Dialogue of Comfort Against Tribulation

Chapter 1

VINCENT: It is no little comfort to me, good uncle, that as I came

in here I heard from your folk that since my last being here you

have had meetly good rest (God be thanked), and your stomach

somewhat more come to you. For verily, albeit I had heard before

that, in respect of the great pain that for a month's space had

held you, you were, a little before my last coming to you, somewhat

eased and relieved--for otherwise would I not for any good cause

have put you to the pain of talking so much as you then did--yet

after my departing from you, remembering how long we tarried

together, and that we were all that while talking, and that all the

labour was yours, in talking so long together without interpausing

between (and that of matter studious and displeasant, all of

disease and sickness and other pain and tribulation), I was in good

faith very sorry and not a little wroth with myself for mine own

oversight, that I had so little considered your pain. And very

feared I was, till I heard otherwise, lest you should have waxed

weaker and more sick thereafter. But now I thank our Lord, who hath

sent the contrary. For a little casting back, in this great age of

yours, would be no little danger and peril.

ANTHONY: Nay, nay, good cousin--to talk much, unless some other

pain hinder me, is to me little grief. A foolish old man is often

as full of words as a woman. It is, you know, as some poets paint

us, all the joy of an old fool's life to sit well and warm with a

cup and a roasted crabapple, and drivel and drink and talk!

But in earnest, cousin, our talking was to me great comfort, and

nothing displeasing at all. For though we commoned of sorrow and

heaviness, yet the thing we chiefly thought upon was not the

tribulation itself but the comfort that may grow thereon. And

therefore am I now very glad that you are come to finish up the

rest.

VINCENT: Of truth, my good uncle, it was comforting to me, and

hath been since to some other of your friends, to whom, as my poor

wit and remembrance would serve me, I did report and rehearse (and

not needlessly) your most comforting counsel. And now come I for

the rest, and am very joyful that I find you so well refreshed and

so ready thereto. But this one thing, good uncle, I beseech you

heartily. If I, for delight to hear you speak in the matter, forget

myself and you both, and put you to too much pain, remember your

own ease. And when you wish to leave off, command me to go my way

and seek some other time.

ANTHONY: Forsooth, cousin, if a man were very weak, many words

spoken (as you said right now) without interpausing, would

peradventure at length somewhat weary him. And therefore wished I

the last time, after you were gone (when I felt myself, to say the

truth, even a little weary), that I had not so told you a long tale

alone, but that we had more often interchanged words, and parted

the talking between us, with more often interparling upon your

part, in such manner as learned men use between the persons whom

they devise, disputing in their feigned dialogues. But yet in that

point I soon excused you and laid the lack where I found it, and

that was even upon mine own neck.

For I remembered that between you and me it fared as it did once

between a nun and her brother. Very virtuous was this lady, and of

a very virtuous place and enclosed religion. And therein had she

been long, in all which time she had never seen her brother, who

was likewise very virtuous too, and had been far off at a

university, and had there taken the degree of Doctor of Divinity.

When he was come home, he went to see his sister, as one who highly

rejoiced in her virtue. So came she to the grate that they call, I

believe, the locutory, and after their holy watchword spoken on

both sides, after the manner used in that place, each took the

other by the tip of the finger, for no hand could be shaken through

the grate. And forthwith my lady began to give her brother a sermon

of the wretchedness of this world, and frailty of the flesh, and

the subtle sleights of the wicked fiend, and gave him surely good

counsel (saving somewhat too long) how he should be well wary in

his living and master well his body for the saving of his soul. And

yet, ere her own tale came to an end, she began to find a little

fault with him and said, "In good faith, brother, I do somewhat

marvel that you, who have been at learning so long and are a doctor

and so learned in the law of God, do not now at our meeting (since

we meet so seldom) to me who am your sister and a simple unlearned

soul, give of your charity some fruitful exhortation. For I doubt

not but you can say some good thing yourself." "By my troth, good

sister," quoth her brother, "I cannot, for you! For your tongue

hath never ceased, but said enough for us both."

And so, cousin, I remember that when I was once fallen in, I left

you little space to say aught between. But now will I therefore

take another way with you, for of our talking I shall drive you to

the one half.

VINCENT: Now, forsooth, uncle, this was a merry tale! But now, if

you make me talk the one half, then shall you be contented far

otherwise than was of late a kinswoman of your own--but which one I

will not tell you; guess her if you can! Her husband had much

pleasure in the manner and behaviour of another honest man, and

kept him therefore much company, so that he was at his mealtime the

more often away from home. So happed it one time that his wife and

he together dined or supped with that neighbour of theirs, and then

she made a merry quarrel with him for making her husband so good

cheer outside that she could not keep him at home. "Forsooth,

mistress," quoth he (for he was a dry merry man), "in my company no

thing keepeth him but one. Serve him with the same, and he will

never be away from you." "What gay thing may that be?" quoth our

cousin then. "Forsooth, mistress," quoth he, "your husband loveth

well to talk, and when he sitteth with me, I let him have all the

words." "All the words?" quoth she, "marry, than am I content! He

shall have all the words with good will, as he hath ever had. But I

speak them all myself, and give them all to him, and for aught I

care for them, so shall he have them all. But otherwise to say that

he shall have them all, you shall keep him still rather than he get

the half!"

ANTHONY: Forsooth, cousin, I can soon guess which of our kin she

was. I wish we had none, for all her merry words, who would let

their husbands talk less!

