THE MOUNT OF THE MONK
Basil rode with his own man apart from Venantius and the soldiers who
guarded the conveyance in which sat Veranilda. Venantius, for his part,
would fain have lightened the way with friendly talk, but finding Basil
irresponsive, he left him to his gloomy meditations. And so they came
to Aquinum, where they passed the night.
By way of precaution, the captain set a guard before the house in which
his fellow-traveller slept, and at daybreak, as soon as he had risen,
one of the soldiers thus employed reported to him that the young Roman
had fallen into such distemper that it seemed doubtful whether he could
continue the journey; a servant who had slept at Basil's door declared
that all through the night his master had talked wildly, like one
fever-frenzied. Venantius visited the sick man, and found him risen,
but plainly in poor case for travel.
'Why, you will never mount your horse,' he opined, after touching
Basil's hand, and finding it on fire. 'This is what comes of a queasy
conscience. Take heart, man! Are you the first that stuck a false
friend between the ribs, or the first to have your love kissed against
her will? That it _was_ against her will, I take upon myself to swear.
You are too fretful, my good lord. Come, now! What are we to do with
you?'
'I can ride on,' answered Basil. 'Pay no heed to me, and leave me in
peace, I pray you.'
He was helped to horseback, and the cavalcade went forth again along
the Latin Way. This morning, no beam of sunrise shone above the
mountains; the heavens were sullen, and a hot wind blew from the south.
Even Venantius, though he hummed a song to himself, felt the sombre
influence of the air, and kept glancing uneasily backwards at the
death-pale man, who rode with head upon his breast. Scarcely had they
ridden for an hour at foot-pace, when a shout caught the captain's ear;
he turned, just in time to see Basil dropping to the ground.
'God's thunder!' he growled. 'I have been expecting this. Well if he
dies, it may save the king some trouble.'
He jumped down, and went to Basil's side. At first the sufferer could
not speak, but when water had been given him, he gazed at Venantius
with a strange smile, and, pointing before him, said faintly:
'Is not yonder Casinum?'
'It is. We will bear you thither for harbourage. Courage, friend!'
'Above, on the mountain,' continued Basil painfully, 'dwells my kinsman
Benedict, with his holy men. Could I but reach the monastery!'
'Why, perchance you may,' replied the captain. 'And in truth you would
be better cared for there.'
'Help me, good Venantius!' panted Basil, with eyes of entreaty. 'Let me
die in the monastery.'
In those days of pestilence, every fever-stricken person was an object
of dread to all but the most loving or the most courageous. The
stalwart Venantius thought for a moment of carrying Basil before him on
his horse, but prudence overcame this humane impulse. Into the
carriage, for the same reason (had there been no other), he could not
be put; but there was a vacant place beside the driver, and here,
supported with cords, he managed to keep his seat until they arrived at
Casinum.
Owing to its position on the highroad, trodden by so many barbaric
armies, this city had suffered repeated devastation. Its great
buildings stood desolate, or had fallen to utter ruin, and the country
around, once famous for its fertility, showed but a few poor farms.
What inhabitants remained dwelt at the foot of the great hill on whose
summit rose the citadel, still united with the town by two great walls.
After passing between the tombs on the Latin Way, memorials of citizens
long dead, the travellers entered by an unprotected gateway, and here
Venantius called a halt. Wishing to make no longer pause than was
needful to put the sick man in safety, he despatched a few soldiers
through the silent town to seek for means of conveying Basil up to the
monastery on the height. By good luck these emissaries came upon a
couple of monks, who lost no time in arranging for the conveyance of
the sufferer. A light cart drawn by two mules speedily appeared, and on
this Basil was laid. One only of his men did Venantius allow to
accompany him, the others were bidden ride on with the captain's own
soldiers to Aesernia.
'There you will find us all when you are on your legs again,' said
Venantius, 'unless by that time we have marched Romewards, in which
case you shall have a message. Trust me to look after all you left
there; I answer for its safety and for that of your good fellows. Keep
up heart, and God make you sound.'
Basil, couched on a bed of dry leaves, raised himself so as to watch
the troop as it rode forth again from the ruined gate. Whether she who
sat hidden within the carriage had heard of his evil plight he knew
not, and could not have brought himself to ask. The last of his own
horsemen (some of whom had taken leave of him with tears) having
vanished from sight, he fell back, and for a while knew nothing but the
burning torment in his brain.
