We Were Guests at St. Seraphim's
by Dr. A. P. Timofievich
About the Author
The author of this account of a pilgrimage to Sarov and Diveyevo, which occurred at the very eve of the closure of these monasteries, was a gifted writer, by profession a physician. From his childhood Dr. Anatoly Pavlovich Timofievich dedicated his life to God, and to medicine as a way of serving the Church. He was raised in the shadow of the Kiev Caves Lavra in Russia. He spent much of his youth roaming this huge, ancient monastery, with its towers, its near and far caves, its theological academy, its library, parks and cemetery, its secluded places where ascetics were laboring, hidden away from the world. He became friends with many of the monks. All this instilled in him a lifelong sense of awe and trembling before the Church and monastic life. While in medical school, he spent his time studying in the Lavra.
After the Bolshevik revolution, Anatoly Pavlovich remained in close contact with the famous Schema-bishop Anthony at the Lavra. He was also at home in neighboring monasteries: Goloseyevsky, Kitaev, Florovsky, Michael’s, and especially the Trinity Monastery of Righteous Jonah. He witnessed the ruthless liquidation of monasteries, such as when hundreds of monks were thrown to their death off bridges because the authorities thought they were not worth wasting bullets on. He made a pilgrimage to the secret monks hiding in the Crimea, perhaps the greatest repository of sanctity in the 20th century.
From his student years Anatoly Pavlovich was the spiritual son and a member of the Christian commune of Fr. Adrian Rymarenko (later Archbishop Andrew), a disciple of Optina Elder Nektary. When Fr. Adrian founded the New Diveyevo Convent in upstate New York, Anatoly Pavlovich moved into a house right next to his. He was the personal physician of Fr. Adrian. Being in very poor health, Fr. Adrian would serve in the altar only under Anatoly Pavlovich’s personal supervision. Afterwards he would collapse and literally be carried out.
Anatoly Pavlovich spent his life under Fr. Adrian’s spiritual guidance, and was finally buried by him in 1974.
The most interesting aspect of Anatoly Pavlovich Timofievich was that he was a man not of this world, literally sighing for the heavenly homeland. He sighed when he was not in prayer, and we could only glimpse him as he was between times of prayerful contemplation. He was not inspired by contemporary life. He probably experienced periods of depression because he was not in Holy Russia, because he did not become a martyr, and because the American lifestyle was so far removed from the Orthodox way of life.
Anatoly Pavlovich’s burning faith is evident from his writing. He was aflame with inspiration and zeal for the Lord, and he knew that he had a rich inheritance to pass on. Spending the last decades of his life in America and serving the American land through his writing, he bequeathed his transmission to the young generation of Americans. He became a bridge to Holy Russia, which now, 18 years after his death, rises from the ashes of 20th-century barbarism.
The account printed below was written on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of St. Seraphim’s canonization. It was written right after Anatoly Pavlovich completed a book on St. Seraphim. Later he authored a poetic, heart-rending anthology about righteous men and women whom he had met, entitled People of God. In due time this too will be published in The Orthodox Word.
—Abbot Herman
To Her Royal Highness Grandduchess Xenia Alexandrovna,
a great venerator of St. Seraphim,
the author with reverence dedicates this modest work.
Preface
When you begin to turn over the pages of your life, already not a little written over and perhaps near their end, then you will hurry to turn some of them over as soon as possible, at others you will linger; and there are some—few and rare, alas!—which you eagerly read and reread, returning to them again and again. One such happy page of my life was a stay of almost three weeks at Diveyevo and Sarov Monasteries in the summer of 1926. I well understand the poverty of human language and its inability to transmit those feelings and moods which grip the heart and soul with such strength. To understand and appreciate them, one must experience them. Not without reason does the writer S. A. Nilus—to whom Orthodox people are indebted for the discovery of such a spiritual treasure as the “Conversation of St. Seraphim with Motovilov About the Aim of the Christian Life”—exclaim in a burst of spiritual delight:
“Whoever has not been to Sarov with faith in Seraphim, whoever has not breathed in the Sarov air, saturated with his prayer, does not grasp, does not appreciate Sarov, even though it be described with ingenious words or painted with an ingenious brush.”
