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Title: The hermit's Christmas
Author: David de Forest Burrell
Release Date: April 10, 2023 [eBook #70521]
Language: English
Produced by: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading
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THE HERMIT’S CHRISTMAS
[Illustration]
THE
HERMIT’S CHRISTMAS
DAVID DE FOREST BURRELL
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1912, by
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
THE HERMIT’S CHRISTMAS
On Christmas Day the solitude of the hermit Theodore was broken in upon.
The hermit, a gaunt, austere figure of a man in a long robe of goat’s
hair, stood before the door of his cave upon the heights, looking out
over the wooded slopes and the shining waters at their feet, when the
first intruder made his appearance. The sunlight glanced from his armor
where he came out from the forest shadows on a bare shoulder of the
mountain far below. The gleam caught the hermit’s eye, and, without
moving, he watched while the man drew nearer. He climbed but slowly under
the weight of his armor. About his head a white cloth was wrapped as
security against the hot sun, while his helmet was slung at his back. His
great sword he used for a staff.
At length, stumbling over the last stone in utter weariness, he reached
the hermit’s side and threw himself upon the ground, calling hoarsely
for water, in the name of all the saints. The hermit brought it, a gourd
full, which the Crusader drank dry in great gulps. He wiped his face, red
and shining from the exertion of his climb.
“God bless thee for that kindly draft, good father.”
“Nay, my son, ’tis but a small Christmas gift, since it cost me naught
save a journey to the spring below.”
The knight started.
“I had forgot! Christmas Day, in sooth! and what a place to keep it in!”
“The place matters not, my son, so that thy heart be right for the
feast.”
The other’s eyes twinkled for a moment.
“And dost thou feast on Christmas Day, father? Methought dried peas
and, perchance, a cut of goat’s flesh would be dainties fitted to thy
scruples.”
The hermit smiled.
“Why, so they are; but truly the food matters little more than the place.”
Then the knight sighed loudly.
“Ah, but I bethink me,” he said, “of a great hall in Merry England, and
the boar’s head and the foaming ale and the songs and laughter! I would I
were there, across yon blue sea!”
The hermit smiled again.
“Truly, Sir Knight, dried goat’s flesh is not a boar’s head, and this
gourd I take from thee is not a horn of ale; but this is Christmas Day,
and thou art welcome.”
“And I will stay, good father, and dine with thee! but in truth I had
meant so to do, an the hermit’s face were not too long.” He glanced up,
sidelong, at the hermit’s solemn visage above him. “Yonder, on the road
by the sea, lies my horse with a broken leg. God’s mercy that he did
not break my skull when he fell! I saw a path leading away through the
forest toward the mountain, and as all paths on Athos do now but lead
to hermits’ caves, ’twas but a short moment before I turned my steps
hitherward.”
There was a sound of feet clambering up the rocky way. A voice reached
them, harsh and nasal, uttering loud curses upon lands where Christian
hospitality dwelt in caves on mountain-tops. Then an unkempt head came
into view, followed by a body clothed in rags and patches.
The hermit greeted the newcomer after the fashion of the East: “Peace to
thee.”
The man paused to get his breath, and answered, “Thou art set on high
indeed, holy father. ’Twere more friendly to set thy cave by the
roadside below.”
“Make thy complaint to God who made the cave, thou unmannerly rascal!”
the knight interrupted, jumping to his feet. “By thy costume thou art a
beggar. Go thou and beg of richer men.”
“Peace, peace!” said the hermit. “All men are beggars at my door—and all
are guests—and all are welcome.”
“Then thou shalt have a full table for thy Christmas dried peas, father,
for yonder come more of thy guests.”
The hermit and the beggar looked down where he pointed. Up the steep path
toiled four men, one after the other. The three above stood waiting their
arrival. At length they came. The knight checked them off in an undertone
as the hermit gave to each his kindly “Peace to thee!”
“Thou art a merchant, and wealthy, by thy girth”—so ran the
commentary—“and thou—a thief, by thine eyes and thy nearness to Sir
Merchant. And thou—thou art I know not what, but thou hast broken heart
written on thy face. And thou art a thinker, by thy broad brow and thy
slender figure.”
One after another they returned the hermit’s greeting, each after his
kind. He whom the knight called merchant offered bluntly to pay for a
good meal; the thief spoke with oily heartiness; the broken-hearted
said never a word; and he of the broad brow and the uncalloused fingers
responded with the courtesy of one at home in any place.
“A fair Christmas Day, good sirs,” quoth the hermit then; “and all I have
for your Christmas feast! Come hither into the shade of the rock and sit
ye down.”
And without further parley down they sat upon the brown earth, a strange
company, while the hermit brought from his cave a great dish of dried
meat, and a bowl of parched peas, and lastly an earthen jar of water,
cool and sparkling. The beggar made as if to put his hand to the dish of
meat, when the hermit stayed him.
