the sand from the oratory. It was hard work for a body weakened by
long fasting, and as he labored the sweat ran down his body and fell
from his face in drops into the sand. He labored all morning and on,
with flagging strength, into the afternoon; but before he had half
cleared the chamber he was breathless and exhausted. Meanwhile
Serapion had been scooping away the sand outside the cell with his
hands and had brought to light some of the stones of the ruined wall
and also a wooden door and a great earthenware trough. They rested
for a while in the shadow of the cell and ate and drank a little,
"for," Serapion said, "when the body labors for the soul it is worthy
of its hire. To-morrow," he continued, "you must pile these loose
stones into a heap ready to hand for rebuilding, for if you do not
the sand will soon bury them again. But, as you see, we have found
none of the old roofing. The thatch has long since been scattered by
the winds and who knows what has happened to the fallen beams. But
two miles westward from here there is a grove. It is the place of
which I told you, where there is a spring at which I fill my water
skin. There you can cut some new beams for your roof and gather
reeds or grass for the thatch. There, too, you will find fallen palm
leaves for your weaving. Take up the ax and we will set out now.
There I shall leave you, for I must go back to my cell. There is no
wind, and will not be to-day or to-night, so you will easily find
your way back here by following our footprints. But first let us
move the loaves and water skin into the oratory and set up the door
to close the entrance."
When this had been done, Malchus and Serapion set out slowly through
the burning sand.... Malchus stood alone under tall palm trees whose
fans wove a shady roof overhead. There were other trees, too, and
parched herbage and spiny thickets. The ground was strewn with
fallen palm leaves and here and there a fallen tree or a broken
branch. The pool of the water spring was parched dry; withered
leaves stuck like scabs to its white stones. Not a breath stirred.
A silence more awful than the open silence of the desert held the
place under a spell. Malchus felt himself crushed by the weight of
its solitude. Serapion had just left him, carrying with him a great
bunch of dry palm leaves which he had collected for his weaving, and
Malchus, standing there alone, felt that there was no longer any
reason for living. For some minutes he stood immovable, lost in a
mournful revery; then with a great effort he flung off his oppression
as if it had been a physical burden and took up the ax.
He chose a fallen bough of suitable thickness and began to lop off
the twigs and then to hack it into equal lengths. The wood was hard
and the loud ring of the ax broke profanely on the silence. He cut
three roof timbers; it was the most he could carry; and he realized
for the first time how many journeys to the grove he would have to
make before he had collected enough wood to cover his roof. Now he
hoisted the three timbers on to his shoulders, and, straightening his
back, began to move away. Burdened as he was, his feet plowed deeply
into the loose sand and several times he had to throw down the
timbers to ease his bruised shoulders.
By the time he had come within the sight of his cell the light was
reddening toward sunset. The scene before him reminded him of that
other sunset when Serapion had gone away to fill the water skin. The
same process would repeat itself now--the brief glaring holocaust of
earth and heaven, and then the ashen death which so quickly followed
it, and Malchus remembered the grim wraith which had taken substance
before his eyes out of the sand. But Serapion had warned him not to
allow his mind to indulge in idle imaginings, and, having thrown down
his burden, he began to collect together some of the scattered stones
of the ruin into an orderly pile. But before he could do much the
light faded and he lifted away the door from the entrance of the
oratory, went in, and, having set up the door again behind him, began
to pray. It had been a strenuous day, and body and soul thrilled
with a sense of accomplishment. He prayed easily and joyfully,
asking for strength and blessing in the life that lay before him.
As the rolling tracts of desert stretched every way from the small
point of earth which was his cell, so, it seemed to Malchus, his
future life stretched forward into the years, clear and smooth from
the moment in which he stood. He confronted it calmly, and a sense
of greatness--the greatness of time and of space and the great spaces
of the spirit before which the other greatnesses are as
nothing--filled his soul. He rose refreshed from his prayer, and
having eaten a loaf he lay down to sleep, for Serapion had warned him
that during the period in which he labored daily at the rebuilding of
his cell it would be necessary for him to take more food and sleep
than at other times.
