Once again everything enchanted me, as, with a stout staff in my hand, I climbed the ancient steps leading up through the silent countryside under a wintry, golden, almost red sky. The abandoned sketes, the dark ravines, the rushing streams, the old gardens under snow, this was the jungle, and it was not: a dreamland once inhabited by many monks, and now returning to the primordial forest. Here and there were final traces of the work of Byzantine builders, now almost in ruins, and overrun more each year by the spread of elms, cypress and cedars, by landslides, by rain. If the current occupants of Athos were only very simple people, their distant ancestors had known, with a rare skill, how to shape the rock, lay the now displaced paving stones of the mysterious roads that led deep into the undergrowth, how to choose with perfect taste—that of saintly souls—the location of a hermitage, a fountain at the bottom of a charming little valley, a crossing of paths: never, for a thousand years, had the opinion of a woman or that of a common man prevailed on Athos. I saw what man can do when he builds for the gods. It mattered little to me to know that worshippers of the Virgin and of Christ Pantocrator, those two Semites I did not believe in, were in Paradise. All I needed to make me happy was to go ever further into a land of inexpressible, sacred beauty, where the scent of resin from the pines and the hundred-year-old cedars completely intoxicated me.
Everything delighted me in these forests, myself most of all! My freedom, my lack of identity, my guise, my torn boots, my warm woollen coat and the chiming sound made by a metal teapot and an aluminium flask as they banged together at my waist with every step I took, both tied to my leather belt along with a heavy bundle of manuscripts and a spirit lamp. My poverty and my wanderings gave me something of the nature of the sacred. On my own, having met no one since I left Vatopedi, I felt at home in these woods, where for centuries an axe had never fallen on the great trees that had reached gigantic proportions. Athos, incredibly beautiful in the snow, belonged to me alone.
I knew I was lost, but did not let it worry me too much; for on this side of the enchanted thickets the paths were still visible, and all of them led to sketes or monasteries. It was not yet noon: a delightful fountain came into view.
No place, in any land of dreams, made you want to stop as much as this one. Icy water flowed from a bronze mask and filled an old marble trough. I laid my bundle of manuscripts on the edge; it was banging against my hip. Dead leaves floated in the clear water, which reflected the sky. The overflow ran into the snow, creating a stream that almost immediately froze solid. In the sleeping countryside, which seemed dead in the heart of winter, I quenched my thirst at the everlasting spring that poured from the smiling bronze lips. There, I washed myself of my fears. I loved this delicious water that came from the depths of the earth; a benign, very holy force issued from this once pagan fountain. I did not know who I was ... and I had no wish to know: was I not simply a soul as old as this ancient spring which had murmured here for thousands of years and, like it, was merely a spell among all the spells of the world?
I stood the spirit lamp on the marble rim. I put some water on to boil, made myself tea, with a few stones piled up round the flame to shelter it from the slight wind. Happy, drunk with living in this sacred land, I breathed in the powerful scent of the great cedars. Jays chattered in the solitary confinement of enormous clumps of green bamboo, an unexpected sight in the snowy woods. Alone in the forest, and in a state of utter enchantment, I did not tire of looking at the old gardens that were returning to wilderness, the white peak of Athos shining like a flawless diamond beyond the hills, and this venerable old fountain, so kindly disposed to me, beside which sang my humble wanderer’s tea.
I blew out the flame and waited for my metal teapot to cool down, for being so poor I had no cup. The jays had gone quiet, the sky was turning deep gold, the day was getting on. I drank my tea. In the incredible silence of the forest I gathered up my belongings, my manuscripts, my spirit lamp, my flask, my tin of sugar. Laden like a mule, the whole ensemble rattling and ringing around my waist, my warm balaclava protecting me from the icy evening air, I set off for Esphigmenou, the old monastery where I wished to live in peace.
More than anything I needed rest, food, warmth and— quite humanly—someone to care about me, for I was dying of distress. I had been at Esphigmenou for a month ... and had not moved on because of the storms that prevented me setting off, the heavy falls of snow that blocked the roads, and especially because of my determination not to have to go too soon.
