the temptation of saint mael.
the blessed mael had scarcely restored order in the abbey of yvern before he learned that the inhabitants of the island of hoedic, his first catechumens and the dearest of all to his heart, had returned to paganism, and that they were hanging crowns of flowers and fillets of wool to the branches of the sacred fig-tree.
the boatman who brought this sad news expressed a fear that soon those misguided men might violently destroy the chapel that had been built on the shore of their island.
the holy man resolved forthwith to visit his faithless children, so that he might lead them back to the faith and prevent them from yielding to such sacrilege. as he went down to the bay where his stone trough was moored, he turned his eyes to the sheds, then filled with the noise of saws and of hammers, which, thirty years before, he had erected on the fringe of that bay for the purpose of building ships.
at that moment, the devil, who never tires, went out from the sheds and, under the appearance of a monk called samson, he approached the holy man and tempted him thus:
“father, the inhabitants of the island of hoedic commit sins unceasingly. every moment that passes removes them farther from god. they are soon going to use violence towards the chapel that you have raised with your own venerable hands on the shore of their island. time is pressing. do you not think that your stone trough would carry you more quickly towards them if it were rigged like a boat and furnished with a rudder, a mast, and a sail, for then you would be driven by the wind? your arms are still strong and able to steer a small craft. it would be a good thing, too, to put a sharp stem in front of your apostolic trough. you are much too clear-sighted not to have thought of it already.”
“truly time is pressing,” answered the holy man. “but to do as you say, samson, my son, would it not be to make myself like those men of little faith who do not trust the lord? would it not be to despise the gifts of him who has sent me this stone vessel without rigging or sail?”
this question, the devil, who is a great theologian, answered by another.
“father, is it praiseworthy to wait, with our arms folded, until help comes from on high, and to ask everything from him who can do all things, instead of acting by human prudence and helping ourselves?”
“it certainly is not,” answered the holy mael, “and to neglect to act by human prudence is tempting god.”
“well,” urged the devil, “is it not prudence in this case to rig the vessel?”
“it would be prudence if we could not attain our end in any other way.”
“is your vessel then so very speedy?”
“it is as speedy as god pleases.”
“what do you know about it? it goes like abbot budoc’s mule. it is a regular old tub. are you forbidden to make it speedier?”
“my son, clearness adorns your words, but they are unduly over-confident. remember that this vessel is miraculous.”
“it is, father. a granite trough that floats on the water like a cork is a miraculous trough. there is not the slightest doubt about it. what conclusion do you draw from that?”
“i am greatly perplexed. is it right to perfect so miraculous a machine by human and natural means?”
“father, if you lost your right foot and god restored it to you, would not that foot be miraculous?”
“without doubt, my son.”
“would you put a shoe on it?”
“assuredly.”
“well, then, if you believe that one may cover a miraculous foot with a natural shoe, you should also believe that we can put natural rigging on a miraculous boat. that is clear. alas! why must the holiest persons have their moments of weakness and despondency? the most illustrious of the apostles of brittany could accomplish works worthy of eternal glory . . . but his spirit is tardy and his hand is slothful. farewell then, father! travel by short and slow stages and when at last you approach the coast of hoedic you will see the smoking ruins of the chapel that was built and consecrated by your own hands. the pagans will have burned it and with it the deacon you left there. he will be as thoroughly roasted as a black pudding.”
“my trouble is extreme,” said the servant of god, drying with his sleeve the sweat that gathered upon his brow. “but tell me, samson, my son, would not rigging this stone trough be a difficult piece of work? and if we undertook it might we not lose time instead of gaining it?”
“ah! father,” exclaimed the devil, “in one turning of the hour-glass the thing would be done. we shall find the necessary rigging in this shed that you have formerly built here on the coast and in those store-houses abundantly stocked through your care. i will myself regulate all the ship’s fittings. before being a monk i was a sailor and a carpenter and i have worked at many other trades as well. let us to work.”
immediately he drew the holy man into an outhouse filled with all things needful for fitting out a boat.
“that for you, father!”
and he placed on his shoulders the sail, the mast, the gaff, and the boom.
then, himself bearing a stem and a rudder with its screw and tiller, and seizing a carpenter’s bag full of tools, he ran to the shore, dragging the holy man after him by his habit. the latter was bent, sweating, and breathless, under the burden of canvas and wood.
