(NOTE: The electronic text obtained from The Electronic Bible Society was
not completely corrected. EWTN has corrected all discovered errors.)

Transliteration of Greek words: All phonetical except: w = omega; h serves
three puposes: 1. = Eta; 2. = rough breathing, when appearing initially
before a vowel; 3. = in the aspirated letters theta = th, phi = ph, chi =
ch. Accents are given immediately after their corresponding vowels: acute =
' , grave = `, circumflex = ^. The character ' doubles as an apostrophe,
when necessary.


JOHN CASSIAN

THE CONFERENCES: Part II (conferences XVIII-XX).

[Translated by the Rev. Edgar C. S. Gibson, M.A., Principal of the
Theological College, Wells, Somerset.]


PART THREE

PREFACE

   WHEN by the help of the grace of Christ I had published ten Conferences
of the Fathers, which were composed at the urgent request of the most
blessed Helladius and Leontius, I dedicated-seven others to Honoratus, a
Bishop blessed in name as well as merits, and also that holy servant of
Christ, Eucherius. The same number also I have thought good to dedicate now
to you, O holy brothers, Jovinianus, Minervius, Leontius, and Theodore.(1)
Since the last named of you founded that holy and splendid monastic rule in
the province of Gaul, with the strictness of ancient virtue, while the rest
of you by your instructions have stirred up monks not only before all to
seek the common life of the coenobia, but even to thirst eagerly for the
sublime life of the anchorite. For those Conferences of the best of the
fathers are arranged with such care, and so carefully considered in all
respects, that they are suited to both modes of life whereby you have made
not only the countries of the West, but even the isles to flourish with
great crowds of brethren; i.e., I means that not only those who still
remain in congregations with praiseworthy subjection to rule, but those
also who retire to no great distance from your monasteries, and try to
carry out the rule of anchorites, may be more fully instructed, according
as the nature of the place and the character of their condition may
require. And to this your previous efforts and labours have especially
contributed this, that, as they are already prepared and practised in these
exercises, they can more readily receive the precepts and institutes of the
Elders, and receiving into their cells the authors of the Conferences
together with the actual volumes of the Conferences and talking with them
after a fashion by daily questions and answers, they may not be left to
their own resources to find that way which is difficult and almost unknown
in this country, but full of danger even there where well-worn paths and
numberless instances of those who have gone before are not wanting, but may
rather learn to follow the rule of the anchorite's life taught by their
examples, whom ancient tradition and industry and long experience have
thoroughly instructed.


XVIII. CONFERENCE OF ABBOT PIAMUN.

ON THE THREE SORTS OF MONKS.

CHAPTER I: How we came to Diolcos and were received by Abbot Piamun. (1)

   AFTER visiting and conversing with those three Elders, whose
Conferences we have at the instance of our brother Eucherius tried to
describe, as we were still more ardently desirous to seek out the further
parts of Egypt, in which a larger and more perfect company of saints dwelt,
we came--urged not so much by the necessities of our journey as by the
desire of visiting the saints who were dwelling there--to a village named
Diolcos, (2) lying on one of the seven mouths of the river Nile. For when
we heard of very many and very celebrated monasteries rounded by the
ancient fathers, like most eager merchants, at once we undertook the
journey on an uncertain quest, urged on by the hope of greater gain. And
when we wandered about there for some long time and fixed our curious eyes
on those mountains of virtue conspicuous for their lofty height, the gaze
of those around first singled out Abbot Piamun, the senior of all the
anchorites living there and their presbyter, as if he were some tall
lighthouse. For he was set on the top of a high mountain like that city in
the gospel, (3) and at once shed his light on our faces, whose virtues and
miracles, which were wrought by him under our very eyes, Divine Grace thus
bearing witness to his excellence, if we are not to exceed the plan and
limits of this volume, we feel we must pass over in silence. For we
promised to commit to memory what we could recollect, not of the miracles
of God, but of the institutes and pursuits of the saints, so as to supply
our readers merely with necessary instruction for the perfect life, and not
with matter for idle and useless admiration without any correction of their
faults. And so when Abbot Piamun had received us with welcome, and had
refreshed us with becoming kindness, as he understood that we were not of
the same country, he first asked us anxiously whence or why we had visited
Egypt, and when he discovered that we had come thither from a monastery in
Syria out of desire for perfection he began as follows: --

CHAPTER II: The words of Abbot Piamun, how monks who were novices ought to
be taught by the example of their elders.

   WHATEVER man, my children, is desirous to attain skill in any art,
unless he gives himself up with the utmost pains and carefulness to the
study of that system which he is anxious to learn, and observes the rules
and orders of the best masters of that work or science, is indulging in a
vain hope to reach by idle wishes any similarity to those whose pains and
diligence he avoids copying. For we know that some have come from your
country to these parts, only to go round the monasteries for the sake of
getting to know the brethren, not meaning to adopt the rules and
regulations, for the sake of which they travelled hither, nor to retire to
the cells and aim at carrying out in action what they had learnt by sight
or by teaching. And these people retained their character and pursuits to
which they had grown accustomed, and, as is thrown in their teeth by some,
are held to have changed their country not for the sake of their profit,
but owing to the need of escaping want. For in the obstinacy of their
stubborn mind, they not only could learn nothing, but actually would not
stay any longer in these parts. For if they changed neither their method of
fasting, nor their scheme of Psalms, nor even the fashion of their
garments, what else could we think that they were after in this country,
except only the supply of their victuals.

CHAPTER III: How the juniors ought not to discuss the orders of the
seniors.

   WHEREFORE if, as we believe, the cause of God has drawn you to try to
copy our knowledge, you must utterly ignore all the rules by which your
early beginnings were trained, and must with all humility follow whatever
you see our Elders do or teach. And do not be troubled or drawn away and
diverted from imitating it, even if for the moment the cause or reason of
any deed or action is not clear to you, because if men have good and simple
ideas on all things and are anxious faithfully to copy whatever they see
taught or done by their Elders, instead of discussing it, then the
knowledge of all things will follow through experience of the work. But he
will never enter into the reason of the truth, who begins to learn by
discussion, because as the enemy sees that he trusts to his own judgment
rather than to that of the fathers' he easily urges him on so far till
those things which are especially useful and helpful seem to him
unnecessary or injurious, and the crafty foe so plays upon his presumption,
that by obstinately clinging to his own opinion he persuades himself that
only that is holy, which he himself in his pig-headed error thinks to be
good and right.

CHAPTER IV: Of the three sorts of monks which there are in Egypt.

   WHEREFORE you should first hear how or whence the system and beginning
of our order took its rise. For only then can a man at all effectually be
trained in any art he may wish, and be urged on to practise it diligently,
when he has learnt the glory of its authors and founders. There are three
kinds of monks in Egypt, of which two are admirable, the third is a poor
sort of thing and by all means to be avoided. The first is that of the
coenobites, who live together in a congregation and are governed by the
direction of a single Elder: and of this kind there is the largest number
of monks dwelling throughout the whole of Egypt. The second is that of the
anchorites, who were first trained in the coenobium and then being made
perfect in practical life chose the recesses of the desert: and in this
order we also hope to gain a place. The third is the reprehensible one of
the Sarabaites. (1) And of these we will discourse more fully one by one in
order. Of these three orders then you ought, as we said, first to know
about the founders. For at once from this there may arise either a hatred
for the order which is to be avoided, or a longing for that which is to be
followed, because each way is sure to carry the man who follows it, to that
end which its author and discoverer has reached.

CHAPTER V: Of the founders who originated the order of coenobites.

   AND so the system of coenobites took its rise in the days of the
preaching of the Apostles. For such was all that multitude of believers in
Jerusalem, which is thus described in the Acts of the Apostles: "But the
multitude of believers was of one heart and one soul, neither said any of
them that any of the things which he possessed was his own, but they had
all things common. They sold their possessions and property and divided
them to all, as any man had need." And again: "For neither was there any
among them that lacked; for as many as possessed fields or houses, sold
them and brought the price of the things that they sold and laid them
before the feet of the Apostles: and distribution was made to every man as
he had need." (2) The whole Church, I say, was then such as now are those
few who can be found with difficulty in coenobia. But when at the death of
the Apostles the multitude of believers began to wax cold, and especially
that multitude which had come to the faith of Christ from diverse foreign
nations, from whom the Apostles out of consideration for the infancy of
their faith and their ingrained heathen habits, required nothing more than
that they should" abstain from things sacrificed to idols and from
fornication, and from things strangled, and from blood," (1) and so that
liberty which was conceded to the Gentiles because of the weakness of their
newly-born faith, had by degrees begun to mar the perfection of that Church
which existed at Jerusalem, and the fervour of that early faith cooled down
owing to the daily increasing number both of natives and foreigners, and
not only those who had accepted the faith of Christ, but even those who
were the leaders of the Church relaxed somewhat of that strictness. For
some fancying that what they saw permitted to the Gentiles because of their
weakness, was also allowable for themselves, thought that they would suffer
no loss if they followed the faith and confession of Christ keeping their
property and possessions. But those who still maintained the fervour of the
apostles, mindful of that former perfection left their cities and
intercourse with those who thought that carelessness and a laxer life was
permissible to themselves and the Church of God, and began to live in rural
and more sequestered spots, and there, in private and on their own account,
to practise those things which they had learnt to have been ordered by the
apostles throughout the whole body of the Church in general: and so that
whole system of which we have spoken grew up from those disciples who had
separated themselves from the evil that was spreading. And these, as by
degrees time went on, were separated from the great mass of believers and
because they abstained from marriage and cut themselves off from
intercourse with their kinsmen and the life of this world, were termed
monks or solitaries from the strictness of their lonely and solitary life.
Whence it followed that from their common life they were called coenobites
and their cells and lodgings coenobia. That then alone was the earliest
kind of monks, which is first not only in time but also in grace, and which
continued unbroken for a very long period up to the time of Abbot Paul and
Antony; and even to this day we see its traces remaining in strict
coenobia.

CHAPTER VI: Of the system of the Anchorites and its beginning.

   OUT of this number of the perfect, and, if I may use the expression,
this most fruitful root of saints, were produced afterwards the flowers and
fruits of the anchorites as well. And of this order we have heard that the
originators were those whom we mentioned just now; viz., Saint Paul (2) and
Antony, men who frequented the recesses of the desert, not as some from
faintheartedness, and the evil of impatience, but from a desire for loftier
heights of perfection and divine contemplation, although the former of them
is said to have found his way to the desert by reason of necessity, while
during the time of persecution he was avoiding the plots of his neighbours.
So then there sprang from that system of which we have spoken another sort
of perfection, whose followers are rightly termed anchorites; i.e.,
withdrawers, because, being by no means satisfied with that victory whereby
they had trodden under foot the hidden snares of the devil, while still
living among men, they were eager to fight with the devils in open
conflict, and a straightforward battle, and so feared not to penetrate the
vast recesses of the desert, imitating, to wit, John the Baptist, who
passed all his life in the desert, and Elijah and Elisha and those of whom
the Apostle speaks as follows: "They wandered about in sheepskins and
goatskins, being in want, distressed, afflicted, of whom the world was not
worthy, wandering in deserts, in mountains and in dens and in caves of the
earth." Of whom too the Lord speaks figuratively to Job: "But who hath sent
out the wild ass free, and who hath loosed his bands? To whom I have given
the wilderness for an house, and a barren land for his dwelling. He
scorneth the multitude of the city and heareth not the cry of the driver;
he looketh round about the mountains of his pasture, and seeketh for every
green thing." In the Psalms also: "Let now the redeemed of the Lord say,
those whom He hath redeemed from the hand of the enemy;" and after a
little: "They wandered in a wilderness in a place without water: they found
not the way of a city of habitation. They were hungry and thirsty: their
soul fainted in them. And they cried unto the Lord in their trouble and He
delivered them out of their distress;" whom Jeremiah too describes as
follows: "Blessed is the man that hath borne the yoke from his youth. He
shall sit solitary and hold his peace because he hath taken it up upon
himself," and there sing in heart and deed these words of the Psalmist:

"I am become like a pelican in the wilderness. I watched and am become like
a sparrow alone upon the house-top." (1)

CHAPTER VII: Of the origin of the Sarabaites and their mode of life.

