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Bibliotherapy

Louis Ménard: The Legend Of Saint Hilarion

Saint Hilarion, Franciscan Breviary, Savoy, XV th Century.

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Today’s sharing from the Blue House of Via-HYGEIA, is ‘The Legend Of Saint Hilarion’, excerpted from Louis-Nicolas Ménard’s ‘Les Rêveries d’un Païen Mystique’. Paris, George Cres, 1911. From p. 86 to 103. A Via-HYGEIA English translation from the original French.

Here is what Professor Wouter J. Hanegraaff has to say about this text: ‘In this story (perhaps the best he ever wrote), the desert monk Hilarion saves the life of Undine, a beautiful young nymph who clearly represents the spirit of paganism and can only be safe from her persecutors by entering a monastery to become a nun – an allegory of how pagan spirituality would only be able to survive by converting itself into Christian theology and contemplative practice. This precisely explains Ménard’s deeply ambivalent feelings about Christianity: paganism couldn’t live with it, but couldn’t live without it either (and by the way, the reverse is true as well).’

Saint Hilarion (291–371) was born in Gaza, Palestine, and, in the footsteps of saint Antony in Egypt, he is considered to be the founder of Palestinian monasticism. It is notable also that Hermann Hesse adapted a biography of Hilarion as one of the three Lives of Joseph Knecht, making up his Nobel Prize–winning novel ‘The Glass Bead Game‘ (also known as ‘Magister Ludi‘). (Wikipedia).

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English Translation

Saint Hilarion’s hermitage was located close to the great oasis of Thebes, in high Egypt, at the place where later, under his tutelary patronage, a convent would be established and still exist in our present time. Coptic monks now dwell in the less decrepit part of the ancient monastery and cultivate a few fields watered by a little stream, which source is at the limit of the desert, upon the location of an ancient chapel consecrated to saint Undine. The name of this saint is obviously latin and its legend-that the stories of the monks link to saint Hilarion’s own legend, must date back to the time of the early Christian Emperors. These stories complete the rather dry narration of Sulpicius Severus.

Eros was the name Hilarion bore before his conversion to Christianity; this name was often given to slaves during the Roman era. The legend is mute upon his family and upon his early years, and only tells that he rejected all profane sciences, and that he followed the teachings of the last pagan philosophers, especially the famous Hypatia, daughter of Theon of Alexandria, who was slaughtered by Christians, by orders of saint Cyril. This stark virgin, one of the saints of paganism, produced upon Hilarion such a deep impression that could still be felt way after his conversion. New ideas are grafted easier than we think upon ancient beliefs. With a freedom of thought quite common to the Christians of this time, when orthodoxy did not impose upon intelligence its inflexible leveling hegemony yet, Hilarion would declare that Hypatia was (spiritually ) saved, even though she did not convert to the Christian Faith. He said also that he found a fitting preparation to the ascetic virtues in the solemn teachings that this beautiful and chaste maiden knew how to invoque from the Greek poets and philosophers. He kept other traces of his pagan education, because near a crucifix and a skull, there was always at hand the poems of Homer, the dialogues of Plato and the sacred scriptures of Hermes Trismegistus.

In the early days of his monastic life, while on a solitary walk, Hillarion arrived close to the spring that later will be called, saint Undine’s spring. He rested there under the shadow of the palm trees, and the chirping of the water made him fell into a state close to sleep. Suddenly, he saw a old woman holding in her arms a child. It was the very woman that initiated him into the Christian faith; she lived in a convent that she founded on the other side of the river Nile, in the desert that spreads at the feet of the Arabic mountain chain. She was revered as a saint; it is her that the Church honors under the name of Mary, the Egyptian. She waved towards Hilarion to stand up and gave him the child for him to take in his arms; it was a little girl; she was staring at him with her great ebony-like eyes, deep like the night, bright like the stars.