Throughout all that time Malchus lived contented, his energy divided
between prayer and hard bodily labor. His body was healthy with the
daily toil and his mind, sufficiently occupied by the work, kept
clean and limpid; the turbid sediment of past miseries, vain regrets,
and tormenting desires, had sunk away into unconsciousness. The cell
growing daily before his eyes, the difficulties of inexperience
confronted and solved, the expeditions to the grove for wood and
later for stones--for he used up all the stones he could find near
the cell and still needed more--kept his life free from monotony, and
it was not until, after many weeks, the work was nearing completion
that he remembered that the life he was living was not the hermit's
life, but only the preparation for it. Then he began to look forward
with something like fear to the day when all would be finished, for
then there would again be a great emptiness in his life. Then he
would stand face to face with himself once more and it would need all
his strength to live worthily in the sight of God. Then would come
an end, or almost an end, to his journeys to the grove and his life
outside his cell, for Serapion had told him that the hermit must
never leave his cell except in case of necessity. Malchus knew that
the life he was leading at present was not in itself profitable, for
though it protected him from evil, it did not enable him to advance
in spiritual excellence. It was a life apart from good or evil, like
the life of an animal: and, thinking how calm and even pleasant it
had become to him, he remembered how Serapion had said that it was
not well, except for a very little while, for the soul to be at rest.
That night he awoke in sudden fear with the sense that evil was close
to him, and next morning he saw that the sand round about his cell
was pitted by many footprints. They were the footprints of
cloven-footed creatures. One of them, larger it seemed than the
rest, had entered the doorless outer chamber and had stood at the
very door of the oratory, and Malchus, knowing that the powers of
evil were drawing closer about him, thenceforward forced himself to
work and pray more strenuously and to eat and sleep less.
[Illustration: woodcut]
[Illustration: woodcut]
_Chapter
Ten_
And with the end of the labor of building came the end of
contentment; for now all the easy purposes had gone out of his life
and there remained only the high purpose of the hermit, too remote
and difficult, it seemed, except for the rare moments of ecstasy.
For some time he lived sunk in a profound depression. His body,
deprived of healthy labor, rose up and tormented him. He prayed for
long hours both day and night, but no comfort came to him from his
prayers and it seemed to him that time had swept onward and left him
stagnating, body and soul, in a shallow pool. His cell became
hateful to him, and the weaving with which he tried to combat
idleness was now a joyless drudgery. He felt nothing of that
spiritual zeal which he had hoped would come to him when he had
finally laid aside all worldly cares. Far from it. His life grew
torpid and inert, lower than the life of the lowest beasts. His soul
was an empty husk, his body vile, and his mind, emptied of all living
occupation, began more and more to lose itself in the past. Old
memories crowded about him and imprisoned him in their ghostly being
and it was only by a fierce and exhausting watchfulness that he was
able to drive them off. But they took revenge upon him by returning
to him in his sleep, and he would wake horror-stricken from long
rambling dreams of feasts and, worse, of sudden meetings with Helena
or one of his earlier loves. One night Helena stood close beside him
and touched him, sending a shudder through his flesh, half rapture
and half terror, and he awoke suddenly with the sense of her
penetrating every bone in his body. His cell was dark and cold as a
tomb; a terrible silence held the desert and he felt the invisible
presence of evil waiting breathless to fasten upon him. He sprang up
and, beating his breast with his clenched fists, he prayed with a
loud voice to shut out the unendurable silence. Could it be that in
the sight of God a man was responsible even for his dreams? The
violence of his nature was roused once again. By a great effort he
threw off the deadly torpor which oppressed him and resolved to
submit himself to a still more rigorous rule of life. Thereafter he
ate only once in two days and slept for three hours only in
forty-eight. He left his cell only once, at dawn, for his need, and
when he did so he covered his face with his cloak for fear that the
beauty of the world should weaken his spirit; and, that no opening
should be left through which idle thoughts and waking dreams could
assail him, he set himself an unalterable routine of recitation,
prayer, meditation, and manual labor.
