TWELVE: STORM AT THE HERMITAGE
In the middle of summer, my new friend and I went to the hermitage within a cave. We arrived in a cold, hard, cruel rain. We hurriedly descended the White Crags, without speaking, straining our legs as we made long strides.
We slept in a small chamber with white walls, lit by a candle made of yellow wax. Outside, a storm raged through the mountains. We slept with a chill air above our bedclothes. In the chamber hung the scent of dried rhododendrons. Our eyes were clear, and we found pleasure in our toil.
The storm grew over the mountains, throwing the night into disorder. Lightning flashed blue on the walls; we heard the rain, and mountain streams. But in our dreams, we heard the howling of ghosts.
A clap of thunder in the forest woke us. Our little window trembled meekly in the driving rain. The wind muffled the shrieks of the forest, and the rushing water thundered as if possessed by demons. We imagined the mountains around us laughing. And it was as if the forests were the living dead. And from the hollows, long grasping claws snaked out, only to be crushed under rocks like worms. The mountains, and the hollows, and the living dead, and the rushing water, all descended upon the hermitage. Our proximity to the cave frightened us. We imagined it might be bottomless, full of dark and humid recesses, echoing loudly to each droplet of water.
My friend was pale and shivering, and over the little yellow candle, he recited the prayer of Saint John.
The little candle flickered, humbled by the winds. The same winds bore away the clouds and the thunder and lightning deep into the wilderness.
How long did our silence last? Neither of us dared look up at the other.
The storm cleared. We saw shining stars emerge. The night softened the mountains, which now lamented their defeat. The rushing waters raged with a savage enmity, passed down from the Ice Age.
I opened the window without saying a word. I sat on the white bed. I was exhausted, and my soul shook with the same joy and fury that spread through the darkness.
We kept vigil. My friend sighed, trembling. Then he looked through the window into the night. Up above, on a cliff along the ridge of the hermitage, a tree struck by lightning, humbly awaited the rising sun and the astonishment of the monks.
*
In the morning, after we sipped milk from earthenware mugs, we set out for higher ground. Together we praised the blue sky, the flowers, and the subsiding wind.
Along the path, we met a pallid young man, with a surprisingly broad forehead, and domed temples. He had come, as we had, to stay at the hermitage for a week. He was a student of Mathematics and Philosophy but, because of a chest ailment, had not sat a single exam.
We reminisced about the storm and our fear. The student had kept watch all night in the small chapel, praying. He did not hesitate to declare himself a Christian.
‘My conversion took place due to rather stupid circumstances. I was suffering terribly with my chest, and I was too much of a coward to not be afraid of death. I didn’t even have the courage to die. Nothing remained but the desire to live. And then I sought a cure through Christian Science. I believed in order to be cured. This all happened in Geneva, where I spent all of my money. My lungs improved month by month. The miracle, with the force of animal magnetism, brought me to the New Testament, to Catholic Theology, and now, finally, to the Orthodox Faith.’
My friend was exultant. He spoke about a simple and redeeming faith that comes from grace. He was against books, theology, and religious philosophy. He wanted a pure, absolute Christianity, faith without any connection to the dogmas of the church.
‘I see an evident contradiction in your arguments’, interrupted the student; ‘For, the faith in the Church that you profess is far more than faith in the New Testament, which you also profess. Moreover, you must accept theology, and even philosophy, as soon as you accept the Church, based not only on the New Testament, but also on the teachings of the Church Fathers and Ecumenical Councils. If you were purely Orthodox, you could not discount philosophy and theology, even if the raw data of Christianity cannot be known, or discovered through rational processes, but only through experience.’
I foresaw an interesting discussion, albeit one that was out of place. We were climbing a rugged slope, under a clear sky. Before my friend was able to reply, perhaps in an attempt to defend himself against the protestant accusations insinuated by the student, I spoke up.
‘I don’t believe in God. And furthermore, I don’t always think that Christianity requires faith. Christianity is an unworldly spirituality, intended to guide man’s evolution toward God, by overturning worldly values and enthroning divine values. Wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes. The Christian dies and is reborn in Christ, transforming himself from man into man of God, and the polity of man into a polity of God.’
‘This transfiguration happens through mystical experience, not through dogma.’
‘But experience is faith.’