A little bedroom in the attic had been put at my disposal. An Ottoman stove, painted sky-blue, took up half the room. A small boy brought me armfuls of logs twenty times a day. My fire roared away non-stop; an unbearable, delightful heat gave me rest from my weariness and, in January, made me leave the window slightly open until after midnight. I was happy, with the heavy happiness of a beast that has found a warm, peaceful corner and does not intend to leave. I scarcely moved from my bed, and slept practically night and day. As for human contact, which would have drawn me out of my solitude, my relationship with the monks was limited to a few words exchanged with the boy or the cook. I was given shelter in a spirit of charity; I was ignored, I was avoided. Besides, Esphigmenou was only a very poor monastery inhabited by five or six monks, as far as I could tell when I went down to the church. The cook was not the one I had known in the time of my youth. The decent man who currently reigned over the ovens had got it into his head, I did not know why, that he was dealing with a person of importance. I had not put him straight about his pleasant error, which was worth a clean little room to me, but there was a drawback: he absolutely insisted that I have my meals “in the drawing room”, not in his kitchen, whose healthy warmth and lovely disorder appealed to me more than the dusty pedestal tables and pious lithographs of the drawing room. All the more so since it was freezing cold in there! The child lit a poor little blaze which went out almost immediately. I did not mind; once I had swallowed the last mouthful I went back to bed.
No doubt I had to sleep before the Awakening! Get my strength back before passing across the final threshold! I had not attempted to see the Clear Primordial Light again, whose memory was usually wiped from my soul while I slept. I had long since given up the search for a master; I loved Athos, I loved Esphigmenou, and saw nothing beyond that. Every afternoon I made some tea in my room, my spirit lamp standing on the sill of my window, which looked out onto the courtyard. At this time of year night fell quickly. I lit a candle, I reread my manuscripts, the tale of my final wanderings, what I had foreseen, put down in writing, and which was actually happening to me. I waited for the next part, without quite believing in it. And yet, if it were true! At six o’clock the child brought me new logs. I stuffed my Ottoman stove, I ate supper “in the drawing room”, then slipped between my sheets. I listened to the sound of the sea and the wind ... Continual storms battered the north coast of Athos; as Esphigmenou stood right on the shore, a few steps from the tide, the spray lashed against the high walls; the strongest waves beat violently against our stones, shaking the monastery from cellar to attic. It was a constant uproar that deafened me, so much so that it sent me to sleep. Window panes shattered, gusts of wind blew along the great corridors, the sea kept on roaring. I fell asleep, listening to the terrible storms that made me drunk with happiness.
So was it very close to my end that I met my master, who I had lost hope of ever seeing? One morning as I was wandering in the snowy courtyard, a monk who I had merely glimpsed in the half-darkness of the church gestured to me to follow him. He opened the door of a little chapel. It was a sort of storeroom of marvels where extraordinary treasures had been amassed ... as elsewhere in the world you pile up logs. More than a hundred icons of venerable age, hanging on nails, gleamed gently in peaceful shadow, their calm splendour rivalling the pure brightness of the snow. The place smelt of incense, wax and good painting, for that has a smell, as does holiness! And back then, people knew how to paint! The quality of the golds, turned brown by time, o
f the ochres, the reds; the sweetness of the materials used, exquisite, divine, hard as enamel, sometimes the colour of ivory; the delicacy of the drawing, whose geometry could not be bettered, all made me forget the nearby commotion of the water, when I realised that ‘he’ was watching me, keys in hand. An ageless man, not so very old, with long, thinning hair gathered into a chignon at the nape of the neck. On Athos I had only come across stupid people, but his handsome face expressed only intelligence, a wild and loving kindness. Was this my master? He met my gaze openly, without avoiding my unspoken questions. I was waiting for a word from him, a gesture. He stayed silent and continued to watch me closely. I was sure: he KNEW who I was ... In his eyes I saw an ancient understanding mingled with astonishment, reproach, anger. Then he was carried away by his affection for me; he smiled. He was about to speak: he KNEW where I really came from ... He preferred to say nothing. I was convinced that he was deciding, reluctantly, to leave me to my strange destiny, not knowing what to say to a being who was not like anyone, and whose presence here seemed unbelievable. His beautiful eyes dimmed. All I saw in front of me now was no more than a monk, like all the rest, in a hurry to lock the door, to get back to his saucepans, almost a simpleton. But I was certain of it: he was ‘playing the fool’ out of humility, and especially to disappoint me, to bring me back to my solitude and make me despair.