So he lived for many weeks; but in vain. For even when he had so
schooled his body that his mouth and belly had almost ceased to
clamor for water and food, his mind tormented him by urging him
continually to go out from his cell, and whenever he ate or drank,
the evil spirit of unrest tempted him, whispering, "Sip a little more
water and eat another small crust of bread, for when these are
finished it will be necessary for you to go out and seek more." But
one morning, when only three more loaves remained, he opened the door
of his cell and found a sackful of loaves leaning against it; and he
took in the loaves, understanding that they had been sent for a sign
that he must not leave his cell. But next day, when he was weaving,
he finished the last of the palm leaves, and the spirit of unrest
said, "Now at least you must go out, for unless you collect more
leaves you will be without work for your hands." But Malchus
hardened his resolve and, taking the largest mat he had woven, he
picked it to pieces and so provided himself with enough material for
many days' work. But soon he had finished the last drop of his
supply of water and the spirit of unrest within him was glad, because
now he would have to go to the grove to draw water, since man cannot
live for long without water. But Malchus was strict with himself and
determined that he would wait for a whole day without water, so that
he might discover beyond doubt if it was God's will that he should go
out of his cell. And throughout the next day no water came; his lips
and tongue were parched and even the little water in the trough had
been sucked up by the heat, so that he could not soak the leaf strips
for his weaving. Then joy sprang into his heart and he took down the
water skin and went out into the sunlight.
The day was still mild and it was a relief to move his cramped limbs
and to gaze once again into the pure, unconfined freedom of the
desert. The air was clean and cool against his skin and he recalled
that moment in the green hollow when he had lowered himself slowly
and rapturously into the pool. His progress was slow because of the
deep, powdery sand and the weakness of his body, but it had now
become natural to him that the ground on which he walked should
always be sand, and he plodded on undistressed till the delightful
green of the grove came in sight, and then took him to its shadowy
heart. The spring, as he had expected, was flowing again. Where the
white, parched stones had been, a crystal basin stood brimful, and
the spell of the water had called up a fresh leafy fringe about it
with flowers springing up among the green. Sprays of silver bubbles
twirled up through the dark, clear, solid water. It was as if the
spirit of peace and coolness had taken form in a crystal. Malchus
sat down by the spring and wept. He made no attempt to restrain his
tears, but allowed them to flow on, finding a relief in them as
though all the hard and stubborn things in his heart were melting
away. After he had sat there for a long time he rose and filled the
water skin and, laying it down by the spring, he began to collect the
fallen palm leaves. And as he roved from palm tree to palm tree with
his eyes continually on the ground, the pleasure-lover in him kept
asking him why he should not always live in this grove and why
Serapion should not live there, too. What had they gained by living
solitary in the barren desert that they could not have gained by
living here? Then the fanatic in him showed him to himself as the
great saint depending on no earthly support whether of human love,
earthly beauty or pleasant food and drink; and, thinking of the weeks
during which he had lived in solitude and of the exiguous diet he had
endured, he grew reconciled to his arid life, for was he not already
of that company of chosen souls whose lives are beautiful in the
sight of God?
He had collected enough palm leaves, and now he raised his eyes from
the ground. He had wandered a long way from the spring, and,
hoisting the bunch of leaves on his shoulder, he turned and began to
make his way back to it, for there he had left the water skin. When
he reached the spring he was astonished to see a man sitting beside
it. His hair was grizzled; he was almost an old man. Two newly
skinned pelts lay on the ground beside him. He had laid them with
the inward sides uppermost to dry in the sun. The livid surfaces
shone like polished granite and flies buzzed loudly about them.
"Where do you come from?" Malchus asked him, "and how long have you
been in the desert?"
"I am a hunter, as you see," the stranger replied, "and I have been
in this country for eleven months. During all that time you are the
first man I have seen."