This is in no way exaggerated. But on the other hand, I myself know how dear to the believing man is everything connected with the memory of St. Seraphim, and therefore I have decided to share my remembrances about my trip with the pious reader. May he not judge me, a sinner, and may he forgive my infirmity.
This description does not bear the character of a chronological journal; it is rather separate fragments tied together with the sole aim of giving a faint picture of the last lot of the Mother of God on earth—wonderful Diveyevo and Sarov. Much has been omitted which due to the present situation cannot be made public. [ Barbara remark : What ? Why not ?? Nothing should have been omitted due to the valuable historical nature of Dr Anatoly Pavlovich Timofeyevich's spiritual travelogue
Bless, O Lord!
New Diveyevo, New York
1951
Chapter One
St. Seraphim. The mass pilgrimage to Sarov in 1926. Thoughts about the trip to Sarov and my acquaintance with Engineer X. Preparations. Departure. At “Mukhtolovo” Station. Ardatov. Pokrov Women’s Monastery. Elder Anthony of Murom. Diveyevo. A visit to the Cathedral. Mother Ludmilla, the treasurer of the monastery.
Saint Seraphim!
.... The tornado of revolution turned everything upside down, life took on the most abnormal forms, there began in the full sense a struggle for a half-starved existence, and the trip was involuntarily laid aside. So years passed.… But then came the year 1926, a wondrous year in some respects. Never before had a longing for the Saint embraced believers as in that year. Both the old and young rose up and hastened to Sarov. I remember how a whole pilgrimage set out from our city with those distinguished clergymen, now holy martyrs, 75-year-old Fr. M., Fr. Al., Fr. An., and many others, and after them stretched the laypeople. Some soulful, inexplicable, but powerful need to visit the Saint enveloped everyone. Some on returning back related what they saw and experienced, and were immediately replaced by others. And this happened everywhere. Only in a year did everything become clear, with the closure of Sarov and Diveyevo.
The Saint invisibly but powerfully called to himself all who loved him, in whom there burned even a feeble spark of faith in him. It was as if he were giving us a last opportunity to rejoice in the great joy of direct contact with him before he undertook his newest and greatest podvig—to suffer the terrible sacrilegious outrages against his relics and all the other holy things, that were perpetrated in Sarov and Diveyevo.
One thing is certain: the mystery of this podvig was in the plan of the Divine economy, and its meaning will be revealed only on the day of the final triumph of Light over darkness.
I also was drawn with irresistible strength to the Saint of God, and circumstances at that time developed favorably, to my joy. I decided not to travel alone, but to go with my great like-minded friend K. Not knowing the way, however, I turned to the worthy Fr. Adrian for help:
“Now, my dear one, turn to Engineer X. Why, he is their own man in Diveyevo. Blessed Maria even calls him our Mishenka,’ no less! He will explain and clear up everything for you.”
With joy I thanked the good father for his advice and hurried to the indicated address.
I found Engineer X. at home, having recently returned from Sarov.
He was, as I learned later, a remarkable individual.
After his wife was miraculously healed at St. Seraphim’s spring, Engineer X. became for the rest of his life one of the Saint’s most devoted admirers. Zealously devoted to Orthodoxy, direct, open, sometimes even rough in manner, he burned with ardent faith towards the Saint, had a big heart full of love and unbendable firmness in his convictions.
He had been arrested and interrogated many times by the Cheka and the GPU, and in 1918 he was sentenced to death for sabotage. But he conducted himself in such a manner that he called forth the involuntary respect even of the examining magistrates at the interrogations.
This is who I became acquainted with, and this acquaintance later developed into a deep and close friendship.
When I entered his apartment I was first of all struck that all the walls were adorned with icons, like an iconostasis. In the midst of them stood out a huge, full-length image of the Saint as he is usually represented—as a stooped elder in epitrachelion and cuffs, and with an uncovered head. There was also a smaller icon representing the Saint in his younger years, as a hieromonk.
