st. jerome and the bible - g. sanderlin

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ST. JEROMEJ?NT) THE 'BYBie

y .GEORGE SANDERLI

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Vision Books • Winner of

The Thomas More Ass'n Medal

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ST. JEROME AND

THE BIBLE

By GEORGE SANDERLIN

illustrated by Harry Barton

St. Jerome, the fourth-century translator

of the Bible and patron saint of librarians,

did his great work in Rome and later in

his beloved town of Bethlehem in the

Holy Land. This is the story of a very hu-

man scholar-saint, and the fascinating

account, as well, of how the Bible as we

know it came to be.

THE AUTHCR

George Sanderlin, professor of English at

San Diego (Calif.) State College, is a

graduate of American University and holds

a doctorate from Johns Hopkins Univer-

sity. He writes frequently for learned jour-

nals and has also written stories and poems

for adults as well as young people.

The painfifig of St. Jerome on the dust

jacket of this hook is adapted from a pic-

ture by an unknown fourteenth-century

painter of the Venetian School.

Vision Books

FARRAR, STRAUS AND CUDAHY

BURNS & GATES

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ST. JEROME AND THE BIBLE



ST. JEROME

ANDTHE BIBLE

by

George Sanderlinillusfrafed by Harry Barton

VISION BOOKSFarrar, Straus & Cudahy

Burns & Oates

New York

London



TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER

Copyright © 196 1 by George Sanderlin

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 61-11324

First Printing, 1961

Vision Books

is a division of

Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, Inc.

Published simultaneously in Canada by

Ambassador Books, Ltd., Toronto.

Manufactured in the U.S.A.



Nihil Obstat:

Rt. Rev. Msgr. Peter B. O'Connor

Censor Librorum

Imprimatur:

Most Reverend Thomas A. Boland, S.T.D.

Archbishop of Newark

The nihil obstat and imprimatur are official declarations that

a book or pamphlet is free of doctrinal or moral error. Noimplication is contained therein that those who have granted

the nihil obstat and imprimatur agree with the contents,

opinions or statements expressed.



CONTENTS

Author's Note 9

One Earthquake 1

Two Roman Schooldays 21

Three Outpost of Empire 35

Four The Desert Fathers 51

Five Strife in the Wilderness 69

Six Secretary to the Pope 83

Seven Paula and Her Daughters lOI

Eight Flight from Rome 113

Nine A Sea Voyage 125

Ten Pilgrims in Palestine 135

Eleven Shadow of the Huns 159

Twelve The Latin Bible 175



AUTHORS NOTE

The reader may rightfully wish to know which

incidents in this book are historical fact, and

which, if any, fictitious.

The main outlines of the story are historical:

St. Jerome's boyhood in Stridon, his studies at

Rome, his year of travel when he first became

interested in monks and underwent a deeper

spiritual conversion, his five-year stay in the

desert, his ordination in Antioch, his studies at

Constantinople and the call to Rome, his re-

vision of the Latin New Testament, the foster-

ing of the ascetic life among the noble Roman

women, the voyage east, the reunion with

Paula and Eustochium, the monastery-convent

he and Paula founded.

Malek is the only fictitious character, but he

must have existed in the sense that there were

quarrelsome, ill-natured monks in the desert

whose persistent badgering of Jerome for his

views caused him to leave. Brother Elias exists

in history (there was a desert monk, a con-

verted Jew, who helped Jerome study Hebrew)

but is not named. St. Pammachius, of course,

[9]



Authors Note

existed and was a fellow student of Jerome's,

but his age and sophistication is my own at-

tempt to establish his character. The lion exists

in legend and appears in many paintings of St.

Jerome.

The dialog is partly invented, partly drawn

from Jerome's Letters.

Material for St. Jerome And The Bible has

been taken from the standard sources for the

life of St. Jerome: Saint Jerome, Sa Vie et

Son Oeiivre by F. Cavallera; St. Jerome: The

Early Years by P. Monceaux; Lives of the

Fathers by F. W. Farrar; A Mo7Ju?ne?2t to St.

Jero7ne, edited by F. X. Murphy; St. Jerome's

letters in French, edited by Jerome Labourt;

and his selected letters, edited by F. A. Wright.

For background I have used the standard works

on Rome and the ancient world during this

period.

[lo]



Chapter Ojie

EARTHQUAKE

I won't go to school, and they can't make

me

Eusebius Sophronius Jerome, a slender ten-

year-old, kicked his foot against the squared

stones of the Roman road that led to Stridon,

a town in northeast Italy. I think I'll just for-

get about old Orbilius' school today and throw

this into a lagoon. He held up his waxen



St. Jerome and the Bible

tablet and pointed stylus attached to it by a

thong.

You will? Jerome's companion, Bonosus,a blond boy with a placid face, walked along

with him through the level green farmlands

bordered by dark salt-water flats and forests.

Yes, I will. Jerome enjoyed the amused

but admiring expression on Bonosus' face.

There's a good show in the amphitheater at

Areopolis. I think we'll do our conjugations

there. I have the two denarii for your admis-

sion and mine.

Bonosus shook his head. I don't think we

should.

They were nearing the city walls now.

Cumulus clouds towered overhead, building to

afternoon thunderstorms.

Still Bonosus hesitated. But Jerome's Come

on decided the question.

High noon on the Adriatic. The sky was

a brilliant blue, the water a darker indigo.

Across it, on the horizon, proceeded a naval

trireme. From the seawall on which Jerome

and Bonosus perched, its banked oars were in-

visible.

I wonder where it's going, said Bonosus,

dreamily.



Earthquake

I don't know. But wherever it's going, I

wish I were on it, Jerome rephed, and that

Orbilius were being dragged beneath it Someday I am going to see all the beautiful places

in the world—and read all the beautiful books,

too.

You really do like to read, don't you,

Jerome? Yet you hate school.

Jerome kicked his heels against the rough

masonry of the wall. That's because old

Orbilius doesn't know what a good book is

He shifted his seat uneasily, then dismissed the

thought of the harsh schoolmaster. Well, let's

go, Bonosus. The show will be starting, and it

should be a good one—a battle between gladia-

tors and wild beasts from the German forests.

Jerome jumped down from the wall, but

Bonosus hesitated a moment.

The sky looks strange, he said. There's

a sort of film over it.

Jerome shrugged. Come on, we'll be late

The amphitheater, a circular stadium shaped

like a smaller Roman Colosseum, rose above

the red-tiled roofs of the compact little town

of Areopolis. The boys had no trouble making

their way toward it.

Wait a minute, said Bonosus, as they were

about to cross the open square with its foun-

[13]




tain and pass under the lower arcade of the

stadium. I think I hear thunder. What will we

do if-Bonosus never finished his sentence.

One second, there was the solid amphitheater

looming above them, the low house at their

backs, the people crossing the square laughing

and talking. The next second—

The faint thunder became a rumbling. The

rumbling became a roar that stunned Jerome,

hurled him to the ground.

With an indescribable splitting, tearing up-

roar, the fountain slanted and shattered, the

amphitheater swayed as in a dream, stones

rained to the earth.

Jerome felt the sting of stone splinters slash-

ing his cheeks. He heard Bonosus' wild, in-

stinctive cry, God God Save me

Before his glazed eyes, the first arcade of the

amphitheater toppled and smashed to the

ground. An ear-splitting crack and a muffled

rushing was behind him somewhere. Terrified

screams of horses and wild animals mingled

with the repeated crash of masonry.

Suddenly—silence.

Except for the moans of the injured and

dying, the screams of beasts, the fearful bass

of the earthquake was ended,

[14]



Earthquake

Jerome saw Bonosus looking at him with a

dazed expression. His friend's face was streaked

with dirt, reddened with blood from a cut over

one eye, his tunic disheveled.

I—we—we're alive, Jerome thought.

Bonosus looked at him as though he, too,

were some kind of apparition. Then Bonosus'

glance went past him and his eyes widened. He

tried to speak but could not utter a word.

Jerome pushed up on his hands and knees

and looked around. About three blocks away,

he saw what appeared to be a gray barricade,

just erected in the street leading to the Adriatic

Sea.

But the barricade was moving

Bonosus Jerome's strangled cry pierced

his friend's daze. Run

He was up and pulling at Bonosus' arm. Then

they were racing, legs trembling, hearts pound-

ing, past the amphitheater, past the market, to-

ward the northern inland section of the town.

People were running beside them, crying

aloud, stumbling but struggling up to continue

the race for survival.

For behind them, with an inexorable rushing

sound, came the gray wall which was the

Adriatic Sea itself. At the first hammerstroke

of the earthquake, the seawall had toppled into

[15]




the waters. A tidal wave lifted the sea ten feet

above the land and flung it like a javelin through

the breach, at the heart of the stricken city.

Run Run screamed Jerome.

When Bonosus tripped, he pulled him up

again. When Jerome nearly fell, Bonosus caught

him. They could hear the muffled, spreading

roar of the waters, like nightmare surf. Their

lungs ached, stomachs were contorted, legs

folded, foreheads almost burst.

I—I—can't—

gasped Bonosus.

Come on

Jerome could support his friend only a few

steps further. Then Bonosus fell all in a heap,

panting hoarsely. And then, at last, Jerome

looked back.

He saw the shattered city, some houses in-

tact, others completely overthrown, walls partly

standing and partly cast down, like blocks a

child has been playing with and carelessly left

strewn about. Other people stood around near

him, gasping, silent from shock. And there,

perhaps two hundred yards away, was the gray

death of the sea.

But it was no longer a moving, ravaging

rampart. It spread slowly out, lapping around

the ruined homes. Its tidal fury was spent, and

Jerome, Bonosus, and these others were safe.

[.6]



Earthquake

It's—all right, Jerome told his friend. We

are saved.

Bonosus still panted hoarsely, but managed

to clutch Jerome's hand and pull up to a sitting

position.

Thank—God, he whispered. I—I am

going—to thank Him—first of all.

Jerome was touched by the look of humble

gratitude on Bonosus' round, serious face. Yes,

they both had much for which to thank the

Lord.

I, too, he said, softly.

The excitement of the great earthquake of

Areopolis proved so intense that Jerome's run-

ning away from school escaped notice.

This is an event, said Orbilius the next

day, that was sent by a beneficent heaven to

provide us with subject matter for the speeches

we are to make today to the class Would that

some of you had the originality to be in Are-

opolis yesterday.

Jerome and Bonosus buried their heads in

their tablets. It is better to be a live fox than

a dead lion, thought Jerome, though he was

terribly tempted to offer a speech on the earth-

quake.

[17]




So he and Bonosus returned to the routine

of their studies. The damp winter came, and

was followed by another spring, and another.

One day, Jerome's father called the boy into

his study. Eusebius senior was a middle-aged

man whose rosy cheeks and bulging waistline

showed that he believed in good living.

Jerome, he now addressed his son, someday as my eldest you will inherit this estate,

and I want you to have a better education

with which to manage it than I have had.

Yes, sir, said Jerome, apprehensively. Bet-

tereducation? More

Orbiliuses?

So, my boy^ although the crops have not

done as well as we hoped, and the slave labor

is atrocious, not to mention the imperial taxes

—at the mention of taxes, Eusebius' face be-

came purple— still and all, my boy, I have set

aside enough to send you to Aelius Donatus,

the great grammarian, to study—in Rome.

Rome

Jerome could not say a word. To Rome, capi-

tal of the civilized world, seat of Empire cele-

brated in Virgil's poem, the Aeiieid, which

Jerome loved Then a sad thought struck him.

He would have to leave good-natured Bonosus.

Yes, to Rome, and next week, his pretty

[.8]



Earthquake

mother chimed in. She smiled at him as though

reading his fears, and added, Your comrade

Bonosus is going, too. It has all been arranged

with his people.

[19]



Chapter Two

ROMAN SCHOOLDAYS

At the age of twelve, Jerome left his home in

northeast Italy and with Bonosus journeyed by

sea to Puteoli, then up the famous Appian

Way to the Eternal City. A trusted slave ac-

companied them.

The two boys were met by representatives

of Eusebius and shown to their apartment, near

the hall rented by the famous Donatus for his

classes. After they had paid their fees and

[21]



St. Jero7ne and the Bible

been enrolled, they were free to wander through

the teeming city.

There's the Pantheon I recognize it from

Orbilius' description, cried Jerome.

The majestic forum of Trajan, the Colosseum,

the baths, aqueducts, precariously lofty apart-

ment houses all appeared in a shining light to

the young sightseers.

In the forum of Trajan, the equestrian statue

of the great Emperor seemed alive in the bronze

rays of the setting sun.

But look Look across the Tiber, Jerome

cried Bonosus.

Jerome followed Bonosus' pointing finger and

saw, crowning the hill called Janiculum, the

glorious white basilica church of St. Peter's, the

living center of Christendom. Rotundas to the

right, green flecks of shrubbery from the square

in front—but there was something different about

the shape of this church.

What are those two wings, extending to

either side of the building? asked Jerome. I've

never seen a basilica like that.

Nor have I. I asked a priest earlier today,

while you were at Donatus' hall. They are

called transepts, and this is the only church that

has them.

[22]



Roman Schooldays

Transepts—why, they make the church in

the shape of a cross Jerome stared in wonder.

We Christians took over the old basilica build-

ing which was used by pagans for a market

or law court, and now we have made it into

something different in honor of Christ.

Bonosus nodded.

Our faith is more beautiful than anything

the pagans dreamed of, Jerome continued

enthusiastically. With a sweep of his arm he

indicated the panorama before them. Oh,

Bonosus, I am a Roman This Empire, this

civilization, above all this faith based onSt.

Peter the Rock—oh, Bonosus, wherever I may

be I will always be a Roman

Bonosus laughed. I see coming from your

pen tonight a Horatian Ode to the Eternal

City. Let us return to our apartment so you

can begin it.

Jerome was delighted with Rome. The his-

toric sights were fascinating; better yet, his

studies and teachers were interesting. Orbilius

now seemed like a figure out of a nightmare.

The great teacher Aelius Donatus was short

and barrel-chested, sharp-eyed. When he sat

in his sloping wooden chair, the cathedra, wait-

[23]




ing for the students to quiet down on their

benches, he might have been mistaken for a ped-

dler from the East. But when he mounted his

platform, spread the first passages of the Aeneid

before him on its gleaming ivory roller, and

began to intone the lines, he was like a demi-

god.

His voice was deep and resonant. The thun-der of the ocean, the crash of the angry gods,

the roar of flames consuming Troy, were in it.

Along with this majesty, he had a keen sense

of humor. When Jerome dared to point out

that a theory stated by Donatus had already

been given by an earlier critic of the poem, the

famous scholar shook his fist.

Down with those who have expressed my

ideas before me he thundered—but his eyes

twinkled.

As Christians, Jerome and Bonosus found

much to disapprove in those years when the

Empire was governed by the Apostate Emperor

Julian. The pagan temples, closed by Con-

stantine, were again being used for worship.

And one day, they saw that wreaths had been

hung on the statues of the old gods in the

streets.

[24]



Roman Schooldays

That is to show us that we Christians now

come second, snorted Jerome.

The last shall be first, though—remember?

Bonosus quoted Our Lord's words.

Rome's pagan atmosphere had perhaps its

strongest influence upon the young students

who came from all parts of the Empire. Jerome

and Bonosus were soon swept up in this at-

mosphere. They began to see a great deal of a

new Roman friend, Pammachius, who was two

years older then they. Pammachius had a bold

and handsome face, and there was always a

knowing expression in his eyes. His home was

a meeting place for the gay, pleasure-loving

young students of Rome.

When Jerome dropped in on Pammachius

that evening, he found several other students

there, boys and girls. Oil lamps were hung in

the tiny garden behind the first-floor apart-

ment, and the young people were eating, laugh-

ing and talking.

Come in, learned Jerome cried Pam-

machius. He seized Jerome's hand, smiled his

charming smile, and pulled him toward the

group. Quickly the idle hours passed in pagan

talk and amusement—hours Jerome would some

day regret wasting.

[^5]




But there was time for more serious occupa-

tions too. One day the three boys set out to

visit the Catacombs.

One of the extensive vaults of the early

Christians lay close to the Appian Way, the

yellow road crowded with antique temples,

chapels, statues, villas and Sunday traffic.

Jerome, Bonosus, and Pammachius went by

foot, dodging imperial couriers on horseback,

aristocratic coaches and litters borne by sweat-

ing Nubian slaves—litters in which sat wealthy

ladies, painted and bedizened in the silks of

China.

For once, Jerome was saying little. Pam-

machius pointed out the sights to Bonosus in

a bored, affected manner.

Here, the Emperor Nero's train of one

thousand mules bearing the asses' milk in which

his wife Poppaea bathed, once collided withsome mounted troops, said Pammachius. So

for a while the wits called this the Milky Way.

And over here—

Bonosus interrupted to ask gently, But can

you show me where St. Peter, fleeing Nero's

persecution, met Our Lord and asked Him,

'Whither goest thou?'

Well, that did take place on the Appian

Way somewhere, admitted Pammachius. But

[26]



Rojnan Schooldays

I can't tell you the exact spot. Let's rouse our

Jerome from his meditation and see if he

knows.

Jerome answered lightly:

The lid fits the pot. Pammachius can tell

the details of a cruel Emperor's reign but not

the highlights of Our Lord's life. We are past

the place now, Bonosus, but I will show youon the way back.

Quickening their steps, they entered the dim

basilica of San Sebastian. They turned to their

left and just before they reached a side chapel

came to the stairway leading below to the Cata-

combs. As he bent his head and started down,

Jerome couldn't help thinking of Aeneas's

going down to the underworld in Virgil's

poem.

Cool, damp air struck his face. Daylight was

quickly cut off. He found himself in a narrowgallery, barely three feet wide and less than

six feet high, down which, at irregular in-

tervals, oil lamps were perched in rock shelves.

Then, as his eyes became adjusted to the

gloom, Jerome began to make out the recesses

on either side of the gallery. They were hori-

zontal, long enough for a human being to lie

in if they had not been sealed with tiles; and

they rose above each other in tiers, five or six

[27]




in the space between rock floor and rock ceil-

ing, like berths in a ship.

These galleries are themselves the burial

vaults, whispered Bonosus. Look, Jerome, at

the inscriptions on these tombs

Jerorhe peered eagerly at the crudely-formed

Latin letters.

Ampliati, thetomb

of Ampliatus.

Acilius Rufinus, mayest thou live in God.

As Jerome read the epitaphs daubed on in

red or black paint, or traced with his finger

those incised in the tiles, his quick imagination

and warm feelings pictured for him these early

Christians.

He saw them' gliding through the dark night

into these burrows; kneeling, where a gallery

opened into a larger vault, for Mass to be said

by a priest who entered from an opposite cor-

ridor; carrying, in grief and pride, their

martyred dead to rest in these niches. These

were the heroes of the faith, heroes a thousand

times more pure and daring than even those

of the poems of Homer and Virgil

Jerome, you're dreaming again, said Pam-

machius mockingly. Move on.

Jerome sensed Bonosus' sympathy with his

reverie. Bonosus, too, could not but feel the

awe of these silent galleries.

