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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, 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."
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