooth, that
he who had already conquered the fiery gridiron, might yield to the
stings of flies.
* * * * *
In those days, in the Lower Thebaid, was Paul left at the death of both
his parents, in a rich inheritance, with a sister already married; being
about fifteen years old, well taught in Greek and Egyptian letters,
gentle tempered, loving God much; and, when the storm of persecution
burst, he withdrew into a distant city. But
“To what dost thou not urge the human breast
Curst hunger after gold?”
His sister’s husband was ready to betray him whom he should have
concealed. Neither the tears of his wife, the tie of blood, or God who
looks on all things from on high, could call him back from his crime. He
was at hand, ready to seize him, making piety a pretext for cruelty. The
boy discovered it, and fled into the desert hills. Once there he changed
need into pleasure, and going on, and then stopping awhile, again and
again, reached at last a stony cliff, at the foot whereof was, nigh at
hand, a great cave, its mouth closed with a stone. Having moved which
away (as man’s longing is to know the hidden), exploring more greedily,
he sees within a great hall, open to the sky above, but shaded by the
spreading boughs of an ancient palm; and in it a clear spring, the rill
from which, flowing a short space forth, was sucked up again by the same
soil which had given it birth. There were besides in that cavernous
mountain not a few dwellings, in which he saw rusty anvils and hammers,
with which coin had been stamped of old. For this place (so books say)
was the workshop for base coin in the days when Antony lived with
Cleopatra.
Therefore, in this beloved dwelling, offered him as it were by God, he
spent all his life in prayer and solitude, while the palm-tree gave him
food and clothes; which lest it should seem impossible to some, I call
Jesus and his holy angels to witness that I have seen monks one of whom,
shut up for thirty years, lived on barley bread and muddy water; another
in an old cistern, which in the country speech they call the Syrian’s
bed, was kept alive on five figs each day. These things, therefore, will
seem incredible to those who do not believe; for to those who do believe
all things are possible.
But to return thither whence I digressed. When the blessed Paul had been
leading the heavenly life on earth for 113 years, and Antony, ninety
years old, was dwelling in another solitude, this thought (so Antony was
wont to assert) entered his mind—that no monk more perfect than he had
settled in the desert. But as he lay still by night, it was revealed to
him that there was another monk beyond him far better than he, to visit
whom he must set out. So when the light broke, the venerable old man,
supporting his weak limbs on a staff, began to will to go, he knew not
whither. And now the mid day, with the sun roasting above, grew fierce;
and yet he was not turned from the journey he had begun, saying, “I trust
in my God, that he will show his servant that which he has promised.”
And as he spake, he sees a man half horse, to whom the poets have given
the name of Hippocentaur. Seeing whom, he crosses his forehead with the
salutary impression of the Cross, and, “Here!” he says, “in what part
here does a servant of God dwell?” But he, growling I know not what
barbarous sound, and grinding rather than uttering, the words, attempted
a courteous speech from lips rough with bristles, and, stretching out his
right hand, pointed to the way; then, fleeing swiftly across the open
plains, vanished from the eyes of the wondering Antony. But whether the
devil took this form to terrify him; or whether the desert, fertile (as
is its wont) in monstrous animals, begets that beast likewise, we hold as
uncertain.
So Antony, astonished, and thinking over what he had seen, goes forward.
Soon afterwards, he sees in a stony valley a short manikin, with crooked
nose and brow rough with horns, whose lower parts ended in goat’s feet.
Undismayed by this spectacle likewise, Antony seized, like a good
warrior, the shield of faith and habergeon of hope; the animal, however,
was bringing him dates, as food for his journey, and a pledge of peace.
When he saw that, Antony pushed on, and, asking him who he was, was
answered, “I am a mortal, and one of the inhabitants of the desert, whom
the Gentiles, deluded by various errors, worship by the name of Fauns,
Satyrs, and Incubi. I come as ambassador from our herd, that thou mayest
pray for us to the common God, who, we know, has come for the salvation
of the world, and his sound is gone out into all lands.” As he spoke
thus, the aged wayfarer bedewed his face plenteously with tears, which
the greatness of his joy had poured forth as signs of his heart. For he
rejoiced at the glory of Christ, and the destruction of Satan; and,
wondering at the same time that he could understand the creature’s
speech, he smote on the ground with his staff, and said, “Woe to thee,
Alexandria, who worshippest portents instead of God! Woe to thee, harlot
city, into which all the demons of the world have flowed together! What
wilt thou say now? Beasts talk of Christ, and thou worshippest portents
instead of God.” He had hardly finished his words, when the swift beast
fled away as upon wings. Lest this should move a scruple in any one on
account of its incredibility, it was corroborated, in the reign of
Constantine, by the testimony of the whole world. For a man of that
kind, being led alive to Alexandria, afforded a great spectacle to the
people; and afterwards the lifeless carcase, being salted lest it should
decay in the summer heat, was brought to Antioch, to be seen by the
Emperor.
