The Great Weaver From Kashmir (43 page)

There is no history of mankind except for myself. I have mankind on my conscience like my old knavery, know it by heart and have already forgotten it like the multiplication table. The future shall be grounded on living thought instead of old facts, on life as it is lived instead of historical “truth,” on the dreams of God instead of excerpts from old documents. The world of thought is the true world, taking precedence over laws, facts, and deeds; the world of history is in the graveyards. History speaks of labor and achievement, but the chief characteristic of man as opposed to nature is that he has been given clarity of vision, is raised above labor and achievement. There is no such thing as history when all is said and done. The history of mankind is a political essay, and most unedifying when it is composed by bookworms who either do not know what politics are, or who take pains not to know. If a man surmounts the
boundaries of abstract thinking, he becomes a political creature. Thus the history of mankind is narrated by conservatives or liberals, aristocrats or republicans, capitalists or communists, Catholics or Protestants, Romans or Germans. A true man is raised above the history of mankind and everything that takes place outside of himself. If he works, he is so far removed from his work that by the time he reaches his goal he has forgotten where he started. He takes things as they come. Victory and defeat are to him two alien notions, and the experiment that works is to him precisely as worthless as the one that goes awry. He stands before the revolutionary tribunal and gives the orders as to who should be taken to the guillotine, just as impartial as when he tips his hat to a beggar on the street.

I do not doubt that men crucified the Son of God. And that the Son of God died for the sins of men. In the same way I am certain that the one who denies the existence of the Devil is in the Devil's grasp. The monastic way of life is, on the other hand, not the least bit more remarkable than ordinary housekeeping. Several bachelors build themselves a mansion. They are eager to be able to add several acres to their land and devise a clever scheme to inflate the price of pork. You must not think that I have lost my respect for man's endeavors; I have as much respect for a bad monk as for a bad poet, because both do the best that they can. On the other hand I cannot deny that I have more respect for a good poet than for a monk
who has not matured beyond his prayer book. All aspiration is good as long as a man is independent of it, all prayers good as long as a man has forgotten them, like the three holy elders in Tolstoy's folktales.
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But the greater part of monks and priests are like chests of drawers. In one drawer is philosophy, in another theology, in the third ethics, in a fourth mysticism – all according to what has been placed in them; in some one finds nothing but weird tales in kitchen Latin. The greatest part of the scholars in the religious orders are anachronistic phenomena who pore over age-old texts of fairy tales written during the time when superstition was called mysticism, and experimental science was grounds for imprisonment. Most of them are slaves of wisdom. Jesus Christ is the Redeemer of mankind because it is unwise to believe that mankind can redeem itself. It seems that it is wisest to label everything that is irreconcilable with this blessed wisdom a miracle, either from God or the Devil. Men worship as a miracle Jesus Christ's having changed water into wine and other such paltry contrivances, but no one would think to give the name of miracle to the paintings in the Sistine Chapel, Dante's
Divine Comedy
, the Oratories by Palestrina and Bach, or the Ninth Symphony, which Beethoven composed deaf. They believe that it is a more glorious miracle to resurrect people from death than it is to create works of art. I admit that I find nothing more believable than that Christ should have resurrected people from death, but I find this so base and disgusting that I feel nauseous even mentioning it. I would never once think to tip my hat to a dead man who has been resurrected. Jesus Christ is the highest that the human intellect can imagine; in other words, he is our God. And I am too thoroughly convinced of the divinity of Jesus to have any need of such
an equally piggish proof as resurrection. The thing that first made it most difficult for me to believe in the divinity of Jesus Christ was precisely this: that he should have resorted to tricks. And it pleased me to no end when I learned that it was not part of the doctrine of the Catholic Church that Christ performed miracles, but that this was instead only a pious presumption gleaned from the stories of the New Testament. There is nothing in the kingdom of nature as far from being supernatural as miracles. Nothing is supernatural but nature itself. For example, I do not believe in the
conceptio immaculata
for any other reason than that the Church has made it part of its official dogma that Christ came into the world in that way, just as Christians have believed since the time of the primitive Church. If men had been sufficiently acquainted with science to worship the most supernatural of all, nature itself, then they would have believed in something else: that Christ came into the world the ordinary way. All the endless rubbish about the virgin birth chafes me as both pornography and blasphemy at the same time. Yet that is not to say that I think it likely that the Virgin Mary had between ten and twenty children, as the Protestant church teaches in order to warrant its glorification of the family. On the other hand it is simply unintelligible to me as to how any thinking man could believe the
conceptio immaculata
to be more remarkable than the
conceptio maculata
. Is there anything but a supernatural explanation for the fact that a man is born into this world with a soul that has been granted the ability to worship the Lord? I was absolutely overjoyed when I discovered that Thomas Aquinas did not believe in the bitter truth of this so-called Immaculate Conception.