The ascent of the mountain began. It was a rough, narrow road, winding
through a thick forest of oak and beech trees, here and there so steep
as to try the firm footing of the mules, and in places dangerous
because of broken ground on the edge of precipitous declivities. The
cart was driven by its owner, a peasant of Casinum, who at times sat
sideways on one of the beasts, at times walked by them; behind came the
two religious men, cowled, bare-footed; and last Basil's attendant on
horseback.
From Venantius the monks had learned who their charge was. His noble
origin, and still more the fact of his kindred with their beloved Abbot
Benedict, inspired in them a special interest. They spoke of him in
whispers together, compassionated his sufferings, remarked on the
comeliness of his features, and assured each other that they detected
in him no symptom of the plague. It being now the third hour, they
ceased from worldly talk and together recited their office, whereto the
peasant and the horseman gave pious ear.
Basil lay with closed eyes, but at a certain moment he seemed to become
aware of what was passing, crossed himself, and then folded his hands
upon his breast in the attitude of prayer. Having observed this, one of
the monks, his orisons finished, went up to the cart and spoke
comfortable words. He was a man in the prime of life, with cheek as
fresh as a maid's, and a step that seemed incapable of weariness; his
voice sounded a note of gentle kindness which caused the sufferer to
smile at him in gratitude.
'This tree,' he said presently, pointing to a noble beech, its bole
engraven with a cross, 'marks the middle point of the ascent. A weary
climb for the weak, but not without profit to him who thinks as he
walks--for, as our dear brother Marcus has said, in those verses we are
never tired of repeating:--
"Semper difficili quaeruntur summa labore,
Arctam semper habet vita beata viam."'
The other monk, an older man, who walked less vigorously, echoed the
couplet with slow emphasis, as if savouring every word. Then both
together, bowing their cowled heads, exclaimed fervently:
'Thanks be to God for the precious gifts of our brother Marcus!'
Basil endeavoured to utter a few words, but he was now so feeble that
he could scarce make his voice heard above the creak of the wheels.
Again he closed his eyes, and his companions pursued their way in
silence. When at length they issued from the forest they overlooked a
vast landscape of hill and valley, with heads of greater mountains high
above them. Here rose the walls of the citadel, within which Benedict
had built his monastery. For some distance around these ancient
ramparts the ground was tilled, and flourishing with various crops. At
the closed gateway of the old Arx, flanked by a tower, the monks rang,
and were at once admitted into the courtyard, where, in a few moments,
the prior and all his brethren came forward to greet the strangers.
Because of Basil's condition the ceremony usual on such arrivals was in
his case curtailed: the prior uttered a brief prayer, gave the kiss of
peace, and ordered forthwith the removal of the sick man to a
guest-chamber, where he was laid in bed and ministered to by the
brother Marcus, whose gifts as a healer were not less notable than his
skill in poesy. The horseman, meanwhile, as custom was with all
visitors, had been led to the oratory to hear a passage of Holy
Scripture; after which the prior poured water upon his hands, and
certain of the monks washed his feet.
Before sunset Basil lost consciousness of present things; and many days
went by before he again spoke as a sane man. When at length the fever
declined, and his head turned upon the pillow in search of a human
countenance, he saw standing beside him a venerable figure in the
monastic garb, whose visage, though wrinkled with age and thought, had
such noble vividness in its look, and wore a smile so like that of
youth in its half-playful sweetness, that Basil could but gaze
wonderingly, awestruck at once, and charmed by this unexpected
apparition.
'My son,' sounded in a voice grave and tender, 'be your first syllables
uttered to Him by whose omnipotent will you are restored to the life of
this world.'
With the obedience of a child he clasped his thin hands, and murmured
the prayer of childhood. Then the gracious figure bent over him. He
felt the touch of lips upon his forehead, and in the same moment fell
asleep.
It was night when he again woke. A little lamp revealed bare walls of
stone, a low, timbered ceiling, a floor of red tiles. Basil's eyes, as
soon as they were open, looked for the venerable figure which he
remembered. Finding no one, he thought the memory was but of a dream.
