Part 4
with three small children, was in such distress that she wept all the time and several
times a day would collapse in grief. Her sorrow was so great that it seemed as
though she too would not live long. All the same, in the midst of all this, she met me
kindly, though in such a state of affairs she could not send me to Jerusalem. But she
asked me to stay with her for a fortnight or so until her father-in-law came to Odessa,
as he had promised, to settle the affairs of the bereaved family.
So I stayed. A week passed, a month, then another. But instead of coming, the
merchant wrote to say that his own affairs would not allow him to come, and advising
that she should pay off the assistants and that all should go to him at Irkutsk at once.
So a great bustle and fuss began, and as I saw they were no longer interested in me,
I thanked them for their hospitality and said good-bye. Once more I set off wandering
about Russia.
I thought and thought. Where was I to go now? In the end I decided that first of all
I would go to Kiev, where I had not been for many years. So I set off. Of course I
fretted at first because I had not been able to carry out my wish to go to Jerusalem,
but I reflected that even this had not happened without the providence of God, and I
quieted myself with the hope that God, the lover of men, would take the will for the
deed, and would not let my wretched journey be without edification and spiritual
value. And so it turned out, for I came across the sort of people who showed me
many things that I did not know, and for my salvation brought light to my dark soul.
If that necessity had not sent me on this journey, I should not have met those spiritual
benefactors of mine.
So by day I walked along with the prayer, and in the evening when I halted for the
night I read my Philokalia, for the strengthening and stimulating of my soul in its
struggle with the unseen enemies of salvation.
On the road about forty-five miles from Odessa I met with an astonishing thing.
There was a long train of wagons loaded with goods; there were about thirty of them,
and I overtook them. The foremost driver, being the leader, was walking beside his
horse, and the others were walking in a group some way from him. The road led past
a pond which had a stream running through it, and in which the broken ice of the
spring season was whirling about and piling up on the edges with a horrible noise. All
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of a sudden the leading driver, a young man, stopped his horse, and the whole line of
carts behind had to come to a standstill too.. The other drivers came running up to
him and saw that he had begun to undress. They asked him why he was undressing.
He answered that he very much wanted to bathe in the pond. Some of the
astonished drivers began to laugh at him, others to scold him, calling him mad, and
the eldest there, his own brother, tried to stop him, giving him a push to make him
drive on. The other defended himself and had not the least wish to do as he was told.
Several of the young drivers started getting water out of the pond in the buckets with
which they watered the horses, and for a joke splashed it over the man who wanted
to bathe, on his head, or from behind, saying, "There you are; we'll give you a bath."
As soon as the water touched his body, he cried out, "Ah, that's good," and sat down
on the ground. They went on throwing water over him. Thereupon he soon lay down,
and then and there quietly died.
They were all in a great fright, having no idea why it had happened. The older ones
bustled about, saying that the authorities ought to be told, while the rest came to the
conclusion that it was his fate to meet this kind of death.
I stayed with them about an hour and then went on my way. About three and a
half miles farther on I saw a village on the high road, and as I came into it I met an
old priest walking along the street. I thought I would tell him about what I had just
seen and find out what he thought about it. The priest took me into his house, and I
told him the story and asked him to explain to me the cause of what had taken place.
"I can tell you nothing about it, dear brother, except perhaps this, that there are
many wonderful things in nature which our minds cannot understand. This, I think, is
so ordered by God in order to show men the rule and providence of God in nature
more clearly, through certain cases of unnatural and direct changes in its laws. It
happens that I myself was once a witness of a similar case. Near our village there is
a very deep and steep-sided ravine, not very wide, but some seventy feet or more in
depth. It is quite frightening to look down to the gloomy bottom of it. A sort of
footbridge has been built over it. A peasant in my parish, a family man and very
respectable, suddenly, for no reason, was taken with an irresistible desire to throw
himself from this little bridge into that deep ravine. He fought against the idea and
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resisted the impulse for a whole week. In the end, he could hold himself back no
longer. He got up early, rushed off, and jumped into the abyss. They soon heard his
groans and with great difficulty pulled him out of the pit with his legs broken. When he
was asked the reason for his fall, he answered that although he was now feeling a
great deal of pain, yet he was calm in spirit, that he had carried out the irresistible
desire which had worried him so for a whole week, and that he had been ready to risk
his life to gratify his wish.