   And while the Christian religion was rejoicing in these two orders of
monks though this system had begun by degrees to deteriorate, there arose
afterwards that disgusting and unfaithful kind of monks; or rather, that
baleful plant revived and sprang up again which when it first shot up in
the persons of Ananias and Sapphira in the early Church was cut off by the
severity of the Apostle Peter -- a kind which among monks has been for a
long while considered detestable and execrable, and which was adopted by no
one any more, so long as there remained stamped on the memory of the
faithful the dread of that very severe sentence, in which the blessed
Apostle not merely refused to allow the aforesaid originators of the novel
crime to be cured by penitence or any amends, but actually destroyed that
most dangerous germ by their speedy death. When then that precedent, which
was punished with Apostolical severity in the case of Ananias and Sapphira
had by degrees faded from the minds of some, owing to long carelessness and
forgetfulness from lapse of time, there arose the race of Sarabaites, who
owing to the fact that they have broken away from the congregations of the
coenobites and each look after their own affairs, are rightly named in the
Egyptian language Sarabaites, (2) and these spring from the number of
those, whom we have mentioned, who wanted to imitate rather than truly to
aim at Evangelical perfection, urged thereto by rivalry or by the praises
of those who preferred the complete poverty of Christ to all manner of
riches. These then while in their feeble mind they make a pretence of the
greatest goodness and are forced by necessity to join this order, while
they are anxious to be reckoned by the name of monks without emulating
their pursuits, in no sort of way practise discipline, or are subject to
the will of the Elders, or, taught by their traditions, learn to govern
their own wills or take up and properly learn any rule of sound discretion;
but making their renunciation only as a public profession, i.e., before the
face of men, either continue in their homes devoted to the same occupations
as before, though dignified by this title, or building cells for themselves
and calling them monasteries remain in them perfectly free and their own
masters, never submitting to the precepts of the gospel, which forbid them
to be busied with any anxiety for the day's food, or troubles about
domestic matters: commands which those alone fulfil with no unbelieving
doubt, who have freed themselves from all the goods of this world and
subjected themselves to the superiors of the coenobia so that they cannot
admit that they are at all their own masters. But those who, as we said,
shirk the severity of the monastery, and live two or three together in
their cells, not satisfied to be under the charge and rule of an Abbot, but
arranging chiefly for this; viz., that they may get rid of the yoke of the
Elders and have liberty to carry out their wishes and go and wander where
they will, and do what they like, these men are more taken up both day and
night in daily business than those who live in the coenobia, but not with
the same faith and purpose. For these Sarabaites do it not to submit the
fruits of their labours to the will of the steward, but to procure money to
lay by. And see what a difference there is between them. For the others
think nothing of the morrow, and offer to God the most acceptable fruits of
their toil: while these extend their faithless anxiety not only to the
morrow, but even to the space of many years, and so fancy that God is
either false or impotent as He either could not or would not grant them the
promised supply of food and clothing. The one seek this in all their
prayers; viz., that they may gain akthmosu'nhn i.e., the deprivation of all
things, and lasting poverty: the other that they may secure a rich quantity
of all sorts of supplies. The one eagerly strive to go beyond the fixed
rule of daily work that whatever is not wanted for the sacred purposes of
the monastery, may be distributed at the will of the Abbot either among the
prisons, or in the guest-chamber or in the infirmary or to the poor; the
others that whatever the day's gorge leaves over, may be useful for
extravagant wants or else laid by through the sin of covetousness. Lastly,
if we grant that what has been collected by them with no good design, may
be disposed of in better ways than we have mentioned, yet not even thus do
they rise to the merits of goodness and perfection. For the others bring in
such returns to the monastery, and daily report to them, and continue in
such humility and subjection that they are deprived of their rights over
what they gain by their own efforts, just as they are of their rights over
themselves, as they constantly renew the fervour of their original act of
renunciation, while they daily deprive themselves of the fruits of their
labours: but these are puffed up by the fact that they are bestowing
something on the poor, and daily fall headlong into sin. The one party are
by patience and the strictness whereby they continue devoutly in the order
which they have once embraced, so as never to fulfil their own will,
crucified daily to this world and made living martyrs; the others are cast
down into hell by the lukewarmness of their purpose. These two sorts of
monks then vie with each other in almost equal numbers in this province;
but in other provinces, which the need of the Catholic faith compelled me
to visit, we have found that this third class of Sarabaites flourishes and
is almost the only one, since in the time of Lucius who was a Bishop of
Arian misbelief(1) in the reign of Valens, while we carried alms(2) to our
brethren; viz., those from Egypt and the Thebaid, who had been consigned to
the mines of Pontus and Armenia(3) for their steadfastness in the Catholic
faith, though we found the system of coenobia in some cities few and far
between, yet we never made out that even the name of anchorites was heard
among them.

CHAPTER VIII: Of a fourth sort of monks.

   THERE is however another and a fourth kind, which we have lately seen
springing up among those who flatter themselves with the appearance and
form of anchorites, and who in their early days seem in a brief fervour to
seek the perfection of the coenobium, but presently cool off, and, as they
dislike to put an end to their former habits and faults, and are not
satisfied to bear the yoke of humility and patience any longer, and scorn
to be in subjection to the rule of the Elders, look out for separate cells
and want to remain by themselves alone, that as they are provoked by nobody
they may be regarded by men as patient, gentle, and humble: and, this
arrangement, or rather this lukewarmness never suffers those, of whom it
has once got hold, to approach to perfection. For in this way their faults
are not merely not rooted up, but actually grow worse, while they are
excited by no one, like some deadly and internal poison which the more it
is concealed, so much the more deeply does it creep in and cause an
incurable disease to the sick person. For out of respect for each man's own
cell no one ventures to reprove the faults of a solitary, which he would
rather have ignored than cured. Moreover virtues are created not by hiding
faults but by driving them out.

CHAPTER IX: A question as to what is the difference between a coenobium and
a monastery.

   GERMANUS: Is there any distinction between a coenobium and a monastery,
or is the same thing meant by either name?

CHAPTER X: The answer.

   PIAMUN: Although many people indifferently speak of monasteries instead
of coenobia, yet there is this difference, that monastery is the title of
the dwelling, and means nothing more than the place, i.e., the habitation
of monks, while coenobium describes the character of the life and its
system: and monastery may mean the dwelling of a single monk, while a
coenobium cannot be spoken of except where dwells a united community of a
large number of men living together. They are however termed monasteries in
which groups of Sarabaites live.

CHAPTER XI: Of true humility, and how Abbot Serapion exposed the monk
humility of a certain man.

   WHEREFORE as I see that you have learnt the first principles of this
life from the best sort of monks, i.e., that starting from the excellent
school of the coenobium you are aiming at the lofty heights of the
anchorite's rule, you should with genuine feeling of heart pursue the
virtue of humility and patience, which I doubt not that you learnt there;
and not feign it, as some do, by mock humility in words, or by an
artificial and unnecessary readiness for some duties of the body. And this
sham humility Abbot Serapion(1) once laughed to scorn most capitally. For
when one had come to him making a great display of his lowliness by his
dress and words, and the old man urged him, after his custom, to "collect
the prayer"(2) he would not consent to his request, but debasing himself
declared that he was involved in such crimes that he did not deserve even
to breathe the air which is common to all, and refusing even the use of the
mat preferred to sit down on the bare ground. But when he had shown still
less inclination for the washing of the feet, then Abbot Serapion, when
supper was finished, and the customary Conference gave him an opportunity,
began kindly and gently to urge him not to roam with shifty lightmindedness
over the whole world, idly and vaguely, especially as he was young and
strong, but to keep to his cell in accordance with the rule of the Elders
and to elect to be supported by his own efforts rather than by the bounty
of others; which even the Apostle Paul would not allow, and though when he
was labouring in the cause of the gospel this provision might lightly have
been made for him, yet he preferred to work night and day, to provide daily
food for himself and for those who were ministering to him and could not do
the work with their own hands. Whereupon the other was filled with such
vexation and disgust that he could not hide by his looks the annoyance
which he felt in his heart. To whom the Elder: Thus far, my son, you have
loaded yourself with the weight of all kinds of crimes, not fearing lest by
the confession of such awful sins you bring a reproach upon your
reputation; how is it then, I pray, that now, at our simple admonition,
which involved no reproof, but simply  showed a feeling for your
edification and love, I see that you are moved with such disgust that you
cannot hide it by your looks, or conceal it by an appearance of calmness?
Perhaps while you were humiliating yourself, you were hoping to hear from
our lips this saying: "The righteous man is the accuser of himself in the
opening of his discourse?"(3) Further, true humility of heart must be
preserved, which comes not from an affected humbling of body and in word,
but from an inward humbling of the soul: and this will only then shine
forth with clear evidences of patience when a man does not boast about
sins, which nobody will believe, but, when another insolently accuses him
of them, thinks nothing of it, and when with gentle equanimity of spirit he
puts up with wrongs offered to him.

CHAPTER XII: A question how true patience can be gained.

   GERMANUS: We should like to know how that calmness can be secured and
maintained, that, as when silence is enjoined on us we shut the door of our
mouth, and lay an embargo on speech, so also we may be able to preserve
gentleness of heart, which sometimes even when the tongue is restrained
loses its state of calmness within: and for this reason we think that the
blessing of gentleness can only be preserved by one in a remote cell and
solitary dwelling.

CHAPTER XIII: The answer.

