VIVAS IN DEO
The telling of his story was to Basil like waking from a state of
imperfect consciousness in which dream and reality had
indistinguishably mingled. Since the fight with the brigands he had
never been himself; the fever in his blood made him incapable of wonted
thought or action; restored to health, he looked back upon those days
with such an alien sense that he could scarce believe he had done the
things he related. Only now did their move in him a natural horror when
he thought of the death of Marcian, a natural distress when he
remembered his bearing to Veranilda. Only now could he see in the light
of reason all that had happened between his talk with Sagaris at
Aesernia and his riding away with Venantius from the villa on the
island. As he unfolded the story, he marvelled at himself, and was
overcome with woe.
There needed not the words of the holy abbot to show him how blindly he
had acted. He could see now that, however it might appear, the guilt of
Marcian was quite unproved. The Syrian slave might have lied, or else
have uttered a mistaken suspicion. It might be true that Marcian had
been misled by some calumniator into thinking evil of his friend. And
had he not heard the declaration of Veranilda, that she had suffered no
wrong at his hands? Basil saw the face of his beloved. Only a man
possessed by the Evil Spirit could have answered her as he had done.
Was not the fact that Marcian had brought Veranilda to his villa in
order to give her into the hands of Totila sufficient proof that he had
neither wronged her nor meditated wrong? Ay, but Basil reminded himself
that he had accused Veranilda of amorous complicity with Marcian. And
at this recollection his brain whirled.
Even were it permitted him ever to behold her again, how could he stand
before her? Must she not abhor him, as one whose baseness surpassed all
she had thought possible in the vilest slave? Jealousy was pardonable;
in its rage, a man might slay and be forgiven. But for the reproach
with which he had smitten her--her, pure and innocent--there could be
no forgiveness. It was an act of infamy, branding him for ever.
Thoughts such as these intermingled with his reading of the Psalms of
penitence. Ever and again grief overwhelmed him, and he wept bitterly.
At the hour of the evening meal, he would willingly have remained in
his cell, to fast and mourn alone; but this, he felt, would have been
to shirk part of his penance; for, though the brothers knew not of his
sin, he could not meet their eyes for shame, and such humiliation must
needs be salutary. This evening other guests sat at the abbot's table,
and he shrank from their notice, for though they were but men of humble
estate, pilgrims from Lucania, he felt debased before them. The
reading, to which all listened during their meal, was selected from
that new volume of Cassiodorus so esteemed by the abbot; it closed with
a prayer in which Basil found the very utterance his soul needed.
'O Lord, our Teacher and Guide, our Advocate and Judge, Thou the
Bestower and the Admonitor, terrible and clement, Rebuker and Consoler,
who givest sight to the blind, who makest possible to the weak that
which Thou commandest, who art so good that Thou desirest to be for
ever petitioned, so merciful that Thou sufferest no one to despair;
grant us that which we ask with Thy approval, and yet more that which
in our ignorance we fail to beseech. How weak we are, Thou indeed
knowest; by what a foe we are beset, Thou art aware. In the unequal
contest, in our mortal infirmity, we turn to Thee, for it is the glory
of Thy Majesty when the meek sheep overcomes the roaring lion, when the
Evil Spirit is repulsed by feeble flesh. Grant that our enemy, who
rejoices in our offending, may be saddened by the sight of human
happiness. Amen.'
He rose, for the first time, to attend the midnight office, Deodatus,
who was punctual as a monk at all the hours, awaking him from sleep.
But Marcus whispered an admonishing word.
'I praise your zeal, good brother; nevertheless, as your physician, I
cannot suffer your night's rest to be broken. Descend for lauds, if you
will, but not earlier.'
Basil bowed in obedience. Lauds again saw him at prayer. Hitherto, when
they were together in the oratory, it had been the habit of Deodatus to
kneel behind his master; this morning Basil placed himself by his
servant's side. They walked away together in the pearly light of dawn,
and Basil led the way to a sequestered spot, whence there was a view
over the broad valley of the Liris. Several times of late he had come
here, to gaze across the mountainous landscape, wondering where
Veranilda might be. Turning to his companion, he laid a hand on the
man's shoulder, and addressed him in a voice of much gentleness.
'Did you leave nothing behind you, Deodatus, which would make the
thought of never returning to your home a sorrow?'
'Nothing, my dear lord,' was the reply. 'In my lifetime I have seen
much grief and little solace. All I loved are dead.'
'But you are young. Could you without a pang say farewell to the world?'
Deodatus answered timidly:
'Here is peace.'
Continuing to question, Basil learnt that for this man the life of the
world was a weariness and a dread. Hardships of many kinds had
oppressed him from childhood; his was a meek soul, which had no place
amid the rudeness and violence of the times; from the first hour, the
cloistered life had cast a spell upon him.
'Here is peace,' he repeated. 'Here one can forget everything but to
worship God. Could I remain here, I were the happiest of men.'
