Part 5
neighbors, that I have no religious belief, and that I am filled with pride and
sensuality. All this I actually find in myself as a result of detailed examination of my
feelings and conduct, thus:
1. I do not love God. For if I loved God I should be continually thinking about Him
with heartfelt joy. Every thought of God would give me gladness and delight. On the
contrary, I much more often and much more eagerly think about earthly things, and
thinking about God is labor and dryness. If I loved God, then talking with Him in
prayer would be my nourishment and delight and would draw me to unbroken
communion with Him. But, on the contrary, I not only find no delight in prayer, but
even find it an effort. I struggle with reluctance, I am enfeebled by sloth and am ready
to occupy myself eagerly with any unimportant trifle, if only it shortens prayer and
keeps me from it. My time slips away unnoticed in futile occupations, but when I am
occupied with God, when I put myself into His presence, every hour seems like a
year. If one person loves another, he thinks of him throughout the day without
ceasing, he pictures him to himself, he cares for him, and in all circumstances his
beloved friend is never out of his thoughts. But I, throughout the day, scarcely set
aside even a single hour in which to sink deep down into meditation upon God, to
inflame my heart with love of Him, while I eagerly give up twenty-three hours as
fervent offerings to the idols of my passions. I am forward in talk about frivolous
matters and things which degrade the spirit; that gives me pleasure. But in the
consideration of God I am dry, bored, and lazy. Even if I am unwillingly drawn by
others into spiritual conversation, I try to shift the subject quickly to one which
pleases my desires. I am tirelessly curious about novelties, about civic affairs and
political events; I eagerly seek the satisfaction of my love of knowledge in science
and art, and in ways of getting things I want to possess. But the study of the law of
God, the knowledge of God and of religion, make little impression on me, and satisfy
no hunger of my soul. I regard these things not only as a nonessential occupation for
a Christian, but in a casual way as a sort of side-issue with which I should perhaps
occupy my spare time, at odd moments. To put it shortly, if love for God is recognized
by the keeping of His commandments ("If ye love Me, keep My commandments,"
says our Lord Jesus Christ), and I not only do not keep them, but even make little
attempt to do so, then in absolute truth the conclusion follows that I do not love God.
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That is what Basil the Great says: "The proof that a man does not love God and His
Christ lies in the fact that he does not keep His commandments."
2. I do not love my neighbor either. For not only am I unable to make up my mind
to lay down my life for his sake (according to the gospel), but I do not even sacrifice
my happiness, well-being, and peace for the good of my neighbor. If I did love him as
myself, as the gospel bids, his misfortunes would distress me also, his happiness
would bring delight to me too. But, on the contrary, I listen to curious, unhappy stories
about my neighbor, and I am not distressed; I remain quite undisturbed or, what is
still worse, I find a sort of pleasure in them. Bad conduct on the part of my brother I
do not cover up with love, but proclaim abroad with censure. His well-being, honor,
and happiness do not delight me as my own, and, as if they were something quite
alien to me, give me no feeling of gladness. What is more, they subtly arouse in me
feelings of envy or contempt.
3. I have no religious belief. Neither in immortality nor in the gospel. If I were
firmly persuaded and believed without doubt that beyond the grave lies eternal life
and recompense for the deeds of this life, I should be continually thinking of this. The
very idea of immortality would terrify me and I should lead this life as a foreigner who
gets ready to enter his native land. On the contrary, I do not even think about
eternity, and I regard the end of this earthly life as the limit of my existence. The
secret thought nestles within me: Who knows what happens at death? If I say I
believe in immortality, then I am speaking about my mind only, and my heart is far
removed from a firm conviction about it. That is openly witnessed to by my conduct
and my constant care to satisfy the life of the senses. Were the holy gospel taken into
my heart in faith, as the Word of God, I should be continually occupied with it, I
should study it, find delight in it, and with deep devotion fix my attention upon it.
Wisdom, mercy, and love are hidden in it; it would lead me to happiness, I should find
gladness in the study of the law of God day and night. In it I should find nourishment
like my daily bread, and my heart would be drawn to the keeping of its laws. Nothing
on earth would be strong enough to turn me away from it. On the contrary, if now and
again I read or hear the Word of God, yet even so it is only from necessity or from a
general love of knowledge, and approaching it without any very close attention I find
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it dull and uninteresting. I usually come to the end of the reading without any profit,
only too ready to change over to secular reading in which I take more pleasure and
find new and interesting subjects.
