SAINTLINESS
247
book of which he is fond; or obliging a third to exchange his garment for
a worse one. Otherwise we should end by acquiring a species of property
in all these several objects, and little by little the wall of poverty that
surrounds us and constitutes our principal defense would he thrown down.
The ancient fathers of the desert used often thus to treat their companions.
. . . Saint Dositheus, being sick-nurse, desired a certain knife, and asked
Saint Dorotheus for it, not for his private use, but for employment in the
infirmary of which he had charge. Whereupon Saint Dorotheus answered
him: ‘Ha! Dositheus, so that knife pleases you so much! Will you be the
slave of a knife or the slave of Jesus Christ? Do you not blush with shame
at wishing that a knife should be your master? I will not let you touch it.’
Which reproach and refusal had such an effect upon the holy disciple that
since that time he never touched the knife again.” . . .
“Therefore, in our rooms,” Father Rodriguez continues, “there must be
no other furniture than a bed, a table, a bench, and a candlestick, things
purely necessary, and nothing more. It is not allowed among us that our
cells should be ornamented with pictures or aught else, neither armchairs,
carpets, curtains, nor any sort of cabinet or bureau of any elegance. Neither
is it allowed us to keep anything to eat, either for ourselves or for those
who may come to visit us. We must ask permission to go to the refectory
even for a glass of water; and finally we may not keep a book in which we
can write a line, or which we may take away with us. One cannot deny
that thus we are in great poverty. But this poverty is at the same time a
great repose and a great perfection. For it would be inevitable, in case
a religious person were allowed to own superfluous possessions, that these
things would greatly occupy his mind, be it to acquire them, to preserve
them, or to increase them; so that in not permitting us at all to own them,
all these inconveniences are remedied. Among the various good reasons
why the company forbids secular persons to enter our cells, the principal
one is that thus we may the easier be kept in poverty. After all, we are all
men, and if we were to receive people of the world into our rooms, we
should not have the strength to remain within the bounds prescribed, but
should at least wish to adorn them with some books to give the visitors a
better opinion of our scholarship.”
1
Since Hindu fakirs, Buddhist monks, and Mohammedan dervishes
unite with Jesuits and Franciscans in idealizing poverty as the lofti-
est individual state, it is worth while to examine into the spiritual
grounds for such a seemingly unnatural opinion. And first, of those
which lie closest to common human nature.
1
R
ODRIGUEZ
: Op. cit., Part iii., Treatise iii., chaps. vi., vii.
248
THE VARIETIES OF RELIGIOUS EXPERIENCE
The opposition between the men who have and the men who are
is immemorial. Though the gentleman, in the old-fashioned sense
of the man who is well born, has usually in point of fact been pre-
daceous and reveled in lands and goods, yet he has never identified
his essence with these possessions, but rather with the personal
superiorities, the courage, generosity, and pride supposed to be
his birthright. To certain huckstering kinds of consideration he
thanked God he was forever inaccessible, and if in life’s vicissitudes
he should become destitute through their lack, he was glad to
think that with his sheer valor he was all the freer to work out his
salvation. “Wer nur selbst was hätte,” says Lessing’s Tempelherr, in
Nathan the Wise, “mein Gott, mein Gott, ich babe nichts!” This
ideal of the well-born man without possessions was embodied in
knight-errantry and templardom; and, hideously corrupted as it
has always been, it still dominates sentimentally, if not practically,
the military and aristocratic view of life. We glorify the soldier
as the man absolutely unincumbered. Owning nothing but his
bare life, and willing to toss that up at any moment when the cause
commands him, he is the representative of unhampered freedom
in ideal directions. The laborer who pays with his person day by
day, and has no rights invested in the future, offers also much
of this ideal detachment. Like the savage, he may make his bed
wherever his right arm can support him, and from his simple and
athletic attitude of observation, the property-owner seems buried
and smothered in ignoble externalities and trammels, “wading in
straw and rubbish to his knees.” The claims which things make are
corrupters of manhood, mortgages on the soul, and a drag anchor
on our progress towards the empyrean.
“Everything I meet with,” writes Whitefield, “seems to carry this
voice with it, — ‘Go thou and preach the Gospel; be a pilgrim on earth;
have no party or certain dwelling place.’ My heart echoes back, ‘Lord
Jesus, help me to do or suffer thy will. When thou seest me in danger
of nestling, — in pity in tender pity, — put a
thorn in my nest to prevent
me from it.’ ”
1
The loathing of ‘capital’ with which our laboring classes to-day
are growing more and more infected seems largely composed of this
1
R. P
HILIP
: The Life and Times of George Whitefield, London, 1842, p. 366.