"He was a whole year in hospital getting better. I used to go to see him and often
saw the doctors who were round him. Like you, I wanted to hear from them the cause
of the affair. With one voice the doctors answered that it was 'frenzy.' When I asked
them for a scientific explanation of what that was, and what caused it to attack a man,
I could get nothing more out of them, except that this was one of the secrets of nature
which were not revealed to science. I for my part observed that if in such a mystery of
nature a man were to turn to God in prayer, and also to tell good people about it, then
this ungovernable 'frenzy' of theirs would not attain its purpose.
"Truly there is much to be met with in human life of which we can have no clear
understanding."
While we were talking it was getting dark, and I stayed the night there. In the
morning the mayor sent his secretary to ask the priest to bury the dead jnan in the
cemetery, and to say that the doctors, after a postmortem, had found no signs
whatever of madness, and gave a sudden stroke as the cause of death.
"Look at that now," said the priest to me, "medical science can give no precise
reason for his uncontrollable urge toward the water."
And so I said good-bye to the priest and went on my way. After I had traveled for
several days and was feeling rather done-up, I came to a good-sized commercial
town called Byelaya Tserkov. As evening was already coming on, I started to look
around for a lodging for the night. In the market I came across a man who looked as
though he were a traveler too. He was making inquiries among the shops for the
address of a certain person who lived in the place. When he saw me he came up to
me and said, "You look as though you are a pilgrim too, so let's go together and find
a man by the name of Evreinov who lives in this town. He is a good Christian and
keeps a splendid inn, and he welcomes pilgrims. Look, I've got something written
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down about him." I gladly agreed, and so we soon found his house. Although the host
himself was not at home, his wife, a nice old woman, received us very kindly and
gave us an out-of-the-way private little garret in the attic to rest in. We settled down
and rested for a while.
Then our host came and asked us to have supper with them. During supper we
talked—who we were and where we came from—and somehow or other the talk
came round to the question of why he was called Evreinov. "I'll tell you an odd thing
about that," he said, and began his story.
"You see, it was like this. My father was a Jew. He was born at Shklov, and he
hated Christians. From his very earliest years he was preparing to be a rabbi and
studied hard at all the Jewish chitchat which was meant to disprove Christianity. One
day he happened to be going through a Christian cemetery. He saw a human skull,
which must have been taken out of some grave that had been recently disturbed. It
had both its jaws, and there were some horrible-looking teeth in them. In a fit of
temper he began to jeer at this skull; he spat at it, abused it, and spurned it with his
foot. Not content with that, he picked it up and stuck it on a post—as they stick up the
bones of animals to drive off greedy birds. After amusing himself in this way, he went
home. The following night he had scarcely fallen asleep when suddenly an unknown
man appeared to him and violently upbraided him, saying, 'How dare you insult what
is left of my poor bones? I am a Christian—but as for you, you are the enemy of
Christ.' The vision was repeated several times every night, and he got neither sleep
nor rest. Then the same sight started flashing before his eyes during the daytime
also, and he would hear the echo of that reproachful voice. As time went on, the
vision got more frequent, and in the end he began to feel depressed and frightened
and to lose strength. He went to his rabbi, who read prayers and exorcisms over him.
But the apparition not only did not cease; it got even more frequent and threatening.
"This state of affairs became known, and, hearing about it, a business friend of
his, a Christian, began to advise him to accept the Christian religion, and to urge
upon him that apart from that there was no way of ridding himself of this disturbing
apparition of his. But the Jew was loath to take this step. However, in reply he said, 'I
would gladly do as you wish, if only I could be free from this tormenting and
intolerable apparition.' The Christian was glad to hear this, and persuaded him to
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send in to the local bishop a request for baptism and reception into the Christian
church. The request was'written, and the Jew, not very eagerly, signed it. And lo and
behold, the very minute that the request was signed, the apparition came to an end
and never troubled him again. His joy was unbounded, and entirely at rest in mind,
he felt such a burning faith in Jesus Christ that he went straight away to the bishop,
told him the whole story, and expressed a heartfelt desire to be christened. He
eagerly and quickly learned the dogmas of the Christian faith, and after his baptism
he came to live in this town. Here he married my mother, a good Christian woman.