4. I am full of pride and sensual self-love. All my actions confirm this. Seeing
something good in myself, I want to bring it into view, or to pride myself upon it before
other people or inwardly to admire myself for it. Although I display an outward
humility, yet I ascribe it all to my own strength and regard myself as superior to
others, or at least no worse than they. If I notice a fault in myself, I try to excuse it; I
cover it up by saying, "I am made like that" or "I am not to blame." I get angry with
those who do not treat me with respect and consider them unable to appreciate the
value of people. I brag about my gifts: my failures in any undertaking I regard as a
personal insult. I murmur, and I find pleasure in the unhap- piness of my enemies. If I
strive after anything good it is for the purpose of winning praise, or spiritual self-
indulgence, or earthly consolation. In a word, I continually make an idol of myself and
render it uninterrupted service, seeking in all things the pleasures of the senses and
nourishment for my sensual passions and lusts.
Going over all this I see myself as proud, adulterous, unbelieving, without love for
God and hating my neighbor. What state could be more sinful? The condition of the
spirits of darkness is better than mine. They, although they do not love God, hate
men, and live upon pride, yet at least believe and tremble. But I? Can there be a
doom more terrible than that which faces me, and what sentence of punishment will
be more severe than that upon the careless and foolish life that I recognize in
myself?
On reading through this form of confession which the priest gave me I was
horrified, and I thought to myself, "Good heavens! What frightful sins there are hidden
within me, and up to now I've never noticed them!" The desire to be cleansed from
them made me beg this great spiritual father to teach me how to know the causes of
all these evils and how to cure them. And he began to instruct me.
"You see, dear brother, the cause of not loving God is want of belief, want of
belief is caused by lack of conviction, and the cause of that is failure to seek for holy
and true knowledge, indifference to the light of the spirit. In a word, if you don't
believe, you can't love; if you are not convinced, you can't believe, and in order to
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reach conviction you must get a full and exact knowledge of the matter before you.
By meditation, by the study of God's Word, and by noting your experience, you must
arouse in your soul a thirst and a longing—or, as some call it, 'wonder'—which brings
you an insatiable desire to know things more closely and more fully, to go deeper into
their nature.
"One spiritual writer speaks of it in this way: 'Love,' he says, 'usually grows with
knowledge, and the greater the depth and extent of the knowledge the more love
there will be, the more easily the heart will soften and lay itself open to the love of
God, as it diligently gazes upon the very fullness and beauty of the divine nature and
His unbounded love for men.'
"So now you see that the cause of those sins which you read over is slothfulness
in thinking about spiritual things, sloth which stifles the feeling of the need of such
thought. If you want to know how to overcome this evil, strive after enlightenment of
spirit by every means in your power, attain it by diligent study of the Word of God and
of the holy Fathers, by the help of meditation and spiritual counsel, and by the
conversation of those who are wise in Christ. Ah, dear brother, how much disaster we
meet with just because we are lazy about seeking light for our souls through the word
of truth. We do not study God's law day and night, and we do not pray about it
diligently and unceasingly. And because of this our inner man is hungry and cold,
starved, so that it has no strength to take a bold step forward upon the road of
righteousness and salvation! And so, beloved, let us resolve to make use of these
methods, and as often as possible fill our minds with thoughts of heavenly things;
and love, poured down into our hearts from on high, will burst into flame within us.
We will do this together and pray as often as we can, for prayer is the chief and
strongest means for our renewal and well-being. We will pray, in the words holy
church teaches us: 'O God, make me fit to love Thee now, as I have loved sin in the
past.'"20 I listened to all this with care. Deeply moved, I asked this holy Father to hear
my confession and to give me communion. And so next morning after the honor of
my communion, I was for going back to Kiev with this blessed viaticum. But this good
father of mine, who was going to the Lavra21 for a couple of days, kept me for that
time in his hermit's cell, so that in its silence I might give myself up to prayer without
hindrance. And, in fact, I did spend both those days as though I were in heaven. By
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the prayers of my starets I, unworthy as I am, rejoiced in perfect peace. Prayer
flowed out in my heart so easily and happily that during that time I think I forgot
everything, and myself; in my mind was Jesus Christ and He alone.