The saintly woman said to him: ‘This child must be consecrated to Christ. Here she is known by the name of Undine, but I want to give her my name, which is the name of the mother of God. You are going to pledge renouncing the world, so that she may escape to the traps and snarls of the devil, the sworn enemi of human kind.’

Hilarion uttered the pledge. The saintly woman picked up two stems from the surrounding reeds and made a cross that she planted into the earth; she drew water from the source and poured it upon the black hair of the child. What followed was like: Everything became blurred and disappeared like in a vision; Hilarion saw himself alone again near the spring that was singing joyfully on its bed of shells and was dancing with silver flashes of light among the reeds.

Years passed. Hilarion was aging in a solitude, meditating upon eternal life, and still was associating the reading of profane books with his meditations upon the Gospel, without seeing that there was a great danger in doing this. He loved to recall Hypatia’s lessons and the ingenious allegories she was finding in the mythology of the poets, transforming the most absurd fables into serious parabolas, of such a deep meaning and of a very high morality. Her radiant serenity would dissipate the storms of the soul; the troubled hearts would find solace in contemplating her calm beauty, in hearing her unadorned speech. One would understand that passions were made to be tamed. The daughter of the Sun, Circe, the enchantress, who was changing men into beasts, is nothing but the dreadful and sinister power that defiles and enslaves souls through the magical attraction of pleasure. Human passions are irresistible Sirens, whose melodious singing still resonate upon the fondling lapping of the waters. If the uncareful traveller would come closer to hear them, no doubt his boat would breake on the pitfalls of life; in spite of the dreamed blazing, he certainly would feel bird claws piercing deep into his flesh; what he took for bright flowers upon an enchanted shore, were but bleeding shreds and spilled bones.

In the eternal arena of the world, Man must struggle against dangerous attractions et repel the humiliating servitude of pleasure. Blessed is the person who exits this unrelenting struggle wearing a crown of victory on the forehead! Blessed are the martyrs that have conquered the golden palm of martyrdom under the teeth of the lions! But, who could be certain about victory? Dear Lord, spare us those trials, do not lead us into temptation! For the person who feels his weakness, the safest is to withdraw from the World to live in the desert. If your right eye shocks you, tear it! It is better to enter the Paradise one-eyed, than to go down with one’s two eyes in the desolations of hell!

The life of the ascetics was divided between working the land and pious meditations. Dates and a few roots were enough for their sustenance. To water the little garden that surrounded his shack, Hilarion used to draw water from the stream that was flowing nearby, in the greener part of the oasis. Small blue flowers were giggling their attractive scent all over the bank, and there was a music in the reeds and here and there a joyful sound of dansing waterfalls, of fresh dew dampening the grass, and mobile pearls glittered on the large round leaves of the water-lilies. Elsewhere, the deeper waters, under the bowing branches of the surrounding trees, were morphing into an ebony like transparence, similar to a human gaze. Hilarion from time to time was feeling a little unsettled by the intimacy of such a gaze, and he would often hasten away without daring looking back. Weren’t there, under the multiple forms of universal life, souls, different than ours, but having like us an intelligence that lights them up, with similar pains and joys, passions that sweeps them away and a strength to resist them?

One day, Hilarion followed the course of the stream until the location of its source. The surrounding air was heavy, the solstitial sun had burned all of the bushes’ leaves; the south wind had dried up the meadow’s grass, the whispering of the water was resembling to a lament, and instead of the joyful music in the high grass, a mournful harmony of muffled sights was heard. There are tears inside things, but being always busy by our selfish misery, we do not hear them. Hilarion remembered having heard that the leader of the anchorites, Saint Antony himself, while crossing the desert, met with centaurs who guided him by giving directions, and satyrs, came close to him in a slightly fearful and gentle manner, offering him medicinal herbs and asking him for his prayers. For Man, pain is a trial, and if he dives in it with all of his courage, it will be for him a path towards salvation. But, nature, why should she suffer? She is alike us: God’s work; why should she be cursed for ever? This long cry of agony of the living beings-devouring each other-will it always rise uselessly up to God’s throne? It is the appropriate hymn to His Goodness and His Justice? The supreme perfection could not create evil; if all sentient beings suffer like us, it is because they had their part in the drama of the Fall; but then, why wouldn’t they take their part also into redemption?

