When the fakirs make plants spring from seeds in an instant, and when yogis promenade on water, or when clairvoyant men spirit themselves off like Óðinn to distant lands on their own and others’ errands, people say: “Beware, good children, it is the Devil!” As if the Devil would not be welcome to make seeds sprout, men promenade on water, clairvoyant men carry out their errands, and mediums experience ectoplasmic vomiting and diarrhea? If the Devil were as harmless as that, it would be great fun to live. I admit that I hate the Devil and know best of all men that he possesses a completely astonishing power, even the power to heal the sick and comfort the sorrowful. But it is no explanation whatsoever to say about any phenomenon: “That’s from the Devil!” I ask: “How is it from the Devil?” Just as it is nothing but a distortion of fact when someone who asks about the existence of this world is given the answer that it was created by God. I ask: “How did he do this?” In the same way I say to the Devil, if he comes into my room at night: “Bonjour, monsieur le Diable! Je suis bien charmé de vous voir. Comment allez vous? Voudriez vous bien vous donner la peine de vous asseoir?”126 And I do not let him leave until I have examined him carefully, peered down his throat, looked under his tail, and listened to his heart.
When all is said and done I hope that you understand, dearly beloved Father, that I am as firmly Catholic now as I was before. Allow me to repeat it: I believe in God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. And I believe in the one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. The Church with its precious teachings has lifted me beyond the boundary of the temporal world, and I have the Church to thank that I find myself a free spirit. It has interpreted my dreams of God for me. Its creeds stand in my imagination as holy places of refuge, redeeming monuments. I perceive the brighter Heaven of truth behind every one of its most ordinary expressions better than the clerics themselves: I cannot compare my perceptions to anything other than the inexpressible in the visions of mystics, saints, and other free men. On the other hand I eagerly admit that I have not become what is called a “better man” by becoming Catholic; no, God is just as far above me as he has always been. The Church has only granted me security; it is my life’s anchor. Without it I could no longer bear to exist. There and nowhere else can I bear to live and to die. There I say my prayers unafraid. If I did not believe in Jesus Christ, I would die.
In the hope, beloved Father, of being able to greet you face-to-face within the fewest number of days, I am your obedient and compliant son in Jesus Christ.
92.
After a three-month absence Steinn Elliði stood again at the gate of the abbey in Sept Fontaines. Grapevines droop down off the edge of the wall. He peeked shyly into the abbey garden, where he had left innumerable footprints among the flowers. It was in fact this garden that preserved the footsteps of his childhood feet; here he had become a child of God; he had been lost and the Kingdom of Heaven had awaited him in this garden. For a whole year he had wandered about this garden, where every twig had been planted by consecrated hands and God let his holy designs drip down into his soul. There were the tree-lined paths to the grove, and the young trees; and God created Heaven and Earth. Grace serves the inner being of the man who has forsaken everything for the Kingdom of Heaven. He had left this place as a member of its household three months ago; now he stood again as a visitor at its gate. He was so heavyhearted that he longed to slink away and disappear with the first train into perfect oblivion and utter darkness. Nothing is as alluring as oblivion. And the greatest thing to look forward to is death: nothing is nearly as exciting as to die. Death is like the raisin in the whale’s ass.127 What might be on the other side? No, he thought, I will speak with Father Alban and take his advice. It would be cowardice not to dare to stand face-to-face with Father Alban.
Evensong sounded throughout the church. God bless these men who believe that God is served with worship, music, and hymns of praise. It would be cruel not to allow them to sing. The music of the familiar old Gregorian chants was carried to his ears. The blessed Church has sung through the mouths of its monks in the same way for many years, for many hundreds of years, for many thousands of years – because the verse and the song originate from the eastern part of the world, from the temple of Jerusalem.
Lætatus sum in his quae dicta sunt mihi:
in domum Domini ibimus.128
The most remarkable invention on Earth is the Lord. Electricity is a trifle compared to him.
Stantes erant pedes nostri
in atriis tuis Jerusalem.129
He prayed in the shadows before the door, and his ears drank in every syllable of the ancient psalm. In the choir sat the men of God with their hoods drawn over their heads like Santa Clauses, looking into their souls as they sang. The souls of monks are like beautiful countries. He recognized all of the faces again, every line of every face. These were his faithful friends, and he was unworthy of tying their shoestrings, although of course they already tied their own. But no matter how much he searched he did not see Father Alban anywhere. There was a new monk sitting in the prior’s seat. What happened to Father Alban? Was he ill, or on a trip somewhere? Finally Steinn came to the conclusion that he must have died, since a new man had taken his seat. What reason could the Lord have had to let Father Alban die? Steinn waited impatiently for the monks to finish singing the divine office. If Father Alban were truly dead, he thought, all joy would be swept from existence. It isn’t so bad to live if a man has had the fortune to become acquainted with holy men. If a man has not become acquainted with holy men, then there is no advantage to living, and it would be just as well if one had never been born. How often had he regarded Father Alban and said, like Maxim Gorky when he saw the elder from Yasnaya Polyana 130 sitting alone at the seaside one sunny day: “I am not so badly off while this man inhabits the Earth!” A silent payer follows the last Deo gratias, which ends with a hammer stroke. The monks rise to their feet and walk two by two from the choir, with their hands on their chests, covered over by the billowing arms of the choir robes, without looking to the right or left, a silent host.