In the end, the priest came back, and I asked his guidance and advice—where
should I go now on my pilgrim way? He gave me his blessing with these words, "You
go to Pochaev, make your reverence there to the wonder-working footprint22 of the
most pure mother of God, and she will guide your feet into the way of peace." And
so, taking his advice in faith, three days later I set off for Pochaev.
For some 130 miles or so I traveled none too happily, for the road lay through pot-
houses and Jewish villages and I seldom came across a Christian dwelling. At one
farm I noticed a Russian Christian inn and I was glad to see it. I turned in at it to
spend the night and also to ask for some bread for my journey, for my rusks were
coming to an end. Here I saw the host, an old man with a well-to-do air and who, I
learned, came from the same government that I did—the Orlovsky. Directly I went
into the room, his first question was, "What religion are you?"
I replied that I was a Christian, and pravoslavny.23 "Pravoslavny, indeed," said he
with a laugh. "You people are pravoslavny only in word—in act you are heathen. I
know all about your religion, brother. A learned priest once tempted me and I tried it. I
joined your church and stayed in it for six months. After that I came back to the ways
of our society. To join your church is just a snare. The readers mumble the service all
anyhow, with things missed out and things you can't understand. And the singing is
no better than you hear in a pub. And the people stand all in a huddle, men and
women all mixed up; they talk while the service is going on, turn round and stare
about, walk to and fro, and give you no peace and quiet to say your prayers. What
sort of worship do you call that? It's just a sin! Now, with us how devout the service
is; you can hear what's said, nothing is missed out, the singing is most moving, and
the people stand quietly, the men by themselves, the women by themselves, and
everybody knows what reverence to make and when, as holy church directs. Really
and truly, when you come into a church of ours, you feel you have come to the
worship of God; but in one of yours you can't imagine what you've come to—to
church or to market!"
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From all this I saw that the old man was a diehard raskolnik.24 But he spoke so
plausibly, I could not argue with him nor convert him. I just thought to myself that it
will be impossible to convert the old believers to the true church until church services
are put right among us and until the clergy in particular set an example in this. The
raskolnik knows nothing of the inner life; he relies upon externals, and it is about
them that we are careless.
So I wanted to get away from here and had already gone out into the hall when to
my surprise I saw through the open door of a private room a man who did not look
like a Russian; he was lying on a bed and reading a book. He beckoned me and
asked me who I was. I told him.
And then he began, "Listen, dear friend. Won't you agree to look after a sick man,
say for a week, until by God's help I get better? I am a Greek, a monk from Mount
Athos. I'm in Russia to collect alms for my monastery, and on my way back I've fallen
ill, so that I can't walk for the pain in my legs. So I've taken this room here. Don't say
no, servant of God! I'll pay you."
"There is no need whatever to pay me. I will very gladly look after you as best I
can in the name of God." So I stayed with him. I heard a great deal from him about
the things that concern the salvation of our souls. He told me about Athos, the holy
mountain, about the great podvizhniki25 there, and about the many hermits and
anchorites. He had with him a copy of The Philokalia in Greek, and a book by Isaac
the Syrian. We read together and compared the Slavonic translation by Paisy
Velichovsky with the Greek original. He declared that it would be impossible to
translate from Greek more accurately and faithfully than The Philokalia had been
turned into Slavonic by Paisy.
As I noticed that he was always in prayer and versed in the inward prayer of the
heart, and as he spoke Russian perfectly, I questioned him on this matter. He readily
told me a great deal about it, and I listened with care. I even wrote down many things
that he said. Thus, for example, he taught me about the excellence and greatness of
the Jesus prayer in this way: "Even the very form of the Jesus prayer," he said,
"shows what a great prayer it is. It is made up of two parts. In the first part, 'Lord
Jesus Christ, Son of God,' it leads our thoughts to the life of Jesus Christ, or, as the
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holy Fathers put it, it is the whole gospel in brief. In the second part, 'Have mercy on
me, a sinner,' it faces us with the story of our own helplessness and sinfulness. And it
is to be noted that the desire and petition of a poor, sinful, humble soul could not be
put into words more wise, more clear-cut, more exact than these—'have mercy on
me.' No other form of words would be as satisfying and full as this. For instance, if
one said, 'Forgive me, put away my sins, cleanse my transgressions, blot out my
offenses,' all that would express one petition only—asking to be set free from
punishment, the fear of a fainthearted and listless soul. But to say 'have mercy on
me' means not only the desire for pardon arising from fear, but is the sincere cry of
filial love, which puts its hope in the mercy of God and humbly acknowledges it is too
weak to break its own will and to keep a watchful guard over itself. It is a cry for
mercy—that is, for grace— which will show itself in the gift of strength from God, to
enable us to resist temptation and overcome our sinful inclinations. It is like a
penniless debtor asking his kindly creditor not only to forgive him the debt but also to
pity his extreme poverty and to give him alms—that is what these profound words
'have mercy on me' express. It is like saying, 'Gracious Lord, forgive me my sins and
help me to put myself right; arouse in my soul a strong impulse to follow Thy bidding.