‘No. Here is the distinction and herein arises my greatest doubt. I do not believe, and yet I have still had a religious experience that filled my soul with a Christian vision, transfigured me, and made me a Christian.’
‘I think you’re mistaken. What you call “religious experience” was the certainty of redemption, or the certainty of grace, or in other words, faith.’
‘And yet, I still don’t believe in God.’
‘You confess this now, because you are ruled by reason. But you yourself said that experience is a transcendence of rational consciousness. You believed that then, when you experienced Christ. But now, faith seems absurd to you because you judge it. Actually, if you acknowledge a transfiguration of consciousness arising from the brain, then you also acknowledge faith. Transfiguration is a transcendence that can occur only through grace.’
‘As for myself, I do not believe in grace’, I confessed.
‘It only appears to you that you do not believe. It appears to you that the vision, which you possess of man as coequal to God, is one that you acquired by yourself. But it can only have been given to you.’
‘Then why was I not also given unwavering faith, like my friend’s?’
‘You have it, but you are afraid to acknowledge it.’
‘Here you are fundamentally mistaken, but I won’t dwell on it. I want to tell you about my understanding of Christianity.’
‘It is Protestantism. Why do you need to have an understanding of a new Christianity? There is one alone, eternal and infinite.’
‘It is a Christianity brought up to date, one that is more than just ritual and faith, one that is a guide, a criterion, a validation.’
‘One that can only be personal.’
‘Which is to say, heretical’, interjected my friend. ‘Within me exists a single living, fecund Christianity, a Christianity that creates values, and I acknowledge it as orthodox and ecumenical. There is nothing personal in it.’
‘Now, you too are mistaken’, said the student. ‘Any authentic Christianity is also personal, by the very fact that it is at work within the viscera of a personal spirituality.’
‘Gentlemen’, I implored, ‘theological discussions are always interesting. As a matter of fact I would recommend the study of dogmatic theology to any young man; one encounters there a spirituality so pure and well-structured that even those who will never believe, those who study philosophy or mathematics, will profit from contact with the forms and functions of a mode of thinking completely purged of the thinking to be found on lower planes, such as the historiographic or biological.’
‘Then why do you interrupt?’
‘Because what we set out from was my Christianity. I accept your accusation of Protestantism, even though I sense that through its austerity and sobriety, it is purely Orthodox. But I would rather be a Protestant and a Christian than a hypocritical son of the Church. Up till now, the only living Christianity I have been able to know is a personal one.’
‘In other words, a Protestant one. Naturally, it’s preferable to be a Protestant than a Buddhist or an atheist. But do you understand the consequences of such a faith? I don’t need to look for examples in history: I recognise them in you; you are not Christian, precisely because you consider yourself to be a pure Christian. Your religion is pragmatism and magic.’
‘You’re contradicting what you yourself were saying just now.’
‘I didn’t comprehend the extent of your heresy.’
‘But even so, let me tell you what constitutes this heretical Christianity.’
‘Please be brief, so that I’ll be able to keep in mind all your mistakes.’
‘It is my belief that a Christian is any hero of the spirit. Any soul who lives a heroic life is a Christian soul.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then let me explain. Does the Christian transcend the human, the physiological and the social?’
‘Of course.’
‘Does the hero transcend it?’
‘That depends: what do you mean by “hero”?’
‘One who struggles with all his might to make certain spiritual values that greatly transcend the common spirituality become tangible, flourish, and spread. One who goes beyond the human. One who renounces the way others live, in order to live ascetically, like a saint, all because he has sworn to achieve those things he has set out to do.’
‘In this way the Christian is also a hero; but not every hero of the spirit is a Christian.’
‘I too had the same doubt, when I thought about Indian asceticism and Buddhist abnegation. They too achieve a life illumined by certain spiritual values, which go beyond the spirituality of the merely human. But my heroism validates and brings up to date the premises of Christianity.’
‘Which are?’
‘The primacy of the spirit, leading to transubstantiation, through Jesus.’
‘But you are forgetting one essential element: grace.’
‘Grace is essential for theologians.’
‘Yet another mistake. Grace can be found to predominate throughout the New Testament.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘You don’t want to believe it; you are still under the sway of paganism. Your heroism is pagan, despite your abnegations for the sake of the primacy of the spirit.’
