This part of the monastery is thickly and magnificently carpeted, with sumptuous curtains over the doorway, and the Turkish rug in the sanctum where the epitrope sat was adorned with the double-headed eagle and crown of Byzantium. He was a splendid old man, with a huge flowing beard, and grand prince-of-the-church manners, none of your starveling priest. He greeted me warmly, waved me to an armchair with a gracious sweep – ‘be seated’ – and over the ceremonial coffee, raki and mezze, we got on extremely well (considering my week-old Greek). He asked after mutual friends and showed some interest in my wanderings. Eventually he put me into the hands of another venerable monk, the librarian, who led me to the tower where all the thousand-year-old literary treasures of Vatopedi were stored.
The manuscripts were priceless – old monastic charts and geographies, written before the centuries were in double figures – gold and black Byzantine psalters, each initial a work of art, the gift of some almost mythical empress or voivode; wonderful calligraphies of the sultans, and lastly a precious chalice, the gift of one of the Comneni.
As I was coming along to my room after this pleasant half hour, the cook beckoned me into his little refectory for some tea, which was not made with leaves, but some berries in a sieve, and was a green colour. This cook had heavy moustaches and a little white cap, and twinkling eyes. Calling my attention, he did something I’ve never seen before: squatting on the ground, he took a big black tomcat in his hands and started to rub it hard up and down over the shoulders, talking to it all the time; then he set it down on the ground, and held up his arms in a hoop. The cat crouched a moment, then leapt neatly about a yard into the air, through the hoop and down to earth again. I could hardly believe my eyes, and he did it several times for my benefit, and also made the cat turn somersaults. How he taught him I don’t know, but the cat seemed to like it too.
I wrote all the evening in my warm little room, till supper time, when the cook summoned me to the refectory, where about eight of us, four monks, the cook, a stranger, myself and a novice, supped together. It was rather gay as the red wine was good, and we seemed to be laughing the whole time. I managed to amuse them by giving an imitation of a muezzin calling from the minaret, and then a Muslim at prayer – ablutions, prostration etc. I must have been a little drunk, looking back, but it was quite a success. They applauded in Turkish – ‘Eyi, eyi! Teshekur ederim! Chok güzel, Bey effendi!’[8] (Naturally, many Macedonians speak Turkish, as the Bulgars do; it is not to be wondered at, the same as many Englishmen would have spoken French after several centuries of Norman occupation. Especially those speak it who are refugees from Asia Minor, after the Greco-Turkish War of 1919–22. There was one of these who came in later, a Smyrna man, who had a fantastic tale of being shot at by Atatürk’s troops on the Asiatic shores of the Hellespont and swimming out to where some English and French warships lay anchored. Coming to the Frenchman, he shouted out to be hauled aboard, but they pointed revolvers at him and told him to clear off; so summoning his last breath (he told it so graphically) he swam alongside the British destroyer, the crew of which welcomed him aboard, fed him, gave him ‘viski’ and lots of English tobacco, and arranged for him to be safely repatriated. I don’t know if a word of it is true (his only English was a string of very bad language), but it’s a good story. He can’t speak highly enough of the English and England, clicking his tongue and holding up his fingers and thumb bunched together (the Greek gesture of enthusiastic approval) and exclaiming ‘Θαυμάσια! ὡραῖα!’)[9]
After supper, there was a short office of compline in a chapel, and the congregation consisted of the eight fellow diners: the chapel was very small, and lit by one taper, held by the Albanian monk over his breviary. We could just catch a glimpse of the haloed warriors and elders in the frescoes, the shine of the ikons, and the heavily armed forescreen of the altar. The service was soon finished, all crossing themselves, touching the floor, and kissing the ikons goodnight. We all bade each other a good night – Καληνύκτα σας – and walked with our candles to our cells, where I, for my part, wrote in front of the high-piled logs far into the night.
2nd February
On waking up, a young monk brought me a grand breakfast of tea, raki, bread and cheese and γλυκό.[10] After this I got up and dressed, and wrote all the morning till luncheon time. At lunch there were two more Albanians, compatriots of the little Father Kyriakos, and fine chaps they looked, tall, well built, with open faces, rather fierce eyes, and thick black moustaches. One spoke a word or two of French, and apparently they run a pub together in Karyai. These Albanians impress me enormously, and I’m hoping to see them in their own country.