And Basil mused, understanding, approving, yet unable to utter the same
words for himself. His eyes strayed towards the far valley, shimmering
in earliest daylight. He, too, had he not suffered dread things whilst
living in the world? And could he expect that life in the future would
be more kindly to him? None the less did his heart yearn for that
valley of human tribulation. He struggled to subdue it.
'Deodatus, pray for me, that I may have strength to do that which I see
to be the best.'
It was no forced humility. Very beautiful in Basil's eyes showed the
piety and calm which here surrounded him, and his reverence for the
founder of this house of peace fell little short of that with which he
regarded the Saints in heaven. Never before--unless it were at certain
moments when conversing with the Lady Silvia--had he felt the
loveliness of a life in which religion was supreme; and never,
assuredly, had there stirred within him a spirit so devout. He longed
to attain unto righteousness, that entire purity of will, which, it now
seemed to him, could be enjoyed only in monastic seclusion. All his
life he had heard praise of those who renounced the world; but their
merit had been to him a far-off, uncomprehended thing, without relation
to himself. Now he understood. A man, a sinner, it behoved him before
all else to chasten his soul that he might be pleasing unto God; and
behold the way! For one who had sinned so grievously, it might well be
that there was no other path of salvation.
This morning he went forth with the monks to labour. Brother Marcus
conducted him to a plot of garden ground where there was light work to
be done, and there left him. Willingly did Basil set about this task,
which broke the monotony of the day, and, more than that, was in itself
agreeable to him. He had always found pleasure in the rustic life, and
of late, at his Asculan villa, had often wished he could abide in quiet
for the rest of his days amid the fields and the vineyards. Working in
the mellow sunlight, above him the soft blue sky of early autumn, and
all around the silence of mountain and of forest, he felt his health
renew itself. When the first drops of sweat stood upon his forehead he
wiped them away with earthy fingers, and the mere action--he knew not
why--gave him pleasure.
But of a sudden he became aware that he had lost something. From the
little finger of his left hand had slipped his signet ring. It must
have fallen since he began working, and anxiously he searched for it
about the ground. Whilst he was thus occupied, Marcus came towards him,
carrying a great basket of vegetables. Not without diffidence, Basil
told what had happened.
'You will rebuke me, holy brother, for heeding such a loss. But the
ring is very old; it has been worn by many of my ancestors, to them it
came, and from one who suffered martyrdom in the times of Diocletian.'
'Then, indeed, I did well,' replied Marcus, 'to leave it on your finger
during your sickness. I looked at it and saw that it was a Christian
seal. Had it been one of those which are yet seen too often, with the
stamp of a daemon, I should have plucked it off, and perhaps have
destroyed it. The ring of a blessed martyr I Let us seek, let us seek!
But, brother Basil,' he added gravely, 'has there passed through your
heart no evil thought? I like not this falling of the ring.'
Basil held up his wasted hand with a smile.
'True, true; you have lost flesh. Be thankful for it, dear brother; so
much the easier you combat with him whose ally is this body of death.
True, the ring may have fallen simply because your finger was so thin.
But be warned, O Basil, against that habit of mind which interprets in
an earthly sense things of divine meaning.'
'I had indeed let my thoughts dwell upon worldliness,' Basil admitted.
The monk smiled a satisfied reproof.
'Even so, even so! And look you! In the moment of your avowal my hand
falls upon the ring.'
Rejoicing together, they inspected it. In the gold was set an onyx,
graven with the monogram of Christ, a wreath, and the motto, 'Vivas in
Deo.' Marcus knelt, and pressed the seal to his forehead, murmuring
ecstatically:
'The ring of a blessed martyr!'
'I am all unworthy to wear it,' said Basil, sincerely hesitating to
replace it on his finger. 'Indeed, I will not do so until I have spoken
with the holy father.'
This resolve Marcus commended, and, with a kindly word, he went his
way. Basil worked on. To discipline his thoughts he kept murmuring,
'Vivas in Deo,' and reflecting upon the significance of the words; for,
often as he had seen them, he had never till now mused upon their
meaning. What was the life in God I Did it mean that of the world to
come? Ay, but how attain unto eternal blessedness save by striving to
anticipate on earth that perfection of hereafter? And so was he brought
again to the conclusion that, would he assure life eternal, he must
renounce all that lured him in mortality.
The brothers returning from the field at the third hour signalled to
him that for to-day he had worked enough. One of them, in passing, gave
him a smile, and said good-naturedly:
'Thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands; happy shalt thou be, and it
shall be well with thee.'
Weary, but with the sense of healthful fatigue, Basil rested for an
hour on his bed. He then took the Psalter and opened it at hazard, and
the first words his eyes fell upon were:
'Thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands; happy shalt thou be, and it
shall be well with thee.'
'A happy omen,' he thought. But stay; what was this that followed?
'Thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine house; thy
children like olive plants round about thy table.
'Behold, thus shall the man be blessed that feareth the Lord.'