Bestow Thy grace in forgiving my actual sins and in turning my heedless mind, will,
and heart to Thee alone.'"
Upon this I wondered at the wisdom of his words and thanked him for teaching my
sinful soul, and he went on teaching me other wonderful things.
"If you like," said he (and I took him to be something of a scholar, for he said he
had studied at the Athens Academy), "I will go on and tell you about the tone in which
the Jesus prayer is said. I happen to have heard many God-fearing Christian people
say the oral Jesus prayer as the Word of God bids them and according to the
tradition of holy church. They use it so both in their private prayers and in church. If
you listen carefully and as a friend to this quiet saying of the prayer, you can notice
for your spiritual profit that the tone of the praying voice varies with different people.
Thus, some stress the very first word of the prayer and say Lord Jesus Christ, and
then finish all the other words on one level tone. Others begin the prayer in a level
voice and throw the stress in the middle of the prayer, on the word Jesus as an
exclamation, and the rest, again, they finish in an unstressed tone, as they began.
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Others, again, begin and go on with the prayer without stress until they come to the
last words—Have mercy on me—when they raise their voices in ecstasy. And some
say the whole prayer—Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me a sinner—
with all the stress upon the single phrase Son of God.
"Now listen. The prayer is one and the same. Orthodox Christians hold one and
the same profession of faith. The knowledge is common to all of them that this
sublime prayer of all prayers includes two things: the Lord Jesus and the appeal to
Him. That is known to be the same for everybody. Why then do they not all express it
in the same way, why not all in the same tone, that is? Why does the soul plead
specially, and express itself with particular stress, not in one and the same place for
all, but in a certain place for each ? Many say of this that perhaps it is the result of
habit, or of copying other people, or that it depends upon a way of understanding the
words which corresponds with the individual point of view, or finally that it is just as it
comes most easily and naturally to each person. But I think quite differently about it. I
should like to look for something higher in it, something unknown not only to the
listener, but even to the person who is praying also. May there not be here a hidden
moving of the Holy Spirit making intercession for us with groanings which cannot be
uttered in those who do not know how and about what to pray? And if everyone prays
in the name of Jesus Christ, by the Holy Spirit, as the Apostle says, the Holy Spirit,
who works in secret and gives a prayer to him who prays, may also bestow His
beneficent gift upon all, notwithstanding their lack of strength. To one He may give
the reverent fear of God, to another love, to another firmness of faith, and to another
gracious humility, and so on.
"If this be so, then he who has been given the gift of revering and praising the
power of the Almighty will in his prayers stress with special feeling the word Lord, in
which he feels the greatness and the might of the creator of the world. He who has
been given the secret outpouring of love in his heart is thrown into rapture and filled
with gladness as he exclaims Jesus Christ, just as a certain starets could not hear
the name of Jesus without a peculiar flood of love and gladness, even in ordinary
conversation. The unshakable believer in the godhead of Jesus Christ, of one
substance with the Father, is enkindled with still more fervent faith as he says the
words Son of God. One who has received the gift of humility and is deeply aware of
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his own weakness, with the words have mercy on me is penitent and humbled, and
pours out his heart most richly in these last words of the Jesus prayer. He cherishes
hope in the loving kindness of God and abhors his own falling into sin. There you
have the causes, in my opinion, of the differing tones in which people say the prayer
in the name of Jesus. And from this you may note as you listen, to the glory of God
and your own instruction, by what emotion anyone is specially moved, what spiritual
gift any one person has. A number of people have said to me on this subject, 'Why
do not all these signs of hidden spiritual gifts appear together and united? Then not
only one, but every word of the prayer would be imbued with one and the same tone
of rapture.' I have answered in this way: 'Since the grace of God distributes His gift in
wisdom to every man severally according to his strength, as we see from holy
Scripture, who can search out with his finite mind and enter into the dispositions of
grace? Is not the clay completely in the power of the potter, and is he not able to
make one thing or another out of the clay?'"