He led a devout and very comfortable life and he was most generous to the poor. He
taught me to be the same and before his death gave me his instructions about this,
together with his blessing. There you are—that's why my name is Evreinov."16
I listened to this story with reverence and humility, and I thought to myself, "How
good and kind our Lord Jesus Christ is, and how great is His love! In what different
ways He draws sinners to Himself. With what wisdom He uses things of little
importance to lead on to great things. Who could have expected that the mischievous
pranks of a Jew with some dead bones would bring him to the true knowledge of
Jesus Christ and be the means of leading him to a devout life?"
After supper we thanked God and our host and retired to our garret. We did not
want to go to bed yet, so we went on talking to each other. My companion told me
that he was a merchant of Mogilev, and that he had spent two years in Bessarabia as
a novice in one of the monasteries there, but only with a passport that expired at a
fixed date. He was now on his way home to get the consent of the merchant
community to his finally entering upon the monastic life. "The monasteries there
satisfy me, their constitution and order, and the strict life of many devout startsi who
live there." He assured me that putting the Bessarabian monasteries beside the
Russian was like comparing heaven with earth. He urged me to do the same.
While we were talking about these things they brought still a third lodger into our
room. This was a noncommissioned officer, with the army for the time being, but now
going home on leave. We saw that he was tired out with his journey. We said our
prayers together and lay down to sleep. We were up early next morning and began to
get ready for the road, and we only just wanted to go and thank our host, when
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suddenly we heard the bells ringing for matins. The merchant and I began to consider
what we would do. How could we start after hearing the bells and without going to
church? It would be better to stay to matins, say our prayers in church, and then we
should go off more happily. So we decided, and we called the officer. But he said,
"What's the point of going to church while you are on a journey? What good is it to
God if we have been? Let's get off home and then say our prayers. You two go if you
want. I'm not going. By the time you have stood through matins I shall be three or
four miles or so farther on my way, and I want to get home as quickly as possible."
To this the merchant said, "Look here, brother, don't you run so far ahead with your
schemes until you know what God's plans are!" So we went to church, and he took
the road.
We stayed through matins and the liturgy too. Then we went back to our garret to
get our knapsacks ready for the start, when what do we see but our hostess bringing
in the samovar. "Where are you off to?" she says. "You must have a cup of tea—yes,
and have dinner with us too. We can't send you away hungry." So we stayed. We
had not been sitting at the samovar for half an hour, when all of a sudden our
noncommissioned officer comes running in, all out of breath.
"I've come to you in both sorrow and joy."
"What's all this?" we asked him.
This is what he said:
"When I left you and started off, I thought I would look in at the pub to get change for
a note, and have a drink at the same time so as to get along better. So I did. I got my
change, had my drink, and was off like a bird. When I had gone about two miles I had
a mind to count the money the fellow at the pub had given me. I sat down by the
roadside, took out my pocketbook, and went through it. All serene. Then suddenly it
struck me that my passport was not there—only some papers and the money. I was
as frightened as if I'd lost my head. I saw in a flash what had happened. Of course I
had dropped it when I was settling up at the pub. I must run back. I ran and ran.
Another awful idea seized me— suppose it's not there! That will mean trouble! I
rushed up to the man behind the bar and asked him. 'I've not seen it,' he said. And
was I downhearted! Well, I searched around and hunted everywhere, wherever I had
stood and hung about. And what do you think? I was lucky enough to find my
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passport. There it was, still folded up and lying on the floor among the straw and
litter, all trampled in the dirt. Thank God! I was glad, I can tell you; it was as though a
mountain had rolled off my shoulders. Of course it was filthy and coated with mud,
enough to get me a clout on the head; still, that doesn't matter. At any rate I can get
home and back again with a whole skin. But I came to tell you about it. And what's
more, in my fright I've rubbed my foot absolutely raw with running and I can't possibly
walk. So I came to ask for some grease to bandage it up with."