   PIAMUN: True patience and tranquillity is neither gained nor retained
without profound humility of heart: and if it has sprung from this source,
there will be no need either of the good offices of the cell or of the
refuge of the desert. For it will seek no external support from anything,
if it has the internal support of the virtue of humility, its mother and
its guardian. But if we are disturbed when attacked by anyone it is clear
that the foundations of humility have not been securely laid in us, and
therefore at the outbreak even of a small storm, our whole edifice is
shaken and ruinously disturbed. For patience would not be worthy of praise
and admiration if it only preserved its purposed tranquillity when attacked
by no darts of enemies, but it is grand and glorious because when the
storms of temptation beat upon it, it remains unmoved. For wherein it is
believed that a man is annoyed and hurt by adversity, therein is he
strengthened the more; and he is therein the more exercised, wherein he is
thought to be annoyed. For everybody knows that patience gets its name from
the passions and endurance, and so it is clear that no one can be called
patient but one who bears without annoyance all the indignities offered to
him, and so it is not without reason that he is praised by Solomon: "Better
is the patient man than the strong, and he who restrains his anger than he
who takes a city;" and again: "For a long-suffering man is mighty in
prudence, but a faint-hearted man is very foolish."(1) When then anyone is
overcome by a wrong, and blazes up in a fire of anger, we should not hold
that the bitterness of the insult offered to him is the cause of his sin,
but rather the manifestation of secret weakness, in accordance with the
parable of our Lord and Saviour which He spoke about the two houses,(2) one
of which was founded upon a rock, and the other upon the sand, on both of
which He says that the tempest of rain and waters and storm beat equally:
but that one which was founded on the solid rock felt no harm at all from
the violence of the shock, while that which was built on the shifting and
moving sand at once collapsed. And it certainly appears that it fell, not
because it was struck by the rush of the storms and torrents. but because
it was imprudently built upon the sand. For a saint does not differ from a
sinner in this, that he is not himself tempted in the same way, but because
he is not worsted even by a great assault, while the other is overcome even
by a slight temptation. For the fortitude of any good man would not, as we
said, be worthy of praise, if his victory was gained without his being
tempted, as most certainly there is no room for victory where there is no
struggle and conflict: for "Blessed is the man that endureth temptation,
for when he has been proved he shall receive the crown of life which God
hath promised to them that love Him."(3) According to the Apostle Paul also
"Strength is made perfect" not in ease and delights but "in weakness." "For
behold," says He, "I have made thee this day a fortified city, and a pillar
of iron, and a wall of brass, over all the land, to the kings of Judah, and
to the princes thereof, and to the priests thereof, and to all the people
of the land. And they shall fight against thee, and shall not prevail: for
I am with thee, saith the Lord, to deliver thee."(4)

CHAPTER XIV: Of the example of patience given by a certain religious woman.

   OF this patience then I want to give you at least two examples: one of
a certain religious woman, who aimed at the virtue of patience so eagerly
that she not only did not avoid the assaults of temptation, but actually
made for herself occasions of trouble that she might not cease to be tried
more often. For this woman as she was living at Alexandria and was born of
no mean ancestors, and was serving the Lord religiously in the house which
had been left to her by her parents, came to Athanasius the Bishop, of
blessed memory, and entreated him to give her some other widow to support,
who was being provided for at the expense of the Church. And, to give her
petition in her own words: "Give me," she said, "one of the sisters to look
after." When then the Bishop had commended the woman's purpose because he
saw that she was very ready for a work of a mercy, he ordered a widow to be
chosen out of the whole number, who was preferred to all the rest for the
goodness of her character, and her grave and well- regulated life, for fear
lest her wish to be liberal might be overcome by the fault of the recipient
of her bounty, and she who sought gain out of the poor might be disgusted
at her bad character and so suffer an injury to her faith. And when the
woman was brought home, she ministered to her with all kinds of service,
and found out her excellent modesty and gentleness, and saw that every
minute she was honoured by thanks from her for her kind offices, and so
after a few days she came back to the aforesaid Bishop, and said: I asked
you to bid that a woman be given to me for me to support and to serve with
obedient complaisance. And when he, not yet understanding the woman's
object and desire, thought that her petition had been neglected by the
deceitfulness of the superior, and inquired not without some anger in his
mind, what was the reason of the delay, at once he discovered that a widow
who was better than all the rest had been assigned to her, and so he
secretly gave orders that the one who was the worst of all should be given
to her, the one, I mean, who surpassed in anger and quarrelling and wine-
bibbing and talkativeness all who were under the power of these faults. And
when she was only too easily found and given to her, she began to keep her
at home, and to minister to her with the same care as to the former widow,
or even more attentively, and this was all the thanks which she got from
her for her services; viz., to be constantly tried by unworthy wrongs and
continually annoyed by her by reproaches and upbraiding, as she complained
of her, and chid her with spiteful and disparaging remarks, because she had
asked for her from the Bishop not for her refreshment but rather for her
torment and annoyance, and had taken her away from rest to labour instead
of from labour to rest. When then her continual reproaches broke out so far
that the wanton woman did not restrain herself from laying hands on her,
the other only redoubled her services in still humbler offices, and learnt
to overcome the vixen not by resisting her, but by subjecting herself still
more humbly, so that, when provoked by all kinds of indignities, she might
smooth down the madness of the shrew by gentleness and kindness. And when
she had been thoroughly strengthened by these exercises, and had attained
the perfect virtue of the patience she had longed for, she came to the
aforesaid Bishop to thank him for his decision and choice as well as for
the blessing of her exercise, because he had at last as she wished provided
her with a most worthy mistress for her patience, strengthened daily by
whose constant annoyance as by some oil for wrestling, she had arrived at
complete patience of mind; and, at last, said she, you have given me one to
support, for the former one rather honoured and refreshed me by her
services. This may be sufficient to have told about the female sex, that by
this tale we may not only be edified, but even confounded, as we cannot
maintain our patience unless we are like wild beasts removed in caves and
cells.

CHAPTER XV: Of the example of patience given by Abbot Paphnutius.

   NOW let us give the other instance of Abbot Paphnutius, who always
remained so zealously in the recesses of that renowned and far-famed desert
of Scete, in which he is now Presbyter, so that the rest of the anchorites
gave him the name of Bubalis,(1) because he always delighted in dwelling in
the desert as if with a sort of innate liking. And so as even in boyhood he
was so good and full of grace that even the renowned and great men of that
time admired his gravity and steadfast constancy, and although he was
younger in age, yet put him on a level with the Elders out of regard for
his virtues, and thought fit to admit him to their order, the same envy,
which formerly excited the minds of his brethren against the patriarch
Joseph, inflamed one out of the number of his brethren with a burning and
consuming jealousy. And this man wanting to mar his beauty by some blemish
or spot, hit on this kind of devilry, so as to seize an opportunity when
Paphnutius had left his cell to go to Church on Sunday: and secretly
entering his cell he slyly hid his own book among the boughs which he used
to weave of palm branches, and, secure of his  well-planned trick, himself
went off as if with a pure and clean conscience to Church. And  when the
whole service was ended as usual,  in the presence of all the brethren he
brought his complaint to S. Isidore(2) who was Presbyter of this desert
before this same Paphnutius, and declared that his book had been stolen
from his cell. And when his complaint had so disturbed the minds of all the
brethren, and more especially of the Presbyter, so that they knew not what
first to suspect or think, as all were overcome with the utmost
astonishment at so new and unheard of a crime, such as no one remembered
ever to have been committed in that desert before that time, and which has
never happened since, he who had brought forward the matter as the accuser
urged that they should all be kept in Church and certain selected men be
sent to search the cells of the brethren one by one. And when this had been
entrusted to three of the Elders by the Presbyter, they turned over the
bed-chambers of them all, and at last found the book hidden in the cell of
Paphnutius among the boughs of the palms which they call seira', just as
the plotter had hidden it. And when the inquisitors at once brought it back
to the Church and produced it before all, Paphnutius, although he was
perfectly clear in the sincerity of his conscience, yet like one who
acknowledged the guilt of thieving, gave himself up entirely to make amends
and humbly asked for a plan of repentance, as he was so careful of his
shame and modesty (and feared) lest if he tried to remove the stain of the
theft by words, he might further be branded as a liar, as no one would
believe anything but what had been found out. And when he had immediately
left the Church not cast down in mind but rather trusting to the judgment
of God, he continually shed tears at his prayers, and fasted thrice as
often as before, and prostrated himself in the sight of men with all
humility of mind. But when he had thus submitted himself with all
contrition of flesh and spirit for almost a fortnight, so that he came
early on the morning of Saturday and Sunday not to receive the Holy
Communion(3) but to prostrate himself on the threshold of the Church and
humbly ask for pardon, He, Who is the witness of all secret things and
knows them, suffered him to be no longer tried by Himself or defamed by
others. For what the author of the crime, the wicked thief of his own
property, the cunning defamer of another's credit, had done with no man
there as a witness, that He made known by means of the devil who was
himself the instigator of the sin. For possessed by a most fierce demon, he
made known all the craft of his secret plot, and the same man who had
conceived the accusation and the cheat betrayed it. But he was so long and
grievously vexed by that unclean spirit that he could not even be restored
by the prayers of the saints living there, who by means of divine gifts can
command the devils, nor could the special grace of the Presbyter Isidore
himself east out from him his cruel tormentor, though by the Lord's bounty
such power was given him that no one who was possessed was ever brought to
his doors without being at once healed; for Christ was reserving this glory
for the young Paphnutius, that the man should be cleansed only by the
prayers of him against whom he had plotted, and that the jealous enemy
should receive pardon for his offence and an end of his present punishment,
only by proclaiming his name, from whose credit he had thought that he
could detract. He then in his early youth already gave these signs of his
future character, and even in his boyish years sketched the lines of that
perfection which was to grow up in mature age. If then we want to attain to
his height of virtue, we must lay the same foundation to begin with.

CHAPTER XVI: On the perfection of patience.