“An it please you,” he said gravely, “we will thank the Christ who was
born this day.”
The beggar withdrew his hand. The fat merchant, who had thought to put
forth his own, withheld it. With bowed head they waited until the brief
prayer was done, then set to as hungry men, one and all.
“Tough, but grateful to an empty stomach, is thy goat’s meat,” said the
man of the broad brow. “But tell me, Father Hermit, thou didst return
thanks for dried meat and peas: dost in very truth regard this mean
repast as a Christmas feast?”
“That do I!” returned the hermit vigorously.
“That do I not!” said the other in a sneer half hidden in his beard, “no
more do these my fellow-guests, I warrant you. Tell me, friend knight,
hast any thought of Christmas in thy mind?”
“Nay,” said the knight frankly; “only of a snow-white, crisp Christmas at
home.”
“Sir Beggar? Is this a Christmas joy to thee?”
“Nay,” said the beggar with a whine; “but were I in my own town—ah, there
beggar-folk feast at Christmas-tide at the cost of the open-handed rich!”
“Sir Merchant, what of thee? Is this Christmas to thy mind?”
“Nay,” said the merchant between bites, “never a Christmas without good
roast capon.”
“Sir Melancholy? Hast thou Christmas cheer? Nay, we need not thine
answer. And thou, Sir Shifty Eyes—is this Christmas to thee?”
“Nay,” said the last of all, “I see no Christmas joy in this shrivelled
fare.”
“Hearest thou, O Father Hermit?” cried the questioner in triumph. “And
thou sayest this brings Christmas joy to thee!”
“And truly so it does!” answered the hermit quietly. Then, his eyes
sweeping quickly around the circle, he spoke more strongly: “And more,
Sir Philosopher—for such I take thee to be—I can tell each of you why he
has no Christmas joy from this feast of mine.”
“Come, then,” said the philosopher invitingly.
“Thou first,” said the hermit, not heeding the sneer no longer
concealed—“thou art a philosopher, is it not so?—So I thought.—And thou
hast exchanged faith for reason, and by thy bargain thou hast lost thy
Christ and thy Christmas. Thou wast afraid to believe! God manifest in
the flesh thou couldst not understand, and therefore God manifest in the
flesh thou didst cast away.”
The other would have interrupted, but the hermit raised his hand to
silence him. “Nay, I said not I would argue with thee, but that I would
show thee why thou hast no Christmas joy. And I have shown thee. Thou
hast no faith: that is why. Thou, who dost come over yonder blue sea by
faith; who dost follow a mountain path on faith;—thou, who dost not know
thyself nor thy neighbor nor thy world, but dost take all on faith—thou
dost not believe in the might of the finger of God! Not a day passes
but thou dost believe the unexplainable; yet thou must explain the
Christ-child before thou wilt believe on him! Thou dost not know me; thou
canst not explain one of these dried peas, nor the way it grew, nor the
sunlight that dried it; and yet thou dost eat my dried peas gladly! Have
I hit thee? ‘Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of heaven as a——’”
He paused for a moment. The philosopher’s eyes had fallen; his sneer was
gone; he had not a word to say. The hermit turned to the thief, who sat
next in the circle, and shot his next words at him.
“And thou, I know thine ailment, and why thou hast no Christmas joy in
thy feast! Thou hast stolen money in thy scrip and a bad conscience in
thy breast.”
The man with the shifty eyes gripped his wallet tight and turned pale
under his tan.
“Nay, friend thief,” said the hermit more gently, “this is no court of
law. There is no judge here but thy God. Thou art afraid to meet the
Christ-child when thou comest to judgment; that is why thou hast no joy
in this Christmas-tide. Clear conscience doth make glad heart. Get thee
back and restore what thou hast stolen!”
His eyes sought those of him of the melancholy countenance, but the man
would not look up. Nevertheless the hermit addressed him, knowing that he
heard.
“And thou, Sir Melancholy, methinks I know thy sorrow. Thou dost think
thyself disillusioned. Sorrow has come thy way, and loneliness. Thy
friends have proven no friends at all. And because thou hast lost faith
in man, thou hast lost faith in God, and thou hast forgotten the faith
of thy childhood. Thou hast drunk wormwood and therefore thou dost curse
God.”
The man had lifted his head and was gazing at him, his embittered hungry
soul in his eyes. The hermit’s tone softened.
“Oh, thou poor soul!” he said, “thou hast done the very opposite to what
thou shouldst have done. For instead of false friends thou hast a Friend
divine. Thy house is empty; yet thy Friend but keeps thy dear ones for
thee till thou comest. Thou hast looked only at the things which are
seen; but lift thine eyes! look thou at the things which are not seen,
the eternal things of God! Then hast thou, even thou, bereaved and
lonely, joy in the Birthday of thy Lord!”