[28]



Roma? Schooldays

It is like the word of the Prophet realized,

Jerome reflected aloud. 'Let them go down

living into hell.'

They went on, now down, now up, now

right, now left, through the labyrinthine pas-

sages. They stopped and stuck their lighted

candle into private vaults opening off the pas-

sageways, with table tombs in their rear.

Some of the marble tombs had Christian

symbols beautifully carved on their sides: the

dove, the anchor, the oKve-branch, or the

monogram of Christ. On the walls were fresco

paintings of the Good Shepherd and His Sheep,

the Miracle at Cana, the Raising of Lazarus,

or the pagan Orpheus transformed into a

symbol of Christ and taming with his lyre the

wild beasts.

Sweet Simplicius, live in eternity.

May thy spirit be in refreshment.

Eutychius, the father, has erected the grave-

stone to his sweetest little son, Eutychianus . . .

the servant of God.

Everything about these mysterious, under-

ground galleries whispered to Jerome of the

world to come, of the world of the spirit.

This is the City of the Dead which is also

the Christian City of Hope and Eternity, he

[29]



St. ]ero77ie and the Bible

muttered to himself. This is my city, this is

what I am seeking in my books.

But he stirred uneasily. He ran his handover the rough stone, the smooth, cold tiles

of the recesses. The stone was dead.

Yet a breath of moist air from a distant

opening brought movement and life into this

silent world; and borne on the breeze he

seemed to hear the echo of the lively laughter

and talk of Pammachius' friends.

There followed a time of troubles for

Jerome. Gone was his first undivided enthu-

siasm for learning. When his turn came to

give a school declamation, he stood before the

class clothed in a new toga, his hair glossy

from oil, his knees trembling—and was relieved

when the ordeal was over.

When he attended the law courts, the greatadvocates seemed to him to turn from their

cases and rend each other with vulgar personal

attacks. How could he ever have considered

joining the bar?

He spent more and more time with Pam-

machius and his friends; more and more often

he found himself repeating their glib phrases:

Why must you always try to figure every-

thing out? Who knows what will happen

[30]



Roman Schooldays

tomorrow? ^^Carpe diem—stvLt the day. And

he would try to forget the problem of what

he was to do with his life.

But he never could forget, for long. Aelius

Donatus, standing up in his stiif way, surveying

the class with a keen, inscrutable glance, then

launching into the reading of the Iliad or

Odyssey, would always reawaken Jerome's high

ideals.

Or, unsought, a memory of the Christian

heroes of the Catacombs would come. St.

Peter, meeting Our Lord on the Appian Wayand turning back to Rome to face death by

crucifixion under Nero. St. Paul, the Christian

Ulysses, driven from one city o f Asia Minor to

another, carried prisoner to Jerusalem, prisoner

to Rome, martyred there—but igniting the

world for Christ.

One day Jerome was passing through the

forum of Trajan with Bonosus when they were

hailed by a pagan friend, Lucius.

Greetings, scholars. Christian scholars, I

should say. Have you heard the news?

Jerome and Bonosus shook their heads.

Then let me ask you a question. How can

you Christians speak of your Christ as a gentle

and forgiving God when he strikes down his

enemies with such swiftness and severity?

[31]




Jerome stared. I don't know what you're

talking about, he said. Stop speaking in rid-

dles.

Look at the statues. Their wreaths of honor

are gone.

Jerome and Bonosus looked around in sur-

prise. It was true From the great equestrian

Trajan down to the smaller household gods, the

pagan deities had been stripped of the wreaths

ordered for them by the Emperor Julian.

Has Julian been reconverted to Christianity?

Has he stopped trying to revive a dead faith?

asked Jerome.

He has stopped trying to revive anything.

The Emperor is 'dead, said Lucius.

Dead echoed Jerome and Bonosus.

Struck down on the eve of his greatest vic-

tory. Struck down at the front by a mysterious

foeman. When he knew he was dying, he madean incision in a vein, caught blood in his hand,

and hurled it toward heaven. His last words

were, 'You have conquered, O GalileanP'^^

Jerome felt numb. Julian's death would be a

thunderbolt to the Roman Empire, which he

had successfully guided through the Persian war.

It would be a blow of annihilation to the con-

servative party of the Senate, which backed his;

attack upon Christianity.

[32]



Chapter Three

OUTPOST OF EMPIREOne bright spring day, not long after the death

of Julian, Jerome entered an octagon-shaped

building adjoining the Lateran Basilica and found

a booth in the corridor which encircled it.

Bonosus was with him, and he, too, went

into one of the small booths decorated with

large stone crosses and shells.

I am glad we are here, Bonosus said. I

[35]




feel that at last my feet are pointed in the right

direction.

Jerome nodded. Though he had received some

religious instructions from his pious grand-

mother, it was customary at that time for Chris-

tian parents to put off the baptism of their

children until the children were grown.

Let him sow a few wild oats first, Eusebius

had laughed, before he tampers with God's

sacrament.

On this mistaken theory that young people

were bound to sin after baptism and then be in

greater danger of losing their souls than before,

Jerome's baptism had been deferred.

But now there was a deepened understand-

ing and a trace of sadness in his expression, along

with the ever-present impatience.

I don't feel anything special, he thought,

a bit irritably, as he changed from his street

tunic to the shining white veils he had found

hanging on a rod.

But then he was quickly repentant. I'm

sorry. Lord. I know it is the next, right step

for me, too.You look like a bride, he told Bonosus,

with a smile.

Actually, slender Jerome was the more strik-

ing as he and Bonosus circled the building and

[36]



Outpost of Empire

caught up with the other candidates for baptism.

All stood by the western entrance to the central

rotunda.

Jerome saw in front of him, down two steps,

the square baptismal font. Sunbeams from the

cupola windows danced on the limpid water.

Rich mosaics of fish, covering the bottom of

the font to symbolize the faithful, gave the

pool a greenish tinge.

Opposite Jerome, at the eastern side of the

font, stood Pope Liberius surrounded by assist-

ing priests. The Pope was clad in a spotless

white tunic and wore the soft wool pallium,

hanging in the shape of a V, around his neck.

For the first time Jerome felt a stir of emo-

tion. At a sign from one of the deacons, he

and the other catechumens began the recitation

of the Creed.

I believe in one God, the Father Almighty,

Maker of heaven and earth ...

Yes, there must be nothing but God for him,

from this moment on.

... and in one Lord Jesus Christ . . . and

in the Holy Spirit. ...

Then Jerome stepped into the cool water,

down, down to his waist, and crossed, white

veils streaming out behind him, to meet the

Pope and priests. They stepped down, two

[37]




priests took Jerome by the arms, and while

the Pope pronounced the formula of baptism

he was immersed. The waters closed over his

face, then broke from it.

Bonosus followed. The two friends pro-

ceeded to the booths of the neophytes, then

entered the basilica, and at the marble altar

rail received the rite of Confirmation and made

their First Holy Communion.

Now Jerome had completed his studies and

declared himself a Christian; he stood at a first

crossroads in his life. Bonosus, who shared

Jerome's enthusiasm for learning, but who was

not by nature a leader, seemed waiting for

Jerome to come -to some decision.

I could never be a lawyer, Jerome re-

flected. He and Bonosus were in their cramped

third-story flat, by a window open to the

street noises and odors. I could never fight

over fifty talents, or back rent owing, or the

possession of thirty feet of worthless ground.

We could stay here and study further

under Donatus, suggested Bonosus. Or we

could ask permission to study the early Chris-

tian writings they must have in St. Peter's.

No. I'm tired of Rome. Jerome stared

over the forest of apartment roofs, the distant

marble colonnades of the Baths of Caracalla.

[38]



Outpost of Empire

Abruptly, he turned his back. Rome is

haunted for me. Let's go to—to Treves.

Treves? Why, that's on the edge of no-

where It's at the outermost limit of the Em-

pire, the Rhine

Good. That's how far I want to go. I

want to be able to think. It could be a vaca-

tion for us. My father will help me, and I

know your people are in a still better position

to send you. Will you come?

Of course, said Bonosus. With a twinkle,

he added, But how about your books, your

library? How can you live without that?

That will come, too, said Jerome airily.

A month later, the two friends, walking

beside a toiling train of wagons and pack mules

which bore the Emperor's supplies, saw a wel-

come sight. They came to the top of a gentle

hill and looked down into a fertile valley,,

surrounded by sloping vineyards and pierced by

the bright Moselle River. On its right bank

rose the walls, amphitheaters, and imperial build-

ings of a great city, capital of the Westernhalf of the Empire, Rome beyond the Alps

—Treves.

Rather impressive for the edge of no-

[39]




where, Jerome commented drily. ''Bonosus,

what's wrong? Why are you hmping?

Bonosus' eyes were glassy, his cheeks flushed.

Jerome became aware of his labored breathing.

I don't know, said Bonosus. I haven't

felt well for the last two days.

Here, put your arm around my shoulder.

We're almost there. Ho, teamster Give my

friend a lift, will you? He is not well

Put him up with the other sacks then,

said the teamster, spitting and reining in his big

mules.

Jerome managed to hoist Bonosus to the

top of the wagon, on the sacks of wheat, and

walked beside Hm as they descended into the

valley.

Soon they were passing orchards and cul-

tivated fields, then the gardens with which

Treves was ringed. As Jerome wondered anx-

iously how he could best care for Bonosus in

this strange city, he saw, almost hidden be-

hind a vineyard, a low brown house with a

wooden cross over the door.

Stop he ordered the teamster, acting upon

an impulse he did not understand. I am going

to take my friend in here.

With difficulty he got Bonosus down from

the wagon and supported him across a grassy

[40]



Outpost of Empire

path to the door of the building. He knocked

loudly, and almost immediately the door swung

back.

An old man in a brown robe girded with a

knotted cord faced them.

My friend— Jerome began.

But the kindly porter did not allow him to

explain. This way, his beckoning hand seemed

to say as, without uttering a word, he led them

down a corridor past several cell-like doors to a

little room, spotlessly clean, overlooking a gar-

den.

Put him to bed here. We will bring herbs

and medicines, and we will pray, said the old

porter, in a cultivated voice. Our Lord will care

for your friend.

Then he disappeared.

Jerome wondered, as he assisted Bonosus with

his tunic and got his feverish body between the

cool sheets. He thought of himself as an educated

man, a man of the world; but the atmosphere

of this mysterious house was new to him. Not

even in the Catacombs had he sensed such an

air of peace, devotion, and charity as he breathed

within these walls.

Who are these people? he asked Bonosus.

Do you know anything about them?

I believe—they must be followers—of the

[41]




blessed Antony of Egypt, said Bonosus weakly.

They are called—monks.

Monks.

Jerome looked at the plain wooden cross

above the bed, then out at the green garden.

An inexplicable happiness welled up in him.

I must find out more about these monks,

this Antony he said.

For a month Bonosus was very ill. The

monks tended him lovingly, bringing him herbs

from their garden and water from a fresh

spring. Watching anxiously, Jerome saw the

fever finally subside, a faint, healthy color re-

appear in Bonqsus' wasted cheeks.

De<9 gratias,^^ murmured the old porter, one

sunny morning. Your friend will live.

Thanks to God and to the servants of

God, Jerome replied.

He and the porter had just come from

Bonosus' room and were standing at the end

of the corridor, by the garden. By this time,

Jerome had learned that the monks called them-

selves servants of God, and he was thinking

the title well deserved.

The old porter inchned his head and in his

usual silent way left Jerome. But Jerome, now

settled with his books in an apartment in Treves

[4^]



Outpost of E?npire

and relieved about his friend, stepped outside to

breathe in the wine-like air of the Moselle Val-

ley.

Seeing a large vellum book on a table next to

the wall, he instinctively walked over and opened

it.

The Life of St. Antony, the First Monk,

read the title page.

Aha thought Jerome. Now we shall see.

Curiously, he thumbed through the pages,

noting the main events of Antony's life. He

had truly been a nobody, a young uneducated

Egyptian peasant who had inherited a small

amount of property. One day, in church, the

simple-minded young man had heard Our Lord's

words, Go sell what thou hast and give it to

the poor and thou shalt have treasure in heaven.

Without hesitation, Antony had returned

home, disposed of his property, and retired to

the desert. He stayed there for eighty years,

devoting himself to prayer, living on bread and

water, weaving mats for his support. In his own

lifetime hundreds, then thousands, followed his

example.

Jerome stared at the last page of the Lifewhich told about St. Antony's will. He had

left his only possessions, two sheepskins and a

sackcloth, to two bishops and his brethren.

[43]




''Can a man really do that? Jerome pondered.

Can a man live for the mind alone?

Jerome himself had always wanted friends.

True, some of his best friends were books; but

Antony had even done without them. As Jerome

stood there, thinking of his own deep affection

for Bonosus and his admiration for Virgil and

the great poets, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

Thirty years ago, two high officials of the

Emperor stood just as you are standing, read-

ing this same book, said the old porter, who had

quietly returned. They had wandered here by

chance. When they finished one said to the

other, 'What is it that we serve the State for?

Can we hope for anything higher, after all our

desperate striving, than, finally, to become the

Emperor's favorites? And for how long could

we hope to maintain that perilous position if

we ever attained it? Is that all there is to life?'

And the other replied, 'I do not know about

you, but as for me, I now resolve no longer to

be the Emperor's servant, but God's.'

So, concluded the porter, they both re-

signed their posts that day and never more

left this house.Where are they now? asked Jerome ex-

citedly. I should like to talk with them

Brother John died ten years ago, said the

[44]




peaceful meadow, at the far end of which a

shepherd and shepherdess were watching their

grazing flock. Barbarism . . . the unknown . . .

paganism seemed to be scrawled in front of

the impenetrable forest.

Jerome was in a turmoil.

Help me, please help me, God, he tried

to pray. Then he thought irritably, What kind

of help can the Lord give one who prays in

desperation, then thinks other thoughts the next

minute?

Our year at Treves is almost ended, Jerome,

Bonosus said. What will we do next?

I don't know. Jerome swung his arms and

walked a few paces away from Bonosus, who,

sensing his mood, did not follow.

Jerome's thoughts flew swiftly back to Rome,

to his carefree student days. Was there a gaystudent party going on at this moment? And

was that kind of existence really empty, vain,

dangerous to his eternal salvation?

And what about Aelius Donatus, eagle-eyed,

standing up with his slight limp and rolling out

the majestic verses of Homer and Virgil? Howcould God ask any lover of beauty to renounce

that?

I can't, Jerome groaned. It's too much.

[46]



Outpost of Empire

St. Antony and kindness and divine love just

don't replace—

Look Bonosus cried in a startled voice.

Jerome, whose anguished eyes had been fixed

on the ground, raised his head to see a band of

savages, painted with red and blue stripes,

bounding into the far end of the meadow.

They were so far away they lookedlike

pup-pets.

Ruthlessly, they rushed upon shepherd and

shepherdess, felled the helpless man, then swung

their swords, glinting silver in the distance, at

the woman.

Her faint shrieks pierced Jerome's stupor.

Blood pounded in his forehead, and with an in-

articulate cry of outrage, he started toward

them.

Jerome's servant, who had been holding the

horses by the edge of the road, rushed forward.

*'Stop he shouted as he crashed through the

brush with their horses. Master, stop Stop

Those are barbarians

He and Bonosus ran after Jerome, as Bonosus

had many years before when the gray seawallof the Adriatic roared upon them in Areopolis.

The servant managed to seize Jerome's tunic

so that he stumbled and fell.

[47]



St. Jerofne and the Bible

Master, they will kill you You can do

nothing

We must save them We must save the

woman—

Jerome's frantic words died in his throat as

the shepherdess' cries ceased. He struggled to

his feet, stricken with horror.

She is dead, whispered Bonosus. We must leave. We must leave at once.

Those Alicotti—they are bad, they are can-

nibals. Now they will devour their victims '*

The servant's teeth chattered.

Even now, although it was useless, Jerome

was tempted to advance and do battle with the

unspeakable barbarians. Then, abruptly, his

fury and grief 'were replaced by nausea.

Cannibals. Could human beings, made in the

image of their Creator, come to that? How

could they stray so far from the goal for

which God had made them, His love? Whowould teach these debased peoples to love

God and His children, their brothers?

Without a word, Jerome turned and mounted

his horse.

Whenhe and Bonosus reached the

road, Jerome stopped, in spite of the frightened

servant's urging, and spoke.

Come, Bonosus, he said. Come, away

from this horror. Next year is decided—and

[48]



Outpost of Einpire

next, and next, and next, to the end of the

time God grants me.

Yes?I am going to serve God as a monk. We

must show men what Our Lord wants of them,

how they are to hve. Without God, human

hfe is—Hke that. With revulsion, Jerome ges-

tured over his shoulder toward the meadow.

Bonosus was grave. I am glad, he said. I

have wanted to do that ever since the followers

of Antony healed me.

They started slowly down the road. In

fact, Bonosus continued, I have decided to

live on some rocky isle in the Adriatic andpraise the Lord there for the rest of my life.

Where will you go?

Where would he go? Jerome had not

thought so far. His first impulse was to say

that he would accompany Bonosus.

But human friendship was not the goal of

the monk's life.

Where would he go? Suddenly, there flashed

before Jerome a picture of Antony, the simple

Egyptian, sitting in his palm hut in the midst

of a lonely waste of sand and rock, with the

boundless blue sky overhead. He remembered

the vision Antony had had of the entire earth

covered with the snares of sin—idleness, secular

[49]




learning, friends who took one's time from

God—and that Antony had cried out, trembling,

Who, Lord, can escape them all? A voice

had answered, Humility, Antony

Where am I going? Jerome repeated

Bonosus' question while his romantic imagina-

tion blazed up. To the desert. Bonosus, I am

going to serve

Godin the desert

[50]



Chapter Four

THE DESERT FATHERS

The Syrian desert—a land of barren hills,

rocks, thorny shrubs and an occasional date

palm oasis. From its noonday heat Jerome, now

a sunburned monk, and every other living

creature sought shelter.

The graceful gazelle huddled in the scant

shade of a boulder, and the pale eagle owl

blinked solemnly in the depths of Jerome's

cave.

[51]



St. Jero77ie and the Bible

Jerome himself sat at the sloping desk he had

brought from the West. It was placed near the

cave entrance, for light, yet far enough inside

to soften the glare. Beyond it were ranged the

shelves of big vellum books and papyrus rolls

in buckets, his beloved library.

His quill pen scratched busily across a sheet

of papyrus. Disregarding the heavy, enervatingheat, he wrote to Bonosus:

To me a town is a prison, and the desert

loneliness is paradise. Here in God's wilderness,

about fifty miles southwest of Antioch near

the small town of Chalcis, I can devote myself

to the study of His Word in the Holy Scrip-

tures.

I am undistur'bed by the rantings of lawyers,

the roar of traffic, or flippant females. . . . Howfare you on your rocky isle?

He signed the sheet and slid a fresh one

over for another letter. To three Italian friends

he wrote about Bonosus as one of God's pio-

neers:

Bonosus as a son of the Fish seeks the watery

waste.