When the fakirs make plants spring from seeds in an instant, and
when yogis promenade on water, or when clairvoyant men spirit themselves off like Óðinn to distant lands on their own and others' errands, people say: “Beware, good children, it is the Devil!” As if the Devil would not be welcome to make seeds sprout, men promenade on water, clairvoyant men carry out their errands, and mediums experience ectoplasmic vomiting and diarrhea? If the Devil were as harmless as that, it would be great fun to live. I admit that I hate the Devil and know best of all men that he possesses a completely astonishing power, even the power to heal the sick and comfort the sorrowful. But it is no explanation whatsoever to say about any phenomenon: “That's from the Devil!” I ask: “How is it from the Devil?” Just as it is nothing but a distortion of fact when someone who asks about the existence of this world is given the answer that it was created by God. I ask: “How did he do this?” In the same way I say to the Devil, if he comes into my room at night:
“Bonjour, monsieur le Diable! Je suis bien charmé de vous voir. Comment allez vous? Voudriez vous bien vous donner la peine de vous asseoir?”
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And I do not let him leave until I have examined him carefully, peered down his throat, looked under his tail, and listened to his heart.

When all is said and done I hope that you understand, dearly beloved Father, that I am as firmly Catholic now as I was before. Allow me to repeat it: I believe in God the Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit. And I believe in the one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. The Church with its precious teachings has lifted me beyond the boundary of the temporal world, and I have the Church to thank that I find myself a free spirit. It has interpreted my dreams of God for me. Its creeds stand in my imagination as holy places of refuge, redeeming monuments. I perceive the brighter Heaven of
truth behind every one of its most ordinary expressions better than the clerics themselves: I cannot compare my perceptions to anything other than the inexpressible in the visions of mystics, saints, and other free men. On the other hand I eagerly admit that I have not become what is called a “better man” by becoming Catholic; no, God is just as far above me as he has always been. The Church has only granted me security; it is my life's anchor. Without it I could no longer bear to exist. There and nowhere else can I bear to live and to die. There I say my prayers unafraid. If I did not believe in Jesus Christ, I would die.

In the hope, beloved Father, of being able to greet you face-to-face within the fewest number of days, I am your obedient and compliant son in Jesus Christ.

After a three-month absence Steinn Elliði stood again at the gate of the abbey in Sept Fontaines. Grapevines droop down off the edge of the wall. He peeked shyly into the abbey garden, where he had left innumerable footprints among the flowers. It was in fact this garden that preserved the footsteps of his childhood feet; here he had become a child of God; he had been lost and the Kingdom of Heaven had awaited him in this garden. For a whole year he had wandered about this garden, where every twig had been planted by consecrated hands and God let his holy designs drip down into his soul. There were the tree-lined paths to the grove, and the young trees; and God
created Heaven and Earth. Grace serves the inner being of the man who has forsaken everything for the Kingdom of Heaven. He had left this place as a member of its household three months ago; now he stood again as a visitor at its gate. He was so heavyhearted that he longed to slink away and disappear with the first train into perfect oblivion and utter darkness. Nothing is as alluring as oblivion. And the greatest thing to look forward to is death: nothing is nearly as exciting as to die. Death is like the raisin in the whale's ass.
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What might be on the other side? No, he thought, I will speak with Father Alban and take his advice. It would be cowardice not to dare to stand face-to-face with Father Alban.

