Kasatsky entered the monastery
on the feast of the Intercession
of the Blessed Virgin. The Abbot
of that monastery was a gentleman
by birth, a learned writer and
a starets, that is, he belonged
to that succession of monks originating
in Walachia who each choose a
director and teacher whom they
implicitly obey. This Superior
had been a disciple of the starets
Ambrose, who was a disciple of
Makarius, who was a disciple
of the starets Leonid, who was
a disciple of Paussy Velichkovsky.
To this Abbot Kasatsky submitted
himself as to his chosen director.
Here in the monastery, besides
the feeling of ascendency over
others that such a life gave
him, he felt much as he had done
in the world: he found satisfaction
in attaining the greatest possible
perfection outwardly as well
as inwardly. As in the regiment
he had been not merely an irreproachable
officer but had even exceeded
his duties and widened the borders
of perfection, so also as a monk
he tried to be perfect, and was
always industrious, abstemious,
submissive, and meek, as well
as pure both in deed and in thought,
and obedient. This last quality
in particular made life far easier
for him. If many of the demands
of life in the monastery, which
was near the capital and much
frequented, did not please him
and were temptations to him,
they were all nullified by obedience:
'It is not for me to reason;
my business is to do the task
set me, whether it be standing
beside the relics, singing in
the choir, or making up accounts
in the monastery guest-house.'
All possibility of doubt about
anything was silenced by obedience
to the starets. Had it not been
for this, he would have been
oppressed by the length and monotony
of the church services, the bustle
of the many visitors, and the
bad qualities of the other monks.
As it was, he not only bore it
all joyfully but found in it
solace and support. 'I don't
know why it is necessary to hear
the same prayers several times
a day, but I know that it is
necessary; and knowing this I
find joy in them.' His director
told him that as material food
is necessary for the maintenance
of the life of the body, so spiritual
food--the church prayers--is
necessary for the maintenance
of the spiritual life. He believed
this, and though the church services,
for which he had to get up early
in the morning, were a difficulty,
they certainly calmed him and
gave him joy. This was the result
of his consciousness of humility,
and the certainty that whatever
he had to do, being fixed by
the starets, was right.
The interest of his life consisted
not only in an ever greater and
greater subjugation of his will,
but in the attainment of all
the Christian virtues, which
at first seemed to him easily
attainable. He had given his
whole estate to his sister and
did not regret it, he had no
personal claims, humility towards
his inferiors was not merely
easy for him but afforded him
pleasure. Even victory over the
sins of the flesh, greed and
lust, was easily attained. His
director had specially warned
him against the latter sin, but
Kasatsky felt free from it and
was glad.
One thing only tormented him--the
remembrance of his fiancee; and
not merely the remembrance but
the vivid image of what might
have been. Involuntarily he recalled
a lady he knew who had been a
favourite of the Emperor's, but
had afterwards married and become
an admirable wife and mother.
The husband had a high position,
influence and honour, and a good
and penitent wife.
In his better hours Kasatsky
was not disturbed by such thoughts,
and when he recalled them at
such times he was merely glad
to feel that the temptation was
past. But there were moments
when all that made up his present
life suddenly grew dim before
him, moments when, if he did
not cease to believe in the aims
he had set himself, he ceased
to see them and could evoke no
confidence in them but was seized
by a remembrance of, and--terrible
to say--a regret for, the change
of life he had made.
The only thing that saved him
in that state of mind was obedience
and work, and the fact that the
whole day was occupied by prayer.
He went through the usual forms
of prayer, he bowed in prayer,
he even prayed more than usual,
but it was lip-service only and
his soul was not in it. This
condition would continue for
a day, or sometimes for two days,
and would then pass of itself.
But those days were dreadful.
Kasatsky felt that he was neither
in his own hands nor in God's,
but was subject to something
else. All he could do then was
to obey the starets, to restrain
himself, to undertake nothing,
and simply to wait. In general
all this time he lived not by
his own will but by that of the
starets, and in this obedience
he found a special tranquillity.
So he lived in his first monastery
for seven years. At the end of
the third year he received the
tonsure and was ordained to the
priesthood by the name of Sergius.