Hearing why I had come, Engineer X. very readily explained the whole route to me, adding:
“My dear sir, I urgently advise you not to go through Arzamas, since you can’t avoid the vanity and the crowds, but to go to Mukhtolovo’ station, which is just before Arzamas. They know less about it, and you will easily reach Sarov. And that way you won’t miss the town of Ardatov with its women’s monastery, which St. Seraphim also took care of. There venerate the grave of the renowned Elder Anthony [of Murom]. You won’t regret it,” added my new acquaintance.
“Now you see,” he continued, “don’t forget to visit Elder Isaac while you are in Sarov. Don’t be surprised that this exceptional ascetic struggler of our time, in spite of his almost 60 years, looks like a 25-year-old youth. This is already from the Lord.
“I would give you a letter of recommendation,” he concluded, “but you know the times: then you would have no end of trouble. Simply search out Nun Alexandra, and in my name ask her to help you. As for the rest, the Lord and St. Seraphim will guide your journey in every way. Have no doubts.”
So it is decided, I am going. Brief preparations. A moleben for travelling at the Lavra, and the train smoothly carried us to Moscow.
A brief stop in Moscow, and we set out at six o’clock in the evening from the Kazan railroad station. It is night. Despite the uniform rocking of the carriage, sleep flees. Still it is hardly believable that our cherished dream might come true, and that every minute brings us nearer and nearer to our desired goal.
The morning was foggy and clouded over when at seven o’clock the following day our train arrived at the “Mukhtolovo” station (of the Moscow-Kazan railroad). We quickly stepped down from the car to the platform and looked around. On a hill to the left of the railroad tracks stood the small station building, behind which a small forest was barely visible through the fog. To the right of the tracks was a village. We were alone at the station; not a soul was around. A low shroud of rain covered the horizon, and everything seemed dismal and unwelcoming. In vain we walked several times around the station, hoping that at least some kind of driver would appear. To walk to the village was not desirable, as it might cause unnecessary suspicion.
We were particularly troubled by our rather heavy travelling bags containing various offerings for the monastery, mainly church wine, of which there was an acute need.
Having deliberated, we decided nevertheless to walk through the village on foot, to look at the road to Ardatov, and then—whatever God would send! Meanwhile the rain perceptibly diminished, and, loading ourselves with the bags, we bravely stepped out toward the village.
We had not gone even ten steps, however, when behind us, somewhere afar off, a bell began to sound. Before long a small wagon came up to us. Its owner, in an old, worn-out peasant coat and bast shoes, eyed us searchingly from head to foot, and as if in passing threw out:
“So, brothers, to Sarov no doubt?”
“To Sarov, to Sarov!” we both joyfully cried out. “Have the goodness, dear sir, to take us. We will pay you.”
“Well, you see,” answered the driver, “it’s not on my way. I’m from Ardatov, and from there to Sarov I suppose it is a good thirty versts.”
We earnestly began to try to persuade him, and the peasant quickly yielded. For three rubles he consented to convey us as far as Diveyevo, from where it was twelve versts to Sarov. It was evident that the Heavenly Queen Herself was directing our steps from the beginning to Diveyevo.
Rejoicing at the intercession of St. Seraphim, we quickly packed our things in the wagon, but decided to walk as far as possible on foot. The rain stopped. The gaunt little horse slowly dragged its feet, the driver peacefully dozed in the coachman’s seat, and we, walking far ahead of the wagon, sang an Akathist to the Saint. The road went at first through the thick forest, but in five versts the forest ended, and before us stretched out the endless, unbounded fields of our vast Mother Russia.
The weather finally cleared up and beneath the rays of the hot sun a light steam swirled over the damp earth. The shabby horse barely plodded along; all around was uninhabited, and the coachman blissfully slept, stretched out in the cart. But we were happy with our solitude and our journey, and loudly sang verses to the Saint.
We passed through several villages, poor and wretched, where crowds of children ran after us, asking for a kopeck. At this time our driver came to himself somewhat, and said that it was not far to Ardatov. The region became more elevated, and the road twisted among the hills, at times making rather sharp turns. Suddenly, on our left, against the background of a dark-blue sky, there rose up as if from under the earth a beautiful white church with a tall porch and portico with columns. Facing it there appeared the wall of the cemetery.
“What church is that?” we asked.
“Ardatov, no doubt,” said the coachman again, rubbing his eyes after his slumber.