The two, unwilling to part in that inhuman solitude, stayed long in
talking, their eyes scanning each other as if in wonder at the sight
of a human creature. At length, with a sigh Malchus took up his
water skin and, full of sadness and discouragement, journeyed toward
his cell. When his knees began to fail under him and it became
necessary for him to rest a little, he threw down his burden and,
lying down beside it, fell into a melancholy meditation. Then he
rose to his knees and smiting himself upon the face cried out: "O
Malchus, well may you think that you have done nothing, for you have
not endured even the solitude of this hunter, who is a man of the
world and no hermit." And he went on his way even more slowly than
ever, for despair was upon him, and he felt a great reluctance to
return to his cell. It was as though during those few hours of
liberty he had escaped into another world--a tender world of green
leaves, running water, and human sympathy--and at the first sight of
his cell across the sandhills he felt like one returning to prison.
Yet he knew that it was his true self which was driving him back and
which told him now that he had sinned that day in lingering beyond
what was necessary in the grove and delaying in talk with the
hunter....
With the night, as if it were the instant sign of his relapse, the
creatures of darkness gathered about his cell, howling in a dismal,
mocking chorus, answered by wilder shrieks from the distance, as
though other hordes were hastening up from the heart of the desert.
Once there was a beating upon his door, as if the evil spirits, grown
bolder, were clamoring for entrance. Then a long silence; and
Malchus listened, his forehead wet with fear, for he knew that the
demons had not departed, but were lurking silent about him. Suddenly
some soft, light thing struck him on the face. He flung out his arms
in terror and loathing, and there followed a wild beating of hands
against the bars of his window. He dared not raise his voice for
fear he should betray the corner in which he cowered; but he prayed
silently, fervently, and without remission, often making the holy
sign upon the darkness. Then, as if tortured by the sign, the
creatures set up their howls again. It seemed that they were all
round the cell; he could hear them breathing and buffeting against
the door. It was not until the dawn was near that all became silent
again, and now it seemed that the silence was empty. The evil
spirits had gone. Malchus, exhausted by fear and the urgency of his
praying, fell asleep.
Many hours later he awoke to a gentle, continuous noise, as if heavy
drops were pattering on the sand or the sands themselves on every
side were seething and shuffling with a life of their own. His fears
leaped up once more, but when he opened his eyes he saw that the sun
was shining. The honest light of day restored his courage and he
rose and opened the door of his cell. His heart leaped to his
throat, but next moment he was reassured, for when he had realized
what he saw it was harmless enough. A large flock of sheep was
passing his door. The expanse of broad, woolly backs spread before
him, each with its own agitated movement. It was like the Nile in
flood, its surface broken into hundreds of muddy waves and eddies.
At the edges of the flock he saw the meek shaven heads, and here and
there the pink strip of a panting tongue. The rank, oily smell of
fleeces filled the air. An old shepherd was leading them--the only
upright figure in the humble crowd--and seeing Malchus at his door,
he turned aside to speak to him, sitting down by the cell with his
back against its wall. He was a Lybian and it was with some
difficulty that they conversed. The flock, deprived of its leader,
stood still, and as Malchus and the shepherd talked, their talk was
accompanied by a chorus of melancholy bleating. Above its long
droning rose individual voices of every tone from the deep and
guttural to the plaintive wail. It was a sound infinitely hopeless,
like the crying of children led into captivity.
"What are you doing here in the desert?" Malchus asked the shepherd.
"There is nothing here for your sheep to eat."
"I am taking them down to the marsh of Scete to eat the green herb,"
the shepherd replied. "My village is twenty miles from here, and
once a year, after the flooding of the river, we lead the flocks down
to eat of the herb. Now they are hungry and exhausted, as you see,
but I hope to bring them to the marsh by midnight."
He wore a little bag slung about his shoulders, and now he pulled it
round on to his lap and opened it. Malchus saw that it contained a
bunch of some kind of greenery. "What is this?" he asked.
"This is my food," the old man replied.
"And have you nothing else to eat?"