I have made friends with two young monks here called Ephraim and Zachary, splendid chaps, one tall and thickly bearded, rather like Rasputin, the other small and fair, with a beard that scarcely is one. About four o’clock they summoned me to come to Mass in the big church. The sun was shining in the courtyard, and we could see the monk up in the belfry ringing the bells, which had a sweet tone and lovely peal.
All was dim, a twilight of gold ikons, rich cloth, marble and mosaic within the chapel. The altar screen is a mass of gilding, and a forest of little wrought metal lamps hangs overhead, like tropical creepers. I leant in a pew not far from the epitropes, a venerable body of men, shaded by the flimsy black veils worn over their cylindrical hats in church. Adrian sat among the most exalted. The deacon Ephraim seemed to do most in the service, wearing a wonderful vestment of gold and blue, a stole looped twice round him, once under the right arm, then over the left shoulder again, then down to the ground. He looked fine with his gold hair undone, swinging a huge brass censer, and holding in his other hand a sort of model silver church, a white lace cloth draped over his forearm. I didn’t understand the service yet – lots of candles being carried round, censers swung, triumphal entries into the tabernacle, and the incessant, agitating Byzantine plainsong. The monks seem to doze much of the time, elbows propped on the arms of their stalls.
When all was done, and the monks were gathering before the main ikons, to kiss each of the little painted faces framed in silver before leaving the church, a monk asked me if I would like to see the treasures, and took me along behind the altar, and displayed the most wonderful gold-covered bibles, chalices, vessels and ikons and the finger of a saint encased in silver. A peasant was with us too; and as each was displayed, he knelt on the ground and knocked his forehead on the marble. At last the two greatest treasures were produced: a piece of the True Cross, and the Holy Virgin’s belt, given by Emperor John Cantacuzene (forefather of the people I met in Bucharest) studded with gems and precious metals. I thought the peasant would never have done with his kissing and prostration.
After this Ephraim and Zachary and I went for a walk in the monastery grounds, pleasant well-watered gardens, full of olive and fig trees, and delightful to walk in. We saw the sun set over the Aegean, and in the twilight walked back to Zachary’s cell, where we sat round the fire, brewing Turkish coffee till supper time.
After supper, we had our homely little compline in the chapel, and after that I wrote a while, warming my pyjamas before the stove, then went to bed and read The Bride of Abydos and Lara for ages.
3rd February
I worked hard all yesterday writing by the fire, and only making a break at luncheon time, and for the holy office in the afternoon. After Mass, I went for another walk in the garden with Brothers Ephraim and Zachary. Zachary officiated in the afternoon. He has a lovely voice, and looks magnificent in his glittering vestment, in lively contrast to the dozing epitropes with their white faces, snowy beards, and their long thin hands like skeleton leaves.
We had tea in Ephraim’s cell, toasting bread and little sausages in front of the stove. It was all great fun, and very gemütlich. At supper there were a couple of Caucasians from Tiflis, and one of them spoke a little German, so we had quite a lively time. They were amazing-looking chaps, very dark with tight, wavy black hair, and a gen
eral wild look about them.
After leaving them, and attending compline, I went to my room, and wrote far into the night.
Today I finally quitted Vatopedi, and the farewells with Father Kyriakos, Brothers Ephraim and Zachary were touching. The bells of Vatopedi sounded after us up the valley. My two Caucasians left at the same time, on horseback, and I slung my coat and rucksack on to the saddles, and walked alongside, talking with the one who knew German, and making myself understood with the other, he speaking Russian and I Bulgarian. We met nobody on the road except an old mendicant monk who begged for alms, a common type on the Holy Mountain, his robe all in rags, his cylindrical hat, which should be so stiff, a battered and shapeless pudding.
