A Journey to Mount Athos Read online

  An adolescent boy sails to the remote monasteries and hermitages of Mount Athos. His spiritual and erotic wanderings in the picturesque surroundings of the Holy Mountain take both the author and the reader on a journey of self-discovery.

  Augiéras described Athos as a place where you “find everything within yourself”, and the experiences in this book as “a sojourn in the Land of the Spirits according to the strictest Buddhist or Pythagorean Orthodoxy”.

  Depicted variously as an anti-Christian nomad, a barbarian in the West and a madman, Augiéras is one of France’s greatest underground writers.

  François Augiéras was born in 1925 in Rochester, New York. His father was a French pianist, his mother a Polish emigrée. After the death of his father he returned to Paris, spending his adolescence in Périgord, which was to be his refuge during a life of restless wandering.

  In 1945 he went to Algiers, and remained there for a year, living with his reclusive uncle, a retired colonel, and in a Trappist monastery. This experience, and the time spent with the monks of Athos, were profound influences both on his writing and his painting, often likened to ‘modern icons’. André Gide, who knew Augiéras, described his writing as a “bizarre delight”.

  Augiéras died in a hospice at Domme in 1971, aged forty-six.

  A JOURNEY TO

  MOUNT ATHOS

  FRANÇOIS AUGIÉRAS

  English translation

  © Sue Dyson and Christopher Moncrieff 2008

  First published in French as

  Un voyage au mont Athos in 1970

  © Éditions Flammarion

  This edition first published in 2008 by

  Pushkin Press

  12 Chester Terrace

  London NW1 4ND

  ISBN 978 1 901285 39 0

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,

  photocopying, recording or otherwise,

  without prior permission in writing from

  Pushkin Press

  Cover: Vézère-Falaise dans la nuit François Augiéras 1957

  Courtesy of Association Francois Augiéras Domme et Sarlat

  Frontispiece: François Augiéras 1964

  Courtesy of Association François Augiéras Domme et Sarlat

  Illustrations by Jacques Lacarriere

  from Mont Athos montagne sainte 1954

  Set in 10 on 12 Baskerville

  by Alma Books Ltd

  and printed in Great Britain by TJ International

  A JOURNEY TO

  MOUNT ATHOS

  Sunrise on Mount Athos

  Father Athanasius

  Monastery of Pantocrator

  Mount Athos

  To Monsieur Yves-Gérard de La Paumelle

  Assistant Director of the Department of Byzantine Paleography at

  the Bibliothèque Nationale

  living on rue de Lübeck, Paris [France]

  In the name of Christ, the Virgin and Saint John,

  1 February 1965

  Sir and most estimable scholar,

  Your erudite work in our monasteries, and particularly your most honourable stay at Pantocrator, have left good memories; that is the least one can say. My passable knowledge of your immortal French language gives me the distinguished pleasure of being in a position to write to you, and to remind you that I was of service to you by being your interpreter for a few days for my colleagues who speak only Greek or Serbian.

  Possessing your precious Paris address, which you consented to put on a piece of paper for me as I insisted, I am allowing myself to send you a small package, the modest gift of a poor monk. It is only a pound, of little fruits, gathered in my garden; holy fruits from Athos! I also send you my blessing.

  After this delicate attention, may I consider myself authorised to ask you to send me by return of post, if you would be so kind, and as quickly as possible: three kilos of gunpowder. I need it to manufacture cartridges to kill the wild boars that are laying waste to my estates; it is currently impossible to procure any powder in the grocery shops of Kariés.

  I am sure you have not forgotten poor Father Athanasius, the lucky owner of a water-clock that has made him famous on Athos. A clock that you yourself declared admirable after gazing upon it, even though it was not working that day. I hope even more that you remember that I had the honour of contributing to the success of your researches in our library on account of my knowledge of French. In consequence of which, and as a mark of thanks, you will be sure to post me the powder I need with all due speed.

  You will find a manuscript under the fruits; I am giving it to you as well, in the hope that you will pay me a fair price for it, if that seems fitting to you, my dear sir.

  I knew the author distantly. He was seen when very young on Athos, then when very old, and he disappeared completely after withdrawing into the region of the caves. In his youth he was treated in our monastery following serious burns; later, I tell you again, he left for the upper slopes, and was never seen again. Mule drivers discovered the manuscript this winter at the edge of a precipice, and brought it to me.

  I have read this Journey to Mount Athos. Your fellow-countryman’s sole mistake was to believe that there are only stupid folk on the Holy Mountain. The Wise Men hide themselves, do not flaunt their light; and I am one of them. I have my weaknesses, which do not prevent my knowing more than you about the great mysteries. Knowledge that goes back a long time before Christianity persists among us, and is kept secret; it comes to us from ancient Egypt, from the Gnostics and from India. Because of that, this account did not astonish me, this voyage to the Land of the Spirits.

