There are, as you have learned from me, and I from Master Richard
Raynal, a trinity of natures in man. There is that by which he has to do
with the things of matter--his five wits; that by which he has to do
with God Almighty and the saints--his immortal soul and her powers; and,
for the last, that by which he has to do with men--his lower
understanding, his mind, his power of speech, and the like. Each nature
has its proper end, though each ministers to the other. With his ears
he hears God's Word, with his immortal soul he perceives God Almighty in
what is seen with the eyes; with his understanding he comprehends the
nature of flowers and the proper time to sow or reap. This trinity may
be devoted to God or the fiend.... It is not true, as some have said,
that it is only with the soul that God is perceived or served, and that
the other two are unclean. We may serve God by digging with the hands,
by talking friendly with our neighbour, and by the highest of all which
is contemplation.
This is what Master Richard did, following the Victorines but not
altogether. He strove to serve God alike in all, and I count his life,
therefore, the highest that I have ever known. He said that to dig, to
talk over the gate with a neighbour, and to contemplate the Divine
Essence, were all alike to serve God. He counted none wasted, for God
Almighty had made the trinity of natures in His own image, and
intended, therefore, a proper occupation for each. To refuse to dig or
to talk was not to honour contemplation; and this he said, though he
said besides that some could not do this through reason of finding that
one distracted the other. I count, however, that his own life was the
hardest, for he did all three, and did not suffer one to distract
another.
The most difficulty of such a life is to know when to follow one and
when the other, when to dig, when to speak, and when to contemplate; and
he would tell me that for this there are two guides that God Almighty
sends--the one is that of exterior circumstance, and the other that of
an interior knowledge, and he would follow that which cried the louder.
If he desired to contemplate and a neighbour came to talk with him; if
he perceived the neighbour clearly he would give over his contemplation;
if not he would continue to contemplate. Again, if the imagination of a
spade came mightily before him, or if he remembered that the sun would
soon be up and his beans not watered, again he would give over his
contemplation and dig or carry water.
For this there is needed one thing, and that a firm and quiet
simplicity. He would do nothing till his mind was quiet. The friend of
God must be as a little child, as the gospel tells us, and when the soul
is quiet there is no difficulty in knowing what must be done. The first
business then of a solitary's life is to preserve this quiet against the
fiend's assaults and disquiet. And, I think, of all that I have ever
known, Master Richard's soul was the most quiet, and most like to the
soul of a little child.
As I walked now beside the stream I knew very well that it was for this
that he was striving in contemplation: the sweat that ran down his
cheeks was the sign of the fiend's assault, and I knew that I had done
well to come. I had followed, as Master Richard himself had taught me,
that loud interior voice.
So I strove to become quiet myself; I signed myself with the cross, and
cried softly upon saint Giles to pray for me to God's Majesty that I
might know what to say and do. Then I placed myself, as I had learned,
at the divine feet; I looked at the yellow flowers and the clear running
water and the open sky, and presently I was aware that all was silence
within and without me. So I waited and walked softly to and fro, until
Master Richard came to the door of his hut.
He stood there for a full minute, I suppose, with the sun on his face
and his brown frock and broad white sleeves, before he saw me; for I was
in the shadow of the hazels. Then he waved his hands a little, and came
slowly and very upright down the path in the middle, and as I went
towards him I saw the beasts had gone. They were content, I suppose, now
that their master was come out.
He came down the path, very pale and grave, and knelt as usual for my
blessing, which I gave; then he kissed my skirt as he always did with a
priest, and stood up.
Now I will try to tell you all that he said as he said it.
* * * * *
We went together without speaking, to the hut, and he brought out the
stool into the sunlight and made me sit upon it, and sat himself upon
the ground beneath me, with his hands clasped about his knee, and his
bare feet drawn beneath him. I could see no more of him but his brown
hair and his throat, and his strong shoulders bent forward. Then he
began to speak. His voice was always grave and steady.
"I am glad you are come, Sir John; I have something to ask you. I do not
know what to do. I will tell you all."
I said nothing, for I knew what he wished; so I looked down across the
meadow at the hazels and the pigeons that were coming down to the wood,
and desired saint Giles to tell me what to say.
"It is this," he said. "Four days ago I was in contemplation, down
there by the stream. The sensible warmth of which I have told you was in
my heart; as it has been for over one year now, ever since I passed from
the way of illumination. I think that it had never been so clear and
strong. It was our Lord who was with me, and I perceived Him within as
He always shows Himself to me; I cannot tell you what He is like, but
there were roses on His hands and feet, and above His heart and about
His head. I have not often perceived Him so clearly. His Mother, I knew,
was a little distance away, behind me, and I wondered why it was so, and
the divine John was with her. Then I understood that He was lonely, but
no more than that: I did not know why. I said what I could, and then I
listened, but He said nothing to me, and then, after a while, I
understood that it was under another aspect that He was there; that
there was one in his place, crowned with gold instead of roses, and I
could not understand it. I was astonished and troubled by that, and the
warmth was not so strong at my heart.
"Then He was gone; and I saw the stream again beneath me, and the leaves
overhead, and there was sweat on my forehead.
"When I stood up there was a knowledge in my heart--I do not know
whether from our Lord or the fiend--that I must leave this place, and go
to one whom I thought must be the King with some message; but I do not
know the message."
* * * * *
My children, it was a dreadful thing to hear that. He had never spoken
so since his coming four years before, except once when he was in the
purgative way, and the fiend came to him under aspect of a woman. But he
had been in agony then, and he was quiet now. Before I could speak he
spoke again.
"I said that I could not go; that God Almighty had brought me here and
caused me to build my house and given me the meadow and the water and
the beasts as my friends--that I was neither monk nor friar nor priest
to be sent hither and thither--that I could not go. I cried on Him to
help me and shew me His will; and then I went to dinner.
"Since that time, Sir John, the warmth has left me. I see the flowers,
but there is nothing behind them; and the sunlight, but there is no
heavenly colour in it. My mind is disquiet; I cannot rest nor
contemplate as I should. I have been up the stairs that I have told you
of a thousand times; I have set myself apart from the world, which is
the first step, until all things visible have gone; then I have set
myself apart from my body and my understanding so that I was conscious
of neither hands nor heart nor head, nor of aught but my naked soul;
then I have left that, which is the third step; but the gate is always
shut, and our Lord will not speak or answer. Tell me what I must do, Sir
John. Is it true that this is from our Lord, and that I must go to see
the King?"
* * * * *
I was sick at heart when I heard that, and I strove to silence what my
soul told me must be my answer.
"It has persevered ever since, my son Richard," I said?
He bowed his head.
"There is no savour in anything to me until I go," he answered. "This
morning as I looked from over the wall upon the sacrament, my eyes were
blinded: I saw nothing but the species of bread. I was forced to rest
upon the assent of my faith."
Again I attempted to silence what my soul told me. It was the very power
that Master Richard had taught me to use that was turning against what I
desired. I had not known until then how much I loved this quiet holy lad
with grave eyes--not until I thought I should lose him.
"There is no sin," I said, "that has darkened your eyes?"