We took a completely different road from the coastal one which I had taken from Iviron to Vatopedi via Stavronikita and Pantocrator; this went several miles inland and climbed up the central spinal ridge of the peninsula, near to the actual watershed. The air was fresh and windy up here, and pleasant to walk in, jumping from stone to stone, and I didn’t envy my Caucasian friends on their old armchairs of mounts. One of them met with a mishap when we were about half way, his horse stumbling on a loose stone, and finally turning a complete somersault and casting off its rider, who got a bad shaking up and cut his cheek on a pointed stone. This was the darker of the two. He told me he wasn’t as fit as he should be in middle age, owing to having led an evil life in two great cities. He questioned me about the respective bedroom merits of the women in the different countries I had passed through and made up for my lack of communicativeness by regaling me with long and very amusing anecdotes of his wild youth. He said he was sorry for it, ‘but we Georgians are made like it’ – ‘wir Grusinier sind so von Natur!’ As soon as we came in sight of the steeples and domes of Karyai, he took off his cap and crossed himself repeatedly, his lips moving in prayer.
We soon arrived in the narrow winding streets of that celibate little capital, and found our way into a little church, where Mass was just finishing. The piety of my friends was astonishing, the forehead-knocks and ikon-kissings innumerable. They got one of the monks to take us behind the ikonostasis, the carved screen that segregates the chancel in Orthodox churches. There was a special ikon of the Virgin there, and they spent a long time with it in obeisances. I felt an awful pagan and philistine standing by in insular immobility, but what is one to do? They asked the attendant monk for some of the oil from the lamp that burned before it, to take home to sick friends and relatives, so the monk soaked two bits of cotton wool in it, which he wrapped up and carefully tucked in their wallets.
I had decided to go downhill to the coast at Iviron again, and spend the night there before setting out for Lavra, and as they were going to Iviron too, we set out together. They had to leave their steeds at Karyai, and started with me on foot. The road is a steep and a stony one, with many twists and ups and downs, and by their pants and grunts and sweating even at the start I saw they weren’t going to take to it kindly; their bad training was probably the result of the ‘evil lives’ of which the darker one had spoken. In the end, after taking about twice as long as we should, we arrived at Iviron in a dreadful state of fatigue and a muck sweat, with me carrying most of their kit, besides my own. They are both charming chaps, however, and with Russians one forgives everything, I don’t quite know why.
At supper, they drank enormously, getting very rowdy and very amusing, and we all sang Slav songs together. They are both sleeping like corpses now in the same room I’m writing in, snoring in ‘праведньıм сном’[11] as the song describes it. Russians really are amazing. Father Sophronios was terribly pleased to see me again, and we talked about Byron all the evening. It is very touching to see how Byron’s memory is treasured in Greece – they all learn about ‘λόρδος Βύρων’ at school, and exclaim proudly that he was ‘μεγάλος ϕιλέλλην’.[12]
4th February, Karakallou
My two Caucasian friends got up before me, in spite of their potations last night, and going down for coffee when I was dressed I found them chatting with Father Sophronios and some of the other monks. They greeted me noisily, ‘Ah good morning, Mister Micha-el!’, the only words they knew of English (this type are very boring; their vocabulary consists of ‘All right’ and ‘How are you’, the latter being pronounced as a statement, not a question). We had a jolly lunch together, a very good one too, of macaroni, tomato sauce and rissoles, with the usual Greek red wine that flows like water. Quite a worldly meal. Really, Father Sophronios is one of the best, and all the monks here improve on acquaintance. We have become quite good friends. One of the monks, a Brother Modestis, took us to his cell after lunch, and showed us a wonderful ship he had made of wood, with masts, sails, guns, everything, even to the little mariners lining the decks or scaling the rigging. It really was a work of art, and had taken him a year. His cell was very small, and everything spick and span, his little pallet and sheepskin rug rolled up in the corner, and on his wood-carving desk an ikon of the Holy Virgin half finished, the chips neatly brushed together. He himself was a delightful type, shy and retiring, absorbed in his work, and one of the simple practising Christians of which one sees so many on the Holy Mountain, and so few elsewhere. He had lived in his little cell for fifteen years.