   A TWOFOLD reason however led me to relate this fact, first that we may
weigh this steadfastness and constancy of the man, and as we are attacked
by less serious wiles of the enemy, may the better secure a greater feeling
of calmness and patience, secondly that we may with resolute decision hold
that we cannot be safe from the storms of temptation and assaults of the
devil if we make all the protection for our patience and all our confidence
consist not in the strength of our inner man but in the doors of our cell
or the recesses of the desert, and companionship of the saints, or the
safeguard of anything else outside us. For unless our mind is strengthened
by the power of His protection Who says in the gospel "the kingdom of God
is within you,"(1) m vain do we fancy that we can defeat the plots of our
airy foe by the aid of men who are living with us, or that we can avoid
them by distance of place, or exclude them by the protection of walls. For
though none of these things was wanting to Saint Paphnutius yet the tempter
did not fail to find a way of access against him to attack him; nor did the
encircling walls, or the solitude of the desert or the merits of all those
saints in the congregation repulse that most foul spirit. But because the
holy servant of God had fixed the hope of his heart not on those external
things but on Him Who is the judge of all secrets, he could not be moved
even by the machinations of such an assault as that. On the other hand did
not the man whom envy had hurried into so grievous a sin enjoy the benefit
of solitude and the protection of a retired dwelling, and intercourse with
the blessed Abbot and Presbyter Isidore and other saints? And yet because
the storm raised by the devil found him upon the sand, it not only drove in
his house but actually overturned it. We need not then seek for our peace
in externals, nor fancy that another person's patience can be of any use to
the faults of our impatience. For just as "the kingdom of God is within
you," so "a man's foes are they of his own household."(2) For no one is
more my enemy than my own heart which is truly the one of my household
closest to me. And therefore if we are careful, we cannot possibly be
injured by intestine enemies. For where those of our own household are not
opposed to us, there also the kingdom of God is secured in peace of heart.
For if you diligently investigate the matter, I cannot be injured by any
man however spiteful, if I do not fight against myself with warlike heart.
But if I am injured, the fault is not owing to the other's attack, but to
my own impatience. For as strong and solid food is good for a man in good
health, so it is bad for a sick one. But it cannot hurt the man who takes
it, unless the weakness of its recipient gives it its power to hurt. If
then any similar temptation ever arises among brethren, we need never be
shaken out of the even tenor of our ways and give an opening to the
blasphemous snarls of men living in the world, nor wonder that some bad and
detestable men have secretly found their way into the number of the saints,
because so long as we are trodden down and trampled in the threshing floor
of this world, the chaff which is destined for eternal fire is quite sure
to be mingled with the choicest of the wheat. Finally if we bear in mind
that Satan was chosen among the angels, and Judas among the apostles, and
Nicholas the author of a detestable heresy among the deacons, it will be no
wonder that the basest of men are found among the ranks of the saints. For
although some maintain that this Nicholas was not the same man who was
chosen for the work of the ministry by the Apostles,(1) nevertheless they
cannot deny that he was of the number of the disciples, all of whom were
clearly of such a character and so perfect as those few whom we can now
with difficulty discover in the coenobia. Let us then bring forward not the
fall of the above-mentioned brother, who fell in the desert with so
grievous a collapse, nor that horrible stain which he afterwards wiped out
by the copious tears of his penitence, but the example of the blessed
Paphnutius; and let us not be destroyed by the ruin of the former, whose
ingrained sin of envy was increased and made worse by his affected piety,
but let us imitate with all our might the humility of the latter, which in
his case was no sudden production of the quiet of the desert, but had been
gained among men, and was consummated and perfected by solitude. However
you should know that the evil of envy is harder to be cured than other
faults, for I should almost say that a man whom it has once tainted with
the mischief of its poison is without a remedy. For it is the plague of
which it is figuratively said by the prophet: "Behold I will send among you
serpents, basilisks, against which there is no charm: and they shall bite
you."(2) Rightly then are the stings of envy compared by the prophet to the
deadly poison of basilisks, as by it the first author of all poisons and
their chief perished and died. For he slew himself before him of whom he
was envious, and destroyed himself before that he poured forth the poison
of death against man: for "by the envy of the devil death entered into the
world: they therefore who are on his side follow him."(3) For just as he
who was the first to be corrupted by the plague of that evil, admitted no
remedy of penitence, nor any healing plaster, so those also who have given
themselves up to be smitten by the same pricks, exclude all the aid of the
sacred charmer, because as they are tormented not by the faults but by the
prosperity of those of whom they are jealous, they are ashamed to display
the real truth and look out for some external unnecessary and trifling
causes of offence: and of these, because they are altogether false, vain is
the hope of cure, while the deadly poison which they will not produce is
lurking in their veins. Of which the wisest of men has fitly said: "If a
serpent bite without hissing, there is no supply for the charmer."(4) For
those are silent bites, to which alone the medicine of the wise is no
succour. For that evil is so far incurable that it is made worse by
attentions, it is increased by services, is irritated by presents, because
as the same Solomon says: "envy endures nothing."(5) For just in proportion
as another has made progress in humble submission or in the virtue of
patience or in the merit of munificence, so is a man excited by worse
pricks of envy, because he desires nothing less than the ruin or death of
the man whom he envies. Lastly no submission on the part of their harmless
brother could soften the envy of the eleven patriarchs, so that Scripture
relates of them: "But his brothers envied him because his father loved him,
and they could not speak peaceably unto him"(6) until their jealousy, which
would not listen to any entreaties on the part of their obedient and
submissive brother, desired his death, and would scarcely be satisfied with
the sin of selling a brother. It is plain then that  envy is worse than all
faults, and harder to get rid of, as it is inflamed by those remedies by
which the others are destroyed. For, for example, a man who is grieved by a
loss that has been caused to him, is healed by a liberal compensation: one
who is sore owing to a wrong done to him, is appeased by humble
satisfaction being made. What can you do with one who is the more offended
by the very fact that he sees you humbler and kinder, who is not aroused to
anger by any greed which can be appeased by a bribe; or by any injurious
attack or love of vengeance, which is overcome by obsequious services; but
is only irritated by another's success and happiness? But who is there who
in order to satisfy one who envies him, would wish to fall from his good
fortune, or to lose his prosperity or to be involved in some calamity?
Wherefore we must constantly implore the divine aid, to which nothing is
impossible, in order that the serpent may not by a single bite of this evil
destroy whatever is flourishing in us, and animated as it were by the life
and quickening power of the Holy Ghost. For the other poisons of serpents,
i.e., carnal sins and faults, in which human frailty is easily entangled
and from which it is as easily purified, show some traces of their wounds
in the flesh, whereby although the earthly body is most dangerously
inflamed, yet if any charmer well skilled in divine incantations applies a
cure and antidote or the remedy of words of salvation, the poisonous evil
does not reach to the everlasting death of the soul. But the poison of envy
as if emitted by the basilisk, destroys the very life of religion and
faith, even before the wound is perceived in the body. For he does not
raise himself up against men, but, in his blasphemy, against God, who carps
at nothing in his brother except his felicity, and so blames no fault of
man, but simply the judgment of God. This then is that "root of bitterness
springing up"(1) which raises itself to heaven and tends to reproaching the
very Author Who bestows good things on man. Nor shall anyone be disturbed
because God threatens to send "serpents, basilisks,"(2) to bite those by
whose crimes He is offended. For although it is certain that God cannot be
the author of envy, yet it is fair and worthy of the divine judgment that,
while good gifts are bestowed on the humble and refused to the proud and
reprobate, those who, as the Apostle says, deserve to be given over "to a
reprobate mind,"(5) should be smitten and consumed by envy sent as it were
by Him, according to this passage: "They have provoked me to jealousy by
them that are no gods: and I will provoke them to jealousy by them that are
no nation."(6)

   By this discourse the blessed Piamun excited still more keenly our
desire in which we had begun to be promoted from the infant school of the
coenobium to the second standard of the anchorites' life. For it was under
his instruction that we made our first start in solitary living, the
knowledge of which we afterwards followed up more thoroughly in Scete.


XIX: CONFERENCE OF ABBOT JOHN.

ON THE AIM OF THE COENOBITE AND HERMIT.

CHAPTER I: Of the coenobium of Abbot Paul and the patience of a certain
brother.

   AFTER only a few days we made our way once more with great alacrity,
drawn by the desire for further instruction, to the coenobium of Abbot
Paul, where though a greater number than two hundred of the brethren dwell
there, yet, in honour of the festival which was then being held, an
enormous collection of monks from other coenobia had come there as well:
for the anniversary of the death(3) of a former Abbot who had presided over
the same monastery was being solemnly kept. And we have mentioned this
assembly for this reason that we may briefly treat of the patience of a
certain brother, which was remarkable for immovable gentleness on his part
in the presence of all this congregation. For though the object of this
work has regard to another person; viz., that we may produce the utterances
of Abbot John(4) who left the desert and submitted himself to that
coenobium with the utmost goodness and humility, yet we think it not at all
absurd to relate without any unnecessary verbiage, what we think is most
instructive to those who are eager for goodness. And so when the whole body
of the monks was seated in separate parties of twelve, in the large open
court, when one Of the brethren had been rather slow in fetching and
bringing in a dish, the aforesaid Abbot Paul, who was busily hurrying about
among the troops of brethren who were serving, saw it and struck him such a
blow before them all on his open palm that the sound of the hand which was
struck actually reached the ears of those whose backs were turned nd who
were sitting some way off. But the youth of remarkable patience received it
with such calmness of mind that not only did he let no word fall from his
mouth or give the slightest sign of murmuring by the silent movements of
his lips, but actually did not change colour in the slightest degree or
(lose) the modest and peaceful look about his mouth. And this fact struck
with astonishment not merely us, who had lately come from a monastery of
Syria and had not learnt the blessing of this patience by such clear
examples, but all those as well who were not without experience of such
earnestness, so that by it a great lesson was taught even to those who were
well advanced, because even if this paternal correction had not disturbed
his patience, neither did the presence of so great a number bring the
slightest sign of colour to his cheeks.

CHAPTER II: Of Abbot John's humility and our question.

   IN this coenobium then we found a very old man named John, whose words
and humility we think ought certainly not to be passed over in silence as
in them he excelled all the saints, as we know that he was especially
vigorous in this perfection, which though it is the mother of all virtues
and the surest foundation of the whole spiritual superstructure, yet is
altogether a stranger to our system. Wherefore it is no wonder that we
cannot attain to the height of those men, as we cannot stand the training
of the coenobium I will not say up to old age, but are scarcely content to
endure the yoke of subjection for a couple of years, and at once escape to
enjoy a dangerous liberty, while even for that short time we seem to be
subject to the rule of the Elder not according to any strict rule, but as
our free will directs. When then we had seen this old man in Abbot Paul's
coenobium, we were struck, first by his age and the grace with which the
man was endowed, and with looks fixed on the ground began to entreat him to
vouchsafe to explain to us why he had forsaken the freedom of the desert
and that exalted profession, in which his fame and celebrity had raised him
above others who had adopted the same life, and why he had chosen to enter
under the yoke of the coenobium. He said that as he was unequal to the
system of the anchorites and unworthy of the heights of such perfection, he
had gone back to the infant school, that he might learn to carry out the
lessons taught there, according as the life demanded. And when our
entreaties were not satisfied and we refused to take this humble answer, at
last he began as follows.

CHAPTER III: Abbot John's answer why he had left the desert.

   THE system of the anchorites, which you are surprised at my leaving, I
not only neither reject nor refuse, but rather embrace and regard with the
utmost veneration: in which system, and after I had passed thirty years
living in a coenobium, I rejoice that I have also spent twenty more, so
that I can never be accused of sloth among those who tried it in a half-
hearted way. But because its purity, of which I had had some slight
experience, was sometimes soiled by the presence of anxiety about carnal
matters, it seemed better to return to the coenobium to secure a readier
attainment of an easier aim undertaken, and less danger from venturing on
the higher life of the humble solitary.(1) For it is better to seem earnest
with smaller promises than careless in larger ones. And therefore if
possibly I bring forward anything somewhat arrogantly and indeed somewhat
too freely, I beg that you will not think it due to the sin of boasting but
rather to my desire for your edification; and that, as I think that, when
you ask so earnestly, nothing of the truth should be kept back from you,
you will set it down to love rather than to boasting. For I think that some
instruction may be given to you if I lay aside my humility, and simply lay
bare the whole truth about my aim. For I trust that I shall not incur any
reproach of vainglory from you because of the freedom of my words, nor any
charge of falsehood from my conscience because of any suppression of the
truth.

CHAPTER IV: Of the excellence which the aforesaid old man showed in the
system of the anchorites.