But—to go on with my tale—Antony went on through that region, seeing only
the tracks of wild beasts, and the wide waste of the desert. What he
should do, or whither turn, he knew not. A second day had now run by.
One thing remained, to be confident that he could not be deserted by
Christ. All night through he spent a second darkness in prayer, and
while the light was still dim, he sees afar a she-wolf, panting with heat
and thirst, creeping in at the foot of the mountain. Following her with
his eyes, and drawing nigh to the cave when the beast was gone, he began
to look in: but in vain; for the darkness stopped his view. However, as
the Scripture saith, perfect love casteth out fear; with gentle step and
bated breath the cunning explorer entered, and going forward slowly, and
stopping often, watched for a sound. At length he saw afar off a light
through the horror of the darkness; hastened on more greedily; struck his
foot against a stone; and made a noise, at which the blessed Paul shut
and barred his door, which had stood open.
Then Antony, casting himself down before the entrance, prayed there till
the sixth hour, and more, to be let in, saying, “Who I am, and whence,
and why I am come, thou knowest. I know that I deserve not to see thy
face; yet, unless I see thee, I will not return. Thou who receivest
beasts, why repellest thou a man? I have sought, and I have found. I
knock, that it may be opened to me: which if I win not, here will I die
before thy gate. Surely thou shalt at least bury my corpse.”
“Persisting thus he spoke, and stood there fixed:
To whom the hero shortly thus replied.”
“No one begs thus to threaten. No one does injury with tears. And dost
thou wonder why I do not let thee in, seeing thou art a mortal guest?”
Then Paul, smiling, opened the door. They mingled mutual embraces, and
saluted each other by their names, and committed themselves in common to
the grace of God. And after the holy kiss, Paul sitting down with Antony
thus began—
“Behold him, whom thou hast sought with such labour; with limbs decayed
by age, and covered with unkempt white hair. Behold, thou seest but a
mortal, soon to become dust. But, because charity bears all things, tell
me, I pray thee, how fares the human race? whether new houses are rising
in the ancient cities? by what emperor is the world governed? whether
there are any left who are led captive by the deceits of the devil?” As
they spoke thus, they saw a raven settle on a bough; who, flying gently
down, laid, to their wonder, a whole loaf before them. When he was gone,
“Ah,” said Paul, “the Lord, truly loving, truly merciful, hath sent us a
meal. For sixty years past I have received daily half a loaf, but at thy
coming Christ hath doubled his soldiers’ allowance.” Then, having
thanked God, they sat down on the brink of the glassy spring.
But here a contention arising as to which of them should break the loaf,
occupied the day till well-nigh evening. Paul insisted, as the host;
Antony declined, as the younger man. At last it was agreed that they
should take hold of the loaf at opposite ends, and each pull towards
himself, and keep what was left in his hand. Next they stooped down, and
drank a little water from the spring; then, immolating to God the
sacrifice of praise, passed the night watching.
And when day dawned again, the blessed Paul said to Antony, “I knew long
since, brother, that thou wert dwelling in these lands; long since God
had promised thee to me as a fellow servant: but because the time of my
falling asleep is now come, and (because I always longed to depart, and
to be with Christ) there is laid up for me when I have finished my course
a crown of righteousness; therefore thou art sent from the Lord to cover
my corpse with mould, and give back dust to dust.”
Antony, hearing this, prayed him with tears and groans not to desert him,
but take him as his companion on such a journey. But he said, “Thou must
not seek the things which are thine own, but the things of others. It is
expedient for thee, indeed, to cast off the burden of the flesh, and to
follow the Lamb: but it is expedient for the rest of the brethren that
they should be still trained by thine example. Wherefore go, unless it
displease thee, and bring the cloak which Athanasius the bishop gave
thee, to wrap up my corpse.” But this the blessed Paul asked, not
because he cared greatly whether his body decayed covered or bare (as one
who for so long a time was used to clothe himself with woven palm
leaves), but that Antony’s grief at his death might be lightened when he
left him. Antony astounded that he had heard of Athanasius and his own
cloak, seeing as it were Christ in Paul, and venerating the God within
his breast, dared answer nothing: but keeping in silence, and kissing his
eyes and hands, returned to the monastery, which afterwards was occupied
by the Saracens. His steps could not follow his spirit; but, although
his body was empty with fastings, and broken with old age, yet his
courage conquered his years. At last, tired and breathless, he arrived
at home. There two disciples met him, who had been long sent to minister
to him, and asked him, “Where hast thou tarried so long, father?” He
answered, “Woe to me a sinner, who falsely bear the name of a monk. I
have seen Elias; I have seen John in the desert; I have truly seen Paul
in Paradise;” and so, closing his lips, and beating his breast, he took
the cloak from his cell, and when his disciples asked him to explain more
fully what had befallen, he said, “There is a time to be silent, and a
time to speak.” Then going out, and not taking even a morsel of food, he
returned by the way he had come. For he feared—what actually
happened—lest Paul in his absence should render up the soul he owed to
Christ.