I spent five days with this starets, and he began to get very much better in health.
This time was of so much profit to me that I did not notice how quickly it went. For in
that little room, in silent seclusion, we were concerned with nothing else whatever
than silent prayer in the name of Jesus, or talk about the same subject, interior
prayer.
One day a pilgrim came to see us. He complained bitterly about the Jews and
abused them. He had been going about their villages and had to put up with their
unfriendliness and cheating. He was so bitter against them that he cursed them, even
saying they were not fit to live because of their obstinacy and unbelief. Finally he said
that he had such an aversion for them that it was quite beyond his control.
"You have no right, friend," said the starets, "to abuse and curse the Jews like
this. God made them just as He made us. You should be sorry for them and pray for
them, not curse them. Believe me, the disgust you feel for them comes from the fact
that you are not grounded in the love of God and have no interior prayer as a security
and, therefore, no inward peace. I will read you a passage from the holy Fathers
about this. Listen, this is what Mark the podvizhnik writes: 'The soul which is inwardly
united to God becomes, in the greatness of its joy, like a good- natured, simple-
hearted child, and now condemns no one, Greek, heathen, Jew, nor sinner, but looks
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at them all alike with sight that has been cleansed, finds joy in the whole world, and
wants everybody—Greeks and Jews and heathen—to praise God.' And Macarius the
Great, of Egypt, says that the inward contemplative 'burns with so great a love that if
it were possible he would have everyone dwell within him, making no difference
between bad and good.' There, dear brother, you see what the holy Fathers think
about it. So I advise you to lay aside your fierceness, and look upon everything as
under the all-knowing providence of God, and when you meet with vexations accuse
yourself especially of lack of patience and humility."
At last more than a week went by and my starets got well, and I thanked him from
my heart for all the blessed instruction that he had given me, and we said good-bye.
He set off for home and I started upon the way I had planned. Now I began to get
near to Pochaev. I had not gone more than seventy miles when a soldier overtook
me, and I asked him where he was going. He told me he was going back to his native
district in Kamenets Podolsk. We went along in silence for seven miles or so, and I
noticed that he sighed very heavily as though something were distressing him, and
he was very gloomy. I asked him why he was so sad.
"Good friend, if you have noticed my sorrow and will swear by all you hold sacred
never to tell anybody, I will tell you all about myself, for I am near to death and I have
no one to talk to about it."
I assured him, as a Christian, that I had not the slightest need to tell anybody
about it, and that out of brotherly love I should be glad to give him any advice that I
could.
"Well, you see," he began, "I was drafted as a soldier from the state peasants.
After about five years' service it became intolerably hard for me; in fact, they often
flogged me for negligence and for drunkenness. I took it into my head to run away,
and here I am a deserter for the last fifteen years. For six years I hid wherever I
could. I stole from farms and larders and warehouses. I stole horses. I broke into
shops and followed this sort of trade, always on my own. I got rid of my stolen goods
in various ways. I drank the money, I led a depraved life, committed every sin. Only
my soul didn't perish. I got on very well, but in the end I got into jail for wandering
without a passport. But when a chance came I even escaped from there. Then
unexpectedly I met with a soldier who had been discharged from the service and was
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going home to a distant government. As he was ill and could hardly walk he asked
me to take him to the nearest village where he could find lodging. So I took him. The
police allowed us to spend the night in a barn on some hay, and there we lay down.
When I woke up in the morning I glanced at my soldier and there he was dead and
stiff. Well, I hurriedly searched for his passport —that is to say, his discharge—and
when I found it and a fair amount of money too, while everybody was still asleep, I
was out of that shed and the backyard as quickly as I could, and so into the forest,
and off I went. On reading his passport I saw that in age and distinguishing marks he
was almost the same as 1.1 was very glad about this and went on boldly into the
depths of the Astrakhan government. There I began to steady down a bit and I got a
job as a laborer. I joined up with an old man there who had his own house and was a
cattle dealer. He lived alone with his daughter, who was a widow. When I had lived
with him for a year I married this daughter of his. Then the old man died. We could
not carry on the business. I started drinking again, and my wife too, and in a year we
had got through everything the old man had left. And then my wife took ill and died.
So I sold everything that was left, and the house, and 1 soon ran through the money.