Hilarion sat close to the fountain, his bent head in his hands. He heard a crystal voice that was saying: ‘Eros, you are tired; do you want to drink some water from my source?

Hearing her calling him ‘Eros’-the very name he was using in his youth-he flinched, and raised his head. He saw, standing in front of him, a beautiful young maiden, a complexion similar to roses in the evening’s light, and crowned with water-lily flowers. From her two great ebony like eyes some pale sparkles were spurting out. He recognized this gaze: He saw it once, way back when he was young and when she was a child.

Who are you?‘ he asked.

My name is Undine.’ she replied. ‘You know me well, as you are the one who gave me a soul. Alas! What have I done with it?!’

She lowered her gaze, and throughout her long eye-lashes, two tears fell into the fountain. A short while after, she drew water with her hands she rounded in a cup-shape, and presented them to Hilarion for him to drink. Water drops were falling from her fingers like pearls in the sunset. She approached her hands towards the lips of the anchorite; he drank from them a little bit to eagerly, because he felt upon his forehead like an unknown inebriety. He could think about nothing else than to look at her.

Why did you leave me?’ she said. ‘Wasn’t I your child? I got scared when I saw the rising waters. I was in the small boat; he took the paddle, and I could see clearly that he was heading towards some rocks.

Who are you talking about?‘ said Hilarion.

Of the person who took the soul that you gave me.’ she replied.

Hilarion felt like a cloud was descending upon his eyes. She continued:

I called for help: were  you already that far that you didn’t hear me calling? He stared at me with anger and asked me if I had enough money to cover fare for the crossing. I blushed without answering. Then he jumped towards the bank, pushing the skiff with the foot. I closed my eyes and the current threw me on the opposite side. May God forgive him, as I did.’

Hilarion promptly said in a muffled voice: ‘You are quite fast in forgiving, young lady. When a woman makes such a sad mistake, she ought at least to wipe her heart.’

She answered: ‘I loved him’.

Suddenly, there was a snake that jumped on Hilarion and tore his chest. He made the sign of the cross, and everything disappeared; but he could still feel the snake’s bite.

He was alone in the night, close to the source and the veiling voice of the water was like the scream of a soul torn apart. He quickly returned back to his hermitage. When he came across the little stream where the stars were contemplating themselves, he thought he saw one of those eye-gaze that had pierced his heart. He understood that there was a mysterious relationship between the source and the young maiden. Perhaps she was a Naiad. But why did she call him by the name of Eros, the name he already didn’t use at the time she was born? This name which means desire, he forsook it when he renounced the World; how did she learned about it? Was this but a trap from the Opponent? Ah, baneful creature, born for the perdition of the saints, what do you want?

He tried to pray but could not. He felt within his soul nothing but a great anger, against her, against himself, and especially against the other whom he would have like to crush. He saw clearly that he was punished for his pride:

I fancied myself quite strong, and out of reach of any storms. With such a disdainful pity did I look from the shore all those who were still tossed by the troubled waves of life! And Now! Oh, and then what? It is over now; the bad dream has vanished; here I am home in peace and calm. She threw me the name Eros, which is not mine anymore, like if she wanted to reanimate a dead flamme…but it has been for ages that I have killed desire. I have my soul to save. What does the soul of that Naiad do to me? If she has lost it, she needs to ask for it back to the person who took it, and then she can do with it as she pleases. What could possibly prevent her salvation if she retreats into the desert? Also, why do I care? I do not think about it anymore, and blush that I did.’