[Picture: Paul, the first Hermit]
And when the second day had shone, and he had retraced his steps for
three hours, he saw amid hosts of angels, amid the choirs of prophets and
apostles, Paul shining white as snow, ascending up on high; and forthwith
falling on his face, he cast sand on his head, and weeping and wailing,
said, “Why dost thou dismiss me, Paul? Why dost thou depart without a
farewell? So late known, dost thou vanish so soon?” The blessed Antony
used to tell afterwards, how he ran the rest of the way so swiftly that
he flew like a bird. Nor without cause. For entering the cave he saw,
with bended knees, erect neck, and hands spread out on high, a lifeless
corpse. And at first, thinking that it still lived, he prayed in like
wise. But when he heard no sighs (as usual) come from the worshipper’s
breast, he fell to a tearful kiss, understanding how the very corpse of
the saint was praying, in seemly attitude, to that God to whom all live.
So, having wrapped up and carried forth the corpse, and chanting hymns of
the Christian tradition, Antony grew sad, because he had no spade,
wherewith to dig the ground; and thinking over many plans in his mind,
said, “If I go back to the monastery, it is a three days’ journey. If I
stay here, I shall be of no more use. I will die, then, as it is fit;
and, falling beside thy warrior, Christ, breathe my last breath.”
As he was thinking thus to himself, lo! two lions came running from the
inner part of the desert, their manes tossing on their necks; seeing whom
he shuddered at first; and then, turning his mind to God, remained
fearless, as though he were looking upon doves. They came straight to
the corpse of the blessed old man, and crouched at his feet, wagging
their tails, and roaring with mighty growls, so that Antony understood
them to lament, as best they could. Then not far off they began to claw
the ground with their paws, and, carrying out the sand eagerly, dug a
place large enough to hold a man: then at once, as if begging a reward
for their work, they came to Antony, drooping their necks, and licking
his hands and feet. But he perceived that they prayed a blessing from
him; and at once, bursting into praise of Christ, because even dumb
animals felt that he was God, he saith, “Lord, without whose word not a
leaf of the tree drops, nor one sparrow falls to the ground, give to them
as thou knowest how to give.” And, signing to them with his hand, he
bade them go.
And when they had departed, he bent his aged shoulders to the weight of
the holy corpse; and laying it in the grave, heaped earth on it, and
raised a mound as is the wont. And when another dawn shone, lest the
pious heir should not possess aught of the goods of the intestate dead,
he kept for himself the tunic which Paul had woven, as baskets are made,
out of the leaves of the palm; and returning to the monastery, told his
disciples all throughout; and, on the solemn days of Easter and
Pentecost, always clothed himself in Paul’s tunic.
I am inclined, at the end of my treatise, to ask those who know not the
extent of their patrimonies; who cover their houses with marbles; who sew
the price of whole farms into their garments with a single thread—What
was ever wanting to this naked old man? Ye drink from a gem; he
satisfied nature from the hollow of his hands. Ye weave gold into your
tunics; he had not even the vilest garment of your bond-slave. But, on
the other hand, to that poor man Paradise is open; you, gilded as you
are, Gehenna will receive. He, though naked, kept the garment of Christ;
you, clothed in silk, have lost Christ’s robe. Paul lies covered with
the meanest dust, to rise in glory; you are crushed by wrought sepulchres
of stone, to burn with all your works. Spare, I beseech you, yourselves;
spare, at least, the riches which you love. Why do you wrap even your
dead in golden vestments? Why does not ambition stop amid grief and
tears? Cannot the corpses of the rich decay, save in silk? I beseech
thee, whosoever thou art that readest this, to remember Hieronymus the
sinner, who, if the Lord gave him choice, would much sooner choose Paul’s
tunic with his merits, than the purple of kings with their punishments.
* * * * *
This is the story of Paul and Antony, as told by Jerome. But, in justice
to Antony himself, it must be said that the sayings recorded of him seem
to show that he was not the mere visionary ascetic which his biographers
have made him. Some twenty sermons are attributed to him, seven of which
only are considered to be genuine. A rule for monks, too, is called his:
but, as it is almost certain that he could neither read nor write, we
have no proof that any of these documents convey his actual language. If
the seven sermons attributed to him be really his, it must be said for
them that they are full of sound doctrine and vital religion, and worthy,
as wholes, to be preached in any English church, if we only substitute
for the word “monk,” the word “man.”
But there are records of Antony which represent him as a far more genial
and human personage; full of a knowledge of human nature, and of a
tenderness and sympathy, which account for his undoubted power over the
minds of men; and showing, too, at times, a certain covert and “pawky”
humour which puts us in mind, as does the humour of many of the Egyptian
hermits, of the old-fashioned Scotch. These reminiscences are contained
in the “Words of the Elders,” a series of anecdotes of the desert fathers
collected by various hands; which are, after all, the most interesting
and probably the most trustworthy accounts of them and their ways. I
shall have occasion to quote them later. I insert here some among them
which relate to Antony.