   IF then anyone else delights in the recesses of the desert and would
forget all human intercourse and say with Jeremiah: "I have not desired the
day of man: Thou knowest,"(2) I confess that by the blessing of God's
grace, I also secured or at any rate tried to secure this. And so by the
kind gift of the Lord I remember that I was often caught up into such an
ecstasy as to forget that I was clothed with the burden of a weak body, and
my soul on a sudden forgot all external notions and entirely cut itself off
from all material objects, so that neither my eyes nor ears performed their
proper functions. And my soul was so filled with divine meditations and
spiritual contemplations that often in the evening I did not know whether I
had taken any food and on the next day was very doubtful whether I had
broken my fast yesterday. For which reason, a supply of food for seven
days, i.e., seven sets of biscuits were set apart in a sort of hand-
basket,(1) and laid by on Saturday, that there might be no doubt when
supper had been omitted; and by this plan another mistake also from
forgetfulness was obviated, for when the number of cakes was finished it
showed that the course of the week was over, and that the services of the
same day had come round, and that the festival and holy day and services of
the congregation could not escape the notice of the solitary. But even if
that ecstasy of mind of which we have spoken should happen to interfere
with this arrangement, yet stall the method of the days' work would show
the number of the days and check the mistake. And to pass over in silence
the other advantages of the desert (for it is not our business to treat of
their number and quantity, but rather of the aim of solitude and the
coenobium) I will the rather briefly explain the reasons why I preferred to
leave it, which you also wanted to know, and will in a concise discourse
glance at all those fruits of solitude which I mentioned, and show to what
greater advantages on the other side they ought to be held inferior.

CHAPTER V: Of the advantages of the desert.

   So long then as owing to the fewness of those who were then living in
the desert, a greater freedom was afforded to us in a wider expanse of the
wilderness, so long as in the seclusion of larger retreats we were caught
up to those celestial ecstasies, and were not overwhelmed by a great
quantity of brethren to visit us, and thus owing to the necessity of
showing hospitality overburdened in our thoughts by the distractions of
great cares, I frequented with insatiable desire and all my heart the
peaceful retreats of the desert and that life which can only be compared to
the bliss of the angels. But when, as I said, a larger number of the
brethren began to seek a dwelling in that desert, and by cramping the
freedom of the vast wilderness, not only caused that fire of divine
contemplation to grow cold, but also entangled the mind in many ways in the
chains of carnal matters, I determined to carry out my purpose in this
system rather than to grow cold in that sublime mode of life, by providing
for carnal wants; so that, if that liberty and those spiritual ecstasies
are denied me, yet as all care for the morrow is avoided, I may console
myself by fulfilling the precept of the gospel, and what I lose in
sublimity of contemplation, may be made up to me by submission and
obedience. For it is a wretched thing for a man to profess to learn any art
or pursuit, and never to arrive at perfection in it.

CHAPTER VI: Of the conveniences of the coenobium.

   WHEREFORE I will briefly explain what advantages I now enjoy in this
manner of life. You must consider my words and judge whether those
advantages of the desert outweigh these comforts, and by this you will also
be able to prove whether I chose to be cramped within the narrow limits of
the coenobium from dislike or from desire of that purity of the solitary
life. In this life then there is no providing for the day's work, no
distractions of buying and selling, no unavoidable care for the year's
food, no anxiety about bodily things, by which one has to get ready what is
necessary not only for one's own wants but also for those of any number of
visitors, finally no conceit from the praise of men, which is worse than
all these things and sometimes in the sight of God does away with the good
of even great efforts in the desert. But, to pass over those waves of
spiritual pride and the deadly peril of vainglory in the life of the
anchorite, let us return to this general burden which affects everybody,
i.e., the ordinary anxiety in providing food, which has so far exceeded I
say not the measure of that ancient strictness which altogether did without
oil, but is beginning not to be content even with the relaxation of our own
time according to which the requirements of all the supply of food for a
year were satisfied by the preparation of a single pint of oil and a modius
of lentils prepared for the use of visitors; but now the needful supply of
food is scarcely met by two or three times that amount. And to such an
extent has the force of this dangerous relaxation grown among some that,
when they mix vinegar and sauce, they do not add that single drop of oil,
which our predecessors who followed the rules of the desert with greater
powers of abstinence, were accustomed to pour in simply for the sake of
avoiding vainglory,(1) but they break an Egyptian cheese for luxury and
pour over it more oil than is required, and so take, under a single
pleasant relish, two sorts of food which differ in their special flavour,
each of which ought singly to be a pleasant refreshment at different times
for a monk. To such a pitch however has this hulikh` kth^sis, i.e.,
acquisition of material things grown, that actually Under pretence of
hospitality and welcoming guests anchorites have begun to keep a blanket in
their cells--a thing which I cannot mention without shame--to omit those
things by which the mind that is awed by and intent on spiritual meditation
is more especially hampered; viz., the concourse of brethren, the duties of
receiving the coming and speeding the parting guest, visits to each other
and the endless worry of various confabulations and occupations, the
expectation of which owing to the continuous character of these customary
interruptions keeps the mind on the stretch even during the time when these
bothers seem to cease. And so the result is that the freedom of the
anchorite's life is so hindered by these ties that it can never rise to
that ineffable keenness of heart, and thus loses the fruits of its hermit
life. And if this is now denied to me while I am living in the congregation
and among others, at least there is no lack of peace of mind and
tranquillity of heart that is freed from all business. And unless this is
ready at hand for those also who live in the desert, they will indeed have
to undergo the labours of the anchorite's life, but will lose its fruits
which can only be gained in peaceful stability of mind. Finally even if
there is any diminution of my purity of heart while I am living in the
coenobium, I shall be satisfied by keeping in exchange that one precept of
the Gospel, which certainly cannot be less esteemed than all those fruits
of the desert; I mean that I should take no thought for the morrow, and
submitting myself completely to the Abbot seem in some degree to emulate
Him of whom it is said: "He humbled Himself, and became obedient unto
death; and so be able humbly to make use of His words: "For I came not to
do mine own will, but the will of the Father which sent me."(1)

CHAPTER VII: A question on the fruits of the coenobium and the desert.

   GERMANUS: Since it is evident that you have not, like so many, just
touched the mere outskirts of each mode of life, but have ascended to the
very heights, we should like to know what is the end of the coenobite's
life and what the end of the hermit's. For no one can doubt that no man can
discourse with greater fulness or fidelity, on these subjects than one who,
taught by long use and experience, has followed them both, and so can by
veracious teaching show us their value and aim.

CHAPTER VIII: The answer to the question proposed.

   JOHN: I should absolutely maintain that one and the same man could not
attain perfection in both lives unless I was hindered by the example of
some few. And since it is no small matter to find a man who is perfect in
either of them, it is clear how much harder and I had almost said
impossible it is for a man to be thoroughly efficient in both. And if this
has ever happened, it cannot come under any general rule. For a general
rule must be based not on exceptional instances, i.e., on the experience of
a very few, but on what is within the power of the many or rather of all.
But what is attained to here and there by but one or two, and is beyond the
capacity of ordinary goodness, must be kept out of general rules as
something permitted outside the condition and nature of human weakness, and
should be brought forward as a miracle rather than as an example. Wherefore
I will, as my slender ability allows, briefly intimate what you want to
know. The aim indeed of the coenobite is to mortify and crucify all his
desires and, according to that salutary command of evangelic perfection, to
take no thought for the morrow. And it is perfectly clear that this
perfection cannot be attained by any except a coenobite, such a man as the
prophet Isaiah describes and blesses and praises as follows: "If thou turn
away thy foot from the Sabbath, from doing thy own will in my holy day, and
glorify Him, while thou dost not thine own ways, and thine own will is not
found to speak a word: then shalt thou be delighted in the Lord, and I will
lift thee up above the high places of the earth, and will feed thee with
the inheritance of Jacob thy father. For the mouth of the Lord hath spoken
it."(2) But the perfection for a hermit is to have his mind freed from all
earthly things, and to unite it, as far as human frailty allows, with
Christ: and such a man the prophet Jeremiah describes when he says:
"Blessed is the man who hath borne the yoke from his youth. He shall sit
solitary and hold his peace, because he hath taken it upon himself;" the
Psalmist also: "I am become like a pelican in the desert. I watched and
became as a sparrow alone upon the housetop."(1) To this aim then, which we
have described as that of either life, unless each of them attains, in vain
does the one adopt the system of the coenobium, and the other of the
hermitage: for neither of them will get the good of his method of life.

CHAPTER IX: Of true and complete perfection.

   BUT this is merikh', i.e., no thorough and altogether complete
perfection, but only a partial one. Perfection then is very rare and
granted by God's gift to but a very few. For he is truly and not partially
perfect who with equal imperturbability can put up with the squalor of the
wilderness in the desert, as well as the infirmities of the brethren in the
coenobium. And so it is hard to find one who is perfect in both lives,
because the anchorite cannot thoroughly acquire akthmosu'nh, i.e., a
disregard for and stripping oneself of material things, nor the coenobite
purity in contemplation, although we know that Abbot Moses and Paphnutius
and the two Macarii(2) were masters of both in perfection. And so they were
perfect in either life, and while they withdrew further than all the
dwellers in the desert and delighted  themselves unceasingly in the
retirement of the wilderness, and as far as in them lay never sought
intercourse with other men, yet they put up with the presence and the
infirmities of those who came to them so that when a large number of the
brethren came to them for the sake of seeing them and profiting by it, they
endured this almost continuous trouble of receiving them with imperturbable
patience, and men fancied that all the days of their life they had neither
learnt nor practised anything but how to show common civility to those who
came, so that it was a puzzle to all to say in which-life their zeal was
mainly shown, i.e., whether their greatness adapted itself more remarkably
to the purity of the hermitage or to the common life.

CHAPTER X: Of those who while still imperfect retire into the desert.

   BUT some are sometimes so tantalized by the silence of the desert
Fasting all through the day that they altogether dread intercourse with
men, and, when they have even for a little while broken through their habit
of retirement owing to the accident of a visit from some of the brethren,
boil over with marked vexation of mind, and show clear signs of annoyance.
And this especially happens in the case of those who have betaken
themselves to the solitary life without a well-matured purpose and without
being thoroughly trained in the coenobium, as these men are always
imperfect and easily upset, and incline to one side or the other, as the
gales of trouble may drive them. For as they boil over impatiently at
intercourse or conversation with the brethren, so while they are living in
solitude they cannot stand the vastness of that silence which they
themselves have courted, inasmuch as they themselves do not even know the
reason why solitude ought to be wanted and sought for, but imagine that the
value and the main part of this life consist in this; viz., in avoiding
intercourse with the brethren and simply shunning and loathing the sight of
a man.

CHAPTER XI: A question how to cure those who have hastily left the
congregation of the coenobium.

   GERMANUS: By what treatment can any help be given to us or to others
who are thus weak and only up to this; who had received but little
instruction in the system of the coenobium when we began to aspire to dwell
in solitude before we had got rid of our faults; or by what means shall we
be able to acquire the constancy of an imperturbable mind, and immovable
steadfastness of patience; we who all too soon gave up the common life in
the coenobium, and forsook the schools and training ground for these
exercises, in which our principles ought first to have been thoroughly
schooled and perfected? How then can we now while we are living alone gain
perfection in long-suffering and patience; or how can conscience, that
searcher out of inward motives, discover whether these virtues exist in us
or are wanting, so that because we are severed from intercourse with men,
and not irritated by any of their provocations, we may not be deceived by
false notions, and fancy that we have gained that imperturbable peace of
mind?