"Now I had nothing to live on, nothing to eat. So I went back to my old trade of
dealing in stolen goods, and all the more boldly now because I had a passport. So I
took to my old evil life again for about a year. There came a time when for a long
while I met with no success. I stole an old wretched horse from a bobil26 and I sold it
to the knackers for a bob. Taking the money, I went off to a pub and began to drink. I
had an idea of going to a village where there was a wedding, and while everybody
was asleep after the feasting I meant to pick up whatever I could. As the sun had not
yet set I went into the forest to wait for night. I lay down there and fell into a deep
sleep. Then I had a dream and saw myself standing in a wide and beautiful meadow.
Suddenly a terrible cloud began to rise in the sky, and then there came such a terrific
clap of thunder that the ground trembled underneath me, and it was as though
someone drove me up to my shoulders into the ground, which jammed against me on
all sides. Only my head and my hands were left outside. Then this terrible cloud
seemed to come down onto the ground and out of it came my grandfather, who had
been dead for twenty years. He was a very upright man and for thirty years was a
churchwarden in our village. With an angry and threatening face he came up to me
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and I shook with fear. Round about nearby I saw several heaps of things which I had
stolen at various times. I was still more frightened. My grandfather came up to me
and, pointing to the first heap, said threateningly, 'What is that? Let him have it!' And
suddenly the ground on all sides of me began to squeeze me so hard that I could not
bear the pain and the faint- ness. I groaned and cried out, 'Have mercy on me,' but
the torment went on. Then my grandfather pointed to another heap and said again,
'What is that? Crush him harder!' And I felt such violent pain and agony that no
torture on earth could compare with it. Finally, that grandfather of mine brought near
me the horse that I had stolen the evening before, and cried out, 'And what is this?
Let him have it as hard as you can.' And I got such pain from all sides that I can't
describe it, it was so cruel, terrible, and exhausting. It was as though all my sinews
were being drawn out of me and I was suffocated by the frightful pain. I felt I could
not bear it and that I should collapse unconscious if that torture went on even a little
bit longer. But the horse kicked out and caught me on the cheek and cut it open, and
the moment I got that blow I woke up in utter horror and shaking like a weakling. I
saw that it was already daylight, the sun was rising. I touched my cheek and blood
was flowing from it; and those parts of me which in my dream had been in the ground
were all hard and stiff and I had pins and needles in them. I was in such terror that I
could hardly get up and go home. My cheek hurt for a long time. Look, you can see
the scar now. It wasn't there before. And so, after this, fear and horror often used to
come over me and now I only have to remember what I suffered in that dream for the
agony and exhaustion to begin again and such torture that I don't know what to do
with myself. What is more, it began to come more often, and in the end I began to be
afraid of people and to feel ashamed as though everybody knew my past dishonesty.
Then I could neither eat nor drink nor sleep because of this suffering. I was worn to a
ravel. I did think of going to my regiment and making a clean breast of everything.
Perhaps God would forgive my sins if I took my punishment. But I was afraid, and I
lost my courage because they would make me run the gauntlet. And so, losing
patience, I wanted to hang myself. But the thought came to me that in any case I
shan't live for a very long time; I shall soon die, for I have lost all my strength. And so
I thought I would go and say good-bye to my home and die there. I have a nephew at
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home. And here I am on my way there for six months now. And all the while grief and
fear make me miserable. What do you think, my friend? What am I to do? I really
can't bear much more."
When I heard all this I was astonished, and I praised the wisdom and the
goodness of God, as I saw the different ways in which they are brought to sinners. So
I said to him, "Dear brother, during the time of that fear and agony you ought to have
prayed to God. That is the great cure for all our troubles."
"Not on your life!" he said to me. "I thought that directly I began to pray, God
would destroy me."
"Nonsense, brother; it is the devil puts thoughts like that into your head. There is
no end to God's mercy and He is sorry for sinners and quickly forgives all who
repent. Perhaps you don't know the Jesus prayer: 'Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on
me, a sinner.' You go on saying that without stopping."
"Why, of course I know that prayer. I used to say it sometimes to keep my
courage up when I was going to do a robbery."
"Now, look here. God did not destroy you when you were on your way to do
something wrong and said the prayer. Will He do so when you start praying on the
path of repentance? Now, you see how your thoughts come from the devil. Believe
me, dear brother, if you will say that prayer, taking no notice of whatever thoughts
come into your mind, then you will quickly feel relief. All the fear and strain will go,
and in the end you will be completely at peace. You will become a devout man, and
all sinful passions will leave you. I assure you of this, for I have seen a great deal of it
in my time."