His good colleagues also worked at it in their own way. A mule-train, taking advantage of an obvious break in the snow storms, had just arrived from Kariés and was leaving the next day. With the mule-drivers I again saw the learned doctor who had treated my burns. He was hurrying to the bedside of an old monk who was slowly dying. They gave me to understand, tactfully, that since I was only a stranger, as well as suspected of being rather unchristian, I could not stay on at Esphigmenou any longer; in short, I was asked to clear off. This time I regretted that a decent illness did not keep me bedridden, obliging these fine folk to take me in for good. But annoyingly I was as fit as a fiddle, apart from a slight breathlessness, which I was used to and which no longer worried me.
We mounted at dawn. The mules, nostrils steaming, stamped the ground with their hoofs and shook their bells. Hippocrates opened a black umbrella to protect himself from the snow and wind. I hugged myself tightly in my woollen overcoat and we set off, sometimes walking quickly to warm ourselves up and relieve the strain on our animals, sometimes cantering along with a good jab of the spurs.
By sunset we were at Kariés. Once the mules had been left at the inn I headed for the nearby monastery of Koutloumousiou, where I hoped to spend several days, perhaps more, since the harsh winter weather forced the monks to show a little more pity than usual towards the unfortunate. I was starting to think like a vagrant, and my Slavonic soul was actually quite comfortable with my being utterly destitute. At the entrance to the orchard I stopped to get my breath back.
Leaning my elbows on a low stone wall where I had put my manuscripts, I stared for a long time at the snow-covered countryside. The sky had cleared. The transparent air, tinged from pink to nocturnal blue, and gold above the dark forests, was slowly getting darker. One star glowed beside the white marble of Athos. A vast, almost Asian landscape, I thought: Japanese. The bright summit of the Holy Mountain ‘reminded’ me of Fujiyama! I walked up to the entrance of the monastery, crossing the orchard whose trees had been stripped bare by winter.
I got a rather poor reception. I ate in the kitchens. I was told that I could not be given shelter for more than one night. However Slavonic I might be, my beggar-like condition then dawned on me in all its horror. On top of that I was exhausted by a long journey. Unable to hold back my tears I went out into the courtyard. I leant against a wall, my chest shaken by uncontrollable sobs. My heart was breaking! A violent pain was crushing my throat and my left shoulder; I fell into the snow and the mud. A sharp, unbearable pain! For a whole quarter of an hour, beside myself with agony and fear, I moaned in the darkness. The pain eased off but I could feel my blood freezing; life was ebbing away from my limbs. I was cold, very cold. I had reached the end of a life: I was going to die. Heavily I got to my feet, my clothes soaked with mud, and headed for the church, drawn by the gold of the candlelit icons, drawn by the ever-more beautiful and solemn chants, which called me to them and which were helping me to die.
What a strange religion mine is, with no God but the Clear Primordial Light whose admirable reflection is GOLD, I thought, already outside myself, no longer able to stand up straight, one shoulder leaning against a scarlet column. GOLD fascinated me. A great shaft of light suddenly passed through my mind: I had thought I was very old, as old as the world. I was convinced I had been a magician, an alchemist in Byzantium, a monk in Russia, on Athos, in Asia ... TIME suddenly turned upside down so violently that I almost passed out. ON THE CONTRARY, I came from the FUTURE ... and I was now exploring humanity’s past, some profound regions of the psyche—both human and divine—before returning to the civilization of the stars, of light and of gold, my real homeland and my true time! I came from the future. The monk at Esphigmenou had known this, but he had not wanted to tell me.
They thought the man who collapsed in a corner of the church was drunk, the man who they carried to a bed and comforted; a vagrant who was given hot soup and tea ... who got out of bed as the night ended and set off along the paths which led towards the bright marble summit of Athos.