"There you are, brother," the merchant began, "that's because you wouldn't listen
and come with us to church. You wanted to get a long way ahead of us, and, on the
contrary, here you are back again, and lame into the bargain. I told you not to run so
far ahead with your schemes; and now see how it has turned out. It was a small thing
that you did not come to church, but besides that you used such language as, 'What
good does it do God if we pray?' That, brother, was bad. Of course, God does not
need our sinful prayers, but still, in His love for us He likes us to pray. And it is not
only that holy prayer which the Holy Spirit Himself helps us to offer and arouses in us
that is pleasing to Him, for He asks that of us when He says 'Abide in Me, and I in
you'; but every intention, every impulse, even every thought which is directed to
His glory and our own salvation is of value in His sight. For all these the boundless
loving kindness of God gives bountiful rewards. The love of God gives grace a
thousand fold more than human actions deserve. If you give Him the merest mite, He
will pay you back with gold. If you but purpose to go to the Father, He will come out to
meet you. You say but a word, short and unfeeling— 'Receive me, have mercy on
me'—and He falls on your neck and kisses you. That is what the love of the heavenly
Father is like toward us, unworthy as we are. And simply because of this love He
rejoices in every gesture we make toward salvation, however small. It looks like this
to you: What glory is there for God, what advantage for you, if you pray a little and
then your thoughts wander again, or if you do some small good deed, such as
reading a prayer, making five or ten acts of reverence, or giving a heartfelt sigh and
calling upon the name of Jesus, or attending to some good thought, or setting
yourself to some spiritual reading, or abstaining from some food, or bearing an affront
in silence—all that seems to you not enough for your full salvation and a fruitless
thing to do. No! None of these small acts is in vain; it will be taken into account by the
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all-seeing eye of God and receive a hundredfold reward, not only in eternity, but in
this life. St. John Chrysostom asserts this. 'No good of any sort,' he says, 'however
trifling it may be, will be scorned by the righteous judge. If sins are searched out in
such detail that we shall give an answer for words and desires and thoughts, then so
much the more good deeds, however small they are, will be taken into account in all
detail, and will be reckoned to our merit before our judge, who is full of love.'
"I will tell you a case which I saw myself last year. In the Bessarabian monastery
where I lived there was a starets, a monk of good life. One day a temptation beset
him. He felt a great longing for some dried fish. And as it was impossible to get any in
the monastery at that time, he was planning to go to the market and buy some. For a
long while he struggled against the idea, and reasoned with himself that a monk
ought to be content with the ordinary food provided for the brothers and by all means
to avoid self-indulgence. Moreover, to walk about the market among crowds of
people was also for a monk a source of temptation, and unseemly. In the end the lies
of the enemy got the upper hand of his reasoning and he, yielding to his self-will,
made up his mind and went for the fish. After he had left the building and was going
along the street, he noticed that his rosary was not in his hand, and he began to
think, 'How comes this, that I am going like a soldier without his sword? This is most
unseemly. And layfolk who meet me will criticize me and fall into temptation, seeing a
monk without his rosary!' He was going back to get it, but, feeling in his pocket, he
found it there. He pulled it out, crossed himself, and with his rosary in his hand went
calmly on. As he got near the market he saw a horse standing by a shop with a great
cartload of enormous tubs. All at once this horse, taking fright at something or other,
bolted with all its might and with thundering hoofs made straight for him, grazing his
shoulder and throwing him to the ground, though not hurting him very much. Then, a
couple of paces from him, that load toppled over and the cart was smashed to
splinters. Getting up quickly, naturally he was frightened enough, but at the same
time he marveled how God had saved his life, for if the load had fallen a split second
earlier, then he would have been smashed to pieces like the cart. Thinking no further
about it, he bought the fish, went back, ate it, said his prayers, and lay down to sleep.