He ceased speaking. Suddenly the other bowed his head upon his arms and
was shaken by great tearing sobs. They sat in silence until he raised
his head and said, brokenly, and trying to smile, “Thou hast wrought a
miracle, father! These be the first tears mine eyes have known in many a
year.”
“I guessed as much,” the hermit said, “and tears be often the forerunners
of a new joy.”
The Crusader sat next in the circle. With the help of the beggar he had
undone the thongs on his armor and stripped himself of his shining coat
of mail. In his woolen shirt, worn and marked with rust, he was a picture
of stalwart strength, with knotted muscles and heavy shoulders.
“Thou,” began the hermit, “thou, Sir Knight, hast been to Jerusalem,
across yonder waters, to protect the sepulcher of thy Lord Christ, whose
Birthday this is. And thou dost not know thy Lord; wherefore thou hast no
joy in Him.”
“Not know my Lord!” cried the knight.
“Nay, thou knowest not thy Lord! By two things I know it and will prove
it thee. Imprimis, thou hast slain thy fellow-men, and hast waded in
their blood, for the sake of thy God. Wherefore thou knowest not Him;
for the Christ is not served by blood-letting, by the slaying of thy
brother-men. Thou dost hate the Saracen who dishonors thy Lord’s tomb;
but thy Lord has bidden thee love the Saracen, and thou hast not heard
his voice. Again, thy Lord Christ would have thee kindly and tender
toward all, both man and beast; but thou hast left thy good steed, who
has borne thee to thy Lord’s city and thus far homeward—thou hast left
him lying down yonder with a broken limb and hast not put him out of his
misery. Wherefore, again, thou dost not know thy Lord; not knowing Him,
thou canst have none of his joy at his birth-feast! Wert thou Christ’s
man, as thou dost wear Christ’s cross, thou wouldst ere this have cared
for thy beast!”
At that the knight leaped to his feet.
“By this cross,” he cried, “but thou art a bold man, Sir Hermit!”
His sword was in his hand. The hermit made no move. The others sat
watching the shining blade. The knight caught the hermit’s eye,
hesitated, dropped his sword with a clatter, and turned and strode down
the path out of sight.
The hermit turned to the merchant.
“And thou, sir,” he said, “I have thy measure an I mistake not; and the
reason why thou hast no joy in this feast. Thou hast so encased thy soul
in the fat of getting and of self-indulgence that thou hast forgotten it.
Thou hast lived for thyself. Thy treasure-chest thou hast filled, and
thou hast wrung thy gold from the sweat and tears of many a brother-man.
God gave thee thy talents, but thou hast not requited God. Thou art
swollen with what thou hast sucked from God’s world. Thy pride is in what
thou callest thine own, and thy joy in spending it for what thou callest
thyself. Thou knowest not the Christ-child; for the Christ bids thee
give, not get; and thou hast not found joy in this feast, for thou hast
through it all thought only of thyself! The joy of Christ’s Birthday will
come when thou forgettest thyself!”
And the merchant, when the hermit ceased speaking, grew very red in the
face and fingered his wallet uncomfortably. But he had not a word to say.
“And thou, Sir Beggar,” went on the voice of the hermit, “thou hast, like
thy neighbor, lived by sucking the world dry. Thou hast taken from the
world and given nothing. God made thee to work, but thou hast disdained
to work. Thy mind is rich with excuses and reasons, but none is good:
thou art a lazy varlet and a selfish one. Therefore thou knowest not the
Christ. For He was a carpenter, and his hands were hard with toil. He
saved men, not lived on them, yonder in Nazareth. And none has right to
joy on Christmas-tide who has no respect for himself and no joy in honest
toil. Stretch out thy hand to the plow, not to ask an alms! Let thy brow
shine with the sweat of thy work for the Christ; then shalt thou taste
his joy! He has given himself to thee, and thou—thou art a beggar!”
He was done. He turned to the philosopher with a quiet smile. “Have I
not kept my word?” he asked.
The other nodded slowly, then lifted his chin with a challenge: “In truth
thou hast, good host. But I, too, am a student of men; and I have a flaw
to pick in thine own case.”
The hermit’s smile faded from his lips. He seemed for the moment to draw
into himself; and he spoke in a low voice.
“Nay,” he said; “I said not I was perfect; nor even that I gathered from
this poor feast all that I might have gained of joy. It has been the
better for your presence; and yet—I too confess I have known happier
feasts.”
It was the philosopher’s turn to smile, but he had lost his sneer, and he
did not smile.