Indeed, the town was hidden in a hollow place, and only now suddenly revealed itself to our gaze. An ordinary country town of old Russia with poorly paved streets, dilapidated wooden sidewalks, and one-story houses. Turning into one of the side streets, we began to ascend a hill, and soon found ourselves before the holy gates of the Ardatov women’s monastery, dedicated to the Protection of the Mother of God. A beautiful high red brick wall with corner towers girded the monastery. At the entrance to the monastery, the portress, an old nun, who was sitting on a bench, arose and bowed affably. Passing through the holy gates, we found ourselves in a comparatively spacious monastery courtyard, in the midst of which towered the main monastery church, closely encircled on every side by monastery cells and other buildings. Nestled up against the church itself were small white crosses and little fences on the graves.
It appeared that our coachman was their own man here, since he instantly disappeared into one of the rooms, from where two nuns in white apostolniks soon appeared, and in the name of the Mother Abbess warmly welcomed us and asked us not to disdain their bread and salt.
“Forgive, for the sake of Christ, our scarcity at the present time,” the elder of them kindly remarked, “but then, as it is said, better a dish of greens with love, than a roasted ox with hatred’” (Prov. 15:17).
Having strengthened ourselves with the simple monastery meal, we set off to thank the Mother Abbess for her hospitality and to ask a blessing to see the monastery’s holy places.
Learning that we were on our way to Sarov, the Mother Abbess remarked: “It is good that you didn’t pass us sinners by. You see, we also consider ourselves not to be strangers to our dear Batiushka. During his lifetime our monastery profited much from his generosity and blessings, and not a little did he give to our souls which were seeking salvation. And indeed, our deceased elder, Fr. Anthony, had previously labored together with the Saint at the Sarov Hermitage.”
Taking leave of the Mother Abbess, we set off to see the monastery, escorted by the nun we had already become acquainted with.
The tall three-altared cathedral church, although not striking for its size, was quite elegant in its architecture.
“You have heard, of course,” said our companion, “that in his youth, while still a novice, Batiushka Father Seraphim learned the art of carpentry well, and was a skilled wood-carver. And look, our monastery was honored to receive from Batiushka himself this gift of his work.” She led us to one of the columns of the left side-altar of the church and showed us where there was hanging on it, under a small glass cover, a carved crucifix with the Marys standing by—the Mother of the Lord and Mary Magdalene. With reverence we kissed this holy relic.
Having visited the church, we were directed to a small wing, where once had lived the blind elder Anthony, renowned for his God-pleasing life. We entered through a small dark passage into a fairly small room with one little window. Near the left wall stood a simple wooden divan, and next to it a table and some chairs. On the right side there was also a table, but of considerably larger dimensions, on which were displayed books, a cross, a prayer rope, and, lying on a wooden plate, something like a kamilavka, but of a rather unusual form, covered with black material. In a corner were many icons. Lampadas burned. Nuns behind the analogion in the middle of the cell read the Psalter.
“Right here our elder labored,” said Matushka, “and right here, on the day of the Dormition of the Mother of God, the holy one also reposed. Exceedingly difficult indeed was the path of his life, and great were his sufferings and privations. With heavy podvigs he wearied his flesh, fighting with passions, and with God’s help he overcame them.
“Just look,” continued Matushka, indicating the wooden plate, “at this hat, which Batiushka always wore during prayer as a sign of his victory over the enemy of our salvation. And don’t only look, but also put it on. Here, receive, as it were, a blessing from the elder himself.”
I approached the table, wishing to fulfill the advice of Matushka, took it, and right then almost dropped it on the floor from surprise.
It turned out that this “hat” was of cast iron and only covered by material. It weighed about twenty pounds. Only with difficulty was I able to hold it for a few moments on my head, and I involuntarily thought, “How was Batiushka able to pray in it for so long?” As if guessing my thought, Matushka remarked:
“It is difficult even to picture to yourself how Batiushka could burden himself with such a weight, but did you know that in his youth, in obedience to his elder, he even walked to Kiev in this hat, and thereby lost his sight?”
I was shocked. To bear such a superhuman podvig only to lose a most precious gift of God, one’s vision, was absolutely incomprehensible, and I openly expressed this to Matushka.