The shepherd shook his head. "For the last thirty years," he
answered, "I have eaten nothing else. I eat once a day and drink as
much water as I need. By living thus I am more free than if my body
needed the food which can be found only in villages and human
habitations. I am free, too, of the need of money and I give the
wages paid me by the owner of the sheep to those of my people who
need it." While speaking the shepherd had risen to his feet, and the
wide expanse of woolly backs, as if in response to his movement, was
stirred once again by numberless agitations. Then Malchus fell down
at the feet of the shepherd: "O my father," he wailed, "I imagined in
my pride that I had attained to abstinence, but you are worthy of a
greater reward than I, for I have eaten bread which is made for me by
others and have drunk water which another has drawn for me."
The old man looked down upon Malchus in bewilderment, and then as if
wishing to escape, turned and moved slowly upon his way. And
immediately the flock began to advance, jostling together and then
expanding; then, closing together again, it settled into its habitual
density, following the slow steps of its shepherd.
"When do you return?" Malchus shouted after the old man.
The shepherd slowly turned his head. "You will not see me again," he
shouted back. "They will graze along the marsh northward for several
days and we shall return another way."
Soon the faintest sound of them had drained away into the silence of
the desert, and by noon even the sight of them was no more than a
pale irregular stain on a linen cloth....
During that day Malchus found that his despair, so far from having
been relieved by his recent escape from solitude, had increased.
Pondering in his cell upon his meetings with the hunter and the
shepherd, he understood that God had driven him out of his cell in
order that he might learn from them that all he had achieved in the
life of solitude and fasting was in itself nothing and that others
had accomplished much more in the mere course of their business; and
as he examined his life, he knew that, for all his desire to pursue
excellence, it was stagnant. Yet what else could he do but pray?
Despair came upon him, and thenceforward he was even more restless
than before. He found himself inventing small reasons to leave his
cell, and when he had set his mind against them he felt none of the
triumph of conquest, but only a darker despair. And more and more he
was tormented by dreams, dreams that rose from his buried desires,
setting before him fearful temptations to which sometimes he yielded
with a frenzied self-abandonment. Then he awoke with the terror of
sin upon him and the dreadful certainty that evil--evil in the
material form of horrible physical presences--was closing inexorably
about him. In the worst of all these dreams it seemed that his whole
life had become a mockery and a snare. It was the familiar scene of
a feast at the house of Diocles, the scene that haunted him so
persistently. He himself, in the dream, kept changing from the old
Malchus to Malchus the hermit; for his impulse was to obey his
desires, but when he began to do so immediately a freezing fear held
him back. And all the material things of his dream changed, too,
from one nature to another. He reached out his hand to a peach, but
when it touched his lips it was changed to vileness and corruption.
The wine in his glass turned in his mouth to mud and sand. Last of
all, Helena, leaping from one of the couches as the girl Thaïs had
done at that last feast in the house of Diocles, came across the
dining hall toward him with her lovely, half-mocking smile. He
smiled back at her, stretching out his arms; but, when she drew
nearer, a white terror like leprosy laid hold of him and he thrust
her off, covering his face with one hand. But Helena forced herself
upon him, bending over him, weighing upon him; and gazing up at her
in mortal terror, he saw that she had changed to a vile hag with
parched skin and bleared and yellow eyes. He struggled wildly. A
great weight on his chest smothered his cries, but at length he broke
through the dream into consciousness as through a thicket of
terrifying deceits. He was awake now, but still some foul creature
was fastened upon him. He felt its weight; the filthy stench of it
sickened him. He thrust out his hands and they touched coarse hair.
Then a great cry burst from him and he was free. Close under his
window a loud howling broke out. Showers of sand fell upon his face
and the door of his cell swung to and fro on its hinges. He sprang
to his feet and ran out in terror into the open. There he was
received into clouds of wind-blown sand, and, rushing on through the
storm, he descended the slope, half running and half falling, to the
level ground below. He ran on in the blind hope that he was running
toward Serapion, and at last, stumbling in the clogging sand, he fell
on his face and lay where he fell, insensible.
[Illustration: woodcut]
_Chapter
Eleven_
When he came to himself the night was gone. The dawn, an
unfathomable dome of cool yellow flame, towered immensely above the
yellow aisles and ambulatories of the desert.