The blood rushed into his cheeks. He sat staring at the open page as
though in astonishment. He read and re-read the short psalm of which
these verses were part, and if a voice had spoken it to him from above
he could scarce have felt more moved by the message. Basil had never
been studious of the Scriptures, and, if ever he had known that they
contained such matter as this, it had quite faded from his memory. He
thought of the Holy Book as hostile to every form of earthly happiness,
its promises only for those who lived to mortify their natural desires.
Yet here was the very word of God encouraging him in his heart's hope.
Were not men wont to use the Bible as their oracle, opening the pages
at hazard, even as he had done?
It was long before he could subdue his emotions so as to turn to the
reading imposed upon him. He brought himself at length into the fitting
mind by remembering that this wondrous promise was not for a sinner, a
murderer; and that only could he hope to merit such blessing if he had
truly repented, and won forgiveness. Stricken down by this reflection
he grew once more humble and sad.
In the afternoon, as he was pacing alone in a little portico near the
abbot's tower, the prior approached him. This reverend man had hitherto
paid little or no attention to Basil. He walked ever with eyes cast
down as if in deep musing, yet it was well known that he observed
keenly, and that his duties to the community were discharged with
admirable zeal and competence. In the world he would have been a great
administrator. In the monastery he seemed to find ample scope for his
powers, and never varied from the character of a man who set piety and
learning above all else. Drawing nigh to Basil he greeted him gently,
and asked whether it would give him pleasure to see the copyists at
work. Basil gladly accepted this invitation, and was conducted to a
long, well-lit room, where, at great desks, sat some five or six of the
brothers, each bent over a parchment which would some day form portion
of a volume, writing with slow care, with the zeal of devotees and with
the joy of artists. Not a whisper broke upon the silence in which the
pen-strokes alone were audible. Stepping softly, the prior led his
companion from desk to desk, drawing attention, without a word, to the
nature of the book which in each case was being copied. It surprised
Basil to see that the monks busied themselves in reproducing not only
religious works but also the writings of authors who had lived in pagan
times, and of this he spoke when the prior had led him forth again.
'Have you then been taught,' asked the prior, 'that it is sinful to
read Virgil and Statius, Livy and Cicero?'
'Not so, reverend father,' he replied modestly, his eyes falling before
the good-humoured gaze. 'But I was so ill instructed as to think that
to those who had withdrawn from the world it might not be permitted.'
'Father Hieronymus had no such misgiving,' said the prior, 'for he
himself, at Bethlehem, taught children to read the ancient poets; not
unmindful that the blessed Paul himself, in those writings which are
the food of our spirit, takes occasion to cite from more than one poet
who knew not Christ. If you would urge the impurity and idolatry which
deface so many pages of the ancients, let me answer you in full with a
brief passage of the holy Augustine. "For," says he, "as the Egyptians
had not only idols to be detested by Israelites, but also precious
ornaments of gold and silver, to be carried off by them in flight, so
the science of the Gentiles is not only composed of superstitions to be
abhorred, but of liberal arts to be used in the service of truth."'
They walked a short distance without further speech, then the prior
stopped.
'Many there are,' he said, with a gesture indicating the world below,
'who think that we flee the common life only for our souls' salvation.
So, indeed, it has been in former times, and God forbid that we should
speak otherwise than with reverence of those who abandoned all and
betook themselves to the desert that they might live in purity and
holiness. But to us, by the grace bestowed upon our holy father, has
another guidance been shown. Know, my son, that, in an evil time, we
seek humbly to keep clear, not for ourselves only, but for all men, the
paths of righteousness and of understanding. With heaven's blessing we
strive to preserve what else might utterly perish, to become not only
guardians of God's law but of man's learning.'
Therewith did the prior take his leave, and Basil pondered much on what
he had heard. It was a new light to him, for, as his instructor
suspected, he shared the common view of coenobite aims, and still but
imperfectly understood the law of Benedict. All at once the life of
this cloister appeared before him in a wider and nobler aspect. In the
silent monks bent over their desks he saw much more than piety and
learning. They rose to a dignity surpassing that of consul or praefect.
With their pens they warred against the powers of darkness, a grander
conflict than any in which men drew sword. He wished he could talk of
this with his cousin Decius, for Decius knew so much more than he, and
could look so much deeper into the sense of things.
Days passed. Not yet did he receive a summons to the abbot's tower.
Rapidly recovering strength, he worked long in the fields, and
scrupulously performed his penitential exercises. Only, when he had
finished his daily reading of the appointed psalms, he turned to that
which begins: 'Blessed is every one that feareth the Lord, that walketh
in His ways.' How could he err in dwelling upon the word of God? One
day, as he closed the book, his heart was so full of a strange,
half-hopeful, half-fearful longing, that it overflowed in tears; and
amid his weeping came a memory of Marcian, a tender memory of the days
of their friendship: for the first time he bewailed the dead man as one
whom he had dearly loved.
Then there sounded a knock at the door of his cell. Commanding himself,
and turning away so as to hide his face, he bade enter.
And, looking up, he beheld his servant Felix.