He was washing a saucepan in the fast current, sometimes knocking it against a rock. A metallic sound, unusual in the Sacred Forest, mingled with the roar of the river. He was an old man, dressed like a monk, with long hair and a beard. I got close enough to make out his face, that of a plain and simple gardener. I had a horror of simple people: the legacy of my distant past, a thousand years of refusing to believe in the virtue of humble folk. Which is another way of saying I was not a Christian, and knew it. He was just some old fool in this incredible paradise, the gorges of Athos. He carried on scrubbing his saucepan with a handful of gravel, then banged it on the rock before plunging it back into the clear water. When it was clean and shiny he climbed up a path leading to his rustic balcony, where doves were settling. Hidden in the greenery, I watched him from the other side of the river. Barefoot, he came back to the river-bank with a bundle of laundry which he set about washing energetically, sleeves rolled-up, kneeling by the water like a washerwoman. He slapped it on the stones, rinsed it, stood up, trampled on it vigorously, wrung it out, and went back to his house. The good man hung his poor laundry out to dry on string stretched between the beams of the balcony, which was decorated with white carnations growing in rusty old tin cans which he watered with a coffee pot. He disappeared into the house, which had the distinct look of a long hut lost in the woods. He re-emerged around eleven o’clock, sat down on a bench in the shade of an arbour and told his beads as the cicadas sang. A child came down to the stream carrying the fine saucepan, which he filled with ice-cold water. He dawdled on the rocks, threw pebbles into the waves, then climbed merrily up the lovely path where bees were buzzing, the occupants of hives in nearby caves.
Later, after a little nap, the old man hoed his garden under an overhang of the rocky cliffs, barely visible beneath the abundant vegetation. I saw him coming and going among his flowers and vegetables, a small hoe in his hand, wearing a big straw hat and an apron tied tightly round his ungainly hips.
All day long I watched them, without wanting to show myself. They must have had a siesta, as I did not see them during the hottest hours of the day. Their door was shut; the cicadas sang. He was just a peasant; it was obvious from his movements, his bearing. I did not believe that wisdom was to be found in idiocy. To think I had climbed so high up the mountain in search of a master, only to meet just one simple man! The great hermits of the Holy Mountain had gone for ever, with no one to succeed them but good honest gardeners. I had arrived too late in the Sacred Forest. Up until the last century, wise men had lived in these high places; but since then, neglected Athos was reverting to jungle, to simplicity, and was now just frequented by ignorant monks. I was beset by stormy thoughts, anger and disappointment, and, more profoundly, a mad craving to take his place. I liked his hermitage of wooden planks and dry earth, this long balcony beside the water; and the child looked beautiful. What I wanted more than anything was for the old man to disappear: let him go back to his God, the carpenter from Nazareth, and leave this place to me! Yes, I wished him dead. Or at least that he would go away. I wanted to settle here and live as I pleased on these wild, beautiful heights, alone with the child, chopping wood in the forest and building a boat. I ought to have been on my guard for deep echoes from the Land of the Spirits: that which one most desires ... unfailingly happens! Did I guess that later on I would live in this region of caves, very poor and alone? Did I suspect it ... even for a moment, for the time it took a wave to whisper? But I was young, carefree, happy!
They reappeared late in the afternoon and drank coffee together on a bench. In the cool air, the hermit went back to his garden while the child broke up dry wood. Darkness slowly took over the jungle, which vanished among the evening shadows, leaving just an incredible perfume of flowers and leaves as a reminder of its presence, mingled with a strong smell of sludge from the stagnant backwaters. When it was completely dark, I crossed the river and knocked at the door.
