Life of Paul the First Hermit (complete)

Among many people the question has often been raised which monk was the first to begin living in the desert. Some, going back further, have taken the beginning from blessed Elijah and John; of these Elijah seems to us to have been more than a monk, and John to have begun to prophesy before he was born. Others, and this is the opinion to which the whole crowd agrees, assert that Antony was the head of this way of life; and that is partly true, for it is not so much that he came before all others as that he stirred up the zeal of all. But Amathas and Macarius, disciples of Antony, the first of whom buried his master's body, still affirm that a certain Paul of Thebes was the founder of the practice, though not of the name; and that opinion we also accept. Some throw about these and other stories as the fancy takes them: that he was a man in an underground cave with hair reaching to his heels, and they invent many incredible things that it would be idle to go through. Since their lie was shameless, their account does not even seem worth refuting. So, since the life of Antony has been carefully recorded in both Greek and Latin, I have resolved to write a little about Paul's beginning and end, more because the matter had been passed over than from any trust in my own ability. But how he lived in the middle of his life, and what snares of Satan he endured, is known to no human being.

Under the persecutors Decius and Valerian, at the time when Cornelius at Rome and Cyprian at Carthage suffered martyrdom with blessed blood, a fierce storm laid waste many churches in Egypt and the Thebaid. It was then the Christians' prayer to be struck by the sword for the name of Christ. But the cunning enemy, seeking out torments slow to kill, wanted to slaughter souls, not bodies. And, as Cyprian himself says, who suffered at his hands: "Those who wished to die were not allowed to be killed." To make his cruelty better known, we add two examples to be remembered.

A martyr who persevered in the faith and had conquered the rack and the red-hot plates he ordered to be smeared with honey and set out under the blazing sun with his hands tied behind his back, so that he who had already overcome the burning pans might yield to the stings of flies. Another, in the bloom of youth, he ordered to be led away into a most delightful garden. There, among white lilies and red roses, while a stream crept by with a gentle murmur of water and the wind brushed the leaves of the trees with a soft whisper, he was laid on his back on a bed heaped with down and left there bound with soft cords of garlands so that he could not shake himself free. When all had withdrawn, a beautiful prostitute came to him and began to clasp his neck in voluptuous embraces and, what is a crime even to say, to handle his private parts with her hands, so that when his body was roused to lust she, a shameless victor, might lie upon him. The soldier of Christ did not know what to do or where to turn. He whom tortures had not conquered was being overcome by pleasure. At last, inspired from heaven, he bit off his tongue and spat it into the face of the woman kissing him; and so the greatness of the pain that followed overcame the feeling of lust.

At the same time, then, while such things were being done in the Lower Thebaid, Paul was left, together with a sister already married, on the death of both parents, heir to a rich inheritance, at about sixteen years of age. He was thoroughly educated in both Greek and Egyptian letters, of a gentle spirit, and loved God greatly. When the storm of persecution thundered, he withdrew to a more remote and secluded country house. But "to what do you not drive human hearts, accursed hunger for gold?" His sister's husband began to want to betray the man he ought to have hidden. Neither his wife's tears, as usually happens, nor the bond of blood, nor God looking on all things from on high, called him back from the crime. He was at hand, he pressed on, he used cruelty as if it were piety.

When the very prudent young man understood this, he fled to the wilderness of the mountains to wait for the end of the persecution, and made his necessity his choice. Going forward little by little, then halting again, and doing this many times, he at last found a rocky mountain at whose foot there was a cave of no great size, closed with a stone. When he moved it away (such is people's desire to know hidden things) and explored more eagerly, he saw inside a large hall, open to the sky above, which an old palm tree had covered with its spreading branches; it showed a very clear spring, whose stream had only just burst out of the ground when the same earth that had produced it swallowed the water again through a small opening. There were, besides, many small chambers in the hollowed mountain, in which rusty anvils and hammers, used for stamping money, were to be seen. Egyptian records say that this place was a secret mint at the time when Antony was joined to Cleopatra.