The profession was an important
event in his inner life. He had
previously experienced a great
consolation and spiritual exaltation
when receiving communion, and
now when he himself officiated,
the performance of the preparation
filled him with ecstatic and
deep emotion. But subsequently
that feeling became more and
more deadened, and once when
he was officiating in a depressed
state of mind he felt that the
influence produced on him by
the service would not endure.
And it did in fact weaken till
only the habit remained.
In general in the seventh year
of his life in the monastery
Sergius grew weary. He had learnt
all there was to learn and had
attained all there was to attain,
there was nothing more to do
and his spiritual drowsiness
increased. During this time he
heard of his mother's death and
his sister Varvara's marriage,
but both events were matters
of indifference to him. His whole
attention and his whole interest
were concentrated on his inner
life.
In the fourth year of his priesthood,
during which the Bishop had been
particularly kind to him, the
starets told him that he ought
not to decline it if he were
offered an appointment to higher
duties. Then monastic ambition,
the very thing he had found so
repulsive in other monks, arose
within him. He was assigned to
a monastery near the metropolis.
He wished to refuse but the starets
ordered him to accept the appointment.
He did so, and took leave of
the starets and moved to the
other monastery.
The exchange into the metropolitan
monastery was an important event
in Sergius's life. There he encountered
many temptations, and his whole
will-power was concentrated on
meeting them.
In the first monastery, women
had not been a temptation to
him, but here that temptation
arose with terrible strength
and even took definite shape.
There was a lady known for her
frivolous behaviour who began
to seek his favour. She talked
to him and asked him to visit
her. Sergius sternly declined,
but was horrified by the definiteness
of his desire. He was so alarmed
that he wrote about it to the
starets. And in addition, to
keep himself in hand, he spoke
to a young novice and, conquering
his sense of shame, confessed
his weakness to him, asking him
to keep watch on him and not
let him go anywhere except to
service and to fulfil his duties.
Besides this, a great pitfall
for Sergius lay in the fact of
his extreme antipathy to his
new Abbot, a cunning worldly
man who was making a career for
himself in the Church. Struggle
with himself as he might, he
could not master that feeling.
He was submissive to the Abbot,
but in the depths of his soul
he never ceased to condemn him.
And in the second year of his
residence at the new monastery
that ill-feeling broke out.
The Vigil service was being
performed in the large church
on the eve of the feast of the
Intercession of the Blessed Virgin,
and there were many visitors.
The Abbot himself was conducting
the service. Father Sergius was
standing in his usual place and
praying: that is, he was in that
condition of struggle which always
occupied him during the service,
especially in the large church
when he was not himself conducting
the service. This conflict was
occasioned by his irritation
at the presence of fine folk,
especially ladies. He tried not
to see them or to notice all
that went on: how a soldier conducted
them, pushing the common people
aside, how the ladies pointed
out the monks to one another--especially
himself and a monk noted for
his good looks. He tried as it
were to keep his mind in blinkers,
to see nothing but the light
of the candles on the altar-screen,
the icons, and those conducting
the service. He tried to hear
nothing but the prayers that
were being chanted or read, to
feel nothing but self-oblivion
in consciousness of the fulfilment
of duty--a feeling he always
experienced when hearing or reciting
in advance the prayers he had
so often heard.
So he stood, crossing and prostrating
himself when necessary, and struggled
with himself, now giving way
to cold condemnation and now
to a consciously evoked obliteration
of thought and feeling. Then
the sacristan, Father Nicodemus--also
a great stumbling-block to Sergius
who involuntarily reproached
him for flattering and fawning
on the Abbot--approached him
and, bowing low, requested his
presence behind the holy gates.
Father Sergius straightened his
mantle, put on his biretta, and
went circumspectly through the
crowd.
'Lise, regarde a droite, c'est
lui!' he heard a woman's voice
say.
'Ou, ou? Il n'est pas tellement
beau.'