Several minutes later Steinn sits in conversation with the Guest Master, the loquacious Père Dorval, in the refectory. Father Dorval lets the questions rain down as before; he takes completely limitless pleasure in hearing news. Perhaps he in fact thinks that there is nothing so terribly boring as the news, but he asks and asks because he has been chosen by God to speak with guests. How did you feel about visiting your homeland? Is there any likelihood that your people will be converted from Lutheranism in this century? No. Arianism lingered for four hundred years, Nestorianism has lingered since the fourth century and still lingers. And in the seventeenth century a group of Nestorians was reunited with the Church. Protestantism would have been finished a long time ago if it hadn’t been kept afloat by kings. Isn’t Copenhagen a brilliantly beautiful city? Isn’t seasickness amazingly unpleasant? How many departments are there in the university in Reykjavík? Are the Freemasons well established in Iceland? Finally Steinn was given space to interject the question that had been burning on his lips the whole time:
“I didn’t see Father Alban in the choir. Is he away?”
At the mention of Father Alban the smile disappeared from the monk’s face, and he became pious and solemn:
“Yes, you have every right to ask about your friend and Father Confessor, our good Father Alban! But you have seen that he is no longer with us. God has called Father Alban away from us.”
“Are you telling me that Father Alban is dead?” asked Steinn.
“No, monsieur, that’s not what I meant. Father Alban is not what is ordinarily called dead, but rather he has gone away. He has entered a stricter order. He was so eager for the ascetic life that his life with us did not fully satisfy his demands. It will be nearly six weeks now since he left us and went to Switzerland. He has started as a novice with the Carthusians in Valle Sainte. It is high up in the mountains.”
“Him, the Novice Master, starting as a novice! That
’s unbelievable! What does he think he will find with the Carthusians that he did not find here?”
“His humility and piety were great, monsieur. He was that man who never lost sight of the highest goal. He had felt the calling to the Carthusian life before he became a Benedictine monk, but his state of health prevented him from beginning his clerical life in a lifestyle that demands such limitless self-denial. He was originally nothing but a weak violin virtuoso who had been coddled all his life. But during the last few years his health started to improve daily. Now he starts again at the beginning, the humblest of all the Lord’s poor. He will start by scrubbing the floors and feeding the pigs. The Carthusians have no freedoms resembling ours. They may not speak together except for one half-hour a week and must fast for eight months of the year, and never eat meat. Each monk lives in his own cell, and his daily bread is thrust in through a hole in the wall. They spend their lives in constant prayer. They get up at midnight and attend choir for three hours. No one is allowed to see them or to speak with them. The world does not know that they exist. Whoever becomes a Carthusian dies to the world and is buried. Dear friend, allow me now to accompany you to the refectory, and to give you coffee, milk, bread and butter and honey. Maintenant c’est exactement l’heure pour goûter.” 131
Steinn Elliði rambled away from the abbey and disappeared into the forest. Autumn’s change of colors had come to the forest. Steinn thought about what an uncomfortable feeling it was to be startled. Perfect men never allow themselves to be startled.
Father Alban sets out from Sept Fontaines and buys himself a ticket in third class. He takes his seat among spitting workers, screaming children, and unclean mothers with naked breasts nursing swaddling infants. No one suspects that this poor monk with his cowled head and his hands beneath his scapular had at one time been the golden idol of the concert halls in Paris and shared toasts with potentates and geniuses in Saint Petersburg and New York. He does not even have a knapsack on his shoulders or a staff in his hand. He is free. There is nothing between Heaven and Earth that binds him anymore, not even a flute. He chimes in with the poet and sings:
Ich hab’ meine Sach’ auf nichts gestellt,
und mein gehört die ganze Welt.132
He has abdicated all positions of rank, the names of nobleman, virtuoso, and scientist, forsaken his gold and green forests, mansions and thrones, horses and cars, dogs and cats, lovers and loves, family and nation, country and arts. Finally he has said farewell to the sunshine of the Benedictine life, its beauty and peace, his rank within the monastic order: his positions as prior and Novice Master, the conversations and his friends – everything. Only one thing remains – God the Father Almighty, the Creator of Heaven and Earth, his only begotten son Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. Now he dwells in a cold district in a coniferous belt of the Alps, among the prisoners of the Lord, scrubbing the floor and carrying draff to the pigs, he whose cheeks are like those of a Roman emperor! What was it to walk the steep slope to Golgotha with one’s gibbet on one’s shoulders, if not this?