So, loving the dwelling as if God had offered it to him, he spent his whole life there in prayer and solitude. The palm tree provided his food and clothing. So that this may not seem impossible to anyone, I call Jesus and his holy angels to witness that in that part of the desert which borders on Syria near the Saracens I have seen monks, and still see them, of whom one, shut up for thirty years, lived on barley bread and muddy water, and another in an old cistern (which the Syrians in their native tongue call gubba) was kept alive on five dried figs a day. These things will seem incredible to those who do not believe that "all things are possible to those who believe".

But to return to the point from which I digressed: when blessed Paul had already been living a heavenly life on earth for a hundred and thirteen years, and Antony, at ninety, was staying in another desert (as he himself used to say), this thought came into his mind, that no monk more perfect than himself had settled in the desert. But as he rested at night it was revealed to him that there was another further in, much better than he, whom he ought to set out to visit. At once, as day broke, the venerable old man, supporting his weak limbs with a staff, began to want to go he knew not where. And now midday was burning, the sun scorching from above, yet he was not drawn away from the journey he had begun, saying: "I believe in my God, that he will show me the fellow servant whom he promised me." No more than this: he sees a creature, part man and part horse, to which the fancy of the poets has given the name Hippocentaur. On seeing it he armed his forehead with the saving impress of the sign and said: "Hey, you! In what part does the servant of God live here?" The creature, gnashing out some barbarous sound and breaking its words rather than uttering them, sought to address him kindly through its bristling lips. Stretching out its right hand, it pointed out the road he wanted, and so, crossing the open plains in swift flight, it vanished from the eyes of the astonished man. Whether the devil feigned this to frighten him, or whether the desert, which (as usual) is fertile in monstrous animals, also produces this beast, we do not know.

So Antony, amazed and turning over in his mind what he had seen, goes on further. Without delay, in a rocky valley he sees a little man of no great size, with hooked nostrils and a forehead rough with horns, the lower part of whose body ended in the feet of goats. At this sight Antony, like a good warrior, took up the shield of faith and the breastplate of hope; yet the creature offered him fruit of the palm as provision for the journey, as if pledges of peace. When he saw this, Antony stopped and asked who he was, and received this answer from him: "I am a mortal, one of the inhabitants of the desert, whom paganism, deluded by its various errors, worships, calling them Fauns, Satyrs, and Incubi. I am acting as ambassador for my flock. We ask you to pray for us to our common Lord, who, we have learned, came once for the salvation of the world; and his sound has gone out into all the earth." As he spoke thus, the aged traveller wet his face abundantly with tears, which the greatness of his joy had poured out as tokens of his heart. For he rejoiced at the glory of Christ and the destruction of Satan; at the same time he marvelled that he could understand its speech, and, striking the ground with his staff, he said: "Woe to you, Alexandria, who worship monsters instead of God. Woe to you, harlot city, into which the demons of the whole world have flowed together. What will you say now? Beasts speak of Christ, and you worship monsters instead of God." He had hardly finished speaking when the nimble animal fled as if on wings. Lest this should raise a scruple of disbelief in anyone, it is vouched for by what happened under the emperor Constantius, with the whole world as witness. For a living man of this kind was brought to Alexandria and made a great spectacle for the people; and afterwards his lifeless body, preserved with salt so that it should not decay in the summer heat, was brought to Antioch to be seen by the emperor.