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"He slept lightly, and in his sleep a benign-looking starets whom he did not know
appeared to him, and said, 'Listen, I am the protector of this dwelling, and I wish to
teach you so that you will understand and remember the lesson now given you. Look
now: The feeble effort you made against the feeling of pleasure, and your sloth in
self-understanding and self-control, gave the enemy his chance to attack you. He
had got ready for you that fatal bombshell which exploded before your eyes. But your
guardian angel foresaw this and put into your mind the thought of offering a prayer
and remembering your rosary. Since you listened to this suggestion, obeyed, and put
it into action, it was just this that saved you from death. Do you see God's love for
men, and His bountiful reward of even a slight turning toward Him?' Saying this, the
visionary starets quickly left the cell. The monk bowed down at his feet, and in doing
so woke up, to find himself, not on his bed, but kneeling prostrate at the threshold of
the door. He told the story of this vision for the spiritual benefit of many people,
myself among them.
"Truly boundless is the love of God for us sinners. Is it not marvelous that so
small an action—yes, just taking his rosary out of his pocket and carrying it in his
hand and calling once upon the name of God—should give a man his life, and that in
the scales of judgment upon men one short moment of callihg upon Jesus Christ
should outweigh many hours of sloth? In truth, here is the repayment of the tiny mite
with gold. Do you see, brother, how powerful prayer is and how mighty the name of
Jesus when we call upon it? St. John Karpathisky in The Philokalia says that when in
the prayer of Jesus we call upon the holy name and say, 'Have mercy on me, a
sinner,' then to every such petition the voice of God answers in secret, 'Son, thy sins
be forgiven thee.' And he goes on to say that when we say the prayer there is at that
moment nothing to distinguish us from the saints, confessors, and martyrs. For, as
St. Chrysostom says, 'Prayer, although we are full of sin when we utter it,
immediately cleanses us. God's loving-kindness to us is great, yet we sinners are
listless, are not willing to give even one small hour to God in thanksgiving, and barter
the time of prayer, which is more important than anything, for the bustle and cares of
living, forgetting God and our duty. For that reason we often meet with misfortunes
and calamities, yet even these the all-loving providence of God uses for our
instruction and to turn our hearts to Him.'"
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When the merchant came to the end of his talk to the officer, I said to him, "What
comfort you have brought to my sinful soul too, your honor! I could bow down to your
very feet." Hearing this, he began to speak to me. "Ah, it seems you are a lover of
religious stories. Wait a moment and I'll read you another like the one I have just told
him. I've got here a book I travel with called Agapia, or The Salvation of Sinners.
There are a lot of wonderful things in it."
He took the book out of his pocket and started reading a most beautiful story
about one Agathonik, a devout man who from his childhood had been taught by
pious parents to say every single day before the icon of the Mother of God the prayer
which begins "Rejoice, God-bearing maiden." And this he always did. Later, when he
had grown up and started life on his own, he got absorbed in the cares and fuss of
life and said the prayer but rarely, and finally gave it up altogether.
One day he gave a pilgrim a lodging for the night, who told him he was a hermit
from the Thebaid and that he had seen a vision in which he was told to go to
Agathonik and rebuke him for having given up the prayer to the Mother of God.
Agathonik said the reason was that he had said the prayer for many years without
seeing any result whatever. Then the hermit said to him, "Remember, blind and
thankless one, how many times this prayer has helped you and saved you from
disaster. Remember how in your youth you were wonderfully saved from drowning?
Do you not recall that an epidemic of infectious disease carried off many of your
friends to the grave, but you remained in health? Do you remember, when you were
driving with a friend, you both fell out of the cart; he broke his leg, but you were
unhurt? Do you not know that a young man of your acquaintance who used to be well
and strong is now lying weak and ill, whereas you are in good health and feel no
pain?" And he reminded Agathonik of many other things. In the end he said, "Know
this, that all those troubles were warded off from you by the protection of the most
holy Mother of God because of that short prayer, by which you lifted up your heart
every day into union with God. Take care now, go on with it, and do not give up
praising the queen of heaven lest she should forsake you."
When he had finished reading, they called us to dinner, and afterward, feeling our
strength renewed, we thanked our host and took the road. We parted, and each went
his own way as seemed best to him.