Having listened to me and gently smiled, Matushka added:
“To our feeble understanding much seems incomprehensible, and certainly if a man would of his own will deprive himself of this great gift, it would be an unforgivable sin. But then, a still more valuable gift than our sight is our soul and eternal blessedness. The Lord, through the mouth of the great elder, Hierarch Anthony of Voronezh, seeing the fervent desire of Batiushka to save his soul, sent him precisely this podvig. Who knows what terrible temptations or snares of the enemy might have threatened Batiushka, had he had bodily eyes. We see this in examples from the lives of certain ascetics. The Bishop’s clear understanding foresaw that while losing bodily sight, Batiushka would instead receive spiritual vision.”
“Forgive me, Matushka,” I could only reply, “you are deeply right, how very feeble our understanding is, to dare to comprehend the incomprehensible.”
Silently we walked from the cell to the porch.
“Matushka, where is the elder buried?”
“There, you can see Batiushka’s grave by the church.” We approached nearer. Near the altar wall of the church lay a large cast-iron gravestone, and a wooden cross stood with a burning lampada within it. Somewhere from the window of a monastery cell wafted the harmonious singing of women’s voices, harmonizing with the all-encompassing picture.
“It is our choir rehearsing,” explained Matushka. I asked permission to photograph the grave of Father Anthony. The picture came out successfully.
The sun had begun to go down, and the day’s heat was noticeably subdued, when we, having thanked the mothers for their kind-hearted hospitality, set out from the gates of the monastery. The road again passed through fields. All around appeared shocks of cut grain. It smelled pleasantly of wormwood and savory, and our horse’s little bells rang melodiously. The evening sky was painted with delicate, light tones, and golden flocks of clouds harmoniously moved in solemn procession to somewhere a great way off. The fading day, like departing youth, always embraces the soul with some kind of feeling of involuntary sadness and regret over the irrevocable past.
There was still fairly far to go to Diveyevo, and the coachman decisively seated us on the vehicle. Having rested, the horse boldly jogged along in the evening coolness with a gentle trot. It quickly began to grow dark, and the sky became more and more covered over with clouds. Here and there, where they parted, a lone star attempted to peek out, but they too were soon hidden behind the clouds. It was sad and disappointing that we were unable to see the monastery through the darkness, in order to bow down before it. When we arrived at last, it was already about eleven o’clock in the evening. Everything around slept. The darkness was so thick that only with difficulty could one see a few paces ahead, and everything further away blended into one dark shroud. Imperceptibly we entered the enclosure of the monastery, and our coachman, who was well oriented in the darkness, took us to a certain building and began to knock on the shutter. Soon the door creaked and let a thin strip of light slip through. At the threshold appeared an eldress with a candle stub who kindly invited us to enter. After the chill of the night it was more than agreeable to enter a warm room, and still more so one that smelled wonderfully of freshly baked bread. Evidently we had come to the monastery bread-bakery.
“Forgive me, my dears, that because of the late hour it is not possible to welcome you as we should. But anyhow, sleep until the morning, and then the Abbess Herself, the Queen of Heaven, will direct everything.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Matushka. We are already very happy that the Lord has deemed us worthy to come to your blessed corner from far-away Kiev.”
“So you are from Kiev?” Matushka took still greater interest. “In former times, the Saint of God Seraphim, as a young pilgrim, visited and venerated the holy places of Kiev, and now, behold, you have taken on yourself the labor to come to venerate the Saint. Believe that for this gift of love towards him, the Saint will never leave you in a difficult moment of life.”
In half an hour we were already fast asleep on prepared beds, worn out from the road. Awaking early in the morning, I at first couldn’t even grasp where I was and what had happened to me. Then suddenly, like an arrow, the thought flew by: “O God, is it really not in a dream, but in reality, that I am in blessed Diveyevo?” I jumped up and rushed to the window. Before me, in the rays of the rising sun, like a wondrous vision, stood a large church with five cupolas. The morning fog swirled like incense. Apart from the church rose the bell tower. —No, this is a dream come true! I am in Diveyevo! From this thought my heart began to tremble with joy. My companion also woke up, and we, quickly dressing and not disturbing anyone, walked toward the cathedral. Having walked up the steps of its tall porch, we entered. Beautiful, full of light, adorned like a wonderful Diveyevo painting, the cathedral church struck me by its spiritual beauty and the harmonious blending of all its lines. My first thought was, of course, to bow down before the most holy object of Diveyevo, the miracle-working icon of the Mother of God “Of Tender Feeling,” before which St. Seraphim had prayed throughout his whole life, and before which he had died. And here, glorified in gold and precious stones, she reigned on the right side of the church.