CHAPTER XII: The answer telling how a solitary can discover his faults.

   JOHN: To those who are really seeking relief, healing remedies from the
true Physician of souls will certainly not be wanting; and to those above
all will they be given who do not disregard their ill-condition (either
because they despair of it, or because they do not care about it), nor hide
the danger they are in from their wound, nor in their wanton heart reject
the remedy of penitence, but with an humble and yet careful heart flee to
the heavenly Physician for the diseases they have contracted from ignorance
or error or necessity. And so we ought to know that if we retire to
solitude or secret places, without our faults being first cured, their
operation is but repressed, while the power of feeling them is not
extinguished. For the root of all sins not having been eradicated is still
lying hid in us, or rather creeping up, and that it is still alive we can
tell by these signs. For instance, if, when we are living in solitude we
receive the approach of some brethren, or any very slight tarrying on their
part, with any anxiety or fretfulness of mind, we should recognize that an
incentive to the most hasty impatience is still existing in us. But if when
we are hoping for the coming of a brother, and from  some cause he perhaps
delays a little, our mental indignation either silently blames his
slowness, and annoyance at this inconvenient waiting disturbs our mind, the
examination of our conscience will show that the sin of anger and vexation
is plainly still remaining in us. Again, if when a brother asks for our
book to read, or for some other article to use,  his request annoys us, or
a refusal on our part disgusts him, there can be no doubt that we are still
entangled in the meshes of avarice or covetousness. But if a sudden thought
or a passage of Holy Scripture brings up the recollection of a woman and we
feel that we  are at all attracted towards her, we should know that the
fire of fornication is not yet extinguished in us. But if on a comparison
of our own strictness with the laxity of another  even the slightest
conceit tries our mind, it is clear that we are affected with the dreadful
plague of pride. When then we detect these signs of faults in our heart, we
should clearly recognize that it is only the opportunity and not the
passion of sin of which we are deprived. And certainly these passions, if
at any time we were to mingle in the ordinary life of men, would at once
start up from their lurking places in our thoughts and prove that they did
not then for the first time come into existence when they broke out, but
that they were then at last made public, because they had been long lying
hid. And so even a solitary can detect by sure signs that the roots of each
fault are still implanted in him, if he tries not to show his purity to
men, but to maintain it inviolate in His sight, from whom no secrets of the
heart can be hid.

CHAPTER XIII: A question how a man can be cured who has entered on solitude
without having his faults eradicated.

   GERMANUS: We very clearly and plainly see the proofs by which the signs
of infirmities are inferred, and the method of discerning diseases, i.e.,
how the faults which are concealed in us can be detected: for our every day
experience and the daily motions of our thoughts show us all these as they
have been stated. It remains then that as the proofs and causes of our
maladies have been exposed to us in a most clear way so their remedies and
cures may also be shown. For no one can doubt that one who has first
discovered the grounds and beginnings of ailments, with the approving
witness of the conscience of those affected, can best discourse on their
remedies. And so though the teaching of your holiness has laid bare the
secrets of our wounds whereby we venture to have some hope of a remedy,
because so clear a diagnosis of the disease gives promise of the hope of a
cure, yet because, as you say, the first elements of salvation are acquired
in the coenobium, and men cannot be in a sound condition in solitude,
unless they have first been healed by the medicine of the coenobium, we
have fallen again into a dangerous state of despair lest as we left the
coenobium in an imperfect condition we may not now that we are in the
desert succeed in becoming perfect.

CHAPTER XIV: The answer on their remedies.

   JOHN: For those who are anxious for the cure of their ailments a saving
remedy is sure not to be wanting, and therefore remedies should be sought
by the same means that the signs of each fault are discovered. For as we
have said that the faults of men's ordinary life are not wanting to
solitaries, so we do not deny that all zeal for virtue, and all the means
of healing are at the disposal of all those who are cut off from men's
ordinary life. When then anyone discovers by those signs which we described
above, that he is attacked by outbreaks of impatience or anger, he should
always practise himself in the opposite and contrary things, and by setting
before himself all sorts of injuries and wrongs, as if offered to him by
somebody else, accustom his mind to submit with perfect humility to
everything that wickedness can bring upon him; and by often representing to
himself all kinds of rough and intolerable things, continually consider
with all sorrow of heart with what gentleness he ought to meet them. And,
by thus looking at the sufferings of all the saints, or indeed at those of
the Lord Himself, he will admit that the various reproaches as well as
punishments are less than he deserves, and prepare himself to endure all
kinds of griefs. And when occasionally he has been recalled by so, me
invitation to the assembly of the brethren--a thing which cannot but happen
every now and then even to the strictest inmates of the desert,--if he
finds that his mind is silently disturbed even for trifles, he should like
some stern censor of his secret emotions charge himself with all those
various hard wrongs, to the perfect endurance of which he was training
himself by his daily meditations, and blaming and chiding himself as
follows, say My good man, are you the fellow who while training yourself in
the practising ground of solitude, ventured most determinedly to think that
you would get the better of all bad qualities, and who just now, when you
were representing to yourself not only all sorts of bitter reproaches, but
also intolerable punishments, fancied that you were pretty strong and able
to stand against all storms? How is it that that unconquered patience of
yours is upset by the first trial even of a light word? How is it that even
a gentle breeze has shaken that house of yours which you fancied was built
so strongly on the solid rock? Where is that which you announced when
during a time of peace you were in your foolish confidence longing for war?
"I am ready, and am not troubled;" and this which you used often to say
with the prophet: "Prove me, O Lord, and try me: search out my reins and my
heart;" and: "prove me, 0 Lord, and know my heart: question me and know my
paths; and see if there be any way of wickedness in me."(1) How has a tiny
ghost of an enemy frightened your grand preparations for war? With such
reproaches and remorse a man should condemn himself and not allow the
sudden temptation which has upset him to go unpunished, but by chastising
his flesh with a severer penalty of fasting and vigils; and, by punishing
his sin of lightness of mind by continual pains of self- restraint, he
should while living in solitude consume in this fire of practice what he
ought to have thoroughly driven out in the life of the coenobium. This at
any rate we must firmly and resolutely hold to in order to secure a lasting
and unbroken patience; viz., that for us, to whom by the Divine law not
merely vengeance for, but even the recollection of injuries is forbidden,
it is not permissible to be roused to anger because of some loss or
annoyance. For what greater injury can happen to the soul than for it,
owing to some sudden blindness from rage, to lose the brightness of the
true and eternal light and to fail of the sight of Him "Who is meek and
lowly of heart?"(2) What I ask could be more dangerous or awkward than for
a man to lose his power of judging of goodness, and his standard and rule
of true discernment, and for one in his sober senses to do what even a
drunken man, and a fool would not be pardoned for doing? One then who
carefully considers these and other injuries of the same kind, will readily
endure and disregard not only all kinds of losses, but also whatever wrongs
and punishments can be inflicted by the cruellest of men, as he will hold
that there is nothing more damaging than anger, nor more valuable than
peace of mind and unbroken purity of heart, for the sake of which we should
think nothing of the advantages not merely of carnal matters but also of
those things which appear to be spiritual, if they cannot be gained or done
without some disturbance of this tranquillity.

CHAPTER XV: A question whether chastity ought to be ascertained just as the
other feelings.

   GERMANUS: As the cure for other ailments, viz., anger, vexation, and
impatience, has been shown to consist in opposing to them their contraries,
so also we should like to learn what sort of treatment we ought to use
against the spirit of fornication: I mean, whether the fire of lust can be
quenched by the representation, as in those other cases, of greater
inducements and things to excite it: because not merely to increase the
incentives to lust within us, but even to touch them with a passing look of
the mind, we believe to be utterly fatal to chastity.

CHAPTER XVI: The answer giving the proofs by which it can be recognized.

   JOHN: Your shrewd question has anticipated the subject, which even if
you had said nothing must have arisen from our discourse, and therefore I
do not doubt that it will be effectually grasped by your minds, since
indeed your sharp wits have outstripped our instruction. For the puzzle of
any question is easily removed, when the inquiry anticipates the answer,
and is the first to travel along the road which it is to follow. And so to
the treatment of those faults of which we have spoken above, intercourse
with other men is not merely no hindrance, but a considerable help, for the
more often that the outbursts of their impatience are exposed, the more
thorough is the sorrow and compunction which they bring on those who have
failed, and the speedier is the recovery of health which they confer on
those who struggle against them. Wherefore even when we are living in
solitude, though the incentive to irritation and matter for it cannot arise
from men, yet we ought of set purpose to meditate on incitements to it,
that as we are fighting against it with a continual struggle in our
thoughts a speedier cure for it may be found for us. But against the spirit
of fornication the system is different, and the method an altered one. For
as we must deprive the body of opportunities of lust, and contact with
flesh, so we must deprive the mind of the recollection of it. For it is
sufficiently dangerous for bosoms that are still weak and infirm even to
tolerate the slightest recollection of this passion, in such a way that
sometimes at the remembrance of holy women, or in reading a story in Holy
Scripture a stimulus of dangerous excitement is aroused. For which reason
our Elders used deliberately to omit passages of this kind when any of the
juniors were present. However for those who are perfect and established in
the feelings of chastity there can be no lack of proofs by which they may
examine themselves, and establish their perfect uprightness of heart by the
uncorrupted judgment of their own conscience. There will then be for the
man who is thoroughly established a similar test even in regard to this
passion, so that one who is sure that he has altogether exterminated the
roots of this evil may for the sake of ascertaining his chastity, call up
some picture as with a lascivious mind. But it is by no means proper for
such a test to be attempted by those who are still weak (for to them it
will be dangerous rather than useful), ut conjunctionem femineam et
palpationem quodammodo teneram atque mollissimam corde pertractent. Cure
ergo perfects quis virtute fundatus ad illecebram blandissimorum tactuum,
quos cogitando confinxerit, nullum mentis assensum, nullam commotionem
carnis in se deprehenderit exagitatam, he will have a very sure proof of
his purity, so that training himself to this steadfast purity he will not
only possess the blessing of chastity and freedom from defilement in his
heart, but even if he is obliged to touch the body of a woman, he will be
horrified at it.

   With this Abbot John brought his Conference to an end, as he saw that
it was just time for the refreshment of the ninth hour.


XX. CONFERENCE OF ABBOT PINUFIUS.

ON THE END OF PENITENCE AND THE MARKS OF SATISFACTION.

CHAPTER I: Of the humility of Abbot Pinufius, and of his hiding-place.