He entered his cell, and tried to invoque the image of Hypatia. He recalled her chaste beauty, affecting all souls with a divine peace:

Hypatia was like a calm and blue lake, reflecting the sky. But the other, the Nymph, Oh! Her humid and dark gaze, one I cannot forget! It was a crater. I was already feeling this very vertigo when one leans too close to the abyss. Finally, I am saved: an angel probably was watching over me-but, what? What is happening? You…here! My God!

The door opened, and here she was, standing at the threshold, white like a moon beam, and the light of her eyes were like animated little lightnings:

Here I am, Eros, hide me, protect me, save me.’ She threw herself into his arms. ‘Quick, lets run away, they are after me. I just ran without looking behind. I think I can still hear their footsteps!

He walked with her towards the Nil, throughout the desert. She would talk to him, panting and feverish; she would tell him about her life, of her past torments, of her dangers and her terrors… Some people wanted to chain her and let her remain captive, condemning her to silence. Does one prevent the water of the sources from flowing and singing? And her voice, full of sobs, was resembling to the melody of the waterfalls and him, instead of listening to her, was contemplating her and found that she couldn’t be wrong. He only understood that she was miserable, and said to her:

Do not be afraid, my poor child; I am here with you.’

She replied: ‘Everybody is against me, everywhere, since it all began. What have I done? All are accusing me, all are cursing me…But, you, Eros, do you believe them?

He replied: ‘No, I do not believe them: You are too beautiful to be wicked. When one look at you, it is a glare; you are full of storms and lightnings. This is why you sow under your footsteps passions and hatreds. It is not your fault-I know very well-my dear child, but this is your destiny. If you would enter now Paradise, even the angels there would battle among themselves for you‘. And he added for himself: ‘Oh! I can tell she is going to kill me!’

He helped her get into a boat that was passing by, and both on it, they left towards the upward direction of the river Nile. She said to him: ‘Thank you, Eros; now they cannot find my trace; I am saved, thank you.’ And she frantically shook both of his hands. She sat close to him, near the bow of the boat. ‘I am quite tired‘ she said and fell asleep, her head against Hilarion’s chest. A chill of both fright and happiness gushed through his veins. He stared at her while she was sleeping. He thought he would like to drink her. She was dreaming and her sleep was agitated with feverish spasms. He wondered into which unknown her dreams were getting lost. What was she thinking of? Whom? Perhaps to the person she was still in love with. Oh! To painlessly kill her, while she was asleep…And to die by her side! To drink her very soul from her last breath, to be sure she wouldn’t belong to someone else!

The monotonous singing of the rowers was interweaved with the regular cadenza of the rows plunging into the waters of the river. Stars were spread all over the sky. Hilarion looked at the Milky Way, the pathway of the souls. It is from there that they descended, at the calling of desire. The intoxication of Life would make their wings heavier, and they would then fall, ensnarled into the prison of the body. But those who loved each other above, on the higher planes, they would always meet and recognize each other. Alas! Why must they, sometimes, meet…when it is too late? If I could, by the sole power of my desire, take off towards Home, for ever alone together, above in the cerulean infinite; I would protect her with my wings away from mankind & angels, further away…beyond the most remote stars…beyond God’s gaze!

She opened her eyes at the first glows of dawn; Hilarion would breathe-in her warm gaze filled with scents and smiles. The rays of the rising sun, were lightening up the walls of the monastery founded on the banks of the river Nile by Mary the Egyptian. They disembarked and presented themselves in front of the door. It opened and the old abbess came out towards them, followed by a few nuns in white robes.

I was expecting you, my son.’ She said to Hilarion. And gazing at Undine, she said: ‘Mary, come with me, my child! Take your place among your sisters.’

The white apparitions surrounded the young girl and their circle closed on her. Hilarion wanted to follow, but the abbess told him: ‘You cannot enter the sanctuary of the virgins; go back to you solitude; be grateful to God who has led you up here, and pray that he does not abandon you!