Feeling wonderfully at ease in body and calm in mind, he lay musing on
that vision of the noble countenance, doubting after all whether a
dream could have left so distinct an impression, when all at once there
fell upon his ear a far sound of chanting, a harmony so sweetly solemn
that it melted his heart and filled his eyes with tears. Not long
after, when all was silent again, he heard the sound of soft footsteps
without, and in the same moment the door of his cell opened. The face
which looked in seemed not quite unknown to him, though he could not
recall where he had seen it.
'You have slept long, dear brother,' said Marcus, with a happy smile.
'Is all well with you?'
'Well, God be thanked,' was the clear but faint reply.
The poet-physician, a small, nervous, bright-eyed man of some forty
years, sat down on a stool by the bedside and began talking cheerfully.
He had just come from matins, and was this morning excused from lauds
because it behoved him to gather certain herbs, to be used medicinally
in the case of a brother who had fallen sick yesterday. Touching a
little gold locket which Basil wore round his neck on a gold thread he
asked what this contained, and being told that it was a morsel of the
Crown of Thorns, he nodded with satisfaction.
'We questioned whether to leave it on you or not, for we could not open
it, and there was a fear lest it might contain something'--he smiled
and shook his bead and sighed--'much less sacred. The lord abbot,
doubtless'--here his voice sank--'after a vision, though of this he
spoke not, decided that it should be left. There was no harm, for all
that'--his eyes twinked merrily--'in tying this upon the place where
you suffered so grievously.'
From amid Basil's long hair he detached what looked like a tiny skein
of hemp, which, with an air singularly blended of shrewdness and
reverence, he declared to be a portion of a garb of penitence worn by
the Holy Martin, to whom the oratory here was dedicated. Presently
Basil found strength to ask whether the abbot had been beside him.
'Many times,' was the answer. 'The last, no longer ago than yestereve,
ere he went to compline. You would have seen him on the day of your
arrival, ere yet you became distraught, but that a heaviness lay upon
him because of the loss of a precious manuscript on its way hither from
Rome--a manuscript which had been procured for him after much
searching, only to be lost by the folly of one to whom it was
intrusted; if, indeed, it was not rather whisked away by the Evil One,
who, powerless for graver ill against our holy father, at times seeks
to discomfort him by small practice of spite. Sorrow for this loss
brought on a distemper to which his age is subject.'
Reminded all at once that he had no time to lose, Marcus threw open the
shutter, extinguished the lamp, and slipped away, leaving his patient
with eyes turned to the pale glimmer of dawn at the tiny window. Now
only did there stir in Basil clear recollection of the events which had
preceded his coming hither. Marcus's sly word in regard to the locket
had awakened his mind, and in a few moments he thought connectedly. But
without emotion, unless it were a vague, tender sadness. All seemed to
have happened so long ago. It was like a story he had heard in days
gone by. He thought of it until his brain began to weary, then again
came sleep.
A day or two passed. He had begun to eat with keen appetite, and his
strength increased hour by hour. On a Sunday, after the office of the
third hour, Marcus cheerily gave him permission to rise. This prompted
Basil to inquire whether his man, who had come with him, was still in
the monastery. Marcus, with eyes averted, gave a nod. Might he speak
with him, Basil asked. Presently, presently, was the answer. Marcus
himself aided the convalescent to dress; then having seated him in a
great chair of rude wickerwork, used only on occasions such as this,
left him to bask in a beam of sunshine. Before long, his meal was
brought him, and with it a book, bound in polished wood and metal,
which he found to be a Psalter. Herein, when he had eaten, he read for
an hour or so, not, however, without much wandering of the thoughts. He
had fallen into reverie, when his door opened, and there appeared
before him the Abbot Benedict.
Basil started up, stood for a moment in agitation, then sank upon his
knees, with head reverently bowed.
'Rise, rise, my son,' spoke the voice which had so moved him in his
vision of a week ago, a voice subdued by years, but perfectly steady
and distinct. 'Our good brother Marcus assures me that I may talk with
you a little while without fear of overtasking your strength--nay, sit
where you were, I pray you. Thanks be to God, I need not support for my
back.'
So saying, the abbot seated himself on the stool, and gazed at Basil
with a smile of infinite benevolence.
'Your face,' he continued, 'speaks to me of a time very far away. I see
in it the presentment of your father's father, with whom, when he was
much of your age, I often talked. His mother had a villa at Nursia, the
home of my youth. Once he turned aside from a journey to visit me when
I dwelt at Sublaqueum.'