After that I told him about several cases in which the Jesus prayer had shown its
wonderful power to work upon sinners. In the end I persuaded him to come with me
to the Pochaev Mother of God, the refuge of sinners, before he went home, and to
make his confession and communion there.
My soldier listened to all this attentively and, as I could see, with joy, and he
agreed to everything. We went to Pochaev together on this condition, that neither of
us should speak to the other, but that we should say the Jesus prayer all the time. In
this silence we walked for a whole day. Next day he told me that he felt much easier,
and it was plain that his mind was calmer than before. On the third day we arrived at
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Pochaev, and I urged him again not to break off the prayer either day or night while
he was awake, and assured him that the most holy name of Jesus, which is
unbearable to our spiritual foes, would be strong to save him. On this point I read to
him from The Philokalia that although we ought to say the Jesus prayer at all times, it
is especially needful to do so with the utmost care when we are preparing for
communion.
So he did, and then he made his confession and communion. Although from time
to time the old thoughts still came over him, yet he easily drove them away with the
Jesus prayer. On Sunday, so as to be up for matins more easily, he went to bed
earlier and went on saying the Jesus prayer. I still sat in the corner and read my
Philokalia by a rushlight. An hour went past; he fell asleep and I set myself to prayer.
All of a sudden, about twenty minutes later, he gave a start and woke up, jumped
quickly out of bed, ran over to me in tears, and, speaking with the greatest
happiness, he said, "Oh, brother, what I have just seen! How peaceful and happy I
am; I believe that God has mercy upon sinners and does not torment them. Glory to
Thee, O Lord, glory to Thee."
I was surprised and glad and asked him to tell me exactly what had happened to
him.
"Why, this," he said. "Directly I fell asleep I saw myself in that meadow where they
tortured me. At first I Was terrified, but I saw that, instead of a cloud, the bright sun
was rising and a wonderful light was shining over the whole meadow. And I saw red
flowers and grass in it. Then suddenly my grandfather came up to me, looking nicer
than you ever saw, and he greeted me gently and kindly. And he said, 'Go to
Zhitomir, to the Church of St. George. They will take you under church protection.
Spend the rest of your life there and pray without ceasing. God will be gracious to
you.' When he said this he made the sign of the cross over me and straight away
vanished. I can't tell you how happy I felt; it was as though a load had been taken off
my shoulders and I had flown away to heaven. At that point I woke up, feeling easy in
my mind and my heart so full of joy that I didn't know what to do. What ought I to do
now? I shall start straight away for Zhitomir, as my grandfather told me. I shall find it
easy going with the prayer."
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"But wait a minute, dear brother. How can you start off in the middle of the night?
Stay for matins, say your prayers, and then start off with God."
So we didn't go to sleep after this conversation. We went to church; he stayed all
through matins, praying earnestly with tears, and he said that he felt very peaceful
and glad and that the Jesus prayer was going on happily.
Then after the liturgy he made his communion, and when we had had some food I
went with him as far as the Zhitomir road, where we said good-bye with tears of
gladness.
After this I began to think about my own affairs. Where should I go now? In the
end I decided that I would go back again to Kiev. The wise teaching of my priest
there drew me that way, and, besides, if I stayed with him he might find some Christ-
loving philanthropist who would put me on my way to Jerusalem or at least to Mount
Athos. So I stopped another week at Pochaev, spending the time in recalling all I had
learned from those I had met on this journey and in making notes of a number of
helpful things. Then I got ready for the journey, put on my kotomka, and went to
church to commend my journey to the Mother of God. When the liturgy was over I
said my prayers and was ready to start. I was standing at the back of the church
when a man came in, not very richly dressed, but clearly one of the gentry, and he
asked me where the candles were sold. I showed him. At the end of the liturgy I
stayed praying at the shrine of the footprint. When I had finished my prayers I set off
on my way. I had gone a little way along the street when I saw an open window in
one of the houses at which a man sat reading a book. My way took me past that very
window and I saw that the man sitting there was the same one who had asked me
about the candles in church. As I went by I took off my hat, and when he saw me he
beckoned me to come to him, and said, "I suppose you must be a pilgrim?"
"Yes," I answered.
He asked me in and wanted to know who I was and where I was going. I told him
all about myself and hid nothing. He gave me some tea and began to talk to me.