‘A heroism built on abnegation, on self-restraint, on the exultation of a Christian ethic, cannot be pagan. But this discussion would lead us on a tangent. Thank you for helping me discover what I want to be: a hero. Now I understand you completely. I want to transcend myself, to transcend myself through experiences and suffering, to the point where I am no longer a man, but a hero. I want to achieve a vast, harsh, terrifying life; I want nobody else to reach my level, I want to surpass everyone with my accomplishments, all of which will be impenetrable in their meaning. I want to achieve a tangible, Christian heroism, not one that is to do with words, aspirations, nostalgias. This is why I am not pagan: I want heroism to spring from my flesh and blood, for them to be crucified for the sake of a madness of the spirit. I want to be mad, like Dante or Don Quixote. I want to lower the will of my ideas down into the viscera, to dwell in the world, the way others are content to dwell in the clouds. Let nobody else understand me, but let me be a hero. Let me keep the great mystery hidden, multiplying my heroism a hundredfold through my silence.’
‘Beautiful’, said the student, saddened. ‘But you are an authentic pagan in your heroism, which you desire to attain solely through your own will. The will of man, when not assimilated by grace to divine will, is diabolical presumption.’
‘But even so, if you abolish the personal will in Christianity, you go the way of Luther. Otherwise, the foundation of religious experience, in general, is the will. You’re contradicting yourself again.’
‘I am not abolishing the value of will, but I demand that it be illumined by faith. You believe in your own powers, in your own spirit, that of an exalted youth. But you will never accomplish a heroic act.’
‘I will, because I want to.’
‘Now you are speaking like a child. If God wants to redeem you, helping you by His grace, then you’ll become a hero.’
‘I don’t believe in God. I believe only in Christ, the first and greatest hero of Christianity.’
‘So much the worse. But the grace of God is large. Don’t congratulate yourself after the victory; it was not you who prevailed, but God. He helped you. Otherwise you would have been vanquished.’
‘But the temptations I overcome, the suffering, the tears, are they not proofs of my actual, personal will?’
‘Don’t you understand? It’s merely a divine instrument.’
‘Predestination?’
‘No, grace unmitigated and infinite.’
The three of us sat on the ridge of the mountain, under a blue sky, cloaked in the wind. My friend had fallen silent.
‘All of this talk is meaningless. Only one thing exists: Faith.’ The student repeated emphatically.
‘Faith makes you happy without heroic exertions.’
‘But I don’t want to be happy. I don’t believe in happiness, just as I don’t believe in God; even though I want to believe, the same as I want to believe in God. I’m even afraid of happiness. I can’t sleep peacefully unless I’m in danger, in jeopardy, in pain, in abject boredom.’
‘Why do you want to be tormented your entire life?’
‘Because that way I will be able to become a hero.’
‘A simple experience of faith would have brought you nearer to heroism than all the sufferings of a pagan life.’
‘I don’t think so. The Christian is optimistic and serene.’
‘The nearer you come to a Christian solution, the more serene you will be. But you are nothing more than a simple pagan tortured by your inability to convert. I pity your sufferings. You are advocating a paganism so wrapped up in its own zeal that even I would now be tempted, were you to ask me, ‘Do you believe in grace?’ to answer, ‘No!’ I must confess that I doubt grace not because of my discussion with you, but because of the experience of your company. You are demoniacal.’
‘I want to be Saint Francis.’
‘One last piece of irony?’
‘No. But I do want, whatever the cost, to be a hero, and therefore holy. That is my final position. Maybe I will evolve from there. But in the direction of going beyond heroism experientially, having accomplished at least one heroic act. A Saint Francis without grace.’
‘God help you. If I’m not in a sanatorium or six feet under, I’ll rejoice with you.’
‘Although the rejoicing will be greeted with tears.’
‘Behold, the eternally nostalgic pagan.’
Standing up, my friend said, ‘I’ll pray for him, that he may believe.’
We went back to the hermitage. All three of us ran our hands over the pine tree sundered by the lightning bolt. Then, my friend retired to the cell. I sat with the student of mathematics on a tree stump. His face lighted by a smile, he mused: ‘What’s really tragic is that I don’t believe either. I know what and how to believe. I don’t believe, but rather I am waiting for grace. Good night.’
I said nothing of this to my friend. When I entered the cell, he blushed and concealed a half-written page.
‘I was writing to her. I miss her.’
