The Ivy-covered Monastery

That toleration of the heathen vine had become established so early as the twelfth century, this legend of Florence will signify: In that time there stood beside a convent in the city a tall tree clothed with ivy, such as covered also the walls of the retreat. The brethren preserved a tradition that if the ivy fell from the tree it would also perish from the walls, and if the walls were once uncovered the place itself was in danger. A fearful plague broke out in Florence. Appeals for help came from every hand. As the monastery was rich and populous, the citizens flocked to it in numbers, beseeching aid, but the abbot told them, sternly, that the affairs of monks were affairs of heaven, not of men; hence he begged them to be gone, for he could give no succor. Indeed, the rules of his order forbade that the inmates go forth into the world; they could not relieve the sick, minister to the dying, nor bury the dead.

A family entered the monastery grounds, nonetheless, a day or two later, and begged for refuge. The gate-keeper answered, “The brethren are at prayer and cannot be interrupted. But you may take the shelter of the trees.” Half ill, wholly disheartened, the fugitives plodded wearily into the garden and flung themselves upon the earth in the shade of the ivy, hoping that food and medicine might presently be served. They found a certain rest in the silence, and coolness, the color of the flowers was sweet in their nostrils, the chanting of the monks was pleasant in their ears; but hour after hour went by, and still there came no help. The fever was beginning to work. Toward sundown the eldest of the family, divining that there was to be no shelter for him or his loved ones that night, arose and solemnly cursed the monastery and its inmates, while his youngest child, in petulance, hacked at the ivy on the tree till it was severed from its root. When at last the monks had finished their services for the day and come into the garden for air and to lighten their eyes with the sunset, the people who had asked their shelter were at the last gasp: the swift plague had done its work.

Next day the ivy was dead on the tree, and its leaves were falling over the earth, brown and withered. Gathering his monks about him, the abbot offered new prayers for the salvation of the monastery, realizing for the first time that one might be as selfish in his search for heaven as in the search for wealth and power and pleasure. He urged them to amend for their mistake, and to that end he set aside the rule of close confinement and bade them go abroad and give service where they might. They did so willingly, but it was too late. Already the plague was sweeping through the town, and now it appeared among the brethren themselves. As the ivy on the convent grew sere and dropped its leaves, so the souls of men who had lived tranquil years behind this mask of green cast off their bodies and sought the light. No hand replanted the ivy: the doom foretold had come, and to-day the buildings are in ruin.

From: Myths and Legends of Flowers, Trees, Fruits, and Plants, by Charles M. Skinner, c. 1911 by J.B. Lippincott Company