   Now that I am going to relate the precepts of that excellent and
remarkable man, Abbot Pinufius, on the end of penitence, I fancy that I can
dispose of a very large part of my material, if out of consideration lest I
weary my reader, I here pass over in silence the praise of his humility,
which I touched on in a brief discourse in the fourth book of the
Institutes,(1) which was entitled "Of the rules to be observed by
renunciants," especially as many who have no knowledge of that work, may
happen to read this, and then all the authority of the utterances will be
weakened if there is no account of the virtues of the speaker. For this man
when he was presiding as Abbot and Presbyter over a large coenobium not far
from Panephysis, a city, as was there said, of Egypt, and when all that
province had praised him to the skies for his virtues and miracles, so that
he already seemed to himself to have received the reward of his labours in
the remuneration of the praise of men, as he was afraid lest the emptiness
of popular favour, which he especially disliked, might interfere with the
fruits of an eternal reward, he secretly fled from his monastery and made
his way to the furthest recesses of the monks of Tabennae,(1) where he
chose not the solitude of the desert, not that freedom from care of which
the life of one alone affords, which even those who are imperfect and who
cannot endure the effort which obedience requires in the coenobium,
sometimes seek after with proud presumption, but he chose to submit himself
to a most famous monastery. Where, however, that might not be betrayed by
any signs of his dress, he clothed himself in a secular garb, and lay
before the doors with tears, as is the custom there, for many days, and
clinging to the knees of all after being daily repulsed by those who to
test his purpose said that now in extreme old age he was seeking this holy
life not in sincerity, but driven by the lack of food, at last he obtained
admission, and there he was told off to help a young brother who had been
given the charge of a garden, and when he not only fulfilled with such
marvellous and holy humility everything which his chief ordered him or
which the care of the work entrusted to him demanded, but also performed in
stealthy labour by night certain necessary offices which were avoided by
the rest out of disgust for them, so that when morning dawned, all the
congregation was delighted at such useful works but knew not their author;
and when he had passed nearly three years there rejoicing in the labours,
which he had desired, but to which he was so unfairly subjected, it
happened that a certain brother known to him came there from the same parts
of Egypt from which he himself had come. And this man for a time hesitated
because the meanness of his clothes and of his office prevented him from
readily recognizing him at once, but after looking very closely at him,
fell at his feet, and first astonished all the brethren, and afterwards,
when he betrayed his name, which the fame of his special sanctity had made
known to them also, he smote them with sorrow and compunction because they
had told off a man of his virtues and a priest to such mean offices. But
he, shedding copious tears, and charging the accident of his betrayal to
the serious envy of the devil, was brought in honourable custody by his
brethren surrounding him to the monastery; and after that he had stayed
there for a short time, he was once more troubled by the respect shown to
his dignity and rank, and stealthily embarked on board ship and sailed to
the Palestinian province of Syria, where he was received as a beginner and
a novice in the house of that monastery in which we were living, and was
charged by the Abbot to stop in our cell. But not even there could his
virtues and merits long remain secret. For he was discovered and betrayed
in the same way, and brought back to his own monastery with the utmost
honour and respect.

CHAPTER II: Of our coming to him.

   WHEN then after no long time a desire for holy instruction had urged us
also to visit Egypt, we sought him out with the utmost eagerness and
devotion and were welcomed by him with such kindness and courtesy that he
actually honoured us, as former sharers of the same cell with him, with a
lodging in hiS own cell which he had built in the furthest corner Of his
garden. And there when in the presence of all the brethren at service he
had delivered to one of the brethren who was submitting to the rule of the
monastery sufficiently difficult and elevated precepts, which as we said, I
summarized as briefly as I could in the fourth book of the Institutes, the
heights of a true renunciation seemed to us so unattainable and so
marvellous that we did not think that such humble folks as we could ever
scale them. And therefore, cast down in despair, and not concealing in our
looks the inner bitterness of our thoughts, we came back to the blessed old
man with a tolerably anxious heart: and when he at once asked the reason
why we were so sad, Abbot Germanus groaned deeply and replied as follows.

CHAPTER III: A question on the end of penitence and the marks of
satisfaction.

   As your grand and splendid exposition of a doctrine new to us has
opened out to us a more difficult road to the most glorious renunciation,
and has removed the scales from our eyes, and shown to us its summit raised
in the heavens, so are we proportionately cast down with a greater weight
of despair. Since, when we measure its vastness against our puny strength,
and compare the excessively humble character of our ignorance with the
boundless height of virtue shown to us, we feel that we are so small that
we not only cannot attain to it, but that we are sure to fall short in what
we have. For as we are weighed down by the burden of excessive despair, we
fall away somehow from the low-eat depths to still lower ones. Accordingly
there is one and only one support which can provide a cure for our wounds;
viz., for us to learn something of the end of penitence and especially on
the marks of satisfaction, that we may feel sure of the forgiveness of past
sins, and so be spurred on to scale the heights of the perfection described
above.

CHAPTER IV: The answer on the humility shown by our request.

   PINUFIUS: I am indeed delighted at the very plentiful fruits of your
humility, which indeed I saw with no indifferent concern, when I was
formerly received in the habitation of that cell of yours, and I am very
glad that you welcome with such respect the charge given by us, the least
of all Christians, and the words that I have taken the liberty of saying so
that if I am not mistaken you carry them out as soon as ever they are
spoken by us; and though, as I remember, the importance of the words
scarcely deserves the efforts you bestow on them, yet you so conceal the
merits of your virtue, as if no breath ever reached you of those things
which you are daily practising. But because this fact is worthy of the
highest praise; viz., that you declare that those institutes of the saints
are still unknown to you as if you were still beginners we will, as briefly
as possible, summarize what you so eagerly ask of us. For we must even
beyond our powers and ability, obey the commands of such old friends as
you. And so on the value and appeasing power of penitence many have
published a great deal, not only in words but also in writing, showing how
useful it is, how strong, and full of grace, so that when God is offended
by our past sins, and on the point of inflicting a most just punishment for
such offences, it somehow, if it is not wrong to say so, stops Him, and, if
I may so say, stays the right hand of the Avenger even against His will.
But I have no doubt that all this is well known to you, either from your
natural wisdom, or from your unwearied study of Holy Scripture, so that
from this the first shoots, so to speak, of your conversion sprang up.
Finally, you are anxious not about the character of penitence but about its
end, and the marks of satisfaction, and so by a very shrewd question ask
what has been left out by others.

CHAPTER V: Of the method of penitence and the proof of pardon.

   WHEREFORE in order to satisfy as briefly and shortly as possible, your
desire and question, the full and perfect description of penitence is,
never again to yield to those sins for which we do penance, or for which
our conscience is pricked. But the proof of satisfaction and pardon is for
us to have expelled the love of them from our hearts. For each one may be
sure that he is not yet free from his former sins as long as any image of
those sins which he has committed or of others like them dances before his
eyes, and I will not say a delight in--but the recollection of--them haunts
his inmost soul while he is devoting himself to satisfaction for them and
to tears. And so one who is on the watch to make satisfaction may then feel
sure that he is free from his sins and that he has obtained pardon for past
faults, when he never feels that his heart is stirred by the allurements
and imaginations of these same sins. Wherefore the truest test of penitence
and witness of pardon is found in our own conscience, which even before the
day of judgment and of knowledge, while we are still in the flesh,
discloses our acquittal from guilt, and reveals the end of satisfaction and
the grace of forgiveness. And that what has been said may be more
significantly expressed, then only should we believe that the stains of
past sins are forgiven us, when the desires for present delights as well as
the passions have been expelled from our heart.

CHAPTER VI: A question whether our sins ought to be remembered out of
contrition of heart.

   GERMANUS: And whence can there be aroused in us this holy and salutary
contrition from humiliation, which is described as follows in the person of
the penitent: "I have acknowledged my sin, and mine unrighteousness have I
not hid. I said: I will acknowledge against myself mine unrighteousness to
the Lord," so that we may be able effectually to say also what follows:
"And Thou forgavest the iniquity of my heart;"(1) or how, when we kneel in
prayer shall we be able to stir ourselves up to tears of confession, by
which we may be able to obtain pardon for our offences, according to these
words: "Every night will I wash my bed: I will water my couch with
tears;"(2) if we expel from our hearts all recollection of our faults,
though on the contrary we are bidden carefully to preserve the remembrance
of them, as the Lord says: "And thine iniquities I will not remember: but
do thou  recollect them?"(3) Wherefore not only when I am at work, but also
when I am at prayer I try of set purpose to recall to my mind the
recollection of my sins, that I may be more effectually inclined to true
humility and contrition of heart, and venture to say with the prophet:
"Look upon my humility and my labour: and forgive me all my sins."(4)

CHAPTER VII: The answer showing how far we ought to preserve the
recollection of previous actions.

   PINUFIUS: Your question, as has been already said above, was not raised
with regard to the character of penitence, but with regard to its end, and
the marks of satisfaction: to which, as I think, a fair and pertinent reply
has been given. But what you have said as to the remembrance of sins is
sufficiently useful and needful to men who are still doing penance, that
they may with constant smiting of the breast say: "For I acknowledge my
wickedness: and my sin is ever before me;" and this too: "And I will think
for my sin."(5) While then we do penance, and are still grieved by the
recollection of faulty actions, the shower of tears which is caused by the
confession of our faults is sure to quench the fire of our conscience. But
when, while a man is still in this state of humility of heart and
contrition of spirit and continuing to labour and to weep, the remembrance
of these things fades away, and the thorns of conscience are by God's grace
extracted from his inmost heart, then it is clear that he has attained to
the end of satisfaction and the reward of pardon, and that he is purged
from the stain of the sins he has committed. To which state of
forgetfulness we can only attain by the obliteration of our former sins and
likings, and by perfect and complete purity of heart. And this most
certainly will not be attained by any of those who from sloth or
carelessness have failed to purge out their faults, but only by one who by
constantly continuing to groan and sigh sorrowfully has removed every spot
of his former stains, and by the goodness of his heart and his labour has
proclaimed to the Lord: "I have acknowledged my sin, and mine
unrighteousness have I not hid;" and: "My tears have been my meat day and
night;" so that in the end it may be vouchsafed to him to hear these words:
"Let thy voice cease from weeping, and thine eyes from tears: for there is
a reward for thy labour, saith the Lord;"(6) and these words also may be
uttered of him by the voice of the Lord: "I have blotted out as a cloud
thine iniquities, and as a mist thy sins:" and again: "I even I am He that
blotteth out thine iniquities for mine own sake, and thine offences I will
no longer remember;"(7) and so, when he is freed from the "cords of his
sins," by which "everyone is bound,"(8) he will with all thanksgiving sing
to the Lord: "Thou hast broken my chains: I will offer to thee the
sacrifice of praise."(9)

CHAPTER VIII: Of the various fruits of penitence.