But to pursue my purpose: Antony went on through the region he had entered, seeing only the tracks of wild beasts and the broad vastness of the desert. What to do, where to turn his steps, he did not know. Already a second day had passed. One thing remained: to be confident that he could not be abandoned by Christ. He spent the second night's darkness in prayer through to the end, and while the light was still dim he sees not far off a she-wolf, panting with burning thirst, creeping to the foot of the mountain. Following her with his eyes, and approaching the cave when the beast had gone away, he began to look inside; but curiosity gained nothing, the darkness keeping out his sight. But, as Scripture says, "perfect love casts out fear": with careful step and held breath the shrewd explorer went in, and, advancing little by little and halting often, he strained his ear for a sound. At last, through the horror of the blind night, he saw a light far off; and as he hurried on more eagerly, he struck his foot against a stone and made a noise. At the sound blessed Paul shut the door that had stood open and fastened it with a bolt. Then Antony, falling down before the doors, begged until the sixth hour and longer to be let in, saying: "You know who I am, where I come from, why I have come. I know that I do not deserve to see you; yet unless I see you I will not go away. You who welcome beasts, why do you drive away a man? I have sought and I have found; I knock that it may be opened. If I do not obtain it, here I will die before your doorposts; surely you will bury my corpse at least." "So he spoke, standing firm, and stayed fixed." To him the hero replied in a few words: "No one asks like this so as to threaten; no one brings a charge with tears. And do you wonder if I do not let you in, when you have come to die?" So, smiling, Paul opened the entrance. When it was open, they fell into each other's arms and greeted each other by their own names, and together they gave thanks to the Lord.

After the holy kiss Paul sat down and began thus with Antony: "Here is the man you sought with so much toil, his limbs rotting with age and covered with unkempt white hair. Here you see a man who will soon be dust. But since love bears all things, tell me, I beg you, how the human race is faring: whether new buildings are rising in the ancient cities, what power the world is ruled by, whether there are still any who are carried away by the error of demons." During this conversation they look up and see a raven settle on the branch of a tree; it flew gently down from there and set a whole loaf of bread before the eyes of the astonished men. After it had gone, Paul said: "See, the Lord has sent us a meal, truly kind, truly merciful. For sixty years now I have always received half a loaf; but at your coming Christ has doubled his soldiers' ration."

So, having given thanks to the Lord, they both sat down on the edge of the glassy spring. Here a dispute arose over who should break the bread, and it drew the day almost to evening. Paul insisted by the custom of hospitality, Antony declined by the right of age. At last it was agreed that each should take hold of the loaf from opposite sides and pull it towards himself, and what was left in each one's hands should be his share. Then they drank a little water from the spring, bending their faces to it, and, offering to God the sacrifice of praise, they spent the night in vigils. When day had returned to the earth, blessed Paul spoke thus to Antony: "I have long known, brother, that you lived in these regions; long ago God promised you to me as my fellow servant. But since the time of my falling asleep has now come, and since I always longed to depart and be with Christ, and, my course finished, there remains for me the crown of righteousness, you have been sent by the Lord to cover my poor body with earth, or rather to return earth to earth."

When Antony heard this, weeping and groaning, he begged him not to leave him but to take him as companion on that journey. But Paul said: "You must not seek your own things, but those of another. It is good for you to cast off the burden of the flesh and follow the Lamb; but it is also good for the other brothers that they should still be trained by your example. So go, I beg you, unless it is a trouble, and bring the cloak that Bishop Athanasius gave you, to wrap my poor body in." Blessed Paul asked this not because he cared much whether his corpse rotted covered or naked (for he had for so long been clothed in woven palm leaves), but so that, as Antony left him, the grief of his death might be lightened. Antony, astonished at what he had heard about Athanasius and his cloak, as though seeing Christ in Paul and revering God in his heart, dared answer nothing more; weeping in silence, he kissed his eyes and hands and went back to the monastery that was later seized by the Saracens. But his steps did not keep pace with his spirit. Yet though fasting had emptied his body and old age had broken it, he overcame his years by his spirit.

