Was it being near the water that made me prone to metamorphoses? My strange night, the aching muscles that were the result of it? This land without women led you to femininity! On Athos, through lack of food, through want, you were only too liable to stray into delicious errors and, because of solitude, to find everything within yourself. Like Adam in the first days of Eden, with Eve inside him, part of his flesh, I suspected there was a wife inside me. My host’s caresses had dragged her from her peaceful sleep: she wanted to live, to see the world, to walk about! I wanted to be a pretty girl, if only for a few days. On Athos, near to the Divine, in a land where no two clocks showed the same time, nothing seemed ridiculous. Accepting the feminine part of my character in a vast uncertain time would be an unbounded joy! The sea rumbled against the rocks, the wind slapped me in the face. Esphigmenou’s chimes sounded the fifteenth hour of the morning ... This strange temptation melted slowly away. Soon all that was left was a feeling of slight surprise and a much greater desire to know more about this Holy Mountain, where everything happened as if by magic.
In a corridor, under a lantern that was still lit, a thin trickle of water ran from a brass tap into a stone washbasin. I filled a metal jug and went back to my room. I had sugar and powdered coffee in my luggage. Going back to the deep window frame I made myself a sort of cold collation, which I drank quietly while watching the waves at play. Then I shut the door of my room without a sound and went down to the courtyard without meeting anyone. I went out through the gardens; for, because of the storm, I wanted to go through the woods.
A well-paved path led towards the shore, running through kitchen gardens, past vines and little stone walls before rising into the hills. The battlemented towers of Esphigmenou sheltered it from the wind. At a sudden bend I saw the sea again, which was hurling its green waves against the shore. I was deafened by the sound of the shingle constantly rolling around in the surf, and the thunder of the waves breaking on the rocks. The caique danced on its anchor ropes; and, on that side of the gardens, the wind off the sea shook the brightly-coloured leaves of the olive trees.
A stream ran out of the forest, its shallow water meandering down to the first flecks of foam by the sea. A small stone bridge straddled across it. I leant on the solid Byzantine stonework of the wall and watched the peaceful water, the green grass: at the sight of my shadow, at the sound of my footsteps, twenty fresh-water turtles left the bank, dived down and plunged deep into the mud where they immediately disappeared.
Leaving the surf and the Turtles’ Bridge I headed for the high ground overlooking the inlet. The path became a track, passing farms whose doors had been closed for centuries. By the time I saw beautiful meadows at the edge of a wood, I had long forgotten the restless sea and the noise of the wind. Inland, a hot sun burnt above the motionless countryside. Black bulls wandered in a valley. Bare-chested, wearing my straw hat, my blue shirt thrown over one shoulder, I strolled into the tall green grass; gingerly I went as far as the olive trees, where I stopped by meadows that had never been mown, and where the bulls came past. I had a rest in the shade of a tree, one hand against its rough bark. My eternal soul quivered with happiness at the sight of so much peaceful beauty. I was free on Athos! Happy to the depths of my being! Again I sensed that a woman, a woman within me, and for me alone, shared my joy of living! Who was I? Completely myself at last.
How sweet and charming was the feminine part of my nature, which I was now discovering! Always ready to roam the countryside, cheerful, knowing me from all eternity, always willing to give me pleasure: tender and faithful wife, I would have held you tightly to my heart, I would have had you, right there at the foot of the tree, if I had not known that we were one single being!
She was still very young, an adolescent, and the bulls frightened her. She wanted to go on into the long grass; we made a wide detour to avoid the black bulls that were moving closer to the forests in the growing heat. Some of them noticed us and raised their heads. We hurried to safety across heavy stones lying in a stream.
There were lovely trees, shade and cool grass. She was afraid of snakes. Taking a reed I whipped at the thickets and grass, and we made a clean sweep of the place. I stretched out beside the stream with my young wife; I shut my eyes and went to sleep.