   FOR after that grace of baptism which is common to all, and that most
precious gift of martyrdom which is gained by being washed in blood, there
are many fruits of penitence by which we can succeed in expiating our sins.
For eternal salvation is not only promised to the bare fact of penitence,
of which the blessed Apostle Peter says: "Repent and be converted that your
sins may be forgiven;" and John the Baptist and the Lord Himself: "Repent
ye, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand:"(10) but also by the affection of
love is the weight of our sins overwhelmed: for "charity covers a multitude
of sins."(11) In the same way also by the fruits of almsgiving a remedy is
provided for our wounds, because "As water extinguishes fire, so does
almsgiving extinguish sin."(12) So also by the shedding of tears is gained
the washing away of offences, for "Every night I will wash my bed: I will
water my couch with tears." Finally to show that they are not shed in vain,
he adds: "Depart from me all ye that work iniquity, for the Lord hath heard
the voice of my weeping:"(1) Moreover by means of confession of sins, their
absolution is granted: for "I said: I will confess against myself my sin to
the Lord: and Thou forgavest the iniquity of my heart;" and again: "Declare
thine iniquities first, that thou mayest be justified."(2) By afflicting
the heart and body also is forgiveness of sins committed in like manner
obtained, for he says: "Look on my humility and my labour, and forgive me
all my sins;" and more especially by amendment of life: "Take away," he
says, "the evil of your thoughts from mine eyes. Cease to do evil, learn to
do well. Seek judgment, relieve the oppressed: judge the orphan, defend the
widow. And come, reason with Me, saith the Lord: and though your sins were
as scarlet, yet shall they be as white as snow, though they were red as
crimson, they shall be as white as wool."(3) Sometimes too the pardon of
our sins is obtained by the intercession of the saints, for "if a man knows
his brother to sin a sin not unto death, he asks, and He will give to him
his life, for him that sinneth not unto death;" and again: "Is any sick
among you? Let him send for the Elders of the Church and they shall pray
over him, anointing him with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer of
faith shall save the sick, and the Lord will raise him up, and if he be in
sins, they shall be forgiven him."(4) Sometimes too by the virtue of
compassion and faith the stains of sin are removed, according to this
passage: "By compassion and faith sins are purged away."(5) And often by
the conversion and salvation of those who are saved by our warnings and
preaching: "For he who converts a sinner from the error of his way, shall
save his soul from death, and cover a multitude of sins"(6) Moreover by
pardon and forgiveness on our part we obtain pardon of our sins: "For if ye
forgive men their offences, your heavenly Father will also forgive you your
sins."(7) You see then what great means of obtaining mercy the compassion
of our Saviour has laid open to us, so that no one when longing for
salvation need be crushed by despair, as he sees himself called to life by
so many remedies. For if you plead that owing to weakness of the flesh you
cannot get rid of your sins by fasting, and you cannot say: "My knees are
weak from fasting, and my flesh is changed for oil; for I have eaten ashes
for my bread, and mingled my drink with weeping,"(8) then atone for them by
profuse almsgiving. If you have nothing that you can give to the needy
(although the claims of want and poverty exclude none from this office,
since the two mites of the widow are ranked higher than the splendid gifts
of the rich, and the Lord promises that He will give a reward for a cup of
cold water), at least you can purge them away by amendment of life. But if
you cannot secure perfection in goodness by the eradication of all your
faults, you can show a pious anxiety for the good and salvation of another.
But if you complain that you are not equal to this service, you can cover
your sins by the affection of love. And if in this also some sluggishness
of mind makes you weak, at least you should submissively with a feeling of
humility entreat for remedies for your wounds by the prayers and
intercession of the saints. Finally who is there who cannot humbly say: "I
have acknowledged my sin: and mine unrighteousness have I not hid;" so that
by this confession he may be able also to add this: "And Thou forgavest the
iniquity of my heart."(9) But if shame holds you back, and you blush to
reveal them before men, you should not cease to confess them with constant
supplication to Him from Whom they cannot be hid, and to say to Him: "I
acknowledge mine iniquity, and my sin is ever before me. Against Thee only
have I sinned, and have done evil before Thee;"(10) as He is wont to heal
them without any publication which brings shame, and to forgive sins
without any reproaching. And further besides that ready and sure aid the
Divine condescension has afforded us another also that is still easier, and
has entrusted the possession of the remedy to our own will, so that we can
infer from our own feelings the forgiveness of our offences, when we say to
Him: "Forgive us our debts as we also forgive our debtors."(11) Whoever
then desires to Obtain forgiveness of his sins, should study to fit himself
for it by these means. Let not the stubbornness of an obdurate heart turn
away any from the saving remedy and the fount of so much goodness, because
even if we have done all these things, they will not be able to expiate our
offences, unless they are blotted out by the goodness and mercy of the
Lord, who when He sees the service of pious efforts offered by us with a
humble heart, supports our small and puny efforts with the utmost bounty,
and says: "I even I am He that blotteth out thine iniquities for Mine own
sake, and I will remember thy sins no more."(12) Whoever then is aiming at
this condition, which we have mentioned, will seek the grace of
satisfaction by daily fasting and mortification of heart and body, for, as
it is written, "Without shedding of blood there is no remission;" (1) and
this not without good reason. For "flesh and blood cannot inherit the
kingdom of God." (2) And therefore one who would withhold "the sword of the
spirit which is the word of God" (3) from this shedding of blood certainly
comes under the lash of that curse of Jeremiah's; for "Cursed," says he "is
he who withholds his sword from blood." (4) For this is the sword which for
our good sheds that bad blood whereby the material of our sins lives; and
cuts Off and pares away everything carnal and earthly which it finds to
have grown up in the members of our soul; and makes men die to sin and live
to God, and flourish with spiritual virtues. And so he will begin to weep
no more at the recollection of former sins, but at the hope of what is to
come, and, thinking less of past evils than of good things to come, will
shed tears not from sorrow at his sins, but from delight in that eternal
joy, and "forgetting those things which are behind," i.e., carnal sins,
will press on "to those before," (5) i.e., to spiritual gifts and virtues.

CHAPTER IX: How valuable to the perfect is the forgetfulness of sin.

   BUT with regard to this that you said a little way back; viz., that you
of set purpose go over the recollections of past sins, this ought certainly
not to be done, nay, if it forcibly surprises you, it must be at once
expelled. For it greatly hinders the soul from the contemplation of purity,
and especially in the case of one who is living in solitude, as it
entangles him in the stains of this world and swamps him in foul sins. For
while you are recalling those things which you did through ignorance or
wantonness in accordance with the prince of this world, though I grant you
that while you are engaged in these thoughts no delight in them steals in,
yet at least the mere taint of the ancient filthiness is sure to corrupt
your soul with its foul stink, and to shut out the spiritual fragrance of
goodness, i.e., the odour of a sweet savour. When then the recollection of
past sins comes over your mind, you must recoil from it just as an honest
and upright man runs away if he is sought out in public by an immodest and
wanton woman either by words or by embraces. And certainly unless he at
once withdraws himself from contact with her, and if he allows himself to
linger the very least in impure talk, even if he refuses his consent to the
shameful pleasures, yet he cannot avoid the brand of infamy and scorn in
the judgment of all the passers by. So then we also, if by noxious
recollections we are led to thoughts of this kind, ought at once to desist
from dwelling upon them and to fulfil what we are commanded by Solomon:
"But go forth," says he, "do not linger in her place, nor fix thine eye on
her;" (6) lest if the angels see us taken up with unclean and foul
thoughts, they may not be able to say to us in passing by: "The blessing of
the Lord be upon you." (7) For it is impossible for the soul to continue in
good thoughts, when the main part of the heart is taken up with foul and
earthly considerations. For this saying of Solomon's is true: "When thine
eyes look on a strange woman, then shall thy mouth speak wickedly, and thou
shalt lie as it were in the midst of the sea, and as a pilot in a great
storm. But thou shalt say: They have beaten me, but I felt no pain; and
they mocked me, but I felt not." (8) So then we should forsake not only all
foul but even all earthly thoughts and ever raise the desires of our soul
to heavenly things, in accordance with this saying of our Saviour: "For
where I am," He says, "there also shall My servant be." (9) For it often
happens that when anyone out of pity is in thought going over his own falls
or those of other faulty persons, he is affected by the delight and assent
to this most subtle attack, and that which was undertaken and started with
a show of goodness ends with a filthy and damaging termination, for "there
are ways which appear to men to be right, but the ends thereof will come to
the depths of hell." (10)

CHAPTER X: How the recollection of our sins should be avoided.

   WHEREFORE we must endeavour to rouse ourselves to this praiseworthy
contrition, by aiming at virtue and by the desire for the kingdom of heaven
rather than by dangerous recollections of sins, for a man is sure to be
suffocated by the pestilential smells of the sewer as long as he chooses to
stand over it or to stir its filth.

CHAPTER XI: Of the marks of satisfaction, and the removal of past sins.

   BUT we know, as we have often said, that then only have we made
satisfaction for past sins, when the very motions and feelings, through
which, we were guilty of what we have to sorrow for, have been eradicated
from our hearts. But no one should fancy that he can secure this, unless he
has first with all the fervour of his spirit cut off the opportunities and
occasions, owing to which he fell into those sins; as for instance, if
through dangerous familiarity with a woman he has fallen into fornication
or adultery, he must take the utmost pains to avoid even looking on one; or
if he has been overcome by too much wine and over-eating, he should
chastise with the utmost severity his craving for immoderate food. And
again if he has been led astray by the desire for and love of money, and
has fallen into perjury or theft or murder or blasphemy, he should cut off
the occasion for avarice, which has allured and deceived him. If he is
driven by the passion of pride into the sin of anger, he should with all
the virtue of humility, remove the incentive to arrogance. And so, in order
that each single sin may be destroyed, the occasion and opportunity by
which or for which it was committed should be first got rid of. For by this
curative treatment we can certainly attain to forgetfulness of the sins we
have committed.

CHAPTER XII: Wherein we must do penance for a time only; and wherein it can
have no end.

   BUT that description of the forgetfulness spoken of only has to do with
capital offences, which are also condemned by the mosaic law, the
inclination to which is destroyed and put an end to by a good life, and so
also the penance for them has an end. But for those small offences in
which, as it is written, "the righteous falls seven times and will rise
again" (1) penitence will never cease. For either through ignorance, or
forgetfulness, or thought, or word, or surprise, or necessity, or weakness
of the flesh, or defilement in a dream, we often fall every day either
against our will or voluntarily; offences for which David also prays the
Lord, and asks for purification and pardon, and says: "Who can understand
sins? from my secret ones cleanse me; and from those of others spare Thy
servant;" and the Apostle: "For the good which I would I do not, and the
evil which I would not, that I do." For which also the same man exclaims
with a sigh "O wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the body
of this death?" (2) For we slip into these so easily as it were by a law of
nature, that however carefully and guardedly we are on the lookout against
them, we cannot altogether avoid them. Since it was of these that one of
the disciples, whom Jesus loved, declared and laid down absolutely saying:
"If we say that we have no sin we deceive ourselves, and His word is not in
us." (8) Further for a man who is anxious to reach the heights of
perfection it will not greatly help him to have arrived at the end of
penitence, i.e., to restrain himself from unlawful acts, unless he has
always urged himself forward in unwearied course to those virtues whereby
we come to the signs of satisfaction. For it will not be enough for a man
to have kept himself clear from those foul stains of sins which the Lord
hates, unless he has also secured by purity of heart and perfect
Apostolical love that sweet fragrance of virtue in which the Lord delights.
Thus far Abbot Pinufius discoursed on the marks of satisfaction and the end
of penitence. And although he pressed us with anxious love to decide to
stay in his coenobium, yet when he could not retain us, as we were incited
by the fame of the desert of Scete, he sent us on our way.


Taken from "The Early Church Fathers and Other Works" originally published
by Wm. B. Eerdmans Pub. Co. in English in Edinburgh, Scotland, beginning in
1867. (LNPF II/XI, Schaff and Wace). The digital version is by The
Electronic Bible Society, P.O. Box 701356, Dallas, TX 75370, 214-407-WORD.

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