We,foul with

ourformer contagion,

like basilisks and scorpions seek dry places. . ..

The pleasure of thinking of these phrases

made Jerome forget, for the moment, how his

sackcloth tunic scratched, how rough his un-

[52]



The Desert Fathers

shaven cheeks felt, and how sore his cracked

hps were. He made the Sign of the Cross on

his forehead and finished that letter. His friend

Evagrius, a priest of Antioch who brought him

supplies each month, would take the letters

when he came.

Jerome now reached for a large book on

the shelf to his right. It was a copy of the

Psalms, a handsome book made of vellum. It

was about twelve inches by eight inches, with

thin wooden covers and leather thongs sewn

through the pages at the back to bind them to-

gether. One side of each page was darker than

the other; that had been the hairy side of the

animal skin, although of course all hair had

been scraped away before the page had been

lettered. Unlike modern books, the words were

not separated. They rantogetherlikethis. But

Jerome was accustomed to this method of

writing, the only one known until modern print-

ing was invented.

Now, wiping his forehead with his hand, he

read the words of the Psalmist:

I will elevate my eyes to the higher regions.

From what source do I expect to receive as-

sistance?

Jerome blinked away the perspiration and

tried hard to concentrate. The desert, he re-

[53]



St. Jerome aiid the Bible

minded himself, was truly a paradise. But his

skin itched, and there was a ringing in his ears.

Worst of all, the psalm had been so poorly

translated. How much more pleasing to the ear

would have been a different translation, like:

I lift up my eyes to the mountains: whence

shall help come to me?

Jerome glanced up from his book, out at the

shimmering waste. What a complete break he

had made in his life when he had come here

His friends scattered, his studies under great

scholars interrupted, not a trace of the famil-

iar Roman green, the shady ilex trees, the

lovely, flower-starred gardens

In the desert, everything was form and out-

line, no substa*nce, no softness. Leaves were

thorns; fields were rock and sand, not lush

grass. The other monks scattered here in caves

and huts could not even be communicatedwith; they spoke no Latin or Greek, only the

native Syriac.

Jerome rested his forehead on his arms, at

the desk. He was tired. All morning he had

worked at his Life of St. Paul, the First Hermit.

Then he had written a number of letters. Nowhe felt the need for, and the absence of, friends,

warmth, human love. He imagined himself in

a cultivated garden again, with birdsong over-

[54]



The Desert Fathers

head, not the somber desert owl who was bhnk-

ing disapprovingly. He remembered the gay

laughter of the Roman girls he had known. Adelicate fragrance seemed to fill the sterile cave.

Then, as though stung by a scorpion, he

started to his feet. Now his breathing was

hoarse, his hands clenched.

Get thee behind me he gasped. His words

echoed hollowly in the stillness. Get thee be-

hind me, Satan

He stooped to the gritty floor of the cave,

caught a jagged rock in his hand, and struck

himself in the chest with it. His sackcloth was

torn by the blow, and drops of blood appeared

on its edges. He looked about, from the open

Psalms to his book-lined shelves. That bad

Latin had betrayed him into these vain thoughts.

Give me the master he cried aloud, still

struggling with his emotions. Abruptly, startling

his friend the owl, he strode to the buckets

which held papyrus manuscripts on ivory roll-

ers, and selected one.

''Cicero. Orations,^'' read the label on the

cylinder.

Jerome carried it to his desk and almost

feverishly unrolled it, far enough so that the

first column of words, about three inches wide,

appeared:

[55]




The study of literature nourishes youth, de-

lights old age, he read in the rhythmic language

of the great essayist.

Ah. He sighed with pleasure. Gradually,

his weariness left him. He drank in Cicero's

praise of fame, of immortality to be gained by

writing great works like Homer's or Virgil's

poems, which would be preserved in just such

elegant rolls as this.

The sun passed its zenith. Some of the smaller

desert animals began to emerge from their bur-

rows. But Jerome read on, enchanted by the

pagan masterpiece, while the vellum copy of

the Holy Scriptures lay open and neglected at

his elbow. . . .

So much reading made his temples throb.

Again, he felt feverish and for a moment put his

head down on the sloping desk. It seemed but

a moment when, suddenly, the cave was filled

with a blinding light, a thousand times brighter

than the desert sun at midday. But ivas this the

cave?

Jerome lifted his head, trembling, and saw a

Throne of Light above him. He did not dare to

look toward it, but threw himself upon the

ground, not knowing whether he was alive or

dead.

Jerome came a dread Voice from above.

[56]



The Desert Fathers

''State who thou art and what is thy condi-

tion

Lord, I am—I am a Christian, Jerome stam-

mered.

It was a title that was humble and proud at

the same time. It seemed to Jerome the best

answer he could give.

But immediately the dread Voice from above

thundered its reply:

Thou hest Thou art a Ciceronian For

where thy treasure is, there will thy heart be

also

Then the beautiful ivory manuscript of the

Orations seemed to swim before Jerome's eyes

and shrivel in a fiery flash to soot and ashes.

And Jerome felt his shoulders being scourged

by the servants of the Lord.

Have mercy upon me, O Lord he pleaded,

struck to the heart by the realization that he

had abandoned the Holy Scriptures, God's

book, for the words of a pagan. Have mercy

upon me and if ever again I possess worldly

books or read them, I will have denied Thee.

As abruptly as it had begun, the vision ended.

The blows ceased, the Lord indicated ac-

ceptance of Jerome's repentance, the light

faded.

But Jerome lay stretched out on the floor of

[57]




his lonely cave, barely conscious and delirious

with fever.

The very nextday, fortunately, Evagrius ar-

rived with supplies.

God bless all Christians ejaculated the

stout, curly-haired priest as he saw Jerome lying

in a stupor on the earthen floor of the cave.

What has happened to our scholar-monk?

Anxiously but efficiently the good-hearted

cleric knelt and felt Jerome's forehead and

pulse. Then he bathed his burning brow and

got him up on his straw pallet.

Just once Jerome opened his bloodshot eyes

and mumbled: If ever again—I possess—worldly books or—

or read them—L have denied Thee.

There, there, said Father Evagrius, too

much reading brings on this brain fever. I al-

ways said that. Now, then, drink this, my

boy.

Thus for two weeks Jerome's friend nursed

him with the tenderest care and good humor

until the dangerous fever had run its course.

Jerome was still pale and thin but restored to

health when Father Evagrius prepared to leave.

But first Jerome told him of his dream.

So you see, Jerome concluded, it wasn't

too much study, as you keep hinting, that made

[58]



The Desert Fathers

me ill. It was simply God's just punishment

for my sin, because I neglected His Holy Scrip-

tures.

Yes, yes, yes. Father Evagrius nodded un-

derstandingly. Satan is always lurking around

a corner, or behind a rock or saltbush here in

your wilderness, to trap us.

How could I have preferred the false wisdom

of the Gentiles to the Word of God? But I have

found the remedy for my disease. You see, the

trouble was that I hated the poor Latin of the

translation of the Old Testament.

Yes? Then you know a better translation?

No, all are poor. So I am simply going to

master the original Hebrew and read the Old

Testament in the language in which it was writ-

ten explained Jerome with shining eyes.

The original Hebrew Father Evagrius was

horrified. You are going to study the original

Hebrew? Why, it will take you ten years to

learn the queer letters

It doesn't matter if it takes me twenty,

Jerome retorted.

And then you know, my friend, it is writ-

ten backwards, from right to left. When youread it you will become cross-eyed

Jerome smiled. Nevertheless, that is what I

am going to do.

[59]




Well, said Father Evagrius, standing up to

leave and tapping his forehead, God bless all

Christians

In the weeks which followed, however,

Jerome discovered that it was one thing to make

a resolution when sin and sickness had tempered

his impatience, but another thing to stick to it.

Hebrew is a difficult language. Jerome did not

like the heavy consonants, with vowels shown

only by markings above the consonant. He did

not Hke the broken and hissing sounds, as he

described them in letters to his friends.

Lent arrived, and Jerome, glancing wearily

up from his Hebrew grammar, saw the desert

carpeted with thousands of lilies, tulips and

asphodels. Above their petals—pink, lavender,

white, blue and scarlet—butterflies soared and

dipped.

Jerome pushed the grammar aside to describe

the scene in a letter that was to be widely cir-

culated in Rome.

O wilderness, bright with Christ's spring

flowers, he wrote. O solitude whence come

those stones wherewith in the Apocalypse the

city of the mighty king is built O desert rejoic-

ing in God's familiar presence

Yet when he turned back to his book, his

[60]



St. ]erome a7id the Bible

His only reply was a blank stare, a shaking

of the head, perhaps accompanied by puzzled

scratching of a beard.

Do you know Hebrew?

Do you know Hebrew?

A few of the monks answered in their in-

comprehensible Syriac. One silent fellow, dark-

haired, with warm, shy brown eyes, said not

a word but turned furtively away. Soon all

were lost in the tawny distance.

Disappointed, Jerome returned to his cave.

He sat down at his desk, made the Sign of the

Cross on his forehead, and tried to concentrate

on the Hebrew conjugations. Becoming restless,

he slid off the stool, knelt on the gritty earth,

and asked God .to forgive his many sins. He

picked up the same jagged rock he had used

before and struck himself.

Even this failed. His thoughts wandered.

What was he doing, he a prize student of the

great Donatus, here in this sterile waste? An

honorable and successful law career beckoned,

friends waited, perhaps marriage, release from

the pain and tension of striving, a normal

life. . . .

Help—help me, Lord Jerome groaned.

A shadow fell across him from the entrance

to the cave. Jerome looked up, startled. So

[62]



The Desert Fathers

stealthy had been the approach, he half-expected

to see an Arab robber, dagger in hand.

Instead it was a monk, the slender, dark-haired

monk with the sensitive eyes, who now addressed

him in educated Greek.

My brother, were you asking for help in

your study of Hebrew?

Yes. Yes, I was, said Jerome eagerly. Who

are you? Can you help me? I will pay—

The stranger made a deprecating gesture.

I am Brother Elias, your brother in Christ,

he said with gentle reproach. But I believe that

I can help you.

Where did you learn Hebrew? Underwhom have you studied?

Before my conversion to the true faith of

Our Lord Jesus Christ, said brother Elias

simply, I was a rabbi of the School of Gamaliel,

in Jerusalem.At these words Jerome's despair vanished and

his spirit soared so high that he could hardly

keep from dragging Brother Elias immediately

to the grammar and bombarding him with ques-

tions.

Thank God Jerome exclaimed. The Lord

is too good to me. Brother Elias, if you will

help me with your language, which was God's

[63]



St. Jero77te and the Bible

language, I will be your friend for life When

can we begin?

Elias smiled, his shy eyes warming. Right now, if you wish, he said quietly.

Tell me what your problems are.

So for an hour the two went painstakingly

over the difficult points of conjugations and

declensions which Jerome had not understood.

When the lesson was finished, Elias agreed to

come twice a week until Jerome mastered the

ancient tongue.

But why didn't you identify yourself when

I asked you for help after Mass? Jerome asked.

With an embarrassed smile, Elias turned the

question aside. I am here now, am I not?

he parried. And I will come again.

He went to the cave entrance, looked quickly

to right and left, and then vanished as myste-

riously as he had come.He should have gone earlier, Jerome reflected,

because of the danger from snakes and vipers

emerging from their holes in the cool of the

evening. He would remind Elias of that next

time.

He did. But Elias, with the same embarrassed

smile, insisted on remaining until dark again. His

instructions were so valuable, his nature so sweet

and Christlike, that Jerome did not wish to press

[64]



The Desert Fathers

him for reasons for his strange behavior. Perhaps

Jerome would have wondered more about it, had

not a new trouble arisen to plague him.He did not attempt to question the monks

again after Sunday Mass at the rock chapel in

the cairn. But they suddenly found their tongues

and began to question him.

They say you are a scholar, Brother

Jerome, said one burly monk in a sarcastic

tone. Well, tell us out of your learning, which

is the true Bishop of Antioch—Meletius,

Paulinus, or Vitalius?

Jerome was taken aback, partly by the abrupt

question in ungrammatical Greek, but more bythe monk's hostile manner.

I—why, I'm not the one to decide that, he

replied. Only His Holiness Pope Damasus can

give a decision. I do not belong to the diocese of

Antioch, anyhow.

What did he say? Who's he for? clamored

his questioners, attracting by their noise other by-

standers.

The church of Antioch was in a sad schism.

Arians— Christians who denied the Trinity and

considered Christ a created being inferior to

God the Father—had kept the Church in a tur-

moil for forty years. Vitalius was their bishop.

Paulinus was the Catholic bishop. But saintly

[65]




Meletius, although chosen by a mixture of

Arians and Catholics, had proved Catholic in

faith and had reigned for a longer time than

either of the others.

''Meletius or Paulinus or Vitalius?

What does the Roman scholar say to you,

Malek?

He's evading, sneered Malek. He's afraid

to say anything

Jerome's temper flared. Hard study and severe

fasting were beginning to cause him digestive

troubles, constant pain which he accepted as a

cross sent by Our Lord. But he had the pride

of a Roman, and his patience snapped at these

insults.

I will write a letter to Pope Damasus about

this complicated dispute, he said, barely sup-

pressing his anger. When I have received his

decision I will communicate it to you. Peace

be with you.

And, making the Sign of the Cross, he turned

his back on them and strode away.

On Monday and Tuesday he felt restless and

irritable; he had not come to the desert to be

drawn into battles over schisms. He awaited

Elias' Wednesday lesson with more than his

usual eagerness. Wednesday arrived, another day

[66]



The Desert Fathers

of cool dawn, swiftly ascending sun and rising

desert heat. But Elias did not arrive.

What can have happened to him? Jerome

wondered, as the hours passed. Can he be ill?

Is he coming tomorrow?

Thursday was a day of dead calm and op-

pressive humidity. Perspiration poured from

Jerome's face and arms, and made his sackcloth

still more uncomfortable. Thousands of sting-

ing gnats swarmed from the apparently empty

desert and invaded the cave.

But where is Elias? Jerome paced back and

forth. He scanned the horizon. He 7nust be ill

At last, he could bear the waiting no longer.

He seized a basket, put some bread from his

meager supplies in it, slung a goatskin water

flagon over his shoulders, and set out for Elias'

hut.

It was about a three hours' walk and already

the worst of the day's heat was over, but a

subtle change had taken place in the desert at-

mosphere. There was a dirty yellowish blur on

the horizon, and dust devils began to spring up

and whirl away in front of Jerome.

Jerome quickened his pace. Perhaps he should

go back. But to master Hebrew in order to

grasp the exact meaning of every verse of

God's Holy Scriptures now seemed to Jerome

[67]



Chapter Five

STRIFE IN THE WILDERNESS

The lonely reaches of the Syrian desert were

swept into the black heavens by the turbulence

of the storm. Jackals and the gray desert fox

dashed madly past Jerome, their tails between

their legs. Swarms of insects were sucked up

with the flying sand. Vegetation shriveled in a

blast like that from a furnace.

Through tear-stung eyes, Jerome saw a boulder

about three feet high and four feet wide.

[69]




^^Whooooo-oooooshr The wind boomed

mockingly. Jerome tried to cough the dust

from his throat. He thought that he would

surely die, and then he thought of his friends,

and for some reason, of the stout priest from

Antioch, Father Evagrius.

Well thought Jerome, his ready wit rising

for the moment above his fear. God bless all

Christians

As though in fitful appreciation of his jest,

the wind dropped. The dust fog thinned and

there, only a dozen yards to his right, was the

rock. Jerome dug his toes into the shifting sand,

staggered and plunged to the ground on the lee-

ward side of the boulder just as the storm was

renewed.

Thank you. Thank you, Lord he gasped.

He was not alone, huddled in his misery

against the granite. A jerboa, its silky coat be-

draggled, stood on its hind legs and looked at him

inquisitively. The small gray fox crouched,

trembling, in a nook.

Jeromedrank a few drops of his precious

water and thought of Noah and his ark.

All around them, the storm continued. If it

lasted three days, as these desert winds often

did, Jerome's chances for survival would be

[70]



Strife in the Wilderness

slim. Already his throat was parched again, his

Hps cracked and bleeding.

^Whooooo-oooooshr''

The brown terror thickened. There was a

strange crackling noise, from electrical disturb-

ances accompanying the gale. Suddenly, the

ridge of granite above Jerome glowed with fire.

The gray fox gave a strangled yelp and leaped

back into the storm. Jerome and the jerboa, how-

ever, held their ground. The diamond-bright

line faded. The wind roared on.

Jerome thought now of his many sins. To die

alone here on the Syrian waste would be

only a fit punishment for them.

He could never seem to curb his sharp tongue.

His impatience and passionate temper were al-

ways getting the better of him. Distractions con-

tinually took him away from the study of Sacred

Scriptures. As for Rome and the idle amuse-

ments of his student days . . .

How many lives have I influenced for the

worse Jerome lamented. O Lord, have mercy

upon me and I promise never to sin again, al-

ways to study Thy Wisdom alone

In reply to his prayer, the wind thundered

ominously, the sand blew over the boulder and

cut his face, the hot blast brought nausea to

his delicate stomach.

[71]




For a day and a night, growing weaker by

the hour, Jerome clung to his miserable shelter.

More than once he wondered about Brother

Elias, whose strange absence had brought him

out into the storm.

Let me at least live long enough to see that

he is all right, to help him in return for the

help he has given me, Jerome prayed. Then

you may take me. Lord.

As the second day drew to a close, Jerome

slept uneasily. His limbs were cramped and

numb, his forehead feverish, but exhaustion

overcame him. When he awoke, he heard thefamiliar booming of the wind, which now

seemed eternal. He rubbed his eyes but could

see only brown overhead, and dozed again.

Again he awoke. Something was missing.

Jerome groaned. It was torment to stretch

his legs, to scrape the sand from his cheek, to

roll over . . . but it was no torment at all to

discover the infinite desert sky above, and the

stars shining.

The wind had ceased. The storm was over

at last.

^^Deo gratias,^^ murmured Jerome, through

his sore lips. He felt his spirits rise. Now to

find Elias and master my Hebrew.

[7^]




Brother Elias was not ill. When Jerome ar-

rived at Elias' hut the next day, the ex-rabbi

greeted his pupil with the rosy flush of health

on his cheeks, but also with an expression of

anxiety.

''My friend, you were caught in the dust

storm he exclaimed, seeing Jerome's torn

sackcloth and grimy face. Come in quickly. I

have a little wine for medicinal purposes. You

must take some.

Jerome entered the small hut which was

perched precariously in the lee of the sand

dune, but shrugged off the wine. Thank you, no, he said. The only medi-

cine I need, Elias, is the holy restorative of

Hebrew. Why have you abandoned me at sea

in your difficult tongue, with the port not yet

in sight?

Elias averted his glance to the ground and

bit his lip. Actually—you no longer need my

assistance. You have learned the grammar more

thoroughly than you realize.

I disagree. But in any case, you have not

answered my question, Jerome returned a little

sharply. Why do you now refuse to help me?

Elias did not reply at once. A lizard scuttled

noisily across the dead palm leaves on the earth

[73]




floor. Jerome began to feel a strange apprehen-

sion.