It was the boy who answered. Had he spotted me when he was fetching water? Accustomed to living deep in the woods, had he, in his way, attained a kind of wisdom? He did not seem surprised to see me, and asked me to come in. The room, probably used as a kitchen, judging from the smell of spice and olive oil, was in total darkness. A faint, strangely golden light was coming from the next room, lighting up his beautiful, smiling, friendly, serious face. He asked me to follow him. His faltering steps made me think he was limping, until I realised the child was decked out with old priestly vestments which got in his way as he walked. The golden light was coming from a paraffin lamp in a room laid out as a little indoor chapel, where the hermit was getting ready for the night service in front of a rustic, shining iconostasis. His shoulders now covered with a pink and green chasuble that was faded and threadbare with age, its fringe fraying, he gave me a discourteous glance and took no more notice of me. Censer in hand he began his litanies, repeated softly by the child, who was obviously the son of a mule-driver, an orphan delighted with his position as the servant of a hermit. They lit candles, murmuring a sacred, very ancient and very venerable text. The solitary opened a book, and in a very deep, cracked voice he sang a bizarre melopoeia, old as the sky and very sad.
Both of them seemed to have forgotten I was there, fascinated as they were by the browned gold of the icons. They bowed low before their humble Deësis, they anointed each other with incense, then, candles in hand, they swiftly recited the extremely long list of all the saints in Paradise, the boy, always one name behind, yelling Dimitrius, Pachomius, Grégorios, while the man was already at Saint John Chrysostom! Again they bowed before the icons; the boy lit a gold lamp with a wax taper. As he did so, he sang a canticle that must have dated back to the glory of Byzantium, and which, bastardized through the centuries, and sung in a nasal tone, was now no more than a raucous, savage song in his mouth. It echoed strangely in this little house, lost in the gorges of Athos. The celebration continued; they did not seem to get tired; they had gone into a trance; the boy was staring vacantly, and there was a wonderful beauty to his face; the monk bellowed, a little bell tinkled insistently, the censer answering it with its own ringing noise. Chant followed chant, petitions, incantations.
Now they were reciting the list of all the pious anchorites, confessors, virgins, martyrs, witnesses and doctors of the Most Holy Orthodoxy. The bell, rung by the boy, tinkled frantically: they were all set to evoke the Spirits until three o’clock in the morning in that fiery, candle-lit room, in that little chapel with walls of mud and straw painted scarlet. The candles and the lamps gave off an intense heat. The air, heavy with the smell of incense and wax, was intoxicating; the brilliance of all the gold fascinated me as well. The chants, whose great age took me back to the first nights on earth, were delirious and often exquisitely tender, and they made me drunk with pleasure. The boy danced from one foot to the other; the burning tallow was running down his fingers without him noticing. The anchorite, quickly gathering the folds of his many-coloured chasuble in front of him, made a deep bow almost to the floor, then suddenly knelt down, kissed the ground and stood up again, thundering out a new chant, his eyes closed, his face wild, his hair in disarray. Like them I was dancing from one foot to the other, my eyes closed. Then abruptly the festival ended with a last tinkle of the bell.
The hermit and his young acolyte came round, blew out the candles and shifted almost automatically from the sacred to the profane. He took off his pink and green chasuble, hung it in a cupboard and helped the boy get out of his finery. He carried the paraffin lamp into the kitchen, took a cigarette from his pocket, and lit it with the flame, nearly setting light to his tousled beard. He took a few puffs and finally seemed to remember I was there. Taking the lamp from the stove, he pushed open a door leading to a charming little bedroom whose open window looked out on to the cool river. He hung the lamp on a nail, and left without any further ado. I turned back the wick and put it out, and soon fell asleep on a narrow little bed whose pillows were stuffed with scented, sleep-inducing herbs.