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After that I walked on for about five days, cheered by the memory of the stories I
had heard from the good merchant in Byelaya Tserkov, and I began to get near to
Kiev. All at once and for no reason at all I began to feel dull and heavy, and my
thoughts got gloomy and dispirited. The prayer went with difficulty and a sort of
indolence came over me. So, seeing a wood with a thick undergrowth of bushes by
the side of the road, I went into it to rest a bit, looking for some out-of-the-way place
where I could sit under a bush and read my Philokalia, and so arouse my feeble spirit
and comfort my faintheartedness. I found a quiet place and began to read Kassian
the Roman in the fourth part of The Philokalia— on the eight thoughts. When I had
been reading happily for about half an hour, quite unexpectedly I noticed the figure of
a man some hundred yards or so away from me and farther in the forest. He was
kneeling quite motionless. I was glad to see this, for I gathered, of course, that he
was praying, and I began to read again. I went on reading for an hour or more and
then glanced up again. The man was still kneeling there and never stirred. All this
moved me very much and I thought, "What devout servants of God there are!"
As I was turning it over in my mind, the man suddenly fell to the ground and lay
still. This startled me, and as I had not seen his face, for he had been kneeling with
his back to me, I felt curious to go and see who he was. When I got to him I found
him in a light sleep. He was a country lad, a young fellow of about twenty-five. He
had an attractive face, good-looking, but pale. He was dressed in a peasant's caftan
with a bast rope for a girdle. There was nothing else to note about him. He had no
kotomka,17 not even a stick. The sound of my approach awoke him, and he got up. I
asked him who he was, and he told me he was a state peasant of the Smolensk
government and that he was on his way from Kiev. "And where are you going to
now?" I asked.
"I don't know myself where God will lead me," he answered.
"Is it long since you left home?"
"Yes, over four years."
"And where have you been living all that time?"
"I have been going from shrine to shrine and to monasteries and churches. There
was no point in staying at home. I'm an orphan and I have no relations. Besides, I've
got a lame foot. So I'm roaming about the wide world."
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"Some God-fearing person, it seems, has taught you not just to roam anywhere,
but to visit holy places," said I.
"Well, you see," he answered, "having no father or mother, I used to go about as
a boy with the shepherds of our village, and all went happily enough till I was ten
years old. Then one day when I had brought the flock home I never noticed that the
starosta's18 very best sheep was not among them. And our starosta was a bad and
inhuman peasant. When he came home that evening and found that his sheep was
lost, he rushed at me abusing and threatening. If I didn't go off and find the sheep, he
swore he'd beat me to death, and 'I'll break your arms and legs,' he said. Knowing
how cruel he was, I went after the sheep, searching the places where they had been
feeding in daylight. I searched and searched for more than half the night, but there
was not a trace of it anywhere. It was such a dark night, too, for it was getting on
toward autumn. When I had got very deep into the forest—and in our government the
forests are endless—suddenly a storm came up. It was as though the trees were all
rocking. In the distance, wolves started howling. Such a terror fell upon me that my
hair stood on end. What's more, it all got more and more horrible, so that I was ready
to drop with fear and horror. Then I fell on my knees and crossed myself, and with all
my heart I said, 'Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.' As soon as I had said that I
felt absolutely at peace, straight away, as if I had never been in any distress at all. All
my fear left me, and I felt as happy in my heart as if I had flown away to heaven. This
made me very glad, and—well, I just didn't stop saying the prayer. To this day I don't
know whether the storm lasted long and how the night went. I looked up and daylight
was coming, and there was I still kneeling in the same place. I got up quietly, I saw I
shouldn't find the sheep, and home I went. But all was well in my heart, and I was
saying the prayer to my heart's content. As soon as I got to the village the starosta
saw I hadn't brought the sheep back and thrashed me till I was half dead—he put this
foot out of joint, you see. I was laid up, almost unable to move, for six weeks after
that beating. All I knew was that I was saying the prayer and it comforted me. When I
got a bit better I began to wander about in the world, and as to be continually jostling
about in a crowd didn't interest me, and meant a good deal of sin, I took to roaming
from one holy place to another, and in the forests too. That's how I have spent nearly
five years now."
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When 1 heard this, my heart was very glad that God had thought me fit to meet so
good a man, and I asked him, "And do you often use the prayer now?"