Surely, he pressed Elias, surely you are

not disturbed by memories, by the ancient rivalry

of our religions, now that you are yourself a

son of light

The Synagogue and the Cross? Elias looked

up at Jerome, his eyes sad, a faint, wry smile

playing at the corners of his lips. Perhaps you

might call it that. . . . No. No, I can no

longer instruct you.

Well—God bless you. I must go now, said

Jerome abruptly, trying to conceal his bitter

disappointment. Thank you for all that you

have taught me.

Once more Brother Elias bent his glance on

the ground, and Jerome did not see how

miserable he looked. As for Jerome, he wasboth puzzled and deeply hurt. He had thought

Elias wanted to help him, had been sure that in

the sensitive Hebrew monk the charity of

Christ flowered as Jerome imagined it should,

here in God's wilderness.

Now he felt rebuffed. '1 will return to my

own desert solitude, he vowed, and I will

never leave it for another human being

In the weeks that followed, Jerome threw

[74]




himself into his studies. His learning became

both more profound and more exact. By now

he was a master of the Greek language, in

which the New Testament is written, and, as

Elias had predicted, he surprised himself with

his knowledge of Hebrew.

He made notes on such difficult Hebrew

words as Hosanna and Seraphim. Sera-

phim, he discovered, may be interpreted either

as fire or as the origin of the tongue, of

language. Hosanna means salvation, and

Hosanna in the highest, the angelic song at

the Nativity of Our Lord, means salvation

carried as high as heaven. He was soon to ex-

plain these and other passages to the Pope

himself.

Meanwhile, Jerome's writings about the des-

ert were becoming popular in Rome. His Life

of St. Paul the First Hermit was a best-seller.

His enthusiastic letters about the life of a her-

mit were widely circulated.

I came to the desert to find the peace of

God, Jerome reflected, and instead I have

gained literary fame. Something must be wrong

—with me.

So he redoubled his ascetic practices. He

slept on the stony earth of his cave. He lived

[75]




O wilderness bright with Christ's spring

flowers he had written, trying to persuade a

friend to take up the life of a monk. O desert

rejoicing in God's familiar presence What are

you doing in the world, brother, you who are

more than the universe? How long shall the

smoky prison of these cities shut you in?

Then he drew his sackcloth around him andwalked through the cool dawn to the chapel,

in the midst of the Syrian waste.

The other monks were there, kneeling in-

side or on the desert floor. Jerome joined

them and lifted up his heart to God. The vast

blue sky was more beautiful than any basilica

roof in Christendom, he told himself. The

silence of the desert pierced the heart as no

music could.

But as soon as the service was over, and

the monks arose, burly Malek confronted

Jerome.

We've asked you for months. Master

Scholar, he said roughly. We are concerned

about the state of your soul, your salvation.

Which candidate do you support for the

bishopric?

Meletius, Vitalius, or Paulinus? chimed in

another.

[77]



St. Jerome mid the Bible

Why hasn't your Pope written you before

this? a third wanted to know.

I have no more to say to any of you,

Jerome snapped. My faith is the faith of the

Holy Roman CathoHc Church, nothing more,

nothing less. Neqiie 77iittatis margaritas vestras

ante porcosT

The monks looked puzzled. From the tone,

however, they recognized that the remark was

not complimentary, even though they couldn't

translate the Latin into Do not throw your

pearls before swine.

Well, Master Scholar, I don't know what

you just called us in your choice Hebrew, said

Malek. But at least we put a stop to the shame-

ful traffic between you and—between the Cross

and the Synagogue.

The Cross and the Synagogue. Jerome stared

at them.Where had he last heard that phrase? Had

it not been on the faintly ironic lips of gentle

Elias, as the former rabbi refused to explain

why he was breaking off their lessons?

Do you—do you mean—did you interfere

with Elias—?

Jerome was trembling with such righteous

indignation that he could not finish his ques-

tion. But he did not need to. A chorus of

[78]




mocking laughter assured him that this handful

of prejudiced monks had indeed forced Elias

to abandon the instruction. For the sake of

peace in the desert, Elias would have yielded

to their threats.

You bullied your brother in Christ, whom

you are sworn to love, Jerome told them bit-

terly. Haven't you read that in Christ there

is neither Jew nor Gentile, Greek nor barbarian,

but all are sons of God together? From your

rude caves you condemn the whole world and

then you do an act of un-charity like this

Hold your tongue, said Malek.

Stop my tongue if you dare, Jerome

replied fiercely. By heaven, it is better to live

with wild beasts than with 'Christians' like

you

A chorus of angry cries was the monks'

reply to this. For a moment they moved threat-

eningly toward Jerome. His indomitable stance

halted them. They muttered and straggled

away, leaving Jerome alone in the tawny waste

which he had once called his paradise.

His paradise? He strode rapidly the two

miles to Elias' palm hut. He entered and, with-

out speaking, embraced his former teacher.

Welcome in Christ, said Elias, surprised and

rendered more shy by Jerome's fervent gesture.

[79]



Strife 171 the Wilderness

God's silence was everywhere. Yes, but God's

souls were everywhere, too, not only in this

wilderness. God's souls included Bonosus and

Elias and Pammachius and Orbilius and his

father and mother and every living being who

hungered for truth and love, the truth and love

which can finally be discovered only through

His Holy Scriptures.

One bears the same soul under every sky,

said Jerome. He held out his hand, warmly,

to Elias. I must go now.

When will you come again to see me?

Elias asked.

Never, said Jerome sadly. Or—as God

wills. I have not found here the peace I sought.

As a cenobite, I am a failure, so I shall return

to the cities of men.

[8i]



Chapter Six

SECRETARY TO THE POPE

Golden Antioch, so called because of its

many splendid temples, baths, and amphitheaters,

was a city laid out in gridiron plan along the

low south bank of the Orontes River, twenty

miles from the Mediterranean. Here Jerome

came to stay at the home of his friend. FatherEvagrius, after leaving the desert.

With his usual curiosity, Jerome wandered

down the wide, colonnaded streets which in-

[83]



St. Jerome aiid the Bible

tersected in the center of town. He inspected

the booths of jewelry, spices, and Tyrian cloth,

and even walked outside the walls to the ill-

famed Gardens of Daphne. In pagan times this

green park had been the scene of many immoral

rites; but now the marble temple of Apollo, in

its grove, was shabby and deserted.

What cried Father Evagrius, when he

heard of this. Have you nothing better to do

with your time, my friend? Don't you know

Antioch is the city where the word 'Christian'

was first used? Why are you poking around in

the pagan cesspool?

Ah, replied Jerome, smiling, I have also

been attending the lectures of Apollinaris on

Holy Scriptures*. And just today I examined a

rare copy of the Gospel of St. Matthew, writ-

ten in Hebrew.Written in Hebrew God preserve us all

The roly-poly priest tapped his forehead. I

thought the desert had cured you of this brain-

fever studying.

Jerome did not answer at once, but looked

from the open window of Father Evagrius'

house across the square to the basilica cathedral

of Antioch.

Just the word desert brought pain to his

[84]



Secretary to the Pope

heart. He had had a dream of nearness to God—

and it had been shattered.

I am also thinking of somethingelse,

Jeromesaid, more to himself than to Evagrius. I am

thinking of becoming a candidate for the priest-

hood.

Father Evagrius' mouth dropped open. Then

his round face lit up in a beatific smile.

My friend, my friend, he cried, clasping

both Jerome's hands in his own, I am sure

that is what the good God intends for you.

Jerome paced restlessly across the room.

I must renew my consecration to God's

work, he muttered. I feel like such a failure.

Then, perhaps, my studies of the Sacred

Scriptures will bear better fruit.

Studies? Father Evagrius shook his head

doubtfully. A priest has little time for such,

my friend—and a good thing, too

Well, you work with words, do you not?

Jerome asked impatiently. You need to under-

stand the meaning of what you teach, don't

you?

Words are all we have to bind with, Father

Evagrius agreed. But the meaning is clear

enough; it's the doing that's hard. As I told

the young couple I married today: 'No wallow-

ing in pagan filth for you, now Remember,

[85]




When Jerome's turn came, he stepped to

the altar rail and faced the congregation.

*'Eusebius Sophronius Jerome, called the

Bishop in a loud voice.

As one man, the congregation gave its thun-

derous response.

He is worthyr^

The building echoed with their cry, and

Jerome felt suddenly humble. Bishop Paulinus

was motioning to him to kneel for the imposi-

tion of hands. In a very special way, he was to

receive the Holy Spirit, in power and fullness

and truth.

Washe worthy?

Involuntarily, Jerome made the Sign of the

Cross on his forehead. Memories of the Cata-

combs, his baptism in Rome and his visions in

the desert flooded over him. . . .

After his ordination, Jerome remained only

a short time in Antioch. Then he made plans

to depart for Constantinople.

I will study there under the holy Gregory

Nazianzen, who has just been recalled to

strengthen the Catholicsagainst the heretics,

he told Father Evagrius enthusiastically. Greek,

Hebrew, commentaries on the Old Testament—

everything

[87]




God bless all Christians Father Evagrius

paled. But he shook Jerome's hand warmly.

And God bless you, Jerome. I will miss you.

Write to me.

It is easier to escape the arrows of a Parthian

archer than a letter from me, Jerome laughed.

Good-by for now, old friend. God bless you.

Months of hard study in the Queen City of

the Empire followed. Jerome found Gregory

Nazianzen dwelling in poverty by an obscure

church. The Arian heretics, who denied the

Trinity and who were more numerous than the

Catholics, taunted and persecuted him.

The pleasure-loving, indifferent populace

mocked him because, although he was bishop

of a small town in Asia Minor, he did not fit

their elegant ideas of what a bishop should be.

Bald, bent over from sufferings endured while

he was in exile at the whim of the Emperor,Gregory was not an imposing figure. But in

his deepset eyes burned a love of truth that won

Jerome's heart. Gregory's knowledge of the

Bible was profound. Like Jerome, he was an

ascetic, and he showed a humility that was as

winning as his vast learning.

Tell me the meaning of the *second-first

Sabbath' in Luke, the first verse of the sixth

chapter, Jerome once requested.

[88]




Ah, said Gregory good-humoredly, I will

teach you about that matter in church where,

when all the people are applauding me, youwill be compelled against your will to agree

with my interpretation; or, if you remain silent,

you will be condemned by all for your foolish-

ness.

Jerome waited, puzzled.

In other words, laughed Gregory, I don't

really know. See if you can find anything on

it in Origen.

So Jerome turned to the many works of

Origen, most famous Greek writer of books

about the Bible. He even translated thirty-seven

of Origen's sermons into Latin. He also trans-

lated a history of the world, Eusebius'

Chronicon, from Greek to Latin.

Every month he forged farther ahead in his

mastery of Greek, his study of Scriptural texts,

his understanding of the history and prophecies

of both Old and New Testaments.

He was happy. At times, however, he was

lonely. He could not have the famous Bishop

Gregory Nazianzen all to himself, and he knew

no one else in Constantinople.

So Jerome wandered down the Mese, the

splendid Middle street running the length of

the peninsula on which the city is built. He

[89]




surveyed the imperial palace with its gardens,

the baths, the fora and statues, the churches.

One day, he stood at the end of the rockypromontory which is Constantinople, high

above the harbor of the Golden Horn and the

Sea of Marmora, pointed toward Asia like an

unfinished bridge of continents.

It is too big, Jerome thought. Too much

wealth, too much splendor, too much power.

This city is established to dominate, to subdue,

to rule the empire of earth. But its people

must be lonely for God.

Why was not God enough for him? Whydid he experience unsought, passionate cravings

for friends? Was he not now an ordained priest

of the Lord?

Yet, in a reaction against study and an eye

ailment which began to trouble him, Jerome

went once to the famous chariot-races in the

Hippodrome. This immense stadium, rectangular

but rounded at one end, was the most popular

gathering place in Constantinople. Thousands of

people jammed it on weekends for the hotly-

contested races between the Greens and the

Blues.

Jerome reached his seat just as the bronze

grill at the square end of the stadium was

raised. Ten chariots, drawn by sleek but power-

[90]




ful horses, whirled out. Sand spurted from their

wheels, drivers' whips flashed, green and blue

silks mingled in the melee of the start.

On, Theodosius

Cut him out, Pindar

Drive, Hannibal

The crowd was on its feet, roaring, as the

chariots shot around the Egyptian obelisk and

triple serpent column at the far end, then headed

into the home stretch.

A pair of black stallions, ears flattened and

necks arched, were in the lead, closely followed

by a team of thundering sorrels. The blacks'

driver wore emerald-green silks, the sorrels' sea-

blue.

Slash him Cut him screamed the sup-

porters of the black stallions.

Fight him off, Pindar shrieked the

sorrels' backers.

Suddenly, the Green driver's whip snaked

out to the right. Pindar, lashing his sorrels on,

ducked, but not in time. The leaded tip caught

him in the eye and he snatched at his reins.

The tug broke the sorrels' desperate stride and

pulled them to the right. Another chariot locked

wheels with Pindar's. Then both careened into

the twelve-foot wall with a grinding crash.

[91]



St. Jero?ne and the Bible

The drivers were thrown wide. . . . Red

stained the sands. . . .

''^Habet HabetP'* shrieked the maddened

crowd, giving its old cry for a fallen gladiator.

*'He has it He has it

Jerome turned away. He was nauseated by

this blood-lust which passed for sport.

Now the race ended in victory for the Greendriver, and the citizens of Constantinople leaped

up and down in their excitement, embraced each

other, pounded Jerome on the back.

In front of him, Jerome saw a woman sobbing

and a man, apparently her husband, striking hergloatingly on the head.

Figs for your Blues Figs for your Blues

bellowed the red-faced husband. If you bet any

more of my money on them I'll divorce you

No, decided Jerome, as he returned to his

humble quarters near Gregory's church, he did

not like Constantinople. When, a week later,

Gregory was elevated to the splendid arch-

bishopric of the city and Jerome could see

little of him, he liked the capital even less.

In less than six months, the fickle citizens

and politicians drove Gregory from his see. The

great scholar-bishop, called The Theologian

because of his penetrating knowledge of Jesus

[92]



Secretary to the Tope

Christ and His divinity, retired to a remote vil-

lage in Asia Minor.

Jerome was left completely alone.

Then, one day, he received a summons from

Pope Damasus. He was asked to attend a

council held at Rome on conditions in the

church of Antioch.

''Rome Jerome stared at the Pope's letter

with a mixture of joy and apprehension.

Rome was where he had first strayed toward

worldly distractions—and first discovered the

love of Christ. Dared he return? And if he did,

what would he find there now?

Jerome came back to Rome in 382. After

the garish luxury of Constantinople, the Eternal

City looked as fresh and beautiful as the Italian

springtide.

Its fora shone in the morning sunlight. The

white basilica of St. Peter's brooded on the

Janiculum, above the Tiber. The gray walls, to

be breached in less than thirty years by bar-

barians, still seemed impregnable as they ser-

pentined around the Seven Hills.

Alas, Jerome found the Romans almost as

frivolous as the citizens of Constantinople, how-

ever. He began making little notes of some of

their more ridiculous customs, when he was not

[93]




busy with his duties on the Church Council as

the Pope's secretary, or with his Scripture

studies.

You can see most women nowadays pack

their wardrobes with garments, change their

dress every day, and yet not get the better of

the moths, he observed, frowning at the gowns

of silk tissue embroidered with bulls

andbears,

or even with the pagan loves of Venus.

She who is especially 'devout' has a prayer-

book made of purple parchment. Gold is

melted into letters and the cover is clothed

with gems and Christ dies starving at her

doors.

Angrily, he added, When she does extend

her hand to the needy, she blows a full blast

on the trumpet. When she goes to Mass, she

hires the town-crier.

One day I saw a noble Roman dame pass-

ing out pennies to beggars with her ow^n hand

before St. Peter's. One old woman, laden

with years and rags, ran back to the end of the

line to get a second coin. When she reached

her turn again, she got a punch in the nose

instead of a penny

St. Peter said, 'Silver and gold have I not,

but what I have, give I unto you. In the name

of the Lord Jesus, arise and walk.' Nowadays

[94]




wooden chairs with sloping backs had replaced

the bronze couches inlaid with tortoise shell

and gold.

A group of about fifteen women awaited

him. They sat in front of the rostrum, which

was placed near the brown drapes at the rear of

the room. Most were plainly dressed, though

a few wore gaudy turbans and rainbow-hued

silk gowns.

Welcome in Christ, Father Jerome, said

Marcella, in her deliberate manner. These

women, most of them, wish to follow Our Lord

in the ascetical life. We are looking forward to

hearing about your experiences.

Jerome stepped to the rostrum. Unfortunately,

his eye fell first on one of the more elegantly-

dressed listeners, a slender young woman whose

wavy hair, under her boat-shaped turban, fell in

a soft mass over her forehead. She held her head

haughtily and regarded him from cool gray eyes.

It is usually better to practice than to

preach, Jerome began sharply. It is better to

stay at home and make sacrifices than to come

gadding out in the streets to hear about the

sacrifices of others.

The young woman's head lifted higher. Next

to her was a more soberly dressed person whose

[96]




eyes sparkled with interest—small, intent, yet

lively-looking, too.

If we truly wish to serve Our Lord, Jerome

continued, we will start by giving up a

fashionable dress we wish to buy and offering

the money to the poor. We will say extra

prayers instead of going out to a dinner-

banquet.

In short, that is what the Desert Fathers did—no more, no less. They 'mortified' themselves,

that is, tried to give up their desires for

pleasure, and they prayed. . ..

Jerome spoke to the ladies for about thirty

minutes. After telling them some sacrifices they

could make, and suggesting some prayers for

them to say and times when they could pray,

he turned to the Desert Fathers. He described

the wonderful peace of the desert but pointed

out that the love of God could bring that

peace to anyone in even the busiest Romanstreet.

His eyes glowed, and the women seemed to

catch fire from his enthusiasm.

Ah, they sighed, when he finished.

Oh Doesn't he speak beautifully? Jerome

heard one of them whispering.

His face fell. So it was just as a popular

lecturer that they wanted him

[97]




Marcella asked calmly for questions and

recognized a member of the audience whom she

calledJulia.

It

wasthe frivolous-looking young

woman.

Father Jerome, said Julia, obviously taking

his measure, I enjoyed your talk—but don't

you think you make sacrifices sound too diffi-

cult? I find it rather a rehef to think only of

God.

Some of the audience looked shocked. Others

tittered.

Jerome felt his cheeks grow warm and the

anger rising in his breast. Oh, he knew this

type Cool, detached, and—selfish.

It is not easy to love God, he said bluntly.

But it is impossible to love God unless one

loves some of His creatures besides oneself. There

are women in this city who preen themselves

like peacocks on' their exalted status, who re-

joice in having got rid of a husband's sovereignty

and are called chaste and nuns—and after a

seven-course dinner, they dream of apostles

Thank you, said Julia. She masked the

fierce resentment in her eyes, but Jerome knew

he had made an enemy. Well, he didn't care.

