He was about to pour the milk on the ground, but in order that it might not be wasted, he poured it on the roots of a reddish-yellow lily that stood in one of the border-beds. As the novice gave no sign of going, the Abbot asked, “You wish to speak with me? Speak!”
“Holy Father.”
“I am not holy; One is holy, the Lord your God in heaven! If you have a complaint, make it.”
“I was a rich youth, who went and sold all that he had.”
“I also did that when I was young, and then built seven convents, but have not regretted it. What have you against it? Why do you complain?”
The youth was silent.
“Is it about the food? There is a famine round us, and we must share with the poor.”
“Not only that, venerable father, but the whole way of living here does not accomplish what it is intended to do.”
“Say on.”
“The scanty food does not subdue the flesh, for as I go about hungry the whole day, I involuntarily think only about eating—in church, during prayer, in solitude. The small amount of sleep makes me sleepy the whole day, and I go to sleep in the chancel. Desires, which I had not known before, are aroused by suppression; when I see wine, I feel a real longing to get vital warmth into my body.”