English fiction -- 19th century; Historical fiction; Italy -- History -- 476-774 -- Fiction
'When I sent you that book,' he resumed, after observing the relief
that came to Basil's face, 'I had in mind only its salutary teaching
for such as live too much in man's world, and especially for those who,
priding themselves upon the name of Roman, are little given to
reflection upon all the evil Rome has wrought. Had I known what lay
upon your conscience, I should have withheld from you everything but
Holy Writ.'
'My man, Deodatus, had not spoken?' asked Basil.
'Concerning you, not a word. I did not permit him to be questioned, and
his talk has been only of his own sins.'
Basil wondered at this discretion in a simple rustic; yet, on a second
thought, found it consistent with the character of Deodatus, as lately
revealed to him.
'He has been long your faithful attendant?' inquired the abbot.
'Not so. Only by chance was he chosen from my horsemen to accompany me
hither. My own servant, Felix, being wounded, lay behind at Aesernia.'
'If he be as honest and God-fearing as this man,' said Benedict, 'whose
name, indeed, seems well to become him, then are you fortunate in those
who tend upon you. But of this and other such things we will converse
hereafter. Listen now, son Basil, to my bidding. You have abstained
from the Table of the Lord, and it is well. Today, and every day until
I again summon you, you will read aloud in privacy the Seven
Penitential Psalms, slowly and with meditation; and may they grave
themselves in your heart, to remain there, a purification and a hope,
whilst you live.'
Basil bowed his head, and whispered obedience.
'Moreover, so far as your strength will suffer it, you shall go daily
into the garden or the field, and there work with the brethren. Alike
for soul and for body it is good to labour under God's sky, and above
all to till God's earth and make it fruitful. For though upon Adam, in
whom we all died, was laid as a punishment that he should eat only that
which he had planted in the sweat of his brow, yet mark, O Basil, that
the Creator inflicts no earthly punishment which does not in the end
bear fruit of healing and of gladness. What perfume is so sweet as that
of the new-turned soil? And what so profitable to health? When the
Romans of old time began to fall from virtue--such virtue as was
permitted to those who knew not God--the first sign of their evil state
was the forgotten plough. And never again can Italy be blessed--if it
be the will of the Almighty that peace be granted her--until valley and
mountain side and many-watered plain are rich with her children's
labour. I do not bid you live in silence, for silence is not always a
good counsellor; but refrain from merely idle speech, and strive, O
Basil, strive with all the force that is in you, that your thoughts be
turned upward. Go now, my son. It shall not be long before I again call
you to my tower.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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