Such persons would always be enemies of his.

Father Jerome, will you cite some passages

in Scripture for the ascetic life? asked the small,

[98]




dark-haired woman to Julia's right. Jerome

gladly complied with this request. Then the

meeting adjourned, and he found himself talk-

ing at length to this last questioner.

She was still young, probably in her early

thirties, though with lines in her face that hinted

at past unhappiness. Her eyes sparkled as though

once there might have been mischief in their

depths. But they were also wary, ready to show

fright and retreat at the first harsh word.

I wanted to say that I agree with you, she

said now, as she and Jerome stood together at

the rear of the room, about how hard it is

to make sacrifices. If a person has the emotions

to love God deeply, he can also be misled by

human companionships, by material things he

wants for his children or friends. It must be

very hard to live in the desert.

Her words, but even moreher interest and

sympathy, moved Jerome.

Who are you? he asked.

My name is Paula, she replied. My home

is on the Palatine Hill, where I live with my

five children. My husband died two years ago.

You did not marry again?

I would never marry again, Paula said

decisively, and then seemed to hesitate.

[99]




What were you going to say? Jerome

asked.

I was going to say that I think you under-

stand. I would hke to earn God's love. I have

always been lonely, I think, for that.

I do understand, Jerome said. I will be

glad to help you in any way I can.

With a quick, grateful smile and a swirl of

her gray-blue gown, Paula turned to leave. Alifelong spiritual friendship between two saints

had begun.

[loo]



Chapter Seven

PAULA AND HER DAUGHTERS

Following his meeting with Paula came the

halcyon days for Jerome. For a time, everything

seemed to go right.

Paula, he discovered, was a descendant of the

Scipios and the Gracchi, the noblest family in

Rome. Her warm, impulsive nature matched

Jerome's. He found her a sympathetic student

of Scripture with a sound knowledge of Greek.

But I want to learn Hebrew, too, she

[lOl]




pleaded. Will you teach it to me so that I

can sing the Psalms in the language in which

David composed them?

Paula was also an apt pupil for Jerome's

ascetic teachings. But when he discovered that

her charities were being talked of and criticized

because they deprived her children of some of

their rich inheritance, he suggested moderation. Don't reproach me, Jerome, she cried. I

am leaving my children a great inheritance—the

compassion of Christ

Jerome felt impatient at first, then puzzled.

Finally he said simply, You will get to heaven

before me, Paula. Help me there.

I want you to help my children there,

Paula replied.

I cannot interfere in your family.

It is not interference; you will be good for

them Blesilla needs help so badly. Since her

brief marriage and the death of her husband,

she is running wild. And Eustochium has a gift

for following Our Lord, if you will only direct

her.

Jeromehesitated.

You are giving lectures to Marcella's friends

and directing them every week, Paula persisted.

With a smile Jerome agreed to try to advise

Paula's daughters.

[102]



Paula and Her Daughters

It was indeed a notable group of well-

educated, high-born Christian women who

flocked to drink in Jerome's teachings in those

years, 382-385, in Rome. Marcella's home is

considered the first convent in the West. One

Fabiola, a gay divorcee who was suddenly con-

verted, became the foundress of Christian hos-

pitals. Melania made a notable pilgrimage to the

Holy Land. And the whole band, but especially

Paula, aided Jerome in his work on the Holy

Scriptures.

Those were halcyon days . . . most of all

early in 382 when Pope Damasus summoned

Jerome, his secretary, to an important audience.

Jerome found the aged pontiif sitting on a

simple wooden throne with a few priest-

attendants beside him. Spread out on a long

table before Damasus were a number of manu-

script rolls and vellum books.

Father Jerome, said the Pope, holding out

his ring for Jerome to kiss and seating the

slender monk in one of the chairs by the table^

what am I to do?

What are you to do about what, Your

Holiness?

What am I to do about all these versions,

all these Latin translations of the New Testa-

ment, with so many differences between them?

[ 103 ]




Pope Damasus made a nervous gesture with

his blue-veined scholar's hands. Then his tired

eyes twinkled.

I should say, he continued, what are you

going to do about them?

What am / going to do about them? re-

peated Jerome, puzzled.

When are you going to make us a newand respectable revision of these versions? When

will Our Lord's message come to us in clear

and decent Latin? Eh?

With the kindliness and humor which

Jerome had begun to recognize, from Paulinus

of Antioch, as characteristic of bishops, the

Pope peered at him.

But Jerome was speechless. Was this really

happening to hirfi? He stared at the manuscripts

spread out before him. He knew them well.

The European Group, the African Group,

the Italian Group. All inaccurate and clumsy,

yet the only translations of the Gospels in Latin.

They say, said the Pope, sensing Jerome's

emotion, that the seventy scholars who

translated the Old Testament from Hebrewto

Greek lived in seventy little cells in Alexandria

and emerged with seventy translations that were

word for word identical, our Greek Septuagint.

You would be only one man working for the

[104]




Roman Church, giving us a good Latin version

of the New Testament. But will you attempt

it?

Yes. Yes, Your Holiness cried Jerome.

He recalled his desert visions, the sacrifices

of Elias, the hours with Gregory Nazianzen,

and the encouragement of Paula and Marcella.

Yes, I will attemptit,

hesaid,

and, Godwilling, I will carry the task through

A joyful smile came to the Pope's lips.

Then, God willing, I am sure you will

succeed, he said simply.

Halcyon days, but not without problems.

As he worked away at his New Testament,

consulting Paula and Marcella about many a

difficult passage, lecturing to the ladies of

Marcella's convent, he could not refuse Paula

in her plea that he try to influence Blesilla.

Paula's oldest daughter was giddy and gay,

a blonde twenty-year-old who was not prepared

to be influenced by anyone.

You say that the parties I go to are plagued

by fortune-hunters, she told her mother, in

Jerome's presence. Well, I am a pleasure-hunter

and so far I've had my pleasures and they've

not bagged my fortune

[105]




Paula spread her hands, sighed helplessly,

and silently appealed to Jerome.

Evil communications corrupt good manners

thundered Jerome. At every party you risk

your immortal soul. You walk in the midst of

snares, of temptations which may yet cause you

to let the crown slip from your hands

Pish retorted Blesilla, gracefully pirouetting.

I may die tomorrow, so I will live today

Carpe diem. The haunting pagan refrain came

back, like a ghost from Jerome's own student

days, and made him cut short his discourse.

Had he, now the fiery monk of the Lord

and devoted translator of Holy Scripture, once

accepted such a philosophy and sought only

such pleasures?

I am glad I am no longer that young, said

Paula, making a wry little mouth as Blesilla

danced out of the room. Aren't you?Yes. Yes, that's just what I was thinking,

Jerome admitted. I can do nothing with her

now. We will have to wait.

Then talk to Eustochium, Jerome. She will

listen, I promise.

I haven't time today. But I will write her

a letter, Jerome said. I will make a guide to

the ascetical life, just for her.

Oh, will you? She's such a quiet, good girl.

[io6]




I have great hopes for her, Paula said grate-

fully.

Jerome kept his word. Writing at the height

of his powers—he was now thirty-seven years

old—he composed a masterpiece.

Set before your eyes the blessed Mary, whose

purity was such that she earned the reward of

being the mother of the Lord, he exhorted

Eustochium.

Come out a while from your prison-house

and picture the reward of your present labors.

What will be the splendor of that day when

Mary, the mother of the Lord, shall come to

meet you, attended by her bands of virgins;

when, the Red Sea past and Pharaoh with his

hosts drowned beneath its waves, one shall chant

to her responsive choir, 'Let us sing unto the

Lord, for he hath triumphed gloriously '?

Nor did Jerome fail to warn of the dangers

in the path of a bride of Christ. Using the

notes he had taken on worldly Roman matrons,

he cautioned Eustochium to avoid women

whose hair was powdered with gold like the

fireflakes of hell.

And there are some men, Jerome added,

who seek the office of priest and deacon only

that they may be able to visit women more

freely. With hands nicely scented, hair curled,

[107]



St. Jero7ne and the Bible

fingers glistening with rings, they walk abroad.

Avoid them as you would the plague

The letter was long enough to make a small

book. Jerome allowed his followers, the monks

in Rome, to make copies of it for circulation.

Soon its sharp denunciations of Roman follies

had raised a storm. Women and worldly priests

were especially angry, though Paula, Marcella, a

priest named Vincentius, and Jerome's other

friends, including Pope Damasus, stood loyally

by him.

It has made Julia furious, Paula told him.

She thinks that the 'fireflakes of hell' passage

refers to her hair

Jerome shrugged impatiently. If the lid fits

the pot, put it on, he said. I wasn't thinking

of her. But there are some people who, if you

write about even a bugbear or a screech-owl,

think they are being attacked.

Fanatical monk his critics raged. Killjoy

How long are we to endure the presence of

this detestable monk? Why not throw him

into the river now and be done with him?

Jerome ignored the uproar. He plodded on

with his revision of the New Testament. He

also completed and published an earlier transla-

tion he had been working on, the Psalms of

David. This was a great improvement over

[io8]




existing Latin versions; for the first time, the

majestic rhythms of Jerome's Latin Vulgate

prose resounded in the ears of the Romanworld.

Not all the Roman world was pleased, how-

ever. Some people had become accustomed to

the awkward wording of the old Latin version

they had read in their childhood. He has

desecrated the Word of God they protested.

I don't think you should reply, Father

Jerome, Marcella advised, in her measured way.

Time is on your side.

Jerome was too nettled to wait for Time to

fight his battles for him. It is useless for the

lyre to sing to the jackass he snapped at his

critics.

Detestable monk they chorused back, happy

to have stung him into a reply. Killjoy Howcould a narrow-minded monk understand the

Word of an all-loving God?

A certain Helvidius was one of those who at-

tacked Jerome's ascetic ideals, and was ap-

plauded for that by fashionable society.

But there were satisfying moments as well.

One day Paula told him gratefully that Blesilla

too was profiting from his letter to Eustochium.

The good Lord has answered my prayers

through you, Jerome, as always. It is too soon

[ 109]



5^. Jerome and the Bible

to be sure—but I think Blesilla is turning to

Christ

Has she improved? Jerome asked, for

Blesilla had been ill.

Yes, in both ways, physically and spiritually,

her mother replied. Her illness has made her

reflect, and your letter has changed her soul.

Thanks be to God Jerome said. Now I

can answer the Pope's summons with a lighter

spirit, even though I am afraid there has been

more trouble about my New Testament.

The halcyon days. The sun wasjust

settingacross the Tiber, gilding the roof of the chapter

house and bathing the hills of Rome with gold,

when Jerome came in to the Pope.

Is something wrong? Jerome asked anx-

iously.

Something wrong. Father Jerome? Pope

Damasus echoed, catching Jerome in his frail

arms and turning him toward the long table.

Well, if there is, you are the one who knows

it. There it is, your gift to the Church and

mankind.

On the long table where, months before,

many manuscripts and codices had been spread

out in confusion, Jerome now saw just one

book. One vellum codex, bound in dark calf-

[no]




skin, opened to the beautiful Roman lettering

of the title-page.

With a quickened pulse, Jerome read thewords:

^'Novum Jesu Christi Testa?Jte72tumy

He was too deeply moved to speak. His

New Testament. Those words, his translation,

which would be read, year after year, perhaps

decade after decade, in the Roman churches

which were now ringing to vespers.

As the bells sounded through the twilight,

Jerome knew just one thing. He would finish

the task. He would translate the Bible, complete

the Old Testament too, no matter what the cost

in health, no matter how much strife he faced.

He would give God's Word to the world.

[Ill]



Chapter Eight

FLIGHT FROM ROME

Only a short time after Jerome's triumphant

publishing of the New Testament, the bells of

the Roman churches pealed again, this time to

a different rhythm.

Slowly, brokenly, across the broad Campus

Martins, from St. Paul's Outside-the-Walls to

the chapels of the Appian Way, from St.

Lawrence's to the Basilica of St. Peter's, the

bells tolled.

[113]



St. Jero77te and the Bible

People paused, listened, and bowed their

heads. The bells tolled on. They tolled the

death of a great Pope, the holy Damasus.

Jerome was at work on Origen's text of the

Greek Old Testament when he heard the

sound. Origen, most learned Christian student of

the Bible before Jerome, had made an invaluable

arrangement of six different versions of the Old

Testament in parallel columns, like a huge news-

paper.

This arrangement, the Hexapla, was kept at

Caesarea, in Palestine. To make his translation,

Jerome would sooner or later have to study all

the versions and see in what passages they

differed slightly. He would then have to decide

which version contained the divinely-inspired

Word of God as originally written down by the

Hebrew author.

Boom . . . boom . . . boojn . . .

The hollow sound filled the chamber. Know-

ing of the Pope's illness, Jerome at once under-

stood and fell to his knees. His heart sank,

though he sternly rebuked his weakness.

Dust unto dust. The Lord giveth and the

Lord taketh away, he murmured, crossing him-

self. May the soul of Damasus rest in peace.

Boom . . . boo?7i . . . boo77i . . .

[114]



Flight frojn Rome

May his soul and the souls of all the faith-

ful departed, through the mercy of God, rest

in peace, Jerome repeated.

Then he wondered about himself.

How much longer do I have? he asked.

The Roman world trembles daily before the

barbarians. Death rages everywhere. Yet my

task of translation will require years. And

what about the souls that have turned to me,

Paula and her children above all? I must re-

double my efforts to secure them for the Lord

before it is too late

Too distressed to continue with his work that

day, Jerome went to call on Paula. He foundher studying Hebrew with Blesilla. Blesilla was

changed now. Even Jerome was surprised at

her black tunic, her face pale without any

makeup, her light hair brushed carelessly back

from her forehead.

Pope Damasus is dead, Paula said anx-

iously. He was your friend.

His soul is with God. Jerome's tone was

harsh because he did not wish to show his

grief. It is well for you and Blesilla and me to

do penance for our sins while we may.

Blesilla had laid her grammar on the table

when Jerome entered the atrium. There was a

moment's silence. Then, timidly, Paula spoke:

[115]




Jerome, they say—Marcella has heard from

some of the priests of St. Peter's—that you may

be elected the next Pope.

Don't speak of that Jerome cried. I am

not worthy. I do not wish it. I am a monk,

first, last, and always. Indeed, sometimes I won-

der what I am doing in these busy streets.

Doing? said Paula. You are guiding us to

heaven, by your studies and translation of the

Bible, by your counsels.

Give me something hard to do. Father

Jerome, Blesilla interrupted. I pray five

times daily. Mother and I now sing the Psalms

in Hebrew. I fast frequently. What else can I

do to make up for my sins and follies?

Rise at four, in the morning and pray for

forgiveness, Jerome suggested. Eat no meat,

as I

haveeaten

none theseten years.

The next day Jerome passed over the stone

bridge across the Tiber, and climbed the Janicu-

lum to St. Peter's. He crossed the open court,

with the fountain playing in its center, ascended

the porch and entered the five-aisled nave of

the basilica.

In the middle of the choir gleamed the

marble altar. The papal throne was beside it,

empty, and benches corresponding to those of

[ii6]



Flight from Rome

a Roman tribune were ranged on either side.

Before the altar lay the body of St. Damasus,

in the peace of death.

Jerome fell to his knees. He struck his breast

with his fist, feeling instead the jagged stone he

had smote himself with in his desert penance.

Have mercy on me, Lord, Jerome

whispered.

The huge basilica was slowly filling with

grieving Romans. Footsteps, whispered prayers,

hollow echoes. . . . The peace on the face of

the Pope was so deep that it brought tears to

Jerome's eyes.

Do not weep, Jerome admonished him-

self fiercely. He is with God

And he forced back the tears. He was a

Christian The return of a soul to its Maker

was a cause for rejoicing, not sorrow.

Damasus, the scholar-Pope, would not be

buried in the Catacombs he had done so much

to restore. Instead, he had directed that a

general epitaph be inscribed in the papal crypt

in those galleries, concluding:

I, Damasus, wished to be buried here, but

I feared to offend the ashes of these holy

men.

[117]




His body was laid to rest in a small chapel,

on an obscure street, next to the bodies of his

mother and sister. Above it was placed the

epitaph the humble Pope had composed for

himself:

He who walking on the sea could calm

the bitter waves. Who gives life to the

dying seeds of the earth; He who was able

to loose the mortal chains of death, and

after three days' darkness could bring again

to the upper world the brother for his sister

Martha; He, I believe, will make Damasus

rise again from the dust.

After the passing of Damasus, and the elec-

tion of the mediocre Siricius as the new Pope,

the sad bells which had tolled for Jerome's

friend seemed always echoing in his ears.

Jerome was no longer called to St. Peter's to

write in defense of the Church, or to consult

with the Pope on matters of Holy Scripture.

The critics of his New Testament increased

their attacks.

This stubborn monk sets himself up against

the authority of the ancients and the opinion

of the world they protested. See how many

established wordings he has changed

[ii8]



Flight from Rome

The priest Vincentius, Paula, Marcella, and

Tiie others defended him. But Marcella, after

Jerome had given one of his readings in her

palace convent, placed her finger on her lips and

tried to persuade Jerome not to reply to his

opponents.

Ah, said Jerome scornfully, they are two-

legged asses in whose ears I will blow with a

trumpet

But do you think that is wise? Marcella

asked.

They think that because they are ignorant

they are holy Jerome plunged heedlessly on.

They call themselves disciples of the fisherman

not because they are pious but because they can

neither read nor write

Good interrupted a fifteen-year-old strip-

ling who had recently come to live with Jerome.

This brown-haired boy with the gleam of com-

petition in his eyes was Jerome's younger brother

Paulinian. Give it to them. Brother Jerome

They certainly cannot say that I held either

that any of Our Lord's words were to be cor-

rected, or that these words were not divinely

inspired, Jerome concluded, somewhat more

calmly.

Marcella shook her head.

I will have to leave you to Paula, she said.

[119]




If she cannot influence you for your own

good, no one can.

Where is she today? Jerome suddenly

realized that Paula was missing.

Have you not heard? asked one of the

ladies. Her daughter Blesilla is very ill. I believe

she is in mortal danger.

Blesilla in mortal danger Jerome's heart

chilled. Quickly, he took his leave. His brown

monk's robe wound around his long legs as he

strode down the Aventine Hill and up the

Palatine to Paula's home.

Paula met him at the door and led him

through the atrium and study behind it, around

the courtyard to a small chamber opening off a

gallery. There, tossing restlessly on an un-

adorned couch, lay Blesilla. Her damp blonde

hair was tousled, her face flushed with fever.

Jerome could see that she was delirious. He felt

a leaden pain weighing him down. Why did

there have to be so much suffering? Why must

men and women undergo so much agony to win

paradise?

Paula looked desperately toward a white-haired physician in attendance. He shook his

head and spread his hands in a gesture of help-

lessness.

Outside, as Paula wept, Jerome told her

[120]



Flight fro7n Rome

sternly, You must not weep. It is only the

will of God that counts. I have taught you to

knowthat, Paula

Ye-yes. Paula pressed her small fist against

her mouth. Please don't be angry with me.