The reminiscence checked his tongue he kept silence for a moment,
musing gravely.
'But these are old stories, my Basil, and you are young. Tell me
somewhat of your parents, and of your own life. Did not your good
father pass away whilst at Constantinople?'
Thus, with perfect simplicity, with kindliest interest in things human,
did Benedict draw the young man into converse. He put no question that
touched on the inner life, and Basil uttered not a word concerning his
late distress, but they touched for a moment upon public affairs, and
Basil learnt, without show of special interest, that Totila still
lingered in Campania.
'Your follower, Deodatus,' said the abbot presently, 'begs each day for
permission to see you. The good fellow has not lived in idleness; he is
a brave worker in wood, and by chance we much needed one of his craft.
Not many things of this world give me more pleasure than to watch a
cunning craftsman as he smooths timber, and fits the pieces together,
and makes of them something that shall serve the needs of men. Is it
not, in some sort, to imitate the great Artificer? Would, O Basil, that
our country had more makers and fewer who live but to destroy.'
'Would it were so, indeed!' sighed Basil, in a low, fervent voice.
'But the end is not yet,' pursued Benedict, his eyes gazing straight
before him, as if they beheld the future. 'Men shall pray for peace,
but it will not be granted them, so great are the iniquities of the
world which utters the name of Christ, yet knows Him not.'
He paused with troubled brow. Then, as if reminding himself that his
hearer had need of more encouraging words, he said cheerfully:
'To-morrow, perchance, you will have strength to leave your room.
Deodatus shall come to you in the morning. When you can walk so far, I
will pray you to visit me in my tower. You knew not that I inhabit a
tower? Even as the watchman who keeps guard over a city. And,' he added
more gravely, as if to himself rather than to the listener, 'God grant
that my watch be found faithful.'
Thereupon the abbot rose, and gently took his leave; and Basil, through
all the rest of the day, thought of him and of every word he had
uttered.
Not long after sunrise on the morrow, Deodatus was allowed to enter.
This man, whose age was something more than thirty, was the son of a
serf on Basil's land, and being of very peaceful disposition, had with
some reluctance answered the summons to arm himself and follow his lord
to the wars. Life in the monastery thoroughly suited his temper; when
Basil encouraged him to talk, he gave a delighted account of the way in
which his days were spent; spoke with simple joy of the many religious
services he attended, and had no words in which to express his devotion
to the abbot.
'Why, Deodatus,' exclaimed his master, smiling, 'you lack but the cowl
to be a very monk.'
'My duty is to my lord,' answered the man, bending his head.
'Tell me now whether any news has reached you, in all this time, of
those from whom my sickness parted us.'
But Deodatus had heard nothing of his fellows, and nothing of Venantius.
'It may be,' said Basil, 'that I shall send you to tell them how I
fare, and to bring back tidings. Your horse is at hand?'
As he spoke he detected a sadness on the man's countenance. Without
more words, he dismissed him.
That day he sat in the open air, in a gallery whence he could survey a
great part of the monastic buildings, and much of the mountain summit
on its western side. For an hour he had the companionship of Marcus,
who, pointing to this spot and to that, instructed Basil in the history
of what he saw, now and then reciting his own verses on the subject. He
told how Benedict, seeking with a little company of pious followers for
a retreat from the evil of the world, came to ruined Casinum, and found
its few wretched inhabitants fallen away from Christ, worshipping the
old gods in groves and high places. Here, on the mountain top, stood
temples of Jupiter, of Apollo, and of Venus. The house of Apollo he
purified for Christian service, and set under the invocation of the
Holy Martin. The other temples he laid low, and having cut down the
grove sacred to Apollo, on that spot he raised an oratory in the name
of the Baptist. Not without much spiritual strife was all this
achieved; for--the good Marcus subdued his voice--Satan himself more
than once overthrew what the monks had built, and, together with the
demons whom Benedict had driven forth, often assailed the holy band
with terrors and torments. Had not the narrator, who gently boasted a
part in these beginnings, been once all but killed by a falling column,
which indeed must have crushed him, but that he stretched out a hand in
which, by happy chance, he was holding a hammer, and this--for a hammer
is cruciform--touching the great pillar, turned its fall in another
direction. Where stood the temple of Venus was now a vineyard, yielding
excellent wine.