When I opened them again a bird of prey was soaring in the blue sky of Athos. I picked up my staff and headed further into the green pasture. The long grass hid old wells: in the past, generations of wise gardeners had ploughed this peaceful valley. I often came across abandoned sketes, low, crumbling walls, orchards overgrown with brambles, age-old vines where snakes slept, cherry trees that had gone back to their wild state. Ancient wooden bridges meant you could still cross the streams; densely-tangled copses filled with bird-song covered the slopes of the Holy Mountain. Its wings outstretched in the azure of the morning sky, a buzzard flew high up a long way off, over this tranquil, beautiful place which, since the last hermit left, had been almost divine. Once heavily populated, Athos was reverting to jungle. Perhaps, imperceptibly and from century to century, from season to season, from day to day, it was returning to the hands of God.
A path seemed to lead past the Bay of Bulls, which I had glimpsed on the first morning of my death. From the brisker air I realised how close the sea was. The black bulls I had seen near the forest were the very same ones who had been cooling their feet in the gentle white foam on the morning I arrived on Athos.
Bells tinkled, and there was the sound of hoofs approaching. Travelling monks, mounted on strong mules with novices riding behind, blocked my path in an olive grove. Seeing me, the monks yanked on the reins and stopped their mounts. The mules pawed the ground, whipped their sweating flanks with their tails as the horseflies attacked ... I barely had time to put my shirt on, so as not to be caught half-naked.
Who was I? Was I going to Chilandari? They had just come from there. I answered their questions as best I could—questions which were asked, what is more, in an extremely rough manner: I was dead, as dead as dead could be; I assured them it was so! Did they want to see the parchment I had been given by the Great Ancients of Kariés? I reached into my pocket for it; they told me I could leave it there.
They were old monks sitting on bad wooden saddles, ill-fitting and made softer for their pious posteriors by little cushions. To be more comfortable, each kept the skirts of his robe hitched up, tying the ends to his leather belt with dear little knots. Most of them had a young monk riding on the cropper, who had one arm around the older one’s waist while with the other he shaded him from the heat of the sun with a black umbrella, opened out like a parasol. The saddles were overloaded with leather bags, jars of wine, goatskin water bottles, saucepans tied to the pommel, and bundles of old books held firmly between strong wooden boards securely tied up with string. I asked the reason for this upheaval.
The none-too-polite reply came from high in the saddle. They were going to see friends. A fifteen-year-old novice, as lovely as an angel, was kind enough to explain that they were going to spend a week or so with holy men, on condition that they return the favour. In short, people invited themselves from one monastery to another. They spent a good week with friends who, in return, came to see them for at least a week. They went for walks, made the most of the fine weather: pretexts for pious conversations, interesting meetings, theological debates, he added, lowering his eyes like a real little saint. At which, as it was clear I was delaying venerable travellers eager to discuss the twofold nature of Jesus with old friends from neighbouring monasteries; and as the mules, harassed by the horseflies, were bucking, pawing the ground and shaking themselves, threatening to unseat the holy travellers, they set off again with hefty blows from the stirrup-leathers, leaving behind them not so much an odour of sanctity as a powerful smell of urine, sweat and mule dung.
When the travellers had gone I left the olive grove and headed for Chilandari, simply following the tracks left in the dust by the mules’ hoofs. There was no risk of getting lost, since
the path was clearly visible through the middle of the fields, which at this time of day had been deserted by the bulls.
A tall square red-brick tower appeared, alone in the middle of the fields. It overlooked the distant sea. I passed this old Byzantine tower and headed into a narrow valley. As I went, my path became increasingly like a proper well-paved road which, with every step, closely followed the dried-up bed of a broad stream running down from the mountains. The best road in Athos!
At the entrance to a cypress wood, a fountain offered thirsty travellers fresh water, which spouted continually out of a bronze tap into a long stone trough. I cooled my face and my hands. The heat was becoming more than harsh. Leaving the road I went into the cypress wood.