I am not angry with you Jerome said. But

he sounded angry.

I know. I understand. Paula struggled to

control herself. She burst out, Sometimes—

sometimes, I don't want to be a Christian. It

is too hard. I just want to be human. I just want

to be like everyone else

Jerome felt grief and strain rise within him.

Was the heroic love of God which he hadtried to live up to, which he had tried to in-

spire in these splendid Roman women, now to

be lost along with everything else? Was Satan

to triumph everywhere?

That is the voice of the devil himself

Jerome said harshly. Paula, Paula, we must

not surrender. God's will is all that counts

That very night, Blesilla died.

Two days later, her body lay in a wooden

coffin before the high altar of St. Peter's. The

church was well filled with socialites who carednothing for Paula but who recognized her posi-

tion and came out of curiosity. Jerome did not

join Paula and her children, but sat near by,

[I2l]



Flight from Rome

See how unhappy she is Jerome killed her

daughter with fastings and now he sits there

andgloats

aboutit

Jerome's heart ached not to be able to com-

fort Paula. At the same time, he felt very cross.

Why did people have to weep when Blesilla had

gone to heaven?

Much depressed, Jerome returned to his

books. His work went badly because Paula's

suffering face kept coming between him and the

Hebrew characters. He wrote a letter which he

intended to be a consolation but which sounded

more like a rebuke.

Suddenly his enemies burst into the open.When he walked along the streets, he was some-

times hissed.

Let us stone these miserable monks a

taunting cry would follow him.

Let us throw them into the river

Jerome determined to continue his studies.

Virtue and truth could not be permanently

overthrown. Romans would in the end admit

their errors. He would never turn his back to

the bugbears and screech-owls. Never

But one day his friend Vincentius broughthim the news which forced a different decision.

The scribbler Onasus calls you a turncoat

and slanderer because you defended Our Lady

[133]




against Helvidius's attacks, said Vincentius

sadly. And now they are even saying evil

things of Marcella, Paula, Fabiola and the other

ladies. They call them fanatics and say you

have caused them to lose their minds. And

they charge that Paula blames you for Blesilla's

death and has barred you from her house.

Jerome looked suddenly old. He pushed his

manuscripts aside. These scandals, now^ involv-

ing the noble women and growing worse by

the hour, could destroy him. They could end

forever his hopes of translating the Bible into

imperishable Latin. My enemies make me their footstool, he

said. My friends are injured daily by my

presence here. I will leave Rome.''

[ih]



Chapter Nme

A SEA VOYAGE

It was August. The hot Etesian winds blew

from the shore and filled the three square sails

of the ship which slowly drew away from

Ostia. This was one of the queens of the mer-

chant fleet, the grain ship his of Alexandria,

entitled to fly its crimson topsail even in har-

bor. Proudly, its gilt prow lifted at the slight

swell of the Mediterranean.

The yellow waters of the Tiber fell behind.

[125]



St. Jerome aJid the Bible

A band of brown-robed monks, Jerome's

few friends in Rome, standing on the sandy

coast, began to grow smaller. Their waving

hands blurred.

Jerome, with Vincentius at his right and

Paulinian at his left, leaned against the stern

rail of the ship and saw the little port town

of Ostia merge with the low green line whichwas Italy.

Wherever I may be, I will always be a

Roman Jerome had cried, from his heart,

when he and Bonosus first came to the Eternal

City.

Now he was leaving it, never to return.

Here he had completed his translation of the

New Testament. Here he had been the secre-

tary of the Pope himself, and even considered

as a candidate to succeed holy Damasus. Here

he had enjoyed the dearest friendships of his

life, with Paula, with Marcella, with Fabiola,

with Melania and the others.

And here he had stirred up a tempest that

had brought sorrow to his friends, ruined his

attempt to reform Roman morals, and nowdriven him into exile.

I could fight them when they attacked my

translation, or my ascetic program, Jerome

thought. But when they struck at me through

[126]




—or were they small whales?—about eight feet

long, leaping from the frothy water, flashing

their pilot back fins and diving under.

Dolphins, Jerome replied. And here, as I

promised, we are coming to the Straits of

Messina where Ulysses is said, by the lying

poets, to have passed between the monster

Scylla and the whirlpool Charybdis.

The land was pressing in upon them again.

The narrow passage between the boot of Italy

and Sicily showed ominous black water, silently

revolving, on the Sicilian side. Along the op-

posite rocky coast were many caves, their

openings golden in the afternoon light, mysteri-

ously inviting.

The Scylla—was that the creature with body

of a woman but with wolves around her mid-

dle, then a fish's tail? asked Paulinian. Why

would anybody believe something like that?

I think that in the old days men felt the

beauty of Nature, and, not knowing the Creator

of that beauty, imagined chimeras, nymphs,

and satyrs to account for it, Jerome said.

They felt there must be some deeper explana-

tion for beauty than just a collection of rocks.

But the sunlit cliffs and the gleaming black

water, even Mt. Aetna, which that night shot

[128]



A Sea Voyage

its myriad flames and sparks into the darkness

like one of the Emperor's gigantic fireworks,

could not make him forget Rome.Why had the Lord permitted him to acquire

his profound knowledge of the Bible, his mas-

tery of Greek and near-mastery of Hebrew,

only to cast him down at the moment when

he was ready to use it?

A lyre is of no use to a donkey. Jerome

repeated softly his bitter answer to his critics.

But the jackasses have had the better of it all

the same.

Where are there jackasses? Paulinian

wanted to know.

Everywhere snapped Jerome.

The Mediterranean, literally interpreted, is

the sea of Middle Earth. Once, eons ago, it

stretched at a certain band of latitude halfway

around the globe, overflowing the sub-continent

of Asia Minor, drowning southern Russia and

lapping at the foothills of the Caucasian Moun-

tains. Some of the ancient mystery still clung

toit.

The lands of men, the all-powerful Ro-man Empire, dropped into nothingness on this

month-long voyage.

One day the his, which was returning to

[.29]




Alexandria by way of Syria, veered north.

Through an unusual morning mist, Jerome

recognized the island of Samos.

What is that other, smaller island to the

southwest? asked Paulinian, abandoning his

efforts to catch a fish from the stern rail.

I don't see any. Jerome's eyes had been

permanently weakened by his study.

There Look through that opening in the

fog

Then Jerome made it out, the bare volcanic

knoll.

That is Patmos, said Jerome, slowly.

Patmos That is where the Apostle John

suffered and wrote? asked Paulinian.

Yes.

I am glad we are seeing it

Patmos.. . .

Jerome stared through nar-rowed eyes, the memories of his reading flood-

ing his heart. Harsh place of exile where, under

the Emperors Nero and Domitian, Christians

had been condemned for life ad metella.

To the mines . . . the most dread punish-

ment, short of crucifixion, that Roman justice

could administer. It was preceded by scourging,

marked by perpetual fetters, scanty clothing,

[130]



A Sea Voyage

starvation rations, sleep on the rocky ground

in dark prisons, work under the lash of brutal

overseers.

No wonder the aged John, surviving by

some miracle until freed by the new Emperor

Nerva, had written in the white heat of his

vision of the Apocalypse:

And I saw a woman . . . upon her fore-

head a name written, BABYLON THEGREAT, THE MOTHER OF HARLOTSAND ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH.

And I saw the woman drunken with the blood

of the saints, and with the blood of the mar-

tyrs of Jesus.

That woman was Rome, Jerome's lost Rome,

which had persecuted the followers of Christ

to the death. It was under Nero that Peter

and Paul had died for the faith in the Eternal

City itself. And then—Jerome's thoughts ran

on as mist swirled around the bleak isle—then

there were the unnumbered victims sacrificed

to the wild beasts in the Circus of Nero.

These martyrs had gone to their deaths sing-

ing the hymn Jerome had so often read in-

scribed on the Obelisk in front of St. Peter's,

the obelisk moved there from that very Circus

[i3>]



St. Jeroine and the Bible

when the persecution ceased:

CHRISTUS VINCIT

CHRISTUS REGNATCHRISTUS IMPERAT.

Christ is conquering, Christ is reigning, Christ

rules over aU.

What are my frustrations compared to their

torments? Jerome asked. Why do I dawdlehere on this ship? What other friends do I

need if I have God?

That afternoon, for the first time, he re-

moved the canvas cover from Origen's volume,

balanced it on his knees in the stuffy cabin,

and began to read.

The his dropped anchor briefly at Salamis,

on the mountainous island of Cyprus. Here

Paul had exposed the false sorcerer Bar-Jesus,

who tried to prevent the upright Roman pro-

consul, Sergius Paulus, from learning about the

faith.

O full of all guile and of all deceit, son

of the devil, enemy of justice, wilt thou not

cease to make crooked the straight ways of the

Lord? Paul had cried. And now, behold, the

hand of the Lord is upon thee, and thou shalt

be blind, not seeing the sun for a time.

And, immediately, a mist of darkness had

[i3^]



A Sea Voyage

come upon Bar-Jesus; and the proconsul ac-

cepted the faith.

Good for Paul cried Paulinian, when Je-

rome retold the familiar story. I am named

for him, am I not?

Your name is derived from his, Jerome

replied.

Then the Isis^ square sails filled with thedependable summer wind as the boat surged

up the roily, muddy water of the Orontes to

dock at Antioch.

In a few hours, Jerome, PauKnian, and Vin-

centius stood before a small house, well known

to Jerome, and it seemed almost as though

everything that had happened in Constantinople

and Rome, as well as on the sea-trip, had been

a dream.

The door flew open. A beaming, round-

faced priest stood there, looking at them in-

quiringly.

Well—? began Father Evagrius.

Then he blinked his eyes, stared, clapped

both hands to his forehead, and popped his

mouth nearly as wide open as the door.

Well, well, well, well he cried, trying

to embrace them all at once. God bless all

Christians Where have you come from?

Jerome could not help smiling affectionately.

[133]




Cast up from the sea, like Jonah, he jested.

And these are your Roman friends? Those

fine people you wrote me about? And where

are the ladies, eh? Come in, come in

Jerome introduced his brother and Vin-

centius, and they all went in. Again, every-

thing was unchanged: the bare chamber, the

two or three books, the quiet look of a priest's

dwelling anywhere on earth.

It was as though he had never left the East.

. . . But no, like a bell which summons the

truant to school, he heard Marcella saying,

Come and teach us. FatherJerome. He

saw

Fabiola running to her newly-founded hospital.

He heard Paula's muffled weeping at Blesilla's

funeral.

He had loved them and they had loved him.

Now they were there, a thousand miles away;

and he was back here in the East, trying to

start his life all over when half of it, perhaps

much more, was already past.

[134]




here in the East, near Origen's writings, here

in the peace of the Holy Land, he an-

nounced, is the best place for all of us to

serve God. We will seek some secluded spot

where we may found monastery and convent

together, Paula.

So it was decided. Jerome would use his

inheritance for the project, and Paula woulduse hers, which was still very large in spite

of her numerous charities. That night, as the

city noises died away, Jerome wrote enthusi-

astically about their plans to Marcella, back in

Italy:

As we have now traversed a great part

of life's journey through rough seas, we shall

make for the haven of a rural retreat. There

we shall live on*coarse bread and on the green-

stuff we water with our own hands, and on

milk. If we thus spend our days, sleep will not

call us away from prayer, nor overfeeding from

study.

In summer the shade of a tree will give us

privacy. In autumn the mild air and the leaves

beneath our feet point out a place for rest.

In spring the fields are gay with flowers and

the birds' plaintive notes will make our psalms

sound all the sweeter.

When cold weather comes with winter's

[138]



Filgrims in Palestine

snows, I shall not need to buy wood here. Let

Rome keep her bustle for herself. . , . For

us it is good to cleave to God, and to put

our hopes in the Lord.

Within a week, Jerome, Father Vincentius,

and Paulinian, with a dozen brown-robed

monks, and Paula, Eustochium, and their maid-ens, in modest gray tunics, were on their way.

The little caravan was mounted on mules.

Asses carried their luggage, including a score

of Jerome's most precious books.

Race you to that headland, Father Vin-

centius challenged Paulinian.

Watch out, then cried the young priest

merrily.

He drummed his heels against the sides of

his mule in a comic effort to overtake the lithe

sixteen-year-old.

The mules galloped and snorted in the sun-

shine. For it was now winter, but the days

were warm and bright, the skies cloudless.

The road wound along the coast, mounting

steadily as the hills came down to the sea and

the party approached the rocky cliffs called

The Ladder of Tyre.

Here the road narrowed almost to a foot-

path, and was hewn through granite. To their

[139]




left, sheer walls rose above them. To their

right, many feet below, the ocean thundered

and frothed, hurling its waves into caverns and

crevices.

Isn't Tyre the place where St. Paul was

warned by friends not to go up to Jerusalem?

Eustochium asked.

Yes, said Jerome. You remember the

passage in Acts, don't you? 'And they told Paul

through the Spirit not to go to Jerusalem. But

when our time was up, we left there and went

on, and all of them with their wives and chil-

dren escorted us till we were out of the city;

and we knelt down on the shore and prayed.'

They found Tyre a crowded city, built on

a small island connected to the shore by a

sand-covered mole. Its insulae, apartment build-

ings, towered even higher than those of Rome.

As they descended by the cliff road, they

paused on the mole.

This must be where he prayed, said Paula.

And, impulsively, she slid from her mule and

knelt to kiss the sands. Young Paulinian sol-

emnly followed her example; then all the others

did likewise. For a moment they stood there,

looking at the renowned city but wrinkling

their noses at the stench of the purple dyes for

which Tyre was famous.

[ 140]



Pilgrims in Palestine

Later that day, on the waterfront, they saw

slaves treading in great wooden troughs the

snails dipped from the sea. Purple marrowspurted out, staining the slaves' bodies and fill-

ing the troughs. Then white wool of Damascus

was brought by other slaves, under the whips

of overseers, and drawn through the rich pur-

ple. Afterwards, the wool was spread out on

the shore to dry.

Tyre disturbed them. Paula, especially, was

depressed by the suffering of the slaves. She

gave away nearly all the money she had with

her.

They passed on, over the Plain of Esdraelon

with its bronze earth, thick green grass, and

myriad flowers, and proceeded south to the

white marble city of Caesarea. Here Jerome

was in his element. For here, in the city's

classic museum and library, he found Origen's

priceless Hexapla. With shining eyes, he opened

the first volume of the great six-columned

Bible.

First column, the Hebrew text of the Old

Testament. Second, the same, but in Greek

letters. Fifth column, the Septuagint Greek

translation, murmured Jerome blissfully. Yes,

yes, it is all here, with the other three Greek

translations in the other columns




Paula and Eustochium bent eagerly over the

book with him.

When we return, I can study this until I

kjionjo the exact words written by the Proph-

ets, said Jerome. God's words Then I can

translate them into Latin. But already I know

one thing: I will base my translation solidly on

the original Hebrew text.

I'm so happy, Paula said. Perhaps that is

wrong. Perhaps I shouldn't be.

But Jerome reassured her. The Lord means

for us to enjoy the happiness He sends us. He

gives and He takes away.

The librarian, seeing Jerome's absorption in the

translations, drew him aside.

Father Jerome, he said, as soon as they were

alone together, '^if you need to use the Hexapla

in your work on the Holy Scriptures you are

welcome to borrow it for as long as you wish.

Thank you, said Jerome gratefully. In a

few months, when we have finished our tour, I

will return for it.

Do not wait too long. The librarian's dis-

ciplinedeyes were somber. I was at Adrianople

eight years ago when the Goths' terrible

armored cavalry charged and cut our legions

to pieces. They slew our Emperor on the field.

Ah, my brother, the day of the foot-soldier is

[142]



Tilgriins in Falestine

past Rome's legions avail not. In weapons and

in spirit the barbarians hold the upper hand.

Jerome shivered. A shadow from the north

seemed to fall momentarily across the peaceful

library.

I will return, he promised. Quickly he made

the Sign of the Cross on his forehead. All is in

God's hands.

The librarian nodded, and Jerome joined

Paula, Eustochium, and Paulinian in the Medi-

terranean sunshine. But the librarian's words

remained in his mind all the way up the rocky

road to Jerusalem.

Jerusalem, a city that is lifted up. Jerome's

party caught its first glimpse of the stronghold

of Judea through swirling morning mists:

a rocky plateau, set high in its nest of moun-

tains, surrounded on all sides by deep gorges.

Gray walls had been rebuilt after the destruc-

tion of the city by the Romans in 70 a.d., but

the white and gold splendor of the Temple of

Herod, in which Our Lord taught, was gone

forever.

Paula cried, Look Beyond the walls, to the

east Isn't that the Mount of Olives?

Yes, yes, said Jerome eagerly, crossing

himself. And those two large basilicas—one is

[•43]




at the Holy Sepulchre. Both were built by

Constantine.

Father Vincentius, Paulinian, Eustochium,

all the party urged their weary mules forward.

At the Tower Psephinus, where travelers from

the north entered the city, they had a surprise.

The Roman Proconsul himself, wearing his

official toga bordered withpurple,

metthem

and invited Paula, Eustochium, and their high-

born Roman followers to be his guests in the

Praetorium.

Oh, no, thank you, said Paula quickly.

That is very kind of Your Eminence. But we

are pilgrims. We will find some modest cottage

to stay in while we are here.

The Proconsul respectfully bowed, and the

party entered the city to the sound of church

bells ringing across the Valley of the Kidron.

There followed three happy but hectic weeks.

Jerusalem was overwhelming. A Christian city

now, it was filled with remembrances of Our

Lord. Paula gave alms generously to the many

churches and to the poor. Jerome led the party

to the relics of the True Cross, to the Holy

Sepulchre, the Pillar of Flagellation, the Via

Dolorosa. He commented on everything, out of

his vast knowledge of the New Testament.

They prayed many times each day.

[144]




Yet it was almost too much. They felt al-

most relief when, finally, they had toured the

Holy City and were once more embarked, astride

their faithful mules, on their land-voyage south.

So they came, at high noon, to a little white

town perched on twin hills and surrounded by

orchards and olive groves. It was like an oasis in

the pitted, lead-gray Judean wilderness. A camel

caravan, outlined against the blue sky from the

hilltop like a painting of old, was just leaving

as they approached.

Jerome and Paula stopped, and the rest of

the troop with them.

Bethlehem, murmured Jerome. House of

Bread—the Bread of life.

Oh Paula was breathless. She clasped

Eustochium's hand. Oh, it is lovely

Deeply moved, they rode on, through the

clustered white houses with their flat roofs,

through the sleepy streets and up the eastern

ridge to the basilica Church of the Nativity.

They entered the church and found them-

selves in an enclosed grotto—the humble cave

where St. Joseph had led Our Lady for shelter

when he was turned away at the inn.

Paula fell to her knees and kissed the

manger. . . .

When they were again outside, looking

[145]




over the peaceful fields in which shepherds

were grazing their flocks just as they had been

on that holy Night, Paula cried, Have I, a

wretched, sinful woman, been deemed worthy

to kiss the manger in which the Lord wailed

as a little child? To pray in the cave in which

the Virgin-Mother bore the infant Lord? This

shall be my resting-place, because it is the

country of my Lord.

