It was indeed the Bishop of Ely who had ordered the door of the cell
broken down, and had rescued Annys from what would doubtless have been
his last fainting spell. He had succeeded so well in subduing his flesh
that at last it was on the point of separating itself entirely from
the spirit. The Bishop brought him to with difficulty, and sent him to
the infirmary to be nursed back to strength. He did not return to Ely
until he saw the tinge of health returning slowly to the young priest's
sunken cheeks.
Thomas of Ely had conquered his own weakness of flesh after all, and
had taken the journey to the Abbey of St. Dunstan before the wily
Abbot had time to receive his answer from the Archbishop. He had dealt
summarily with Abbot John and deposed him, refusing to listen to his
plea for mercy; for nothing outraged the Bishop so keenly as that a
servant of Holy Church should betray his sacred trust. He would have
liked to appoint Robert Annys as the Abbot's successor; but as that
was utterly impossible for the present, he appointed a most worthy monk
who was the unanimous choice of his brethren.
Little by little Robert's strength returned, and his kind adviser led
him gently back to the thought that he could again be of use to others.
Therein, the Bishop knew, lay the only balm to the tortured heart.
He gave a hint to the new Abbot, who gave Annys work to do in the
scriptorium, where he could dwell in the calm past, and await the time
when he could again venture forth into the world--a world that sorely
needed his guiding hand. When he was allowed to leave the infirmary, it
was not to go to his solitary cell, but to share the dormitory with the
others.
The days and the weeks slipped gently on, the routine of life in the
scriptorium endearing itself more and more to the newcomer's heart.
The scriptorium at St. Dunstan's was a large chamber which usually
held about a dozen persons, but which at times permitted of as many as
twenty working together. The Abbot selected the scribes, no one being
allowed to enter the room without his permission. It was also the duty
of the Abbot to give orders to the Armarius how to portion out the
work, a certain task once assigned, no monk being permitted to exchange
his portion for another. Boys and novices wrote letters, while older
monks were selected to make copies of old books and transcripts of such
chronicles as required rigid accuracy. One was specially selected to
insert rubrics and design ornamental capitals and other embellishments,
while there was a chief artist to whom were left the important designs.
The Armarius bound the books in wooden covers to preserve the parchment
from mildew and damp. He was really the librarian, keeping a record of
all books loaned either to the monks for private study (although he
never permitted the rare works to leave the scriptorium), or to sick
monks in the infirmary. Every volume had to be returned before the
lights were lit, and work ceased in the scriptorium the instant the
daylight failed. The manuscripts were too precious to be endangered
by artificial light, nor indeed by any kind of heat, so in winter the
monks had to work by the hour with their fingers benumbed by the cold.
The scribes had no light task. Penned on the margin of an exquisitely
written manuscript, there has come down to us from those days at least
one pathetic plaint:--
"He who does not know how to write imagines it to be no labor; but
though three fingers only hold the pen, the whole body grows weary."
Robert Annys often watched with interest the busy Armarius, who had
manifold duties. He kept a careful record of the use of every book;
and at times some distant monastery begged for the loan of a certain
book, and some proper guarantee must first be secured; or perhaps, if
the borrower were not well-known, a book of equal value must first be
deposited as ample security. Besides this, it was his duty to provide
on the shelves the material for the work: plenty of parchment, ink
made of soot or sometimes of ivory black, pens fashioned of the quills
of geese or peacocks, chalk, pumice stones, penknives to cut the
parchment, awls to make the lines, rulers and plummet to note omissions
of text in the margin, and weights to keep down the vellum.
Not only Annys grew to love his work and to take a great pride in it,
but the absolute silence of the scriptorium soothed his shattered
nerves. He felt that he could not be in surroundings more congenial.
The monks stepped in and out noiselessly. If a book was required, it
was necessary only to extend the hand and make a movement as if turning
over the leaves of a book. If it were a missal that was required,
one should make the sign of a cross; if the gospels, the sign of the
cross on the forehead; if a tract, one hand was laid on the abdomen,
the other on the mouth; if a pagan work, first the general sign for a
book, and then one scratched the ear with the hand after the manner
of a dog--for what was a pagan save an infidel dog? The only time
the silence was permitted to be broken was when a large number of
copies of some popular treatise was required, in which case a skilful
transcriber read aloud while the others copied at dictation. The works
of Tertullian were given Annys to copy. Although at a distance, the
Bishop yet watched over him, giving strict orders that no lives of the
saints, or confessions, or any work of religious exaltation be given to
him. His purpose was to bring Annys back to the world and the present
by other channels,--to keep his mind on the calm scholarly days at
Balliol, rather than to permit it to dwell upon the immediate past.
"The sweet yoke of the Lord"--how often had Annys come across that
phrase in the confessions and meditations of holy men. And now for the
first time he really understood the full sweetness of it. Its spell was
slowly working upon him, subtly undermining his resolution to return to
the people. At last the day came when he thought his work lay within
the walls of the Abbey. There was no one there to tell him his old
self was not dead, but slumbering. As soon as he had signified his
intention to take the vows of their order, he had been intrusted to the
special care of an old monk who spoke to him from time to time of the
discomforts and humiliations which a monk must be prepared to bear. At
the end of two months he was ready to listen to the reading of the Rule
of St. Benedict, a voluminous document of seventy-three chapters. At
its conclusion, the reader admonished him solemnly:--
"Behold the law under which thou wouldst fight: if thou canst observe
it, enter; if thou canst not, depart in freedom."
When June came, this ordeal had been gone through but once; it would be
put to him three more times during the twelvemonth to follow, and at
the expiration of this period he would be warned that shortly he would
have no power of leaving. Then, if he still kept to his resolution of
becoming a Benedictine, he would be introduced into the oratory and
there, in the presence of all the community, before God and all the
saints, would have to promise stability and perpetual residence, and
also reformation of his morals and obedience under pain of eternal
damnation. He would then make a declaration of this pledge in writing
with his own hand, and place it upon the altar; then he must throw
himself at the feet of each of the brethren singly, begging them to
pray for him. From that day forth he would be regarded as a member of
the community.