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When then this vice has got hold of the slack and lukewarm soul of some
monk, it begins by tempting him in regard of a small sum of money, giving
him excellent and almost reasonable excuses why he ought to retain some
money for himself. For he complains that what is provided in the monastery
is not sufficient, and can scarcely be endured by a sound and sturdy body.
What is he to do if ill health comes on, and he has no special store of his
own to support him in his weakness? He says that the allowance of the
monastery is but meagre, and that there is the greatest carelessness about
the sick: and if he has not something of his own so that he can look after
the wants of his body, he will perish miserably. The dress which is allowed
him is insufficient, unless he has provided something with which to procure
another. Lastly, he says that he cannot possibly remain for long in the
same place and monastery, and that unless he has secured the money for his
journey, and the cost of his removal over the sea, he cannot move when he
wants to, and, detained by the compulsion of want, will henceforth drag out
a wretched and wearisome existence without making the slightest advance:
that he cannot without indignity be supported by another's substance, as a
pauper and one in want. And so when he has bamboozled himself with such
thoughts as these, he racks his brains to think how he can acquire at least
one penny. Then he anxiously searches for some special work which he can do
without the Abbot knowing anything about it. And selling it secretly, and
so securing the coveted coin, he torments himself worse and worse in
thinking how he can double it: puzzled as to where to deposit it, or to
whom to intrust it. Then he is oppressed with a still weightier care as to
what to buy with it, or by what transaction he can double it. And when this
has turned out as he wished, a still more greedy craving for gold springs
up, and is more and more keenly excited, as his store of money grows larger
and larger. For with the increase of wealth the mania of covetousness
increases. Then next he has forebodings of a long life, and an enfeebled
old age, and infirmities of all sorts, and long drawn out, which will be
insupportable in old age, unless a large store of money has been laid by in
youth. And so the wretched soul is agitated, and held fast, as it were, in
a serpent's toils, while it endeavours to add to that heap which it has
unlawfully secured, by still more unlawful care, and itself gives birth to
plagues which inflame it more sorely, and being entirely absorbed in the
quest of gain, pays attention to nothing but how to get money with which to
fly as quickly as possible from the discipline of the monastery, never
keeping faith where there is a gleam of hope of money to be got. For this
it shrinks not from the crime of lying, perjury, and theft, of breaking a
promise, of giving way to injurious bursts of passion. If the man has
dropped away at all from the hope of gain, he has no scruples about
transgressing the bounds of humility, and through it all gold and the love
of gain become to him his god, as the belly does to others. Wherefore the
blessed Apostle, looking out on the deadly poison of this pest, not only
says that it is a root of all kinds of evil, but also calls it the worship
of idols, saying "And covetousness (which in Greek is called philarguri'a)
which is the worship of idols." You see then to what a downfall this
madness step by step leads, so that by the voice of the Apostle it is
actually declared to be the worship of idols and false gods, because
passing over the image and likeness of God (which one who serves God with
devotion ought to preserve undefiled in himself), it chooses to love and
care for images stamped on gold instead of God.
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