At last, tired and out of breath, he finished the journey and reached his dwelling. When two disciples, who had begun to serve him in his great age, ran to meet him saying, "Where have you stayed so long, father?", he answered: "Woe is me, a sinner, who bear the false name of a monk. I have seen Elijah, I have seen John in the desert, and truly I have seen Paul in paradise." And so, closing his lips and beating his breast with his hand, he brought the cloak out of his cell. When the disciples asked him to explain more fully what the matter was, he said: "There is a time to be silent and a time to speak."

Then he went out, and without taking even a little food he went back by the way he had come, thirsting for him, longing to see him, embracing him with his eyes and his whole mind. For he feared, as in fact happened, that in his absence Paul would give back to Christ the spirit he owed him. When another day had dawned and three hours' journey remained, he saw Paul, shining with snowy whiteness, going up on high among the hosts of angels and among the choirs of prophets and apostles. At once he fell on his face, threw sand over his head, and weeping and wailing said: "Why do you send me away, Paul? Why do you go without a farewell? Known so late, do you leave so soon?"

Blessed Antony used to relate afterwards that he ran the rest of the way with such speed that he flew like a bird; and not without reason. For on entering the cave he saw the lifeless body kneeling, its head erect and its hands stretched out on high. At first, thinking that he was alive, he prayed beside him. But when he heard none of the sighs of one praying, as usual, he fell to a tearful kiss and understood that even the saint's corpse was praying, by the posture of its body, to God, to whom all things live.

So, having wrapped up the body and carried it out, and singing hymns and psalms according to Christian tradition, Antony was distressed that he had no spade to dig the ground. Tossed by various surges of thought and turning many things over, he said: "If I go back to the monastery, it is a four days' journey; if I stay here, I shall accomplish nothing more. Let me die, then, as is fitting, beside your warrior, O Christ, and fall and breathe my last." While he was turning this over, behold, two lions came running from the inner desert, their manes flying over their necks. At the sight he shuddered at first; but turning his mind again to God, he stayed unafraid, as if he were seeing doves. They came straight on to the body of the blessed old man and stopped; fawning with their tails, they lay down at his feet, roaring with a great roar, so that you would understand that they were mourning in the only way they could. Then, not far off, they began to scrape the ground with their paws, and, throwing out the sand in rivalry, they dug a place large enough for one man. And at once, as if asking a wage for their work, they came to Antony with their ears moving and their necks bowed, licking his hands and feet. He perceived that they were asking a blessing from him. Without delay, bursting into praise of Christ because even dumb animals perceived that God exists, he said: "Lord, without whose nod not a leaf falls from a tree and not one sparrow falls to the ground, give them what you know." And waving his hand, he ordered them to go away. When they had gone, he bent his aged shoulders under the burden of the holy body, laid it in the grave, heaped the earth over it, and made a mound in the usual way. When another day dawned, so that the dutiful heir should not fail to possess something of the goods of the man who died without a will, he claimed for himself his tunic, which Paul had woven for himself out of palm leaves like basketwork. And so, returning to the monastery, he told his disciples everything in order; and on the solemn days of Easter and Pentecost he always wore Paul's tunic.

At the end of this little work I should like to ask those who do not know the extent of their own estates, who clothe their houses with marble, who sew whole country estates into one thread: what did this naked old man ever lack? You drink from jewels; he satisfied nature with his hollowed hands. You weave gold into your tunics; he did not have even the clothing of the cheapest of your slaves. But on the other hand paradise lies open to that poor little man, while Gehenna will receive you in your gold. He kept the garment of Christ, though naked; you, clothed in silks, have lost the clothing of Christ. Paul lies covered with the cheapest dust, to rise again in glory; you are borne out in elaborate stone tombs, to burn with your wealth. Spare yourselves, I beg you; spare at least the riches that you love. Why do you wrap even your dead in golden garments? Why does ambition not cease even amid grief and tears? Can the corpses of the rich not rot except in silk?

I beg whoever reads this to remember Jerome the sinner, who, if the Lord gave him the choice, would much rather choose Paul's tunic with his merits than the purple of kings with their punishments.