"Listen, my little pigeon, I should advise you to go to the Solovetsky27 monastery.
There is a very secluded and peaceful skeet28 there called Anzersky. It is like a
second Athos and they welcome everybody there. The novitiate consists only in this:
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that they take turns to read the psalter in church four hours out of the twenty-four. I
am going there myself and I have taken a vow to go on foot. We might go together. I
should be safer with you; they say it is a very lonely road. On the other hand, I have
got money and I could supply you with food the whole way. And I should propose we
went on these terms, that we walked half a dozen yards apart; then we should not be
in each other's way, and as we went we could spend the time in reading all the while
or in meditation. Think it over, brother, and do agree; it will be worth your while."
When I heard this invitation I took this unexpected event as a sign for my journey
from the Mother of God whom I had asked to teach me the way to blessedness. And
without further thought I agreed at once. And so we set out the next day. We walked
for three days, as we had agreed, one behind the other. He read a book the whole
time, a book which never left his hand day or night; and at times he was meditating
about something. At last we came to a halt at a certain place for dinner. He ate his
food with the book lying open in front of him and he was continually looking at it. I
saw that the book was a copy of the Gospels, and I said to him, "May I venture to
ask, sir, why you never allow the Gospels out of your hand day or night? Why you
always hold it and carry it with you?"
"Because," he answered, "from it and it alone I am almost continually learning."
"And what are you learning?" I went on.
"The Christian life, which is summed up in prayer. I consider that prayer is the
most important and necessary means of salvation and the first duty of every
Christian. Prayer is the first step in the devout life and also its crown, and that is why
the gospel bids unceasing prayer. To other acts of piety their own times are
assigned, but in the matter of prayer there are no off times. Without prayer it is
impossible to do any good and without the gospel you cannot learn properly about
prayer. Therefore, all those who have reached salvation by way of the interior life, the
holy preachers of the Word of God, as well as hermits and recluses, and indeed all
God-fearing Christians, were taught by their unfailing and constant occupation with
the depths of God's Word and by reading the gospel. Many of them had the gospel
constantly in their hands, and in their teaching about salvation gave the advice, 'Sit
down in the silence of your cell and read the gospel and read it again.' There you
have the reason why I concern myself with the gospel alone."
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I was very much pleased with this reasoning of his and with his eagerness for
prayer. I went on to ask him from which gospel in particular he got the teaching about
prayer. "From all four evangelists," he answered; "in a word, from the whole of the
New Testament, reading it in order. I have been reading it for a long time and taking
in the meaning, and it has shown me that there is a graduation and a regular chain of
teaching about prayer in the holy gospels, beginning from the first evangelist and
going right through in a regular order, in a system. For instance, at the very beginning
there is laid down the approach, or the introduction to teaching about prayer; then the
form or the outward expression of it in words. Farther on we have the necessary
conditions upon & which prayer may be offered, the means of learning it, and
examples; and finally the secret teaching about interior and spiritual ceaseless prayer
in the name of Jesus Christ, which is set forth as higher and more salutary than
formal prayer. And then comes its necessity, its blessed fruit, and so on. In a word,
there is to be found in the gospel full and detailed knowledge about the practice of
prayer, in systematic order or sequence from beginning to end."
When I heard this I decided to ask him to show me all this in detail. So I said, "As
I like hearing and talking about prayer more than anything else, I should be very glad
indeed to see this secret chain of teaching about prayer in all its details. For the love
of God, then, show me all this in the gospel itself."
He readily agreed to this and said, "Open your gospel; look at it and make notes
about what I say." And he gave me a pencil. "Be so good as to look at these notes of
mine. Now," said he, "look out first of all in the Gospel of St. Matthew the sixth
chapter, and read from the fifth to the ninth verses. You see that here we have the
preparation or the introduction, teaching that not for vainglory and noisily, but in a
solitary place and in quietude we should begin our prayer, and pray only for
forgiveness of sins and for communion with God, and not devising many and
unnecessary petitions about various worldly things as the heathen do. Then, read
farther on in the same chapter, from the ninth to the fourteenth verses. Here the form
of prayer is given to us—that is to say, in what sort of words it ought to be expressed.
There you have brought together in great wisdom everything that is necessary and
desirable for our life. After that, go on and read the fourteenth and fifteenth verses of
the same chapter, and you will see the conditions it is necessary to observe so that