VINCENT: Forsooth, she is not so merry but what she is equally

good. But where you find fault, uncle, that I speak not enough: I

was in good faith ashamed that I spoke so much and moved you such

questions as (I found upon your answer) might better have been

spared, they were of so little worth. But now, since I see you be

so well content that I shall not forbear boldly to show my folly, I

will be no more so shamefast but will ask you what I like.

--

I

And first, good uncle, ere we proceed further, I will be bold to

move you one thing more of that which we talked of when I was here

before. For when I revolved in my mind again the things that were

concluded here by you, methought you would in no wise wish that in

any tribulation men should seek for comfort in either worldly

things or fleshly. And this opinion of yours, uncle, seemeth

somewhat hard, for a merry tale with a friend refresheth a man

much, and without any harm delighteth his mind and amendeth his

courage and his stomach, so that it seemeth but well done to take

such recreation. And Solomon saith, I believe, that men should in

heaviness give the sorry man wine, to make him forget his sorrow.

And St. Thomas saith that proper pleasant talking, which is called

_eutrapelia,_ is a good virtue, serving to refresh the mind and

make it quick and eager to labour and study again, whereas

continual fatigue would make it dull and deadly.

ANTHONY: Cousin, I forgot not that point, but I longed not much

to touch it. For neither might I well utterly forbear it, where it

might befall that it should not hurt; and on the other hand, if it

should so befall, methought that it should little need to give any

man counsel to it--folk are prone enough to such fancies of their

own mind! You may see this by ourselves who, coming now together

to talk of as earnest sad matter as men can devise, were fallen

yet even at the first into wanton idle tales. And of truth,

cousin, as you know very well, I myself am by nature even half a

gigglot and more. I wish I could as easily mend my fault as I well

know it, but scant can I refrain it, as old a fool as I am.

Howbeit, I will not be so partial to my fault as to praise it.

But since you ask my mind in the matter, as to whether men in

tribulation may not lawfully seek recreation and comfort

themselves with some honest mirth (first agreed that our chief

comfort must be in God and that with him we must begin and with

him continue and with him end also), that a man should take now

and then some honest worldly mirth, I dare not be so sore as

utterly to forbid it. For good men and well learned have in some

cases allowed it, especially for the diversity of divers men's

minds. Otherwise, if we were also such as would God we were (and

such as natural wisdom would that we should be, and is not clean

excusable that we be not indeed), I would then put no doubt but

that unto any man the most comforting talking that could be would

be to hear of heaven. Whereas now, God help us, our wretchedness

is such that in talking a while of it, men wax almost weary. And,

as though to hear of heaven were a heavy burden, they must refresh

themselves afterward with a foolish tale. Our affection toward

heavenly joys waxeth wonderfully cold. If dread of hell were as

far gone, very few would fear God, but that yet sticketh a little

in our stomachs. Mark me, cousin, at the sermon, and commonly

toward the end, somewhat the preacher speaketh of hell and heaven.

Now, while he preacheth of the pains of hell, still they stay and

give him the hearing. But as soon as he cometh to the joys of

heaven, they are busking them backward and flockmeal fall away.

It is in the soul somewhat as it is in the body: There are some

who are come, either by nature or by evil custom, to that point

where a worse thing sometimes more steadeth them than a better.

Some men, if they be sick, can away with no wholesome meat, nor no

medicine can go down with them, unless it be tempered for their

fancy with something that maketh the meat or the medicine less

wholesome than it should be. And yet, while it will be no better,

we must let them have it so.

Cassian (that very virtuous man) rehearseth in a certain

conference of his that a certain holy father, in making of a

sermon, spoke of heaven and heavenly things so celestially that

much of his audience, with the sweet sound of it, began to forget

all the world and fall asleep. When the father beheld this, he

dissembled their sleeping and suddenly said to them, "I shall tell

you a merry tale." At that word they lifted up their heads and

hearkened unto that, and afterward (their sleep being therewith

broken) heard him tell on of heaven again. In what wise that good

father rebuked then their untoward minds--so dull to the thing

that all our life we labour for, and so quick and eager toward

other trifles--I neither bear in mind nor shall here need to

rehearse. But thus much of that matter sufficeth for our purpose,

that whereas you demand of me whether in tribulation men may not

sometimes refresh themselves with worldly mirth and recreation, I

can only say that he who cannot long endure to hold up his head

and hear talking of heaven unless he be now and then between

refreshed (as though heaven were heaviness!) with a merry foolish

tale, there is none other remedy but you must let him have it.

Better would I wish it, but I cannot help it.

Howbeit, by mine advice, let us at least make those kinds of

recreation as short and as seldom as we can. Let them serve us but

for sauce, and make themselves not our meat. And let us pray unto

God--and all our good friends for us--that we may feel such a

savour in the delight of heaven that in respect of the talking of

its joys, all worldly recreation may be but a grief to think on.

And be sure, cousin, that if we might once purchase the grace to

come to that point, we never found of worldly recreation so much

comfort in a year as we should find in the bethinking us of heaven

for less than half an hour.

VINCENT: In faith, uncle, I can well agree to this, and I pray

God bring us once to take such a savour in it. And surely, as you

began the other day, by faith must we come to it, and to faith by

prayer.

But now, I pray you, good uncle, vouchsafe to proceed in our

principal matter.