Poems (Jackson)/The Abbot Paphnutius

by Helen Hunt Jackson

THE ABBOT PAPHNUTIUS.

OW on the gray stone floor Paphnutius knelt
Scourging his breast, and drawing tight his belt
Of bloody nails.

Of bloody nails."O God, dear God!" he cried,
"These many years that I have crucified
My sinful flesh, and called upon thee night
And day, are they all reckoned in thy sight?
And wilt thou tell me now which saint of thine
I am most like? and is there bond or sign
That I can find him by and win him here,
That we may dwell as brothers close and dear?"

 Silent the river kept its gentle flow
Beneath the walls; the ash-trees to and fro
Swayed silent, save a sigh; a sunbeam laid
Its bar along the Abbot's beads, which made
Uncanny rhythm across the quiet air,
The only ghost of sound which sounded there,
As fast their smooth-worn balls he turned and told,
And trembled, thinking he had been too bold.
But suddenly, with solemn clang and swell,
In the high tower rang out the vesper-bell;
And subtly hidden in the pealing tones,
Melodious dropping from celestial thrones,
These words the glad Paphnutius thrilling heard:
"Be not afraid! In this thou hast not erred;
Of all my saints, the one whose heart most suits
To thine is one who, playing reedy flutes,
In the great market-place goes up and down,
While men and women dance, in yonder town."

 Oh, much Paphnutius wondered, as he went
To robe him for the journey. Day was spent,
And cunning night had spread and lit her snares
For souls made weak by weariness and cares,
When to the glittering town the Abbot came.
With secret shudder, half affright, half shame,
Close cowled, he mingled in the babbling throng,
And with reluctant feet was borne along
To where, by torches' fitful glare and smoke,
A band of wantons danced, and screamed, and spoke
Such words as fill pure men with shrinking fear.
"Good Lord deliver me! Can he be here,"
The frightened Abbot said, "the man I seek?"
Lo, as he spoke, a man reeled dizzy, weak
With ribald laughter, clutching him by gown
And shoulder; and before his feet threw down
Soft twanging flutes, which rolled upon the stone
And broke. Outcried the Abbot with a groan,
Seizing the player firm in mighty hands,
"o man! what doest thou with these vile bands
Of harlots? God hath told to me thou art
A saint of his, and one whose life and heart
Are like my own; and I have journeyed here
For naught but finding thee."

For naught but finding thee."In maze and fear,
The player lifted up his blood-shot eyes,
And stammered drunkenly, "Good father, lies
Thy road some other way. Take better heed
Next time thou seekest saints! One single deed
Of good I never did. I live in sins.
Unhand me now! another dance begins."
"Flute-player," said the Abbot, stern and sweet,
"God cannot lie! Some deed thou hast done meet
For serving him. Bethink thee now, and tell.
Where was it that the blessed chance befell?"
Half-sobered by the Abbot's voice and mien,
The player spoke again, "No more I ween
Of serving God, than if no God there were:
But now I do remember me of her
That once I saved from hands of robber-men,
Whose chief I was. I know I wondered then
What new blood could have quickened in my veins.
I gave her, spite myself, of our rich gains
Three hundred pieces of good gold, to free
Her husband and her sons from slavery.
But love of God had nought to do with this:
I know him, love him not; I do not miss
Nor find him in the world. I love my sins.
Now let me go! another dance begins."
"Yes, go!" the Abbot gently said, and took
His grasp from off his arm. "But, brother, look,
If God has thus to thee this one good deed
So fully counted, wilt thou not take heed
Thyself, remembering him?"

Thyself, remembering him?"Then homeward slow,
Alone and sad, where he had thought to go
Triumphant with a new-found brother-saint,
The Abbot went. But vain he set restraint
Upon his wondering thoughts: through prayer, through chant,
The question ever rang, "What could God want
To teach me, showing me that sinful man
As saint of nearest kin to me, who can
Abide no sin of thought or deed."

Abide no sin of thought or deed."Three days
The Abbot went his patient, silent ways.
The river lapped in gentle, silent flow
The cloister-wall; the ash-trees to and fro
Swayed silent, save a sigh: the third night, came—
Low rapping at the cloister-door, in shame
And fear—the player!

And fear—the player!Then Paphnutius rose,
His pale face kindled red with joyful glows;
The monks in angry, speechless wonder stood,
Seeing this vagabond to brotherhood
Made so soon welcome. But the Abbot said,
"O brothers! this flute-player in such stead
Is held of God, that, when in loneliness
I knelt and prayed for some new saint to bless
Our house, God spoke, and told me this man's name,
As his who should be brother when he came."

 Flute-player and Paphnutius both have slept
In dust for centuries. The world has kept
No record of them save this tale, which sets
But bootless lesson: still the world forgets
That God knows best what hearts are counted his
Still men deny the thing whose sign they miss;
Still pious souls pray as Paphnutius prayed
For brother-souls in their own semblance made;
And slowly learn, with outcries and complaints,
That publicans and sinners may be saints!