I left the monastery soon afterwards, southwards along the rocky coast. It has been a lovely day, the sky and sea an unbelievable blue, the stony peaks of Lemnos and Thasos shining in the sun, the huge white mass of Athos up above and the ridge of Macedon in the distance. The road skirted many wild and deserted bays and combes, the luxuriant evergreens coming almost to the sea’s edge, shaded all the way by the interlacing boughs above, splashes of fretted sunlight falling on the flagged and stepped pathway. I came on a group of fishermen smoking in the sun before their squat, massive huts, who yelled me the way, along a little rock footpath, passing the Philotheou monastery far uphill.
Soon the road split at a ruined machicolated fortress jutting out to sea (they are common on Athos) and ran uphill inland to the monastery of Karakallou, whose high, slotted walls and rugged belfry were just visible. The road wound up and up, and a boy passed me whistling downhill, with half a dozen asses piled with wood. The road was the usual sort, of big flat stones, with a narrow bar of stone running right across every yard, to give purchase to climbing feet or horses, and, approaching the monastery under the criss-cross vine frames, having two sides sloping down to a channel in the middle, to drain it after rainfall and snowmelt. The janitor monk was blinking half asleep on the broad stone seat outside the ikon-topped monastery gates. (The Orthodox always reverently uncover and cross themselves when passing through.)
I was given the best room, high up in the cloisters, overlooking the old stone courtyard and the many-domed chapel, over the massed roofs to the rocky tree-clad hillside. After putting down my kit, I went for a walk among the mountains, the sun being still so bright that it was a crime to stay indoors. Soon I came to a little monastery, and saw it was a Russian one by the double crosses on the domes and the diagonal bar below, typically Muscovite.
A little Russian monk greeted me courteously when I entered the courtyard and said in Russian that I was just in time for tea (I can understand a great deal, owing to its kinship with Bulgarian). He was a funny little creature, with a hump, very small, his frock discarded for chopping wood – as his axe showed – his trousers tucked into heavy knee-boots, wearing the Russian jerkin, buttoned at the side under the left ear, bound at the waist with a cord, and spreading down skirt-like below. His tall hat was battered about, and with his flat face, twinkling eyes and straggling brown beard, he looked like a gnome in woodcuts illustrating Grimm’s fairy tales. He put down a block of wood to sit on, and soon brought me a glass of tea and some bread, and told me all about himself. He had come to this little monastery in 1904, in the same year as the battle of Port Arthur,[13] and for him the outside world must still be one of crinolines and high collars and billycock hats. Another, tall
white-haired monk joined us; the talk turned to Stalin, and the newcomer quietly remarked in his silky voice, ‘Cтaлuн дьявол сaтaнa!’[14] Russians are mysterious to me, but I adore their company – such gentlemen, even the peasants, such odd thought processes, and such sense of humour!
I had to run most of the way back to Karakallou, to be back before the doors closed, as the sun was starting to set; I got there just as they were closing the gates. It reminded me of racing the bell at school.
The abbot paid me a visit while I was having supper. He was a delightful old man and we battered away at a conversation consisting of no English on his part, and three weeks’ Greek on mine. Later a Greek servant came, who had been in America, and said he would show me round the Holy Mountain and ‘guard me like a brother’. His manner was sly and oily, and when I said I was a poor man like himself, his fraternal feeling began to wane, and he took his leave soon after.
The fire is almost dead. The wind is howling round the monastery, and I can hear all the trees in the forest creaking and groaning.
5th February, Megisti Lavra
The abbot came along to my cell before I was up this morning, and saw to it that I had a good breakfast. Later, when I was dressed, he presented me to the librarian who took me up the stone stairs to the library. He showed me the monastery’s marvellous collection of hand-written gospels. In one of them each initial was a little picture made of intertwining serpents. He also unrolled a parchment scroll of the liturgy which stretched for yards, and all the work of one monk.
When my things were all collected into my rucksack, and I asked to bid farewell to the abbot, the monk led me along to the chapter room, where the abbot was on his throne, surrounded by the epitropes, all grandly stroking their beards. He wished me a happy journey, and hoped he would see me there again soon, and all the rest (it was a little embarrassing) joined in wishing me good luck.
The Broken Road Page 31