"Ah!" said he, "I cannot deceive myself; I cannot deceive God's animals.See the little birds, how coy they be; I feed and feed them, and long for their friendship, yet will they never come within, nor take my hand, by lighting on't.For why? No Paul, no Benedict, no Hugh of Lincoln, no Columba, no Guthlac bides in this cell.Hunted doe flieth not hither, for here is no Fructuosus, nor Aventine, nor Albert of Suabia; nor e'en a pretty squirrel cometh from the wood hard by for the acorns I have hoarded; for here abideth no Columban.The very owl that was here hath fled.They are not to be deceived; I have a Pope's word for that; Heaven rest his soul."Clement had one advantage over her whose image in his heart he was bent on destroying.
He had suffered and survived the pang of bereavement, and the mind cannot quite repeat such anguish.Then he had built up a habit of looking on her as dead.After that strange scene in the church and churchyard of St.Laurens, that habit might be compared to a structure riven by a thunderbolt.It was shattered, but stones enough stood to found a similar habit on; to look on her as dead to him.
And by severe subdivision of his time and thoughts, by unceasing prayers and manual labour, he did in about three months succeed in benumbing the earthly half of his heart.
But lo! within a day or two of this first symptom of mental peace returning slowly, there descended upon his mind a horrible despondency.
Words cannot utter it, for words never yet painted a likeness of despair.Voices seemed to whisper in his ear, "Kill thyself! kill!
kill! kill!"
And he longed to obey the voices, for life was intolerable.
He wrestled with his dark enemy with prayers and tears; he prayed God but to vary his temptation."Oh let mine enemy have power to scourge me with red-hot whips, to tear me leagues and leagues over rugged places by the hair of my head, as he has served many a holy hermit, that yet baffled him at last; to fly on me like a raging lion; to gnaw me with a serpent's fangs; any pain, any terror, but this horrible gloom of the soul that shuts me from all light of Thee and of the saints."And now a freezing thought crossed him.What if the triumphs of the powers of darkness over Christian souls in desert places had been suppressed, and only their defeats recorded, or at least in full; for dark hints were scattered about antiquity that now first began to grin at him with terrible meaning.
"THEY WANDERED IN THE DESERT AND PERISHED BY SERPENTS," said an ancient father of hermits that went into solitude, "and were seen no more." And another at a more recent epoch wrote: Vertuntur ad melancholiam: "they turn to gloomy madness." These two statements, were they not one? for the ancient fathers never spoke with regret of the death of the body.No, the hermits so lost were perished souls, and the serpents were diabolical [2] thoughts, the natural brood of solitude.
St.Jerome went into the desert with three companions; one fled in the first year, two died; how? The single one that lasted was a gigantic soul with an iron body.
The cotemporary who related this made no comment, expressed no wonder, What, then, if here was a glimpse of the true proportion in every age, and many souls had always been lost in solitude for one gigantic mind and iron body that survived this terrible ordeal.
The darkened recluse now cast his despairing eyes over antiquity to see what weapons the Christian arsenal contained that might befriend him.The greatest of all was prayer.Alas! it was a part of his malady to be unable to pray with true fervour.The very system of mechanical supplication he had for months carried out so severely by rule had rather checked than fostered his power of originating true prayer.
He prayed louder than ever, but the heart hung back cold and gloomy, and let the words go up alone.
"Poor wingless prayers," he cried, "you will not get half-way to heaven."A fiend of this complexion had been driven out of King Saul by music.
Clement took up the hermit's psaltery, and with much trouble mended the strings and tuned it.
No, he could not play it.His soul was so out of tune.The sounds jarred on it, and made him almost mad.
"Ah, wretched me!" he cried; "Saul had a saint to play to him.He was not alone with the spirits of darkness; but here is no sweet bard of Israel to play to me; I, lonely, with crushed heart, on which a black fiend sitteth mountain high, must make the music to uplift that heart to heaven; it may not be." And he grovelled on the earth weeping and tearing his hair.
VERTEBATUR AD MELANCHOLIAM.
[1] It requires nowadays a strong effort of the imagination to realize the effect on poor people who had never seen them before of such sentences as this "Blessed are the poor" etc."[2] The primitive writer was so interpreted by others besides Clement; and in particular by Peter of Blois, a divine of the twelfth century, whose comment is noteworthy, as he himself was a forty-year hermit.