  From a certain level of consciousness onwards, the real and the imaginary, life and death cease to be perceived as contradictory. Was your compatriot dead or was he alive among us? Did he dream his journey on the Holy Mountain? The question is no longer asked once one attains Wisdom.

  Whatever it may be, here is the account of a soul preparing itself to see God. In this book, time is not that of human kind. It is ceaselessly changed, broken apart, disjointed, because of the proximity of most holy eternity, which is already clearly felt. For holy souls, a slow DESTRUCTION OF TIME is exquisitely perceptible from page to page and almost line to line. So, in sending you this text I wish you much pleasure, sir, if your taste is more for the Eternal than for this century.

  That being said, I hold it against our author that he openly mocks my water-clock, which nonetheless required a great deal of work on the part of a skilled workman, and cost me a fortune, so much so that I have remained quite impecunious and almost without money; I must also tell you that I have in my service a young Greek who is dear to me and ruins me. I am penniless. I am therefore counting on you to post to me what I ask of you.

  In expectation of the powder, and for the money you owe me for the manuscript enclosed with my package of little fruits, I send you, my dear sir, my religious consideration.

  ATHANASIUS

  PART ONE

  What was the Final Door, and

  how did one pass through it?

  H P LOVECRAFT

  Demons and Marvels

  I

  THE VILLAGE OF WOMEN AND CHILDREN

  A gentle surf broke peacefully on the shingle of a very wide bay. Taking advantage of the cooler evening air, young women sat on the wooden stairs that led up to verandas, rocking newborn babies to sleep in their skirts. Not a man was to be seen, not a cry to be heard. Nothing but quiet conversation in the gardens; here and there, songs in a harmonious language. When darkness fell, paraffin lamps were lit. Although I could not quite place this stran
ge land inhabited solely by women, I was sure I had been here before.

  Nor was I unknown here. Young girls, in groups of three or four, were walking barefoot on the warm sandy paths in the shade of eucalyptus trees. Some of them gathered round me, and one took me by the hand. We walked among the heavy scents that rose from the gardens and the trees. We headed towards vast areas of shade. Other young girls had got there before us; laughter and jokes rang out: “A boy, a young man!” they cried. “Is this your lover who has come back tonight?” asked the friends of the tall, beautiful girl who had grabbed my hand, whispering in her ear. I was dragged even further into the eucalyptus trees. “Go on, kiss him!” her friends urged. “What are you waiting for?” She took me in her arms and held me close, her friends still surrounding us and watching our every move. She offered me her soft cheeks. I kissed her on the lips.

  With more peals of laughter her friends discreetly fled, leaving us alone beneath the low branches of the trees, in what was by now complete darkness. She lay down in the dry grass by the reed hedges. I stretched out beside her, not far from the sea. The water was so quiet that I could scarcely hear the waves breaking.

  I questioned her: what was this village where I saw nothing but children, young women and young girls?

  She replied that it was called Ierissos, that it belonged to the land of death, and that I was dead. Before returning to life I could stay here for a little while, or continue my journey. I would be very well looked after by her and by her companions. The houses of Ierissos have delightful little bedrooms with whitewashed walls, and beds “ . . . very good for love!” she laughed, and took me in her arms. “I shall make you a fine child!” She was warm, desirable and simple. Long plaits hung over her shoulders; I could feel her broad hips and supple waist beneath my fingers.

  “Do other dead people travel further?” I asked.

  Our eyes had got used to the dark and I thought I glimpsed sadness on her face.

  “Yes, some just pass through. Like you they arrive one evening, and when the night is over they set off for the Holy Mountain. They are taken over there,” she went on, pointing towards a sharp peak, a dark mass standing out against the distant horizon of the sea.

  I asked her more questions. She did not know the Holy Mountain, for it was forbidden to women and children. But according to the dead men’s accounts it was a very wild region, inhabited by monks who followed a strange cult in the worship of even stranger gods. She felt no desire to go there; she was afraid of it, and felt a vague hatred for the place. Every night a boat came across from there, sailed by an old man. Supplies were brought down onto the beach and quickly taken on-board. Without a word the man bought a little bread, some cans of oil, paraffin, cigarettes. Very occasionally travellers got on after buying a few things in Ierissos. The boat sailed away immediately. The village made a modest living from this trade with the Holy Mountain. Did I want to go there?

  The moon was rising over the sea, casting a vivid light on the snowy peak of the mountain that was out of bounds to women, making it seem very close across the smooth water. She told me it was not actually snow but spotless white marble. She added that thick forests covered the slopes of this mountain, where bulls wandered freely and spent the winter in caves. The monks, about whom some stories were not fit to repeat, prayed and sang, especially at night, in their peculiar monasteries whose walls were covered with frescoes as old as the world.