It was an exquisitely cool place, full of mystery, shade and peace. Enormous tree trunks, more than a hundred years old, rose high in the air towards distant black foliage which protected me from the sun. Soft grass grew round the base of the scarlet trunks; it was gentle on my ankles, which were tired after the long walk. It was almost cold in here. The air smelt of resin and pine. A thousand pillars of scented wood! A strange silence. Almost darkness, not a single bird-song. A track led on further between the trunks, which went on endlessly into the distance. The grass that got greener, and the delicious shadows, drew me even deeper into this wood of old cypress trees. The damp grass suggested there was a spring nearby; I looked, and found it at the heart of this divinely peaceful wood. A bird—-just one—was drinking the clear water that sprang from the ground: the only bird in this temple of trees. It did not fly away. Perched on a stone, it watched me. The birds of Athos do not fear the dead! I was dead, in Paradise, and was aware of the fact. So why should I inspire fear in this bird who was as dead as I was? Did it see me, or was I, in its eyes, merely a soul, a simple presence from which it had nothing to fear? I was beginning to love this bird! Had I known it on the other side of life? Was it a friend, a lover of forests who had turned himself into a bird to live in the woods? It flew away, letting out a kind of call, and disappeared into the top of a cypress tree. I stayed beside the spring for a long time, hoping it would return; then slowly I left the dark clump of trees.
Once again I saw the path leading to Chilandari, whose roofs I soon spotted above the greenery. Walls enclosing orchards appeared in every direction, benches, lovely arbours, old pleasure-gardens where no one had picnicked since the end of the last century.
Chilandari. A large fortified village, almost a town. A hundred roofs of flat stones or tiles covered ancient walls set out in total disorder. Bastions, battlements; several storeys of dilapidated balconies; a thousand windows with small panes; arrow-slits; countless chimneys; the whole dominated by a tall, formidable tower.
The heavy gate of Chilandari stood open, wide-open to anyone who wished to enter, and was approached via an awning supported by blue columns. I went through the first doorway I came to and down a dark passage paved with round stones worn down by mules’ hoofs. A lantern hung from the ceiling. Beyond this entrance hall, decorated with a fresco of the Virgin, was a narrow, dark alley-way, hollowed out of the thickness of the fortifications. Along it were tiny shops, carefully padlocked, with shutters, with wooden doors of old workmanship, peculiar, forgotten. A sewer ran past; at the sound of my footsteps, rats scrambled up the walls and onto the roof. Then came a second arched entrance, and I was in the courtyard.
An enormous lone yew tree; a scarlet church with domes. Piles of logs beside a well. I went over to the church, hoping to find shade and rest there. The door was well and truly locked. What about the kitchen doors? They were locked too! Was Chilandari uninhabited? With so many double-locked doors I feared it was. Yet the great door I came through as I arrived from the woods stood wide-open ... Chilandari must have been abandoned. Everything had been locked! No, people were wary, that was all! It was mid-afternoon and my head was spinning with heat and tiredness; thirst tormented me. The cicadas sang.
Climbing several steps I reached a gallery just opposite the church which gave me shelter. A bench made of planks was somewhere to sit down along by the side wall. The gallery was separated from the courtyard by heavy stone columns and arcades painted red. The ceiling was of finely carved wood; fantastic frescoes decorated the walls, the whole Apocalypse on the background of a starless night: the foul beasts emerging from the well of abominations, the insects of the last day, with the faces of women, long legs like grasshoppers and scorpion tails ending in a double spike, the saints, Christ, the demons and the angels fighting a final battle under a rain of fire, while the cities of the merchants crumbled and the great whore seduced half of humanity. The cicadas ... fell silent, then began to sing again; an angel proclaimed that blessed are they who die in the peace of the Lord. Horrifying demons tortured for ever the adorers of the Beast; an earthquake, a hailstorm destroyed Babylon. Christ, a two-edged sword in his teeth, was treading down the vat of God’s anger; a young seraphim carrying a scythe cried out that it was time to gather in the harvest of the elect.
Loud blows on a piece of wood echoed round the courtyard; blows struck one after the other on a sort of beam, then gently, insistently ... Silence; the sporadic noise of the cicadas.