Evensong sounded throughout the church. God bless these men who believe that God is served with worship, music, and hymns of praise. It would be cruel not to allow them to sing. The music of the familiar old Gregorian chants was carried to his ears. The blessed Church has sung through the mouths of its monks in the same way for many years, for many hundreds of years, for many thousands of years – because the verse and the song originate from the eastern part of the world, from the temple of Jerusalem.

The most remarkable invention on Earth is the Lord. Electricity is a trifle compared to him.

He prayed in the shadows before the door, and his ears drank in every syllable of the ancient psalm. In the choir sat the men of God with their hoods drawn over their heads like Santa Clauses, looking into their souls as they sang. The souls of monks are like beautiful countries. He recognized all of the faces again, every line of every face. These were his faithful friends, and he was unworthy of tying their shoestrings, although of course they already tied their own. But no matter how much he searched he did not see Father Alban anywhere. There was a new monk sitting in the prior's seat. What happened to Father Alban? Was he ill, or on a trip somewhere? Finally Steinn came to the conclusion that he must have died, since a new man had taken his seat. What reason could the Lord have had to let Father Alban die? Steinn waited impatiently for the monks to finish singing the divine office. If Father Alban were truly dead, he thought, all joy would be swept from existence. It isn't so bad to live if a man has had the fortune to become acquainted with holy men. If a man has not become acquainted with holy men, then there is no advantage to living, and it would be just as well if one had never been born. How often had he regarded Father Alban and said, like Maxim Gorky when he saw the elder from Yasnaya Polyana
¹³⁰
sitting alone at the seaside one sunny day: “I am not so badly off while this man inhabits the Earth!” A silent payer follows the last
Deo gratias,
which ends with a hammer stroke. The monks rise to their feet and walk two by two from the choir, with their hands on their chests, covered over by the billowing arms of the choir robes, without looking to the right or left, a silent host.

Several minutes later Steinn sits in conversation with the Guest Master, the loquacious Père Dorval, in the refectory. Father Dorval
lets the questions rain down as before; he takes completely limitless pleasure in hearing news. Perhaps he in fact thinks that there is nothing so terribly boring as the news, but he asks and asks because he has been chosen by God to speak with guests. How did you feel about visiting your homeland? Is there any likelihood that your people will be converted from Lutheranism in this century? No. Arianism lingered for four hundred years, Nestorianism has lingered since the fourth century and still lingers. And in the seventeenth century a group of Nestorians was reunited with the Church. Protestantism would have been finished a long time ago if it hadn't been kept afloat by kings. Isn't Copenhagen a brilliantly beautiful city? Isn't seasickness amazingly unpleasant? How many departments are there in the university in Reykjavík? Are the Freemasons well established in Iceland? Finally Steinn was given space to interject the question that had been burning on his lips the whole time:

“I didn't see Father Alban in the choir. Is he away?”

At the mention of Father Alban the smile disappeared from the monk's face, and he became pious and solemn:

“Yes, you have every right to ask about your friend and Father Confessor, our good Father Alban! But you have seen that he is no longer with us. God has called Father Alban away from us.”

“Are you telling me that Father Alban is dead?” asked Steinn.

“No, monsieur, that's not what I meant. Father Alban is not what is ordinarily called dead, but rather he has gone away. He has entered a stricter order. He was so eager for the ascetic life that his life with us did not fully satisfy his demands. It will be nearly six weeks now since he left us and went to Switzerland. He has started as a novice with the Carthusians in Valle Sainte. It is high up in the mountains.”