/>
I woke late. The mist had long since cleared. A hot sun shone down on the forest. A cloud of steam rose from the rushing stream, wetting the greenery of the deep gorge. I went through the dark, smoke-blackened kitchen, cluttered with cauldrons. I washed my face and joined them under an arbour, on a seat where I was given coffee. They wanted to know who I was, why I had come to the Sacred Forest. And so the discussions began. The boy could not take his eyes off me, smiling at me; as for the hermit, if my arrival the night before had seemed a nuisance, this morning I was a distraction from the immense boredom that I had often noticed among the monks of Athos. But was he really a hermit? His house was only one skete among many others, more basic perhaps, very isolated in the jungle. I was sure there was a truly solitary man higher up in the forest. They did not know of any. I persisted; they said it was true there were ancient caves further along in the cliffs, but it was well-known that they had been abandoned since the beginning of the century. I had an idea: to set myself up in a cave that was still habitable and, since I had lost hope of finding a master, to attempt the great adventure of solitary meditation alone, by becoming an anchorite myself. A wise man did live higher up in the forest: it was me, later on—for time is only an illusion. The good thing about Athos is that everyone is free to follow his own path. It is a tradition unchanged since Byzantium: go where you will, God will help you! I could have expressed the intention to live in a tree, to wear leaves and eat grass, without arousing the slightest surprise. Not only did my plan not surprise them, they even offered to show me how to get to the ancient caves straight away. Despite the heat, which was already strong, they were ready to leave right that minute, like all those who basically have nothing to do, and who are always ready to go for a walk in the woods; and also because, in the Land of the Spirits, what must happen is set in motion with the greatest of ease. Since arriving on Athos, my wishes had been granted almost instantly; each time I was surprised, charmed, delighted by it. I could not get used to the enchantments of the Holy Mountain. Here everything seemed very easy, and indeed it was, in a vast, uncertain time, constantly fragmented, unknown to humans.
I was given a glass of water ... The sporadic cacophony of the cicadas sometimes became more insistent between moments of silence, during which everything seemed to be suspended, completely immobile. In the wild forest the cicadas were silent. I sensed a break in the flow of time; there was a divine moment of absolute existence, sufficient unto itself. Then everything began to move again. The sound of the nearby river, which flowed with a soft murmuring of fresh water as it washed over the rocks, came back to me. The cicadas sang, and I drank the glass of ice-cold water which had been put in front of me I knew not how long ago.
One point had yet to be settled however; it was broached discreetly, but firmly: did I have the parchment that the Great Ancients gave to those who are worthy of staying more than a few days on the Holy Mountain? I got out the parchment and handed it to him. He put on his glasses and read the text attentively from beginning to end. It was a long Byzantine text that I had never managed to decipher. He gave it back to me respectfully, with a most religious gesture of amazement: I was one of those who could live eternally on Athos! He all but kissed my feet! Out of modesty I hid them under the bench. I did not conceal from my hosts my emotion on hearing this decision by the Great Ancients, so rarely granted. Practically never, he exclaimed. The boy gazed at me in admiration. What is more, those who rule in Kariés had commanded that help and assistance were to be given to me unreservedly in these woods that I loved, to be happier than anyone could ever hope for, and to know that it was for always! This blank cheque giving me the right to live eternally on Athos ... it didn’t matter how accustomed I was to joy, that delicious moment when I learnt that I was saved for ever!
But who was it who was to live on in this incredible land? I asked if there was a name on the parchment. He took back the text that I was holding and read it out syllable by syllable: FRAN ÇOIS AU GI É RAS, he spelt, not without difficulty. The syllables rang out in the calm air, but meant nothing to anybody. The bees buzzed, a bird settled on a branch. It was probably my last incarnation. It was my eternal soul, indifferent to all notion of identity, which rejoiced in its survival... on a June morning, in a gorge on Athos.
In the shade of an arbour with a few cups of Greek coffee, I closed my eyes with happiness. For a while I no longer heard the song of the cicadas, nor the flight of the bees, nor the babble of the stream ... I opened my eyes: I was being reminded about my plan to go and live in a cave. While the cicadas ceaselessly repeated their cry, the monk was already locking his door with a sharp turn of the key. He gave it a thump to make sure it was secure, then picked up a heavy staff. As for the child, he left empty-handed, cheerfully going on ahead of us along the path which, halfway up the rocks, climbed back up the stream.
We passed beehives made of plaited willow, covered with flat stones and planks, set up at the entrance to sad little caves where hay, tools, bundles of firewood, casks had been piled up; cool black caverns where, through the ages, other solitary men before them had put their barrels, rakes and forks in the Sacred Forest. We went through an undergrowth of young chestnut trees on a dangerous overhang, twenty-five metres above the water. The path became a narrow ledge; there was a way through but it was difficult, with a sheer drop to the river below. Suddenly I saw enormous caves, some roughly converted a long time ago.