A monk appeared with a heavy bunch of keys in his hand, followed by three others. Quickly they pulled down their black hoods, covering their heads, and hurried towards the church, whose door opened with a great sound of keys in locks. Soon, in this enormous monastery which housed only four monks, while the cicadas sang in the forests, the sweet name of God came from the darkened chancel and, repeated a hundred times, rose up to the blue summer sky. The last monks of Chilandari, so solitary and poor they were scarcely more than old jungle gardeners, loved God! They cried out the name of Christ! They adored Christ, called upon Him!
I went into their church. Christ have mercy on us, Christ have mercy on us! Christ the King, Pantocrator, have mercy on us! Glory to Thee, Son of God! Standing in the stalls, leaning on the arm-rests, they glorified the Son of the Lord. They saw me standing humbly in a dark corner; the oldest beckoned me to take my place beside him. I took a few steps, knelt on the many-coloured marble flagstones, got up, kissed the icons of the most holy iconostasis and stood in an empty stall. I was drunk with fatigue, thirst and heat. Blinded by the sun, I slowly got used to the semi-darkness of the church. The wall paintings I saw among the shadows showed the birth of Christ, the baptism of Christ; faint little flames lit up mosaics, Saint Michael speared the Great Primordial Serpent with his lance. High up in the vaulting, angels played the lyre; the prophets and the evangelists, reed pens in their hands, wrote down on long parchments this vast adventure of the spirit, among so many other adventures of God which were unknown on Athos. The bearded monks took books from racks behind the stalls and opened them at a place marked with a bookmark; and, in almost sing-song voices, with bizarre vocal inflections, strongly accentuating certain syllables, one by one they named all the saints, witnesses of Christ, witnesses of the world beyond:
Athanasius, Pachomius, Dimitrius, Vladimir, Boris,
Panteleimon, Grégorios, Chrysostom, Nicholas,
Hilarion, Simeon, Johannes, Basil, Palamas, Philotheus
... and others besides; an incantation that brought back distant memories. An aged monk swung a censer in front of the iconostasis, bowing to Christ, the Virgin and John the Baptist. Then he walked round the church. The censer, decorated with little bells, jingled in the half-light where the gold of the mysterious icons was shining. Each painted board was entitled to its ration of incense. Sometimes he went into the distant side chapels, where the sound of bells became indistinct, and much fainter. You might have thought it was a small horse dying. Then the little bells began to tinkle again, and the monk returned to the chancel. He passed in front of us and I breathed in the sweet perfume of the incense, the delicious fumes. The sound of bells stopped and the censer was put back behind the iconostasis. The lamps were snuffed out and the monks left, placing a final kiss on the eyes and lips of the
beautiful face of the Son of the Lord.
I went outside. Everyone was heading off in their own direction without a word, in a hurry to get back to their respective rooms. It was obvious that they cordially detested one another. For years they had been living together, and could no longer stand one another. They had come to a tacit agreement to avoid each other as much as possible.
A monk closed the door of the church, picked up the bag I had left in the courtyard and set off up a large staircase. Climbing from landing to landing we came to a most pleasant drawing room, furnished in the style of the last century. I often got the feeling that Athos was nothing more than an immense repository of wrecks, of fragments of lives and dreams haphazardly accumulated in a place unknown to time and space. A paraffin lamp of complicated baroque workmanship with a porcelain shade hung over a round table covered with a lace cloth. The ceiling was of varnished wood; lush plants blossomed by wide windows. I saw chairs lined up along a wall hung with pale, well-framed lithographs showing holy patriarchs and several characters with full moustaches, fiery eyes and daggers and pistols in their belts; whose existence in the world of men must also date from the beginning of the last century.
One lithograph showed a man who was still very young, and of an almost feminine beauty. This one had no moustache, he was as pretty as a picture. An unbuttoned collar revealed his girlish throat; a dagger, two scimitars, a powder-horn and four pistols had been slipped through the woollen belt that was tied tightly round his slender waist.
A Journey to Mount Athos Page 5