He knew that they were speaking
of him. He heard them and, as
always at moments of temptation,
he repeated the words, 'Lead
us not into temptation,' and
bowing his head and lowering
his eyes went past the ambo and
in by the north door, avoiding
the canons in their cassocks
who were just then passing the
altar-screen. On entering the
sanctuary he bowed, crossing
himself as usual and bending
double before the icons. Then,
raising his head but without
turning, he glanced out of the
corner of his eye at the Abbot,
whom he saw standing beside another
glittering figure.
The Abbot was standing by the
wall in his vestments. Having
freed his short plump hands from
beneath his chasuble he had folded
them over his fat body and protruding
stomach, and fingering the cords
of his vestments was smilingly
saying something to a military
man in the uniform of a general
of the Imperial suite, with its
insignia and shoulder-knots which
Father Sergius's experienced
eye at once recognized. This
general had been the commander
of the regiment in which Sergius
had served. He now evidently
occupied an important position,
and Father Sergius at once noticed
that the Abbot was aware of this
and that his red face and bald
head beamed with satisfaction
and pleasure. This vexed and
disgusted Father Sergius, the
more so when he heard that the
Abbot had only sent for him to
satisfy the general's curiosity
to see a man who had formerly
served with him, as he expressed
it.
'Very pleased to see you in
your angelic guise,' said the
general, holding out his hand.
'I hope you have not forgotten
an old comrade.'
The whole thing--the Abbot's
red, smiling face amid its fringe
of grey, the general's words,
his well-cared-for face with
its self-satisfied smile and
the smell of wine from his breath
and of cigars from his whiskers--revolted
Father Sergius. He bowed again
to the Abbot and said:
'Your reverence deigned to
send for me?'--and stopped, the
whole expression of his face
and eyes asking why.
'Yes, to meet the General,'
replied the Abbot.
'Your reverence, I left the
world to save myself from temptation,'
said Father Sergius, turning
pale and with quivering lips.
'Why do you expose me to it during
prayers and in God's house?'
'You may go! Go!' said the
Abbot, flaring up and frowning.
Next day Father Sergius asked
pardon of the Abbot and of the
brethren for his pride, but at
the same time, after a night
spent in prayer, he decided that
he must leave this monastery,
and he wrote to the starets begging
permission to return to him.
He wrote that he felt his weakness
and incapacity to struggle against
temptation without his help and
penitently confessed his sin
of pride. By return of post came
a letter from the starets, who
wrote that Sergius's pride was
the cause of all that had happened.
The old man pointed out that
his fits of anger were due to
the fact that in refusing all
clerical honours he humiliated
himself not for the sake of God
but for the sake of his pride.
'There now, am I not a splendid
man not to want anything?' That
was why he could not tolerate
the Abbot's action. 'I have renounced
everything for the glory of God,
and here I am exhibited like
a wild beast!' 'Had you renounced
vanity for God's sake you would
have borne it. Worldly pride
is not yet dead in you. I have
thought about you, Sergius my
son, and prayed also, and this
is what God has suggested to
me. At the Tambov hermitage the
anchorite Hilary, a man of saintly
life, has died. He had lived
there eighteen years. The Tambov
Abbot is asking whether there
is not a brother who would take
his place. And here comes your
letter. Go to Father Paissy of
the Tambov Monastery. I will
write to him about you, and you
must ask for Hilary's cell. Not
that you can replace Hilary,
but you need solitude to quell
your pride. May God bless you!'
Sergius obeyed the starets,
showed his letter to the Abbot,
and having obtained his permission,
gave up his cell, handed all
his possessions over to the monastery,
and set out for the Tambov hermitage.
There the Abbot, an excellent
manager of merchant origin, received
Sergius simply and quietly and
placed him in Hilary's cell,
at first assigning to him a lay
brother but afterwards leaving
him alone, at Sergius's own request.
The cell was a dual cave, dug
into the hillside, and in it
Hilary had been buried. In the
back part was Hilary's grave,
while in the front was a niche
for sleeping, with a straw mattress,
a small table, and a shelf with
icons and books. Outside the
outer door, which fastened with
a hook, was another shelf on
which, once a day, a monk placed
food from the monastery.
And so Sergius became a hermit.
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