"I couldn't exist without it," he answered. "Why, if I only just call to mind how I felt
that first time in the forest, it's just as if someone pushed me down on my knees, and
I begin to pray. I don't know whether my sinful prayer is pleasing to God or not. For
as I pray, sometimes I feel a great happiness—why, I don't know—a lightness of
spirit, a happy sort of quiet; but at other times I feel a dull heaviness and lowness of
spirits. But for all that, I want to go on praying always till I die."
"Don't be distressed, dear brother. Everything is pleasing to God and for our
salvation—everything, whatever it is that happens in time of prayer. So the holy
Fathers say. Whether it's lightness of heart or heaviness, it's all all right. No prayer,
good or bad, fails in God's sight. Lightness, warmth, and gladness show that God is
rewarding and consoling us for the effort, while heaviness, darkness, and dryness
mean that God is cleansing and strengthening the soul, and by this wholesome trial is
saying it, preparing it in humility for the enjoyment of blessed happiness in the future.
In proof of this I will read you something that St. John Klimax wrote."
I found the passage and read it to him. He heard it through with care and enjoyed
it, and he thanked me very much for it. And so we parted. He went off right into the
depth of the forest and I went back to the road. I went on my way, thanking God for
treating me, sinner as I am, as fit to be given such teaching.
Next day, by God's help, I came to Kiev. The first and chief thing I wanted was to
fast a while and to make my confession and communion in that holy town. So I
stopped near the saints,19 as that would be easier for getting to church. A good old
Cossack took me in, and as he lived alone in his hut, I found peace and quiet there.
At the end of a week, in which I had been getting ready for my confession, the
thought came to me that I would make it as detailed as I could. So I began to recall
and go over all my sins from youth onward very fully, and so as not to forget it all I
wrote down everything I could remember in the utmost detail. I covered a large sheet
of paper with it.
I heard that at Kitaevaya Pustina, about five miles from Kiev, there was a priest of
ascetic life who was very wise and understanding. Whoever went to him for
confession found an atmosphere offender compassion and came away with teaching
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for his salvation and ease of spirit. I was very glad to hear of this, and I went to him at
once. After I had asked his advice and we had talked awhile, I gave him my sheet of
paper to see. He read it through and then said, "Dear friend, a lot of this that you
have written is quite futile. Listen: First, don't bring into confession sins which you
have already repented of and had forgiven. Don't go over them again, for that would
be to doubt the power of the sacrament of penance. Next, don't call to mind other
people who have been connected with your sins; judge yourself only. Thirdly, the
holy Fathers forbid us to mention all the circumstances of the sins, and tell us to
acknowledge them in general, so as to avoid temptation both for ourselves and for
the priest. Fourthly, you have come to repent and you are not repenting of the fact
that you can't repent—that is, your penitence is lukewarm and careless. Fifthly, you
have gone over all these details, but the most important thing you have overlooked:
you have not disclosed the gravest sins of all. You have not acknowledged, nor
written down, that you do not love God, that you hate your neighbor, that you do not
believe in God's Word, and that you are filled with pride and ambition. A whole mass
of evil, and all our spiritual depravity is in these four sins. They are the chief roots out
of which spring the shoots of all the sins into which we fall."
I was very much surprised to hear this, and I said, "Forgive me, reverend Father,
but how is it possible not to love God our creator and preserver? What is there to
believe in if not the Word of God, in which everything is true and holy? I wish well to
all my neighbors, and why should I hate them? I have nothing to be proud of; besides
having numberless sins, I have nothing at all which is fit to be praised, and what
should I with my poverty and ill-health lust after? Of course, if I were an educated
man, or rich, then no doubt I should be guilty of the things you spoke of." "It's a pity,
dear one, that you so little understood what I said. Look! It will teach you more quickly
if I give you these notes. They are what I always use for my own confession. Read
them through, and you will see clearly enough an exact proof of what I said to you
just now."
He gave me the notes, and I began to read them, as follows:
A Confession which Leads the Inward Man to Humility
Turning my eyes carefully upon myself and watching the course of my inward
state, I have verified by experience that I do not love God, that I have no love for my