We will settle here, agreed Jerome.

Bethlehem is more august than Rome. It is

the most august spot in all the world.

Inexplicably, a change of mood came over

Paula. Her warm eyes grew troubled, and her

mouth trembled. I am too happy, she

whispered. This is not the proper penance for

my sins.

Thetour

wasnot

over whenthe pilgrims

reached Bethlehem. Jerome and his monks,

Paula and her Roman ladies, agreed to take ad-

vantage of the pleasant weather and go on, to

Hebron, the Jordan, the Dead Sea, all the way

down to Egypt. Then they would return to

Bethlehem to establish their monastery and con-

vent there.

Good commented young Paulinian. I'll

race you to Alexandria, Father Vincentius

[146]




You, Paulinian, Jerome addressed his

brother, had better grow up. When we get

back I want you to go to Italy and sell myproperty for funds for the monastery.

Make it a race and he'll do a good job,

laughed Father Vincentius.

But Paulinian nodded, seriously. And so the

happy journey continued. . . .

When they reached Egypt, they spent a

month in Alexandria. They came to the beauty-

loving metropolis of the East by way of the

Nile Delta, a fertile green strip cut like an ar-

row through the desert by the great river.

What are those dark-brown mounds?

Paulinian wanted to know as they passed some

mysterious barrows in the distance.

Those are the remains of ancient cities.

Jerome's eyes shone. This is the land where

Plato came as a youth to seek wisdom. Andnow I hope to glean a few sheaves from the

rich harvest of Scriptural knowledge of Didymus

the Blind, in Alexandria.

Paula smiled at his enthusiasm, yet looked

abstracted.Eustochium was starting to question

Jerome about the famous Egyptian scholar when

Paula asked, Jerome—do you see that little vil-

lage, almost hidden in a grove of palms? Would

[147]




St. Antony's home have been in a place Hke

that?

Yes, only much farther up the Nile,

Jerome replied. He sensed something in Paula's

mind and looked inquiringly at her.

It's nothing. She smiled. But her eyes re-

mained abstracted.

Their mule caravan plodded on, under a bril-

liant sun and deep blue skies, past yellow rocks

and green fields, to the temples and colonnades

of Alexandria.

Then, after a busy month of study for

Jerome at the feet of Blind Didymus, they be-

gan their return. They went by way of the

Nitrian Desert, and found this bleak expanse of

rocks, sand, and barren mountains almost as

thickly populated as Alexandria itself.

It was populated by monks. Over five thou-

sand of them were living in scattered huts ofmatted palms. Many were clad in rough white

sheepskins, in imitation of Blessed Antony.

They were living on bread and water, praying

before their crude wooden crosses, weaving

baskets to sell for the small amounts of money

they needed for provisions. When addressed,

some answered with a brief blessing; others gave

no sign of having heard.

Jerome visited them with mixed feelings. By

[148]




now, he was the most famous advocate in the

West of the ascetic Hfe. And this harsh desert

was the school in which he had learned his

doctrine. Yet he also knew the temptations and

shortcomings to be found here.

He remembered the vast waste of the Syrian

desert, the monks kneeling in the quiet of their

rock chapel at the cairn, the cloudless skies. But

he also recalled the disputes about questions of

religion. . . .

Behold the athletes of God, whispered

Paula, who was much moved.

Herwords brought a pang to Jerome's heart.

The desert ideal—solitude, with dependence on

God alone. Was there any higher? He under-

stood Paula's emotion.

When the monks blessed her, she fell to her

knees. When Jerome's party was met by Bishop

Isidore and a large band of cenobites who

formally welcomed them, Paula cried out, This

is indeed the town of the Lord

Then, after they had spent a week among

these gaunt champions who were in lifelong

training (ascesis) for their contest with the

devil, Paula spoke to Jerome. She did not look

directly at him. Her dark head was lowered,

and one small finger traced an invisible design

[ 149]




on her gray tunic, as they sat outside Paula's

hut.

Jerome—Father Jerome—God has made His

will known to me through these servants of

His.

Yes? Jerome nodded sympathetically.

He has made it known, and I am going to

accept it.

Jerome,I and

mymaidens are going

to settle here, in the Nitrian Desert. We will

not go back to Bethlehem, but will set up our

resting-place here.

What Jerome was stunned. He had not ex-

pected this. Then he was cross. You don't

know what you are doing It is only spring

now. The heat of summer is something gently-

reared ladies cannot bear. God can be served

elsewhere than in the desert.

But you wrote in your letter to Eustochium

that all sufferings are to be borne patiently for

Christ, said Paula. I—I just want to serve Our

Lord.

And besides, Jerome rushed on, I was

planning on having you and Eustochium at

Bethlehem

You don't need us, said Paula. We need

you, your learning, your instruction—but you

will write us.

She was still avoiding his eyes, and her finger

[150]




trembled on the neat gray tunic. But, thought

Jerome with a sinking heart, she sounded very

decided.

You don't really need us, Paula repeated.

Do you?

No, said Jerome angrily. He was a monk,

a servant of God, a follower of the great St.

Antony. Of course he could do without human

companionship

He stared across the stony desert, thinking

of the acute questions Paula asked about passages

in the Old Testament, thinking of the many ex-

planations he had written out for her, then used

later in one commentary or another. True, there

were Marcella, Fabiola and the others; but they

were back in Rome. Life without any of them

would be much less complete—especially with-

out Paula and Eustochium.

I don't need you, Jerome said, stubbornly.

But—I will miss you. You have been a wonder-

ful help to me in my studies.

Paula's eyes brightened like sunshine through

her tears. Say nothing more. I thought perhaps

we were a burden to you. We will come back

to Bethlehem. We couldn't live out here with-

out you, anyhow.

Jerome was deeply affected. The despair in

his heart was replaced by a surging joy. He

[151]




remembered the invaluable notes he had just

collected from Didymus, remembered Origen's

Hexapla waiting for him in Caesarea, and he

felt sure that, God willing, he could complete

his great task.

Bolstered by the invincible loyalty of Paula

and Eustochium, he would return immediately

to the work of translating the Bible.

So, in the fall of 386, Jerome, Paula, Eusto-

chium and the others journeyed back to Beth-

lehem.

Jerome found a cave near the Cave of the

Nativity for his study, and eagerly unpacked his

books. No pale desert owl blinked disap-

provingly at the rows of brown vellum tomes

and faded manuscript; but the cavern was dry

and roomy, and Jerome felt that he had come

home.

Paula arranged temporary quarters for her

Roman maidens. Paulinian was sent to Italy for

funds, and Paula also provided for money to be

forwarded to her.

For three years, while the low stone monas-

tery-convent was being erected, they endured

many discomforts. But those were happy years.

The Roman world was still at peace, the peace

of old age which, though no one knew it, was

[15^]




to precede the throes of death. While Kttle yel-

low men on tireless mustangs, the Huns, drove

down from the steppes of Asia, while blond

German barbarians moved uneasily against the

Rhine and Danube frontiers, Jerome worked

ceaselessly at his translation.

Learned commentaries on the books of the

Old Testament poured from his desk. He wrote

also on Hebrew Names and Hebrew

Places. He translated more sermons of Origen,

and wrote up the lives of all previous Christian

authors in a valuable biographical dictionary.

When the monastery and convent were

finished, a third wing, a Xenodochium, or

House of Reception, was added. This was for

pilgrims, whose numbers were soon to be in-

creased by pitiful groups of refugees.

The monks and nuns, under the direction of

Jerome and Paula, followed a regular life. They

had six daily services, in which they chanted

the complete Psalter. They worshipped to-

gether only on Sundays and feast days, in the

small church they shared.

Your work is going forward, Paula said

happily to Jerome, when they met for con-

ferences with the nuns on Scripture. Oh, I am

so glad

God willing, murmured Jerome, signing

[«53]




himself with the Cross. It is a pious task but

perilous presumption to choose words with

which to express God's Word.

He was abstracted, absorbed in his study and

writing. Much of the time he was immured in

his cave, where his eyes became strained, his

back weary.

But underneath, he was blissful as his big

quill pen scratched on, over parchment after

parchment. He called his cave his paradise.

To read without writing is to sleep, Jerome

once said to Paula.

And he admonished both monks and nuns:

Love the knowledge of the Scriptures and you

will not love the vices of the flesh,

As for Paula, she had decided to accept this

happiness, for however long it might last, as

God's will. From her little convent office she

looked up the eastern ridge, past Jerome's cave,

past the shepherds watching their flocks, and

she wrote to a friend: In this little villa of

Christ, everything is rustic, and apart from the

singing of Psalms, there is silence.

The plowman driving the share sings analleluia. The sweating reaper diverts himself

with Psalms, and the vine-dresser clipping the

shoots with his curved pruning-knife hums some

snatch from David.

[154]




These are the songs in our district. These

are the popular love-lays. This is what shepherds

whistle; this is what heartens the tillers of the

soil.

One morning Jerome finished a chapter of a

commentary and left his cave to walk to the

monastery, where a school for boys was being

started. Brown-robed brothers were working in

the gardens as he approached. Suddenly there

came a spine-chiUing roar. A lion, limping and

snarling frightfully, leaped from behind a rock

straight for the building.

For a moment the monks stood dazed. Then

they threw down their hoes, scooped up their

robes, and scrambled pell-mell for the door.

Run

God help us, a lion

Run for your lives

Remembering the beasts who had crouched

beside him in the desert storm, Jerome called,

almost without thinking, Stop Stop, Sir

Lion

The tawny creature slithered to a halt, on

three legs, and looked surprised. Jerome walked

straight up to it.

Ho, King of Beasts, he commanded. Hold

out your paw.

[>55]




The lion roared—then looked at Jerome to see

how the roar had affected him.

Hold out your paw, repeated Jerome

calmly.

Meekly, the lion obeyed. Jerome saw that a

thorn had lodged deep in the pad.

Now this will hurt, but it will cure you.

That is the will of the good Lord Who made

you, do you understand? Jerome told his

patient. Then, as the monks peered, dumb-

founded, from behind a corner of the monas-

tery, Jerome drew out the painful thorn.

The lion roared. Then he held up his pawand licked it hastily. Tentatively, he placed it

on the ground—lifted it—put it down again.

It's as good* as new, Jerome assured him.

Or, it soon will be.

Whereupon the King of Beasts croucheddown, and Jerome felt its rough, hot tongue

gratefully licking his sandalled foot.

For several weeks, much to the distress of the

brothers in the monastery, the lion insisted on

followingJerome

wherever he went. It seemed

to the monks that Father Jerome found it neces-

sary to visit them twice as often as usual, al-

though that was not really the case.

Then, one night, with a last cheerful roar,

[156]




the lion merged in the shadows of the ridge and

was seen no more.

And all the time, like the stones of somegreat basilica church one by one building to-

ward the vaulted sanctuary, the noble Latin of

Jerome's translation of the Bible was being

composed; the pile of parchment sheets grew

steadily higher.

[157]



Chapter Eleven

SHADOW OF THE HUNS

Night in Bethlehem. The small town slept, onits twin hills. In the distance, a dog barked

once; then there was silence, but for the soft

sweep of the wind.

The figure of a man appeared, gliding around

the Church of the Nativity. It disappeared in

the deep shadow of the apse. Then, running

swiftly and furtively, it crossed the open

space between the church and the gray group

[159]



St, Jerome and the Bible

of connected buildings which constituted the

monastery. . . .

Farther up the slope, a light shone fromJerome's cave. Heedless of any danger, Jerome

bent over a letter he was writing to Marcella.

We should not seek to know those things

which are said to be unknown, he wrote. If

we knew them, how could they be z/72known?

What is promised in the future cannot be re-

vealed in the present.

He paused and rubbed his hand wearily

across his forehead. The future—how could

any man except a prophet inspired by God fore-

tell that? Prayer and gratitude for the present

were enough. . . .

Meanwhile, the dark figure had been swal-

lowed up by t^e shadow of the school . . .

emerged for a moment by the hospice . . .

looked hastily over its shoulder and then raced,

headlong and desperate, straight for Jerome's

cave

The man burst in through the entrance,

startling Jerome so that he knocked pen and

parchment to the ground.

Thanks be to the Holy One of Israel

gasped the intruder. I don't think I was

seen

Welcome, Master Bar Anina, said Jerome,

[i6o]



Shadow of the HuJis

recovering his writing materials with relief. He

looked sympathetically at the bearded scholar

and added, Our monks would not harm you,I swear—whatever the townspeople might do

contrary to the teachings of the Lord.

I believe you. Bar Anina dusted his

fringed rabbi's tunic and adjusted the little

leather phylactery—a tiny container of sacred

sayings—he wore around his forehead. But myfellow Jews would not take kindly to my in-

structing you in Hebrew, either, and they

might send out spies.

He looked nervously over his shoulder, then

shrugged and spoke in a strange tongue.Jerome listened intently.

Princes persecute me—without cause, Jerome

translated. But my heart stands—in awe—of

Thy words. Is that right? The One Hundred

and Eighteenth Psalm?

Correct, said Bar Anina.

It is not only princes who these days

persecute the men of God, Jerome said sadly.

From the ends of the earth a whirlwind is

raised up against us. The savage Huns, bursting

from the Sea of Azov and the icy Don, are

scouring many lands and filling the world with

massacre and terror.

I saw a troop in Syria a year ago, said Bar

[i6i]




Anina, with a shudder. They are Hke small

bulls, mounted on their little ponies. Their

swart yellow faces and slant eyes are expres-

sionless, but they darken the sun with their

javelins and swarm like locusts across the land,

burning and destroying.

Jerome made the Sign of the Cross on his

forehead. He looked at his manuscripts of the

Old Testament, at the many volumes of

Origen's Hexapla, at the writings of Didymus,

Eusebius and Gregory Nazianzen. Much of the

learning of the Western world about the Holy

Scriptures was gathered in this humble cave.

Let us work, said Jerome resolutely.

There is still peace in Bethlehem.

And the two^graying heads bent, together,

over the manuscripts.

The spring of 395 was a bad one. The Lat-

ter Rains, as the Jews called them, of March

were scanty. The red soil remained bare; the

olive groves around Bethlehem looked dry and

withered.

Jerome labored in his study but became in-

creasingly tired and irritable as news of the

southward march of the Huns was reported.

He ordered several vessels held in readiness at

[162]



Shadonjo of the Huns

the seacoast town of Joppa, in case his monks

and nuns had to take flight.

Paula and Eustochium urged him to conservehis strength, to let them take full charge of

the hospice, to give up his teaching in the

monks' school for boys.

But he went stubbornly on with his work.

Never mind, I can manage, he told them as

the three stood outside the crowded hospice

under its white cross.

Jerome waved to a group of pilgrims, blond

Gauls in their cloaks and long trousers. The

illustrious Gauls congregate here, he said

proudly. And no sooner has the Briton, so re-

mote from our world, made some progress in

religion than he leaves his early-setting sun to

seek a land he knows only by reputation.

Dark-skinned citizens of the Orient, in flow-

ing robes and turbans, came out of the house.

Jerome nodded enthusiastically.

Armenians, Persians, the peoples of India,

Ethiopia and Egypt—they all throng here and

set us an example of every virtue, he con-

tinued. The languages differ, but the religion

is the same, the Holy Catholic Faith.

Here come some more, now, from Italy by

their looks. Paula pointed down the road, at

a small mule train. Where we'll put them I

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St. Jerovie and the Bible

don't know, but we'll find— She broke off in

mid-sentence.

What is it? asked Jerome, peering at the

leading rider, a woman soberly clad but with a

lilt in the swing of her shoulders, and curls

peeping from beneath her gray veil.

Fabiola cried Paula, trying to control the

spontaneous joy which was so natural to her.

Fabiola, welcome in Christ

Fabiola Worldly divorcee, sudden penitent,

Jerome's old pupil of Rome who had become

the illustrious foundress of all hospitals in the

West

Jerome's tiredness left him. With Paula and

Eustochium at his side, he went swiftly to

meet Fabiola.

You are a gift from God he cried, help-

ing her from the mule while Paula embraced

her old friend.

Then Our Lord is scraping the bottom of

the basket, said Fabiola merrily. Do you

have to pile all the cobblestones of the world in

your rustic roads, dear friends?

Laughing and talking at a great rate, thehappy little group went into the parlor of the

hospice. In his excitement, Jerome even forgot

the war clouds. Tell us about Rome, he ex-

claimed. What new hospitals have you opened?

[164]



Shadow of the Huns

How does the blessed Marcella? Does our

senate of learned ladies still meet?

They still meet—we still meet, replied

Fabiola cheerfully. And Marcella has been

consulted more than once by His Holiness the

Pope about passages of Scripture. She has given

away her great fortune, you know.

Jerome glanced at Paula, who had donated

an even greater one for their buildings, but she

quickly shook her head.

She says, our Marcella, Fabiola continued,

that all the gold she has left is here —she

struck her breast— her love of God.

That is so like Marcella Paula smiled.

She should come here and join us, said

Eustochium. So should you, Fabiola.

As for further news, said Fabiola, seemingly

disregarding Eustochium's advice, all Rome is

buzzing about your controversies with Jovinian,

Father Jerome.

Let them buzz, said Jerome, good-naturedly.

Paula was pleased at Jerome's comment. His

fiery pen provoked violent attacks from heretics,

and she feared that controversies would waste

his energy and embitter him.

Of course, Fabiola agreed. Then she turned

to Eustochium. And now, Eustochium, to

answer your question which you did not even

[165]




phrase as a question—I have not come here just

as a pilgrim. I have come to be one of you, if

you will have me.

Oh they all chorused. Oh, Fabiola, have

you?

I said you were a gift from God cried

Jerome happily.

A new gale of conversation was set off. It

seemed to blow the cobwebs out of Jerome's

overworked mind. It seemed to continue, in

spite of the daily routine of praying, chanting,

reading and studying, for the next three days—

until, on the third night, a horseman came gal-

loping through the darkness on the road from

Jerusalem.

Clop-clop . . . clop-clop . . . clop-clop . . .

That horse is* being driven, said Rabbi Bar

Anina, looking up from the manuscripts in

Jerome's cave.

So he is. Jerome slid from his stool and

went to the entrance.

Clop-clop . . . clop-clop . . . clop-clop . . .

Something in that desperate gallop made

Jerome's heart sink. When the weary, sweat-ing courier pounded up the slope and threw

himself off before Jerome, Jerome knew it was

bad news.

For you—sir— gasped the horseman, thrust-

[i66]



Shadow of the Huns

ing a sealed parchment into his hand. From—

Father Evagrius—Antioch—

Jerome tore open the epistle. His eye leapedalong the neat script:

... happen to know a courier going

south . . . thinks he can get through . . . we

are besieged by the Hiimiish horde. . . . Tyre

has flooded its mole and barricaded itself in its

island. . . . Jerusalem is threatened. ... Act

swiftly for your own safety^

There was a sad postscript which brought

tears to Jerome's eyes.

God bless all Christians, wrote Father

Evagrius, forever and ever.

