"(...) Father Akákios, a short, rotund monk with swollen feet, had spent the entire day painting Saint Antonius, and now, stroking a fat black cat on his knees, he spoke movingly about the saintly eremite. It seems that a girl came to him one day and said, "I have observed all of God´s commandments; I place all my trust in the Lord. He will open the gates of paradise for me." Saint Antonius then asked her, "Has poverty become wealth for you?" "No, Abba." "Nor dishonor honor?" "No, Abba." "Nor enemies friends?" "No, Abba." "Well then, my poor girl, go and get to work, because right now you possess nothing."
As I looked at the simple Akákios, who was perspiring from too much food, the fire´s great warmth, and the memory of the frightening ascetic, I kept thinking what a rosy-cheeked Antonius he must have been painting all day, and I was possessed by a diabolical urge to say to him, Go and get to work, poor fellow, because right now you possess nothing. But I did not speak. A crust of lard, habi, and cowardice envelops the soul; no matter what it craves from the depths of its prisom, the lard, habit, and cowardice carry out something entirely different. I did not speak - from cowardice. (...)
I am less affraid of the major vices than of the minor virtues, because these are lovely faces and deceive us all too easily. For my part, I want to give the worst explanation: I say I did it from cowardice, because I want to shame my soul and keep it from doing the same thing again. (...)"
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