  I got no more from her. So did I want to set off for the mountain straight away? My questions had seemed so full of curiosity that she was sure I was determined to rush away as soon as the old man’s boat arrived. If so I must buy supplies for the journey right now. The little shops of Ierissos were open until midnight; she offered to go with me; reluctantly we stood up. She took me in her arms one last time and gave me her lips. Then and there I almost gave up my decision to go on into the land of the dead. Her whole being smelt of love, tenderness, profound pleasure, unlimited sensual delight. She seemed to have come straight from my dreams: still an adolescent, healthy, naked under her almost childlike white dress that was drawn in at the waist by a light belt. But in the distance, on the motionless sea, shone the bright peak of the Sacred Mountain, which drew me irresistibly towards it.

  We went back into Ierissos. In the warm night the young women were still rocking their babies in the doorways; the children were playing on the sandy paths; the peaceful gardens smelt good. We headed for the shops, which were lit with a strange light from paraffin lamps; modest stalls kept by little boys and their young sisters. I bought cigarettes, tins of milk, sugar, snake-bite serum (for I was told the Holy Mountain was infested with them), instant coffee, matches. All of this was put into a sailor’s bag which I took in my hand. The night was drawing in; the lights went out in the little houses of Ierissos; it was time to go down to the beach to wait for the old man’s boat. Having paid for my goods I suddenly realised my sweet companion had disappeared into the darkness without a goodbye, as if I had been called away never to return. I did not look for her; the children were shutting up shop; I went towards the surf that was tirelessly washing the shingle.

  Beside the water a young boy was keeping his eye on some chests and bags of bread. I propped myself up on my elbows in the sand; we waited for the boat. Soon we heard the sound of an engine. A white hull and masts appeared on the deep warm water. The boat’s engine cut off and it heaved to in front of us. The old man threw a rope to the child, who wound it round a stake stuck in the shore. He put a plank across the side of the boat and slid it towards the beach, helped by the little boy who had waded thigh-deep into the water. That done, the old man came ashore, loaded the sacks of bread and the chests, lit a storm lantern, took a few banknotes out of his pocket and counted them carefully, then gave them to the child who went away. He put out the lamp. Without a word, without questioning me, he let me climb aboard. He slipped the mooring rope, pulled up the plank, restarted the engine and put it into reverse. The shore disappeared slowly into the night. Once we had gone a little way he turned the helm and headed out to sea.

  I sat in the bows, up on the roof of the bridge. A cool wind stroked my hair. Choppy waves lifted our little boat, and it smacked back down again onto the black water. It was the very end of the night. The stars were getting faint and going out one by one. The huge mountain was outlined against a deep blue sky, already bright in the east. The pure white peak, which we were gradually approaching, slipped slowly out of sight behind some enormous hills. I could not take my eyes off it. It shone like a perfect diamond among the last stars that were reflected in the sea.

  II

  FIRST STEPS ON THE HOLY MOUNTAIN

  At daybreak the white marble peak had disappeared beyond the densely-wooded slopes of the Holy Mountain.

  Vast green hills appeared before my wondering eyes, a wide bay, and a long beach. A small fortified castle on an island seemed uninhabited and ruined. The old man steered for the beach. We sailed further into the bay. There, the sea was calmer; large meadows sloped right down to the water’s edge. Bulls, the only inhabitants of this tranquil bay, either stood in the shade of beautiful trees, lay on the shingle or came down to dip their muzzles in the early morning foam.

  When we were within earshot of the little castle the old man cut the engine, stood up in the stern of the boat and gave a loud shout. No one answered. The domes of a humble chapel were visible above the battlements. Another shout remained unanswered; no one lived on the island any more; the bay was frequented only by black bulls. A wood of cypress trees, probably near a spring, raised their dark heads in the distance. Sparrowhawks soared over the wild bay, a favourite place for herds that were always free.

  The engine dead, our boat bobbed on the waves. The sailor called one last time in the silence of the countryside that lay prostrate in the summer heat. A bull bellowed; the cicadas sang.

  Starting the engine, we set off again. The Bay of Bulls moved slowly into the distance, and we ran into more rough waves. Our
boat plunged through them dangerously; the wind was very strong and the sea was deep. We had to get round another headland and pass close to steep cliffs. The waves were constantly washing across reefs that just broke the surface of the water, giving us no respite. Just a few hundred metres away we saw caves under the sheer drop of the cliffs: black caverns lost to the sun, where the cold green water thundered, laden with white foam; while no great distance from these ocean grottoes that were prey to the tide our boat floated on clear, transparent water.

  We rounded the point with the engine at full throttle. Several times I thought we were going to break up on the shallows, which seemed impassable. But each time the old man made use of a strong movement of the waves which lifted our vessel, and managed to negotiate the channels dotted with little islands into which the sea hurled itself with a torrential noise, then withdrew silently, taking most of its water back out to sea. Slack for a moment, the waves resumed their tireless onslaught of the coast. Leaning over the side I often saw the shadow of our boat passing over the clearly visible sea bed, over great blocks of stone that had fallen from the cliffs, rocks submerged since the beginning of the world, for ever motionless under ten metres of water, creating a maze of Cyclopean stones split open by huge fissures where silver fish were swimming.