Jerome looked up from the letter, out into

the peaceful night. The stars above Bethlehem

had never seemed brighter. Dim, luminous

flocks of sheep could be seen on the ridge, just

as when the Saviour descended to mankind.

It was hard to believe that in a few weeks

all that he held dear—Paula, Eustochium,

Fabiola, his brother Paulinian, the monks and

nuns, the priceless manuscripts of the Bible, his

unfinished translation—all might be wiped from

the face of the earth by the swart-yellow

horsemen of the Asian steppes.

What is it? asked Bar Anina. What has

happened?

[167]



Shadow of the Huns

hand and gripped the side of a swaying wagon.

This was the one which contained Origen's

Hexapla, Didymus' notes on Scripture, and the

sheets of Jerome's translation.

If I do not Hve to complete my task, per-

haps these materials will be preserved for some-

one else, thought Jerome. Whatever happens,

God's Holy Word must not die

After a wearing, fear-filled journey they ar-

rived at the hilltop town of Joppa, overlooking

the blue Mediterranean. Ships anchored a mile

out, beyond the dangerous ledge of reefs which

formed the harbor breakwater, were a welcome

sight. Jerome prayed for the moment when he

would see his nuns safe under those white sails.

The town was in a turmoil. Refugees were

pouring in. Rumors were being spread in every

narrow street and tavern.

I can't think of anyone to ask for hospi-

tality, Jerome said to Paula worriedly. Wecan't board the ships until tomorrow.

There's an inn Paula pointed to a rambling

structure, half wine-shop, half galleried rooms,

with aweatherbeaten board bearing a painted

cock swinging in front. Why can't we stay

there?

Fleas, murmured Jerome, making a face.

[169]




But we are prepared to be bitten for the

Lord, said Eustochium, with a smile.

Watch out for my books, PauHnian Jerome

called. Then he turned back to the nuns with

a gesture of helplessness. Very well. I will see

what I can arrange.

The cavalcade halted in front of the Cock

Inn. Jerome spoke to the villainous-looking

proprietor, who at first shook his head violently,

then less violently as Jerome produced a few

gold coins. Finally, a bargain was struck. Jerome

and Paulinian took charge of the monks, while

Paula and Eustochium shepherded the nuns to

their none-too-clean quarters.

At such a time, Paula's spirit seemed to burn

brightest. Her tiny figure darted everywhere,

cheering the listers, helping them with their

rolls of bedding, assigning them to rooms. But

even Paula was glad to see the dawn which fol-

lowed the restless night.

When Jerome descended to the street, at

the first light, he found a tall, militant-looking

man awaiting him.

Why didn't you come to me. FatherJerome? asked his old friend, the librarian of

Caesarea, reproachfully.

Jerome struck his forehead. I knew there was

someone he cried. It was you I was trying

[ 170]



Shadow of the Huns

to think of. I remember your writing me of

your move here. Ah, my friend, your barbarians

are not aiding my intellect. These are sad times.

I understand you are planning to send your

nuns and monks away, said the former

centurion. Have you heard the news from

the north this morning?

No—what news? Paula, Eustochium, Fabiola,

Paulinian and others crowded around the stern

speaker.

Well, it is only a respite, nothing more,

said the librarian gloomily. But a ship has just

docked from Antioch. The siege there is Hfted.

The Huns are withdrawing toward Asia Minor.

The Huns are withdrawing cried Paulinian.

Thank God Jerome breathed. His mind

flew to the parchments bundled securely in the

corner of his room. Thank God Now we can

return to the worship of the Lord in Bethlehem

Eustochium and Paula embraced. Relief shone

on every face. Only pretty Fabiola looked

dubious.

Are they—are they sure the Huns won't

come back? she asked.

No, I suppose not, Paula replied. We can

only live as long as God wills us to live, how-

ever. And I would rather have two years in

Bethlehem than two score anywhere else



St. Jeroine and the Bible

*'So would I, said Eustochium.

Jerome gave Fabiola a keen look.

What about you, Fabiola? he asked. Do

you want to return to Rome?

I—I don't know. Fabiola seemed confused.

I hadn't thought of Bethlehem as exactly the—

the frontier

Go back, Jerome advised, kindly. Carryon God's work in your hospital there. I wish all

those dear to me were safe behind the walls

guarded by Blessed Peter.

Jerome said this, but he did not dare look

at Paula and Eustochium. Perhaps he did not

completely mean it, either. How could he con-

tinue his studies without their constant en-

couragement?

The Huns 'are gone. What are we waiting

for? Let's start back said Paula, with a gleam

in her eye that brooked no contradiction.

So the dear friends parted. Fabiola sailed

west, but Jerome and his monks, and Paula and

her nuns returned to Bethlehem.

There Jerome sat down in his cave and

thought about their flight, and about the terror

of the East at the mere mention of the Huns.

Yet the East had experienced only a little of

what the besieged peoples along the Rhine and

Danube had been exposed to.

[172]



Shadow of the Huns

For twenty years and more, Jerome wrote

a friend, between Constantinople and the Julian

Alps Roman blood has been flowing. Scythia,

Thrace, Macedonia, Thessaly, Dardania, Dacia,

Epirus, Dalmatia and the two Pannonias are

devastated and ravaged by the Goths, the

Sarmatians, the Quadrati, Alanni, Huns, Vandals

and the Marcomanni.

How many matrons as well as virgins con-

secrated to God have become the playthings of

these savages Bishops captive, priests massacred,

churches destroyed, the altars of Christ serving

as mangers for horses The relics of the martyrs

disinterred.. . .

Everywhere sorrow, everywhere weeping,

everywhere the image of death. The Roman

world falls in ruins about us, and yet our proud

necks are unbowed.

One afternoon he crossed the courtyard of the

convent, which was simply an extension of the

monastery, and entered the parlor, ready

to lecture to the nuns on the Old Testament

prophet Ezechiel.

Paula was reading and did not hear him come

in. Her small mouth was pursed, she was frown-ing slightly, in concentration, and her dark hair,

streaked with gray, was brushed back from her

temples. Her face looked white and tired.

[173]



St. Jerome ajid the Bible

She, too, is growing old, Jerome thought.

Then Paula glanced up, and, seeing him,

smiled her quick, joyous smile.

I was wrong, Jerome said.

Wrong about what? asked Paula in surprise.

Never mind. Just wrong.

Paula laughed.

Comeinto the chapter room.

Thenuns are

waiting, she said. We won't tell them you were

wrong. We want them to give you their best at-

tention

[174]



Chapter Twelve

THE LATIN BIBLE

One sunny January day, in the year 404, Jerome

sat in his rock cave not far from the Cave of

the Nativity, a big vellum book open in front

of him.

The book had pages of scraped sheepskin

nearly a foot square. Its wooden covers werebound with fine leather, and its bright gold

initial letter I on the first page seemed to re-

flect the joy of Christmas.

ins]



St. Jerome a?id the Bible

From the convent, Jerome could hear the

nuns chanting the Christmas Canticle of Simeon.

Now dost thou dismiss thy servant, O Lord,

according to thy word, in peace, because my

eyes have seen thy salvation. ...

Sheep grazed above Jerome's cave, and the

tinkle of a bell, the cry of a shepherd, occasion-

ally broke the stillness.

Jerome closed the big book, which had been

brought to him only that morning from the

coast, where the scribes of Caesarea had manu-

factured it. He put it under his arm and

walked out into the clear air, down the hill to-

ward the convent.

At that very moment, his old friend Bonosus

was kneeling in prayer on his islet in the

Adriatic Sea, asking God's mercy for all His

servants, while the waves crashed against the

cliff below his hut.

Fabiola was back in her new hospice in the

Porto, aided by Jerome's former fellow-student

Pammachius, now a reformed and holy Senator.

God bless all Christians Father Evagrius

was repeating, twenty times a day, as he bustled

through the colonnaded streets of Antioch, visit-

ing, bullying, and cajoling his parishioners,

[176]



The Latin Bible

getting so many of them into heaven that he

was soon to be made a bishop.

But Jerome, who prayed for all of them,

was thinking of none as he entered the convent

and was conducted by the portress to a tiny,

spotlessly clean cell whose window looked out

upon green fields.

Paula lay propped up in the wooden bed, on

the hard straw pallet, which she had occupied

for nearly two years, now, in her illness. When

she saw Jerome, her eyes sparkled and her thin

cheeks seemed to fill out a little.

Well, Paula, here it is, Jerome said, and

gently placed the big book in her lap.

What have you done now? Paula smiled

weakly. Written another blast against Jovinian,

as I asked you not to?

No. Jerome shook his head almost impishly.

I have obeyed you for once. Open the book.

Paula looked down at the fine leather covers.

She glanced up at Jerome, a puzzled quirk in

her eyebrows.

Open it, Jerome repeated.

It's so big, said Paula. At the expression

in Jerome's eyes, a premonition came over her.

Her lips began to tremble. Without saying any-

thing more, she meekly turned the heavy cover

back, and read the first, gold-lettered sentence:

[177]




^^In principio creavit Deus caelum et ter-

ram.^^

In the beginning, God created heaven and

earth.

^^]ero7ner whispered Paula.

She leafed through the pages. Exodus, Levit-

icus, the Prophets Isaiah, Jeremiah and Ezechiel,

the story of the flight from Egypt to the

Promised Land, the Golden Calf, Samson and

Delilah, the foretelhng of the coming of the

Messiah, the beautiful tale of Ruth, the trials of

Job, the New Testament of Our Lord. . . .

It was all there. Ta Biblia . . . The Books.

The Book, the revelation of God's people and

God's teachings which would always guide

mankind.

You've finistied it Paula closed the book

and tried to hug it. She could hardly speak.

Oh, Jerome, now I don't care what happens

to me

It's your book, Jerome said. I would not

have had the heart to go on without your

help.

Paula's eyes filled with tears.

I am too happy, she whispered. I keep

saying over and over to myself the verse from

the Eighty-Third Psalm: 'How lovely is the

dwelling place of the Lord of Hosts My soul

[178]



The Latin Bible

yearns, it pines for the courts of the Lord.'

Do you know, sometimes at night I imagine I

see the Wise Men, riding again by starhght,

over the eastern ridge. Their story will be

read through the centuries, in churches spread

around the world, from this Book.

It may be only decades, said Jerome

gloomily. I have done my best—my very best.

But the world is sliding to destruction. Many

beautiful works will be lost.

Not this one, not God's Word, said Paula.

From childhood to old age it will be a staff

of life for millions. Jerome, did you write that

letter to my daughter-in-law about the educa-

tion of my granddaughter, little Paula?

Yes, said Jerome. Why do you ask

now?

I don't know. WTien—when death is all

around, one thinks much about the young.

When I look toward the Cave of the Nativity

and think of Our Blessed Mother, I realize

how much stronger life is than death. Have

you ever thought that?

No, Jerome admitted.

Oh, but it is There is no contest, said

Paula. All these troubles will pass away, but

generations will continue to be born, and God's

Word, which you have translated for the civi-

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St. Jerome a7id the Bible

lized world, will endure. Come, tell me what

wise advice you gave Laeta about my little

Paula

Jerome laughed. Well—since you want to

know, I suggested that Laeta teach the little

girl the alphabet by having letters made of

boxwood or ivory for her. Let her play with

them, and remember their names in a simple

song. When she begins to use the pen, either

let another hand be put over hers to guide her

baby fingers, or else have the letters marked

on the tablet so that her writing may follow

their outlines—

You are such a good teacher, Paula inter-

rupted. You have taught me so much, about

these Holy Scriptures, about the passages we

have studied together, about the ascetic life

which Our Lord wants. I did not know what

I was living for until you came to Rome

Jerome saw the joy which shone in her eyes

through her suffering, and felt suddenly very

humble. You have taught me something, too,

he said. You have taught me what the love

of God really is.

Paula turned quickly away, her eyes wet.

Come—come, she said, what else did you

say to Laeta?

Well, I suggested she oifer little Paula

[i8o]



The Latm Bible

prizes for spelling. I consider it a good idea

to let her learn the names of the prophets and

apostles and use them in her sentences, so that

she will be doing two things at once—practicing

writing and—

Jerome was looking out the window as he

spoke, when a faint sound made him turn.

Paula's hands were clenched, her face white in

agony.

Portress called Jerome, as he strode to

Paula's side. When the portress and physician

entered, Paula's breath was coming in harsh

gasps. In a few seconds, the attack passed. But

her eyes were closed.

Eustochium, who had been the first one in

the room after Jerome's call, caught his hand.

She was biting her lip, her serene face strained.

For nearly two years she had nursed her

mother,pouring out prayers

dailyat the Cave

of the Nativity for Paula's recovery.

Is—is—will she be—? she stammered.

Jerome turned questioningly, anxiously, to-

ward the physician. But the bearded doctor

shook his head.

There is not much time, he said.

Not much time. Somehow, it seemed to Je-

rome that that was a definition of this life.

One's heart ached—to be with loved ones, to

[i8.]




read and understand God's wisdom, to write it

down for others—but always, in the distance,

there was a bell tolling the end of the visit,

the end of the study hour.

The bell tolled. The heartache was renewed.

The love and wisdom were still not quite

within one's grasp, not fully possessed and en-

joyed.

Then, all of a sudden, after the running

out of only a few moments, hours, days,

years. . . .

Just a few hours, said the doctor.

Jerome and Eustochium fell to their kneesbeside the bed on which Paula lay, uncon-

scious.

Silently, the tiny cell was filling with nuns.

Some bearing candles whose pointed flames

shone from the dark corridor like stars, they

entered and knelt around their abbess.

^^Miserere mei ... They began to recite

the great Penitential Psalm.

^^Miserere mei, Dofnine, secundum magnam

misericordiam tuam. . ..

Have mercy upon me, O Lord, according

to thy mercy. According to thy great clem-

ency blot out my iniquity. ...

The words filled the tiny cell, the corridor,

the low convent building. They rose and fell,

[182]



The Latin Bible

like the waves of a mysterious sea. Numbly,

Jerome joined in the familiar Latin.

^'Miserere mei ...Have mercy on me, a sinner. Have mercy

on Paula, Thy saint. Have mercy, Lord, ac-

cording to Thy great mercy. . . .

All the past years seemed like a few days,

now.

Toward the end of the second hour, Paula

opened her eyes, but said nothing.

Don't you wish to speak? asked Jerome.

Nothing . . . nothing troubles me, whis-

pered Paula, in Greek. I am ... at peace.

Eustochium held her mother's hands. Paula

looked at Jerome and at her daughter, and

whispered, O Lord, I love . . . the house

where Thou dwellest . . . the dwelling-place

of Thy glory. ...

She seemed to speak from a great distance,

from a shore beyond the mysterious sea of

God's mercy. Her face was like a young girl's

again, the skin soft, the eyes trusting and

joyful.

It must be a beautiful coast, that one, thought

Jerome. Approaching it, Paula had become the

loveliest woman in the world.

She made the Sign of the Cross on her lips.

Her eyes closed. The small mouth relaxed. Her

[183]



St. Jerojne and the Bible

face shone, white in the candlehght against the

rough pallet, heart-shaped, her dark hair glossy

like a bride's.

' ''Miserere mei, Domine . .

.

Jerome smote his breast. Paula slept in the

Lord.

At Paula's funeral, Jerome walked, clad in

the simple brown robe of a monk, just behind

the bier. Four bishops, with John of Jerusalem

at their head, bore the bier from the convent

to the Cave of the Nativity. A splendid proces-

sion followed after: priests and bishops carry-

ing lighted torches, nuns and monks chanting

the Psalms, above all a great throng of the poor

of Bethlehem and Jerusalem, weeping.

I lift up my* eyes to the mountains: whence

shall help come to me? sang the nuns and

monks. My help is from the Lord, who made

heaven and earth.

Praise the Lord, O Jerusalem, praise thy

God, O Sion. ... Paula's favorites, about the

Heavenly City, were repeated.

Those who trust the Lord are as MountSion, which is immovable, which abides for-

ever. . ..

Jerome strode on, through the low door of

the church, down into the cavern where Joseph

[184]



The Latin Bible

and Mary came for the first Christmas, down

to the taper-lit shrine where Paula's bier was

lowered to lie in state for three days. Psalms

were chanted continuously, in Greek, Latin, and

Syriac. The grotto was crowded, day and night,

with mourning people.

The tears ran down Jerome's cheeks. He for-

gotthat once, years before, he had reproached

Paula for weeping at Blesilla's funeral. He knew

only that he had lost his dearest friend, and he

longed for the day when he could rejoin her.

Paula's body was laid in a humble cave not

far from the Cave of the Nativity. Jerome re-

turned to his rock-hewn study and spread his

manuscripts out before him.

There were commentaries on the books of

the Old Testament still to be written, con-

troversies with heretics to be carried on in de-

fense of God's truth.

There were letters to be composed to monks

and nuns all over the world, counsels to be given,

philosophical problems to be discussed with the

great St. Augustine of Africa.

But Jerome, for days, could do no work. My fingers stiffen, my hand sinks listless, myintellect refuses to function, he wrote. The

pen fell from his fingers. He slid off his stool

[185]




Bible, the finest work of editing and translating

the world has ever seen. It has been the authori-

tative text of Sacred Scriptures for the Catholic

Church from that day to this.

Further tests of Jerome's patience were im-

posed by God. His vision began to fail; he could

not make out the Hebrew letters and even had

to have the Greek commentaries read aloud to

him by his brother monks. He continued to

live on little more than bread and water, con-

tinued to strike his breast with a stone, bewail-

ing his many sins.

Eustochium, who succeeded Paula as abbess in

the convent, died in 418, and this was more

sadness for Jerome. Refugees from battered

Rome crowded the hospice, wringing his heart

with their miserable plight. His hair became

white, his forehead and cheeks furrowed, his

eyes sunken.

On September 30, 420, the Lord called Jerome

to Himself. All that is known of his death is

that he was attended, in his last illness, by

Paula's granddaughter, little Paula for whom

he had recommended a boxwood alphabet yearsbefore. Little Paula, twenty-two years old,

was now the abbess of the convent.

St. Jerome's body was laid in a cavern close

by those of Paula and Eustochium, not far from

[188]



The Latin Bible

the Cave of the Nativity. Not until long after

was it removed to the Church of St. Mary-

Major, in Rome.

This was as Jerome wished it. Before Rome

and its human empire gave way to the northern

invaders, he had made his choice. Bethlehem

is more august than Rome, he had said. It is

the most august spot in all the world.

So his name and his great Bible will always be

linked with the birthplace of his Saviour.

[189]



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Vision Books in Preparation

CHAPLAINS IN ACTION, by Rosemarian V. Stau-

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ST. CATHERINE LABOLIRE AND THE MIRACU-

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MOTHER BARAT's VINEYARD, by Margaret AnnHubbard

MARY'S JOURNEY THROUGH THE WORLD, by

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THE YOUNG TRAPPIST, by Thomas Merton

Printed in the United States of America



His Holiness Pope John XXIII

Ivs gmeiously nnpjrhd to

the authors cnieJ publishers oj Vision Books

His Apostohe Blessing

In view of His ardent zeal for the spiritual welfare of

st. jerome and the bible - g. sanderlin

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