The gates of the monastery closed on him and, outside, Hilarion felt his knees flinching. He could hear his blood gushing through his arteries, and he felt like a hand was squeezing his heart. He understood that it was all over and that he would never see Undine again in this world: Was he certain to meet her in the next? He kneeled before the door to kiss the ground where she stood, and warm tears fell, in large drops, on his hands.

He had to return all the way back, alone, and during the whole journey that he did with Undine together earlier, alongside the dusty trail, dubious angels greeted him with snarls and mocking laughs. When he arrived at the source, he heard a voice saying to him: ‘Oh, wretched soul, what have you done?!

He finally, entered his cell and kneeled before his crucifix. Christ was looking down at him and seemed displeased:

Ah! You were eager to associate my worship with my mortal enemy’s cult, the queen of the fleeting world! The very Life that I have condemned! The Nature that I have cursed! See, what she has done to you, your great Isis, the magician that has seduced you with her incantations. So, I will take back what belongs to me, the offering you have once consecrated in my Name: Undine, this lost sheep now found; I will take her in my arms; but to redeem her soul, the blood of a sacrifice is required: Be the victim! Spread your pain alike a libation for your eternal salvation! Burn your heart, as an holocaust, on the altar of redemption!’

The white angel and the black angel were standing on both sides of the cell. The white one said: ‘Why are you complaining? For the ransom of her soul, do you not agree to suffer? If we would have said to you: Do you want to buy the salvation of this creature at the price of a mute pain, that she will not even be aware of? If we would have said this to you, you would have certainly agreed: What do you want to complain about now? Is this not about you being redeemed…Against yourself?

The other one spoke:’She knocked on your door and asked you for protection: Why did you seek for her another sanctuary? And why did you entrust her to strangers? You have now entered void and silence; a lightning flashed into your night; what is left is a souvenir that nothing will erase, and your accomplished  duty leaves you with regrets that, to me, look more like remorse.’

Hilarion stood up and hid his face in his hands, saying: ‘I was not allowed to say goodbye to her! I was cut sharp from her life; some wanted to save her, but did I want to lose her? Was I her bad angel? Oh! All I wanted is to open her the pathways of the Ideal, to have her breathe the air of the Heights, to take her in my Heaven…Why haven’t I done this? One word would have been sufficient to make the hours of this sorrowful night eternal, and that very word, I haven’t spoken it. I held my dream in my hands and I have let it fly away. Ah! miserable me! What’s the use of living anymore? If a danger threatens her, I will not be there; if she shout for help I will not be able to hear her; it will not be towards me she will direct her gaze…I will not see the marvel of the stars awakening in her eyes! My God, my God, have mercy upon me!

His prayer was granted; his eyes shut, he fell.

He is defeated and he is now ours!‘ said the black angel.

The white angel was being attentive and after listening carefully for a while, said:

Silence! Someone is praying for him: He is saved!

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French Original

here

Louis Ménard, painting by his nephew Emile-René Ménard. 1893. Picture by Hervé Lewandowski. In the collections of the Musée d’Orsay.

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Appendix

The chief source of information regarding  Saint Hilarion is the biography written by Jerome. ‘The life of Hilarion‘ was written by Jerome in 390 in Bethlehem. Its object was to promote the ascetic life to which he was devoted. It contains, amidst much that is legendary, some statements which attach it to genuine history, and it is, in any case, a record of the state of the human mind in the 4th century.”

Full text

here

Detail of the statue of Saint-Hilarion at the church place in Saint-Hilarion, France. Picture by Lionel Allorge.

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More about Louis Ménard: https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louis_Ménard 🌿 and: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Louis-Nicolas-Menard🌿Original French text source: https://fr.wikisource.org/wiki/Rêveries_d’un_païen_mystique🌿 More about Saint Hilarion: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hilarion 🌿
Louis Ménard: The Legend Of Saint Hilarion

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