St. Anthony had been sent a long way off to preach; [185] by the way
fatigue overtook him, and he found hospitality for a few days in a
monastery by the way. Later in the evening came a Protestant [186] and
asked hospitality, and he also was received, because you know there
are many Protestants who are very good; and, besides that, if the
man needed hospitality the monks would give it, whoever he might be.
The monks were all in their cells by an early hour in the evening,
but the Protestant walked up and down the corridors smoking.
Suddenly through the cracks and the keyhole and all round the lintel
of the door he saw a bright light issue where anon all was dark;
it seemed as if the cell was on fire. 'One of the good monks has set
fire to his bedclothes!' he said, and looked through the keyhole. What
did he see? on the open book from which a father who was kneeling
before it had been taking his meditations stood a beautiful Child
whom it filled you with love to look at, and from Whom shone a light
too bright to bear.
Anxious to obtain a better view of the glorious sight the Protestant
knocked at the door; St. Anthony, for it was he, called to him to
come in; but instantly the vision vanished.
'Who was that Child who was talking to you?' asked the Protestant.
'The Divine Infant!' answered St. Anthony with the greatest simplicity.
The next night the Protestant, curious to know if the Child would
appear again, again walked up and down the corridor smoking, keeping
his eye on the door of St. Anthony's cell; nor was it long before
the same sight met his eye, but this time he was led to prolong his
converse with the saint. The next night there was the same prodigy,
and that night they sat up all night talking.
When morning came he told the father abbot he wished to make his
adjuration and join the order, and he finally took the habit in
that monastery.
5
They say there was once a poor man who had paid what he owed for
his ground. You know the way is, that when a man has gathered in his
harvest and turned a little money then he pays off what he owes. This
man paid for his ground as soon as he had made something by his
harvest, but the seller did not give him any receipt. Soon after the
owner died, and his son came to ask for the money over again. 'But I
paid your father,' said the poor man. 'Then show your receipt,' said
the son. 'But he didn't give me one,' answered the poor man. 'Then
you must pay me,' insisted the new proprietor.
'What shall I do! what shall I do!' exclaimed the poor man in
despair. 'St. Anthony, help me!' He had hardly said the words when
he saw a friar [187] coming towards him.
'What's the matter, good man?' said the friar, 'that you are so
distressed: tell me.' And the poor man told him all the story of
his distress.
'Shall I tell you how to get the receipt?' asked the friar.
'Indeed, indeed!' [188] exclaimed the poor man, 'that would be the
making of me; but it's more than you can do--the man is dead!'
'Never mind that. You do what I tell you,' said the monk. 'Go straight
along that path;' and the man saw that where he pointed was a path
that had never been there before. 'Follow that path,' said the monk,
'and you will come to a casino with great iron gates which shut and
open of themselves continually. You must watch the moment when they
are open and go boldly in. Inside you will see a big room and a man
sitting at a table writing ceaselessly and casting accounts. That is
your landlord; ask him for the receipt and he won't dare withhold it
now. But mind one thing. Don't touch a single article in the room,
whatever you do.'
The poor man went along the path, and found all as the monk had
told him.
'How did you get here?' exclaimed the landlord, as soon as he
recognised him; and the poor man told him how he had been sent and why
he was come. The landlord sat at his desk writing with the greatest
expedition, as if some one was whipping him on, and knitting his brows
over his sums as if they were more than his brain could calculate;
nevertheless, he took a piece of paper and wrote the receipt, and
moreover he wrote two or three lines more on another piece of paper,
which he bade him give to his son.
The poor man promised to deliver it, and turned to go; but as he went
could not forbear putting his hand over the polished surface of a table
he had to pass, unmindful of the charge the monk had given him not
to touch anything. His hand was no sooner in contact with the table
than the whole skin was burnt off, and he understood that he was in
Hell. With all expedition he watched the turn of the door opening,
and hastened out.
'What have you got about your hand?' asked St. Anthony when the man
came back, for the friar was none other than St. Anthony.
'I touched one of the tables in that house,' he answered, 'forgetting
what you told me, and burnt my hand so badly I had to dip this cloth
in a river as I came by and tie it up. But I have the receipt, thanks
to you.' So St. Anthony touched his hand and healed it, and he saw
him no more.
Then the man took the letter to the old lord's son. 'Why, this is my
father's writing!' he exclaimed; 'and my father is dead. How did you
come by it?' And he told him. And the letter said: 'Behold, I am in
Hell! But you, mend your ways; give money to the poor; compensate
this man for the trouble he has had; and be just to all, lest you
also come hither.'
Then the old landlord's son gave the man a large sum of money to
compensate him for his anxieties, and sent him away consoled.