In this part of Athos, everything was witness to a thousand years of occupation, works and signs that might have been older than Christianity. Stairs cut roughly out of the cliff, giant steps leading to rooms higher up, hollowed out by men: stone rooms with little openings like those in watch-towers, looking out at the jungle. At this point, worn-down and gently rounded by the water, enormous rocks that had once fallen from the cliff-top now blocked the river, which surged into a narrow channel with a noise like thunder.
One cave suited me: it was immediately decided that I would set up home there. They left me to explore the numerous passages that led back into cold darkness, and soon came back with a mattress, blankets and a paraffin lamp. I arranged a sort of camp for myself under a dry shelter on the fine, sandy ground. The boy ran to the hermitage and brought me a jumble of everything he thought would be useful. And so I inherited a small axe, a metal jug, a heavy cooking pot he had picked up in the woods, a candle, a can of paraffin and a little box full of incense. He put down his load in front of me, disappeared, and came back, out of breath, with new treasures that he piled up at my feet: a stool, some forks, a knife, a bolster and a short sword dating from the Ottoman occupation. As my setting up home in the holy caves caused him much childish excitement, he was gaily looting from his master to establish me comfortably in my new condition as a pious anchorite. This upheaval in the woods, in the full heat of the afternoon, and accompanied by the frenzied noise of the cicadas, amused and intoxicated him. Like all children who live alone with an old man, far from other men, he seemed a little mad, happy, very free. We watched him arrive with an alarm clock in one pocket and a chair in his hand. He apologised for being so poorly laden this time:
I dropped an eiderdown in the little wood, he laughed, and ran off to fetch it.
The sun was going down over the forest. It was time to leave me. The monk gave me a box of matches, and asked me to use them sparingly, for he did not have many at the moment. The respectful admiration he had shown that morning had quite disappeared. Was he really so overjoyed to have me as a neighbour? I knew this kind of man, simple and crude, with an utterly unstable temper, devoted one minute, almost aggressive the next; one of those very limited, very Christian people, devoid of courtesy, who being nothing, derive vanity from their solid rusticity; one of those people who, because they have been congratulated once on their plain speaking, believe they have the authority for the entirety of life to say all the stupid things that pass through their heads. He seemed furious at having enabled me to set myself up in the ancient caves. If it hadn’t b
een for the blank cheque granted to me, perhaps hastily ... by the Great Ancients of Kariés, the good man would have asked me to move on—a peasant, suddenly offensive, in a hurry to leave. It is true the wretch had reason to be annoyed, since the child had performed a veritable house-moving, going all out to loot his hermitage, chair and stool included, probably HIS chair and HIS only stool, for the benefit of a young stranger whose saintliness was in no way apparent.
“Every evening, when it is cool, the child will bring YOU coffee and vegetables.”
He invested this “YOU” with all the coolness of one who hated strangers, and with a private satisfaction at being merely a humble gardener, a worker for Christ, without education. The hostility of a simple man mattered little to me: I had HIS chair, HIS stool, HIS blankets, HIS forks, and almost already HIS servant! The boy seemed completely smitten with me. Among other reasons for liking each other, did we not share a taste for pillage? The child wanted to kiss my hand. His master took him back with a roughness that upset me. After a blessing, purely for the sake of appearances, I was left in my cave in the middle of the indescribable camp of a shipwrecked man, abandoned to his solitude in a jungle that was suddenly silent at sunset.
A bench seat, carved out of the rock, provided me with a bed, on which I laid out the mattress and the blankets. I took the short sword I had been given, the box of incense and the cooking pot outside onto a sort of rocky porch that rose above the lively waters. Dead branches, which had fallen from the top of the cliff, littered the ground. I snapped some of them; they broke with a cracking noise that was taken up by the echoes. I threw them down beside three stones arranged into the shape of a hearth; and I waited for night to come, sitting by a substantial supply of dried branches. The insects had ceased their cries, and I was getting so used to the roar of the river that I no longer heard it.
A Journey to Mount Athos Page 11