“Thou hast withdrawn thyself, Sir Hermit,” he said not ungently, “from
the world and its snares. Thou wast weak, and the evil in the world drew
thee, and thy conscience troubled thee; and thou didst flee, like many
others, to the wilderness. Is it not so?”
He did not wait for a reply, but leaned forward and pointed his words
with a long, slender finger. “And thou too hast lost—not all, but much,
of the joy of this feast because thou hast been a coward! A coward! Thou
wast afraid! Though thy Lord fought through forty days and forty nights
of temptation; though he did agonize for thee in the garden; though he
did show thee how to fight thy soul’s battles—thou didst run away to the
desert! Thou hadst a place to fill, a work to do, men to serve, a Gospel
to preach—and thou wast afraid! And thou hast but a part of thy joy
to-day because thou hast forgotten that the Christ-child whose feast this
is was born to succor thee in thy temptations! Thou hast no right to this
feast! Thou shouldst be at thy work in the world! Thy Christ hath a work
for thee!”
A silence fell upon them. The hermit seemed to have shrunk into himself.
Absently he rolled a parched pea between fingers none too steady. His
voice trembled when at length he spoke.
“I stand like you all, convicted. We be but poor Christians all. I had
thought to keep my soul pure by fleeing evil; but”—and his voice grew
clear and strong—“I was wrong. I shall go back! I shall go back to serve
my Lord Christ! And you, brothers? What of you all? Will ye go back with
me to serve our Lord and our brothers?”
He looked around the little circle. None answered for a moment; then the
sorrowful man said, “I will go.” “And I,” said the thief; and the others
nodded without speaking, all save the philosopher, who sat with head
bent, deep in some soul struggle.
“Come,” said the merchant briskly; “an I can break my chain, so canst
thou.”
“Nay, friend,” said the philosopher sadly; “it is not chains, but
the absence of chains, that I feel. Could I but bind my soul to thy
Christ—but how can I? Can a man force his soul to accept a mystery his
mind rejects?”
Then spoke the sorrowful man, with a new and more cheerful tone in his
voice.
“Ay, that he can! That have I done but now! Truly my mind cannot see
heaven and mine own in heaven; but I am weary of guesswork. I will
believe and hope. And thou—with all thy knowledge thou art no wiser as to
God: thy mind saveth thee not: trust thou thy faith.”
“That were wisdom,” said the hermit slowly. “We speak to thee, and thou
dost not bid us explain ourselves before thou wilt hear: and the Christ
speaketh to thee on this his Day. Wilt thou argue? Nay, but believe!”
And the philosopher looked up at them again, and his brow cleared.
“Why, good father, the world was not built in a day. I will be honest
with thee: I cannot believe; but I will pray Christ to help me believe.
Is it enough?”
“I am but a poor fool,” spoke the beggar, “and thou a philosopher, and
yet—if thou dost pray to Christ thou dost believe already.”
“And that, again, is wisdom,” quoth the hermit.
So they sat and talked while the shadows moved ’round the mountain and
the sun began to sink over the sea to the west.
“When the sun goeth down we journey into the world,” the hermit said.
Toward twilight they heard the footsteps of the soldier, and his bronzed
face appeared at the head of the path. He halted for a moment, surveying
the scene. They were on their feet, girding themselves for the descent.
“What now?” he cried, when he could get his breath.
The philosopher spoke for all. “We have been to school, Sir Knight, as
thou hast, and we have learned that on this Christmas Day which takes us
back to the world. Wilt come?”
“So,” said the knight, the old twinkle in his eye; “and what hast thou
learned, O wise one?”
“That the joy of the Christmas feast may be found in dried peas if faith
be there at table.”
“And thou, Sir Beggar?”
“That the joy of the Christmas feast is his who hath honest sweat upon
his brow.”
“And thou, Sir Merchant?”
“That the joy of the Christmas feast lieth not in the viands, but in
finding joy for others.”
“And thou, Sir Melancholy?”
“That there may be joy in the Christmas feast, even for the bitter in
soul, if they look not backward, but forward.”
“And thou, Sir—craving thy pardon—Sir Thief?”
“It was a good guess,” said the thief. His eyes met the soldier’s
squarely. “But I have learned. There is no Christmas joy without an
honest conscience.”
“And thou, good host?”
“They have taught me, Sir Knight! There is no fulness of joy for him who
shirks the fight. We go together back to life. Wilt go?”
The knight stooped for his coat of mail. “An some friend here will
harness me, I will go, and gladly. Thou hast taught me, too, good father.
The Christ whose Birthday we keep joyeth not in hatred, but in love and
kindliness to all. Verily, what a school thou keepest! Thou hast shown
us the soul of Christmas! Master and scholars, all for the world this
Christmas Day! God give us joy of our journey!”
So, in the cool of the evening, they filed down from the hermit’s cave to
the road that led to the world!
[Illustration]
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