At this early hour there was almost nobody in the church, with the exception of a few nuns, and we could pray privately as we wished.
Soon they rang for Liturgy, and the Cathedral filled with the people who came to pray. Liturgy passed quickly. At the end of it a novice approached us and delivered, in the name of the mother treasurer, an invitation to tea. We had already heard much in Kiev about Mother Ludmilla the treasurer, as about one of the living relics of the monastery, a great woman of prayer and guardian of Church and monastery traditions.
When we entered into a large room where several nuns were already sitting at a table, we were met by Mother Ludmilla herself. Two novices gently supported her by the arms. She was completely blind, of medium height, in appearance an eldress not yet advanced in years, in a white apostolnik, radiant with some sort of unearthly inner beauty. A slight blush covered her animated face, which her blindness not only didn’t mar, but perhaps enlivened still more.
We remembered the words of Nilus: “Remarkably pleasant is old age in Diveyevo.”
“Come, come, my dear long-awaited ones,” said Matushka quietly. “Well, thanks be to the Lord, at last you have gathered yourselves together and come to visit the Saint,” continued Matushka. “He has been waiting for you a long, long time.”
Confused, not knowing what to answer, we approached silently to receive her blessing. They handed her prepared enamel icons of St. Seraphim in metal settings. Matushka slowly made the sign of the cross over each of us with them and, holding her hand over our heads a little, she added, “May the Lord protect you, may the Lord keep you, may the Lord direct you, through the prayers of the Heavenly Queen and St. Seraphim.” And so much genuine kindness sounded in her eldress’ voice, so welcoming was the smile on her lips, that one was drawn towards her with all one’s being. Only a loving mother could so welcome her children after a long, long separation.
After tea and a brief conversation, Matushka called her novice, “Grunyushka, do take our guests to Mother Kypriana. Let them settle there, and they will profit from her. She is an eldress of spiritual life, and the place is blessed, so it will be good.”
We warmly thanked Mother Ludmilla for her exceptional Diveyevo hospitality. I dared to address her with a request to allow me to photograph some places of Diveyevo, particularly the canal, which I had never yet seen a picture of.
“Well, why not take pictures to the glory of God,” answered Matushka with a smile, taking leave of us.
Chapter Two
We Were Guests at St. Seraphim's
by Dr. A. P. Timofievich
About the Author
The author of this account of a pilgrimage to Sarov and Diveyevo, which occurred at the very eve of the closure of these monasteries, was a gifted writer, by profession a physician. From his childhood Dr. Anatoly Pavlovich Timofievich dedicated his life to God, and to medicine as a way of serving the Church. He was raised in the shadow of the Kiev Caves Lavra in Russia. He spent much of his youth roaming this huge, ancient monastery, with its towers, its near and far caves, its theological academy, its library, parks and cemetery, its secluded places where ascetics were laboring, hidden away from the world. He became friends with many of the monks. All this instilled in him a lifelong sense of awe and trembling before the Church and monastic life. While in medical school, he spent his time studying in the Lavra.
After the Bolshevik revolution, Anatoly Pavlovich remained in close contact with the famous Schema-bishop Anthony at the Lavra. He was also at home in neighboring monasteries: Goloseyevsky, Kitaev, Florovsky, Michael’s, and especially the Trinity Monastery of Righteous Jonah. He witnessed the ruthless liquidation of monasteries, such as when hundreds of monks were thrown to their death off bridges because the authorities thought they were not worth wasting bullets on. He made a pilgrimage to the secret monks hiding in the Crimea, perhaps the greatest repository of sanctity in the 20th century.