I knew I was close to death. I did not want to meet my end among Christians. I could hear a call that came from the stars and from space. I was heading for the heights, towards the sky, still dark with night and scattered with stars. I climbed the stone steps with difficulty, short of breath, my heart broken. I wanted to die gazing at the rising sun, in the peace and silence of the high snowy slopes. I began to hurry, irresistibly drawn by the sky. I walked quickly, without feeling tired. I looked at my reflection in a little fountain: the old man’s mask that had covered my face had disappeared. I was young again! I set off once more through the sleeping woods, and did not stop until I reached the edge of a precipice: beyond, there was only emptiness.
There I sat down to die, my hands resting on my thighs, my body upright. I waited calmly for THE AWAKENING. Day was breaking, intensely blue in the infinite space.
Before me rose the sharp peak of the Sacred Mountain, solitary as an island above the banks of mist that hid the valleys. Delicately, the first rays of the sun touched the crystal-clear marble. THE AWAKENING! But who was it who was dying? I was withdrawing peacefully from an old dream ... and I smiled after my long wanderings in the archaic depths of the human and divine soul. I soared into the sky. I saw God,
THE LIVING GOLD THAT SINGS
AT THE HEART OF AN INCREDIBLE
SILENCE.
AFTERWORD
François Augiéras
Hospice de Domme 24
3 August 1969
Dear Jean Chalon,
I have sent Etienne Lalou a ‘note for insertion’ useful for an excellent understanding of A Journey to Mount Athos. Here it is:
The theme of this novel, A Journey to Mount Athos, is that of a stay in the Land of the Spirits, according to the strictest Buddhist or Pythagorean orthodoxy.
Our traveller, who is dead, can be reincarnated immediately: the daughter of Ierissos—the village of young, desirable women— offers to make him “a fine child”, or to put it plainly, to return him to the world of mortals. Our hero, whose soul appears old and wise already, decides to venture further into the Land of the Spirits. So he sets out by sea, heading for the Holy Mountain. There he finds happiness, the consequence of his past actions, of his deepest tendencies, a paradise that he is sure he has been to before: a strange paradise where at any given moment time seems disconnected, broken apart, changed as a result of being close to the Divine. In the world beyond he will again meet people he has loved in former times, elsewhere ... He will hear the final echoes of his previous lives.
After many charms and enchantments he will have to choose: eit
her return to live among the living, or awaken from his own death and attain the Clear Primordial Light so often mentioned in the Bardo-Thödol, the Tibetan Book of the Dead. Severely burnt, purified by suffering, he withdraws into the region of caves. He will become aware of his true, cosmic SELF, which is simply an archetype as old as the world, which would have interested Jung. In the final pages he will resume his wanderings on the Holy Mountain until the moment when, all karma exhausted and time destroyed—for a moment he will even believe that he comes from the future—he finally returns to the Clear Primordial Light: the living Gold that sings at the heart of an incredible silence.
This entirely initiatory and symbolic book ends with this return to Energy, to the Pure State ... which men call God.
What do you think of my note for insertion? I think I have set out my plan clearly, in a few words ... without weighing down the charms and enchantments of the Holy Mountain with too much ‘philosophy’.
[ ... ] The manuscript of A Journey to Mount Athos is yours; I would be glad to give it to you when you come to the Dordogne. Naturally, I can send it to you if our meeting this summer turns out to be impossible.
That meeting did turn out to be impossible. It was the time of my life when Natalie Clifford Barney, Florence Jay-Gould and Louise de Vilmorin took up a lot of my time. Anxious to collect together the memories of their past and present glories, I was never able to escape, even for a weekend, to meet this man Francois Augiéras who lived in a cave in the Dordogne, where he practised strange rites that he described in Domme ou un essai d’occupation. And yet to me he seemed like a master, since he was free to use his time in whatever way he chose, while I was, and still am, the slave of my schedule. He taught me that you can exist on nothing. He lived on tea and burning incense. He wrote me letters that brought me a great breath of fresh air very different from the one I breathed in Parisian salons.
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