We stayed a week longer, reading from the Gospels and the Apocalypse. In my backpack I had a white notebook, intended for a story I was not able to write. Next to the notebook, Saint Francis and Pascal.
After a week, my friend felt oppressed by the solitude. The student had gone over the mountains into Transylvania, to a relative’s. He had given me a copy of Gracian, with a bleak dedication. My friend had become even more distraught and even more obsessed with the memory of that lady. One morning, he said goodbye to me and left. I walked with him part of the way, through the forest. He was so happy that soon he would see her.’
When we reached the plateau, we parted. I turned back to the hermitage, while he went back down to the town. The day was clear, hot, tranquil. We remembered our climb, in the rain and the dark, one week before.
‘Henceforward, each to his own path.’
Days passed, unrelenting, difficult, and unmerciful with their doubts. I dwelled in the wild solitude that I had yearned for in my library. I met nobody but the monks. Taking my white notebook, every day I set out alone, heading for the crests, the ridges, the paths that descended into chasms. I loved the wasps that gathered honey from the bushes. I loved the birds, whose voices I often seemed to fathom. I loved the rugged mountains, the forests, the leaf mould between the trees.
At night, questions tormented me. The answer was always the same, and the torment led me to believe that I was on the right path. I did not forget for an instant that I wanted to be a hero.
But the questions were relentless and biting: What should I tell Nonora? Should I shun girlfriends? Should I shun Nişka? What if I fall in love with her? Should I break off the love affair? Should I mutilate myself?
There were nights when the struggle humiliated me to the point of tears. The crisis swelled, swelled in my solitude. I felt abandoned by all, forgotten, in my death throes in the wilderness. My soul wallowed in the mire, in mute desperation, in weaknesses. Everything demanded that I return to the city, that I be among people. I would have liked to see Nişka, to beg her to be my good friend. I would have liked to talk. There was nobody around. I was lost, and Pascal seemed cold, Saint Francis incomprehensible.
Every morning I said to myself: Today I will attain the peace I came to find. I fell asleep to humiliating visions of happiness. The greatest temptation was the love and happiness of my friend. I would say to myself: My friend is happy. Why should I too not be happy? I did not believe in happiness, but I lusted after it like a fruit.
Whenever the sadness of harsh solitude overwhelmed me, I said to myself: It will pass, this will pass. I resented having to wait with such uncertainty for that moment, a moment that had to come. Was not this tortured, hopeless wait the beginning and the defining image of my entire life?
A sunset that tinted the forest blood red calmed me in a matter of seconds. I cannot describe the tranquillity of the solitude. It was faith, and despair, and love, and a yearning for self-sacrifice, for abnegation. I tasted the bittersweet, soothing happiness of overcoming.
That evening, in front of the candle that my friend had lit but once after the storm, I opened the blank notebook and wrote on the first page:
Here I shall set down my crises and their resolutions. A notebook for the soul, in which people will be temptations, and events attitudes. I cannot reconstruct the experiences that have haunted me over the last ten days, since my friend left. But now that the crisis has passed, I feel stronger, more cheerful, more confident. I know now: the more I am overcome by sadness and anxiety, the more I should rejoice. Victory will bring a painfully serene clarity and will hone my powers.
Thus, there is no reason to avoid danger, whether sentimental or intellectual. I owe it to myself, to attain heroism, to overcome great and vast temptations. To find fulfilment on the road ahead of me, shared only by the student and by my friend, I will have to renounce happiness. I shall put into effect my abnegations once I have gone back down into the world. Abnegation does not mean living the life of a hermit. My asceticism will be purely ethical. I will only renounce a thing when it endangers my journey toward heroism. Thus, not absolute abnegation, but deliberate renunciation.
I will be friends with Nişka. But if the danger becomes too great, if I fall in love, I owe it to myself to nurture that love until it completely consumes me. And then I will renounce Nişka and any other kind of love. I mention her name, because it is by her that I am the most sorely tempted. I am honest; I am not afraid of danger.
My only concern is heroism. But no one need know it. I will live the same life as before. If certain abnegations might seem insane, then all the better. Only the fool survives mediocrity.
In important moments, let me not be sad, but serene. I accept nostalgia only in memories. But in deeds, the same steadfastness and manly confidence. The deed must be subservient to the hero. All life must give way beneath his madness.