Soon Steinn Elliði emerged from the other side of the forest and stood on the highway. On the side of the road stands a little chapel with a coarse crucifix above the door. Steinn stops and looks at it. The body is straight-trunked, like a stuffed-up sack, blue gold in color, with a hideous, huge wound on the chest from which blood oozes, dark red sealing wax. The legs are far too short and far too stout; they are chunky! The face is broad and unshapely, resembling a grotesque caricature of a ragamuffin clipped from Punch or Strix.133 He who wishes to follow me must forsake everything. Steinn Elliði took off his hat and prayed. Christ, Christ, if only you could suspect all that you have on your conscience.
93.
The monastery gate in Valle Sainte has been opened for Steinn Elliði. He is shown in to a bright and high-ceilinged waiting room in the guesthouse. He asks to see Father Alban, and the lay brother leaves silently. Steinn waits a long time without any further sign of life appearing in the house. He gazes at the copper etchings of Saint Bruno and the first Carthusians adorning the room, and then leans out the window and runs his eyes over the countryside. Over the mountains, the pine forest, and the river hovers a cold and gray autumn sky, but no human dwellings are to be seen. Valle Sainte is as far out in the countryside as a mountain monastery in Tibet; a man could sooner imagine standing face-to-face here with statues of the laughing Buddha and lamas than with Jesus Christ and his sons. Finally the rustling of robes, the rattling of a rosary, and brisk footsteps are heard out in the hallway. The door is pushed open, and in walks a monk of indeterminate age, clad in a thick, white robe, with his hood pulled forward over his head. His face is marked with deep, sharp lines and is extremely pale, his lips pursed; his eyes burn with power; he gives the visitor a piercing glance; in the crest of his nose are two deep creases. He pushes his hood back from his tonsured head, bows deeply, and extends his hand, blue and cold, to Steinn.
“God bless you, sir! You are speaking to Brother Pascal, whose duty it is to greet the visitors whom he sends to us. What is your business?”
“Venerable Father! I longed to be allowed to speak with Father Alban, whom it was my honor to come to know among the Benedictine monks in Belgium. He was my confidant and Father Confessor.”
“You wish to speak to Brother Elias,” said the monk.
“Forgive me, Venerable Father, if I have not explained myself clearly. But it is with Father Alban that I wish to speak.”
The monk smiled broadly and replied:
“I know whom it is you mean, sir. The one you seek is here called Brother Elias, and he is one of our novices. I shall ask for permission from the master. Would you like to have a light meal now or later?”
Steinn had eaten on the train and chose to speak to Brother Elias first.
The monk asked Steinn to follow him and walked quickly ahead of him down silent and endless hallways; these corridors connected the solitary cells of the monks. They walked past numerous small doors and one broad oak door, and there the monk cast himself facedown, kissed the floor, and lay motionless for several moments. Steinn knelt down; this was the chapel where the most holy sacrament was kept. Finally the monk knocked upon a door, and they waited for a moment until there appeared in the doorway an old monk, with a huge domed forehead and glasses with rust-colored frames in front of bright and shining eyes; he muttered something like “Deo gratias.”
“Forgive me, Père Maître,” whispered Steinn’s guide. “But we have here a foreigner who wishes to speak with Brother Elias. He is one of Brother Elias’ old confessants, from Sept Fontaines.”
“Outstanding!” said the master, as if he had always been expecting this, and he shook Steinn’s hand with a smile and bowed several times, then looked into his face with his sapient, elderly eyes, which still bore witness to his unbroken joy of life. He examined Steinn’s soul but asked nothing, not even his nationality. The master gave Brother Pascal brief instructions, said farewell to Steinn with a handshake as if he were an old friend, and then returned to his immortal life; but Steinn and his guide undertook a new journey through the labyrinth. Finally the Guest Master showed Steinn into Brother Elias’ cell and left after conveying the instructions from the Novice Master.
They greeted each other in monastic style by pressing each other’s cheeks, and Father Alban led Steinn to a seat and closed the door. He was clad in a coarse gray cowl, far too close-fitting at the shoulders; his scapular reached only to his knees, as a sign that he was a brother of the lowest rank. His shoes were rustic, coarse, ugly winter shoes, his hands tanned and scraped from toil. His countenance still displayed the peculiar mixture of eagle and lamb, but the beauty of bereavement had replaced the severity of the superior; his voice was still mild and clear, woven with musical effulgence. His home was this single room with a window in the front wall overlooking a small garden. Against one wall was a bench with a gray woolen coverlet, while the rest of the furniture consisted of two chairs and a prie-dieu, a
little workbench upon which lay pliers and wires and half-finished rosaries, a wooden image of the mother of our Lord on a shelf, and a crucifix hanging on the wainscoting above the prie-dieu. On the door was a hatch through which a monk put his food at mealtimes.
The Great Weaver From Kashmir Page 33