'Whereof, surely, you must not drink?' interposed Basil, with a smile.
'Therein, good brother,' replied Marcus, 'you show but little knowledge
of our dear lord abbot. He indeed abstains from wine, for such has been
the habit of his life, but to us he permits it, for the stomach's sake;
being of opinion that labour is a form of worship, and well
understanding that labour, whether of body or of mind, can only be
performed by one in health. This very day you shall taste of our
vintage, which I have hitherto withheld from you, lest it should
overheat your languid blood.'
Many other questions did Basil ask concerning the rule of the
monastery. He learned that the day was equitably portioned out (worship
apart) between manual and mental work. During summer, the cooler hours
of morning and afternoon were spent in the field, and the middle of the
day in study; winter saw this order reversed. On Sunday the monks
laboured not with their hands, and thought only of the Word of God. The
hours of the divine office suffered, of course, no change all the year
round: their number in the daytime was dictated by that verse of the
Psalmist: 'Septies in die laudem dixi tibi'; therefore did the
community assemble at lauds, at prime, at the third hour, at mid-day,
at the ninth hour, at vespers, and at compline. They arose, moreover,
for prayer at midnight, and for matins before dawn. On all this the
hearer mused when he was left alone, and with his musing blended a
sense of peace such as had never before entered into his heart.
He had returned to his chamber, and was reposing on the bed, when there
entered one of the two monks by whom he was conveyed up the mountain.
With happy face, this visitor presented to him a new volume, which, he
declared with modest pride, was from beginning to end the work of his
own hand.
'But an hour ago I finished the binding,' he added, stroking the
calf-skin affectionately. 'And when I laid it before the venerable
father, who is always indulgent to those who do their best, he was
pleased to speak kind things. "Take it to our noble guest," he said,
"that he may see how we use the hours God grants us. And it may be that
he would like to read therein."'
The book was a beautiful copy of Augustine's _De Civitate Dei_. Basil
did indeed peruse a page or two, but again his thoughts began to
wander. He turned the leaves, looking with pleasure at the fine initial
letters in red ink. They reminded him of his cousin Decius, whom a
noble manuscript would transport with joy. And thought of Decius took
him back to Surrentum. He fell into a dream.
On the morrow, at noon, he was well enough to descend to the refectory,
where he had a seat at the abbot's table. His meal consisted of a roast
pigeon, a plate of vegetables, honey and grapes, with bread which
seemed to him better than he had ever tasted, and wine whereof his
still weak head bade him partake very modestly. The abbot's dinner, he
saw, was much simpler: a bowl of milk, a slice of bread, and a couple
of figs. After the kindly greeting with which he was received, there
was no conversation, for a monk read aloud during the repast. Basil
surveyed with interest the assembly before him. Most of the faces
glowed with health, and on all was manifest a simple contentment such
as he had hitherto seen only in the eyes of children. Representatives
were here of every social rank, but the majority belonged to honourable
families: high intelligence marked many countenances, but not one
showed the shadow of anxious or weary thought.
These are men, said Basil to himself, who either have never known the
burden of life, or have utterly cast it off; they live without a care,
without a passion. And then there suddenly flashed upon his mind what
seemed an all-sufficient explanation of this calm, this happiness. Here
entered no woman. Woman's existence was forgotten, alike by young and
old; or, if not forgotten, had lost all its earthly taint, as in the
holy affection (of which Marcus had spoken to him) cherished by the
abbot for his pious sister Scholastica. Here, he clearly saw, was the
supreme triumph of the religious life. But, instead of quieting, the
thought disturbed him. He went away thinking thoughts which he would
fain have kept at a distance.
The ninth hour found him in the oratory, and later he attended vespers,
at which office the monks sang an evening hymn of the holy Ambrosius:--
'O lux, beata Trinitas, et principalis Uuitas,
Jam sol recedit igneus; infunde lumen cordibus.
Te mane laudum carmine, te deprecemur vesperi,
Te nostra supplex gloria per cuncta laudet saecula.'
The long sweet notes lingered in Basil's mind when he lay down to rest.
And, as he crossed himself before sleeping, the only prayer he breathed
was: '_Infunde lumen cordi meo_.'