From his student years Anatoly Pavlovich was the spiritual son and a member of the Christian commune of Fr. Adrian Rymarenko (later Archbishop Andrew), a disciple of Optina Elder Nektary. When Fr. Adrian founded the New Diveyevo Convent in upstate New York, Anatoly Pavlovich moved into a house right next to his. He was the personal physician of Fr. Adrian. Being in very poor health, Fr. Adrian would serve in the altar only under Anatoly Pavlovich’s personal supervision. Afterwards he would collapse and literally be carried out.
Anatoly Pavlovich spent his life under Fr. Adrian’s spiritual guidance, and was finally buried by him in 1974.
The most interesting aspect of Anatoly Pavlovich Timofievich was that he was a man not of this world, literally sighing for the heavenly homeland. He sighed when he was not in prayer, and we could only glimpse him as he was between times of prayerful contemplation. He was not inspired by contemporary life. He probably experienced periods of depression because he was not in Holy Russia, because he did not become a martyr, and because the American lifestyle was so far removed from the Orthodox way of life.
Anatoly Pavlovich’s burning faith is evident from his writing. He was aflame with inspiration and zeal for the Lord, and he knew that he had a rich inheritance to pass on. Spending the last decades of his life in America and serving the American land through his writing, he bequeathed his transmission to the young generation of Americans. He became a bridge to Holy Russia, which now, 18 years after his death, rises from the ashes of 20th-century barbarism.
The account printed below was written on the occasion of the 50th anniversary of St. Seraphim’s canonization. It was written right after Anatoly Pavlovich completed a book on St. Seraphim. Later he authored a poetic, heart-rending anthology about righteous men and women whom he had met, entitled People of God. In due time this too will be published in The Orthodox Word.
—Abbot Herman
To Her Royal Highness Grandduchess Xenia Alexandrovna,
a great venerator of St. Seraphim,
the author with reverence dedicates this modest work.
Preface
When you begin to turn over the pages of your life, already not a little written over and perhaps near their end, then you will hurry to turn some of them over as soon as possible, at others you will linger; and there are some—few and rare, alas!—which you eagerly read and reread, returning to them again and again. One such happy page of my life was a stay of almost three weeks at Diveyevo and Sarov Monasteries in the summer of 1926. I well understand the poverty of human language and its inability to transmit those feelings and moods which grip the heart and soul with such strength. To understand and appreciate them, one must experience them. Not without reason does the writer S. A. Nilus—to whom Orthodox people are indebted for the discovery of such a spiritual treasure as the “Conversation of St. Seraphim with Motovilov About the Aim of the Christian Life”—exclaim in a burst of spiritual delight:
“Whoever has not been to Sarov with faith in Seraphim, whoever has not breathed in the Sarov air, saturated with his prayer, does not grasp, does not appreciate Sarov, even though it be described with ingenious words or painted with an ingenious brush.”
This is in no way exaggerated. But on the other hand, I myself know how dear to the believing man is everything connected with the memory of St. Seraphim, and therefore I have decided to share my remembrances about my trip with the pious reader. May he not judge me, a sinner, and may he forgive my infirmity.
This description does not bear the character of a chronological journal; it is rather separate fragments tied together with the sole aim of giving a faint picture of the last lot of the Mother of God on earth—wonderful Diveyevo and Sarov. Much has been omitted which due to the present situation cannot be made public.
Bless, O Lord!
New Diveyevo, New York
1951
Chapter One
St. Seraphim. The mass pilgrimage to Sarov in 1926. Thoughts about the trip to Sarov and my acquaintance with Engineer X. Preparations. Departure. At “Mukhtolovo” Station. Ardatov. Pokrov Women’s Monastery. Elder Anthony of Murom. Diveyevo. A visit to the Cathedral. Mother Ludmilla, the treasurer of the monastery.
Saint Seraphim!
How much this name says to the Russian heart! I don’t know whether anyone could be found in Orthodox Russia whose wrinkled brow would not become smooth at the mention of this holy name, whose bent figure would not straighten, and whose eyes would not brighten with inner light and warmth. What is the secret of the nation-wide veneration of this Saint of God?
It seems to me that two main principles are at work here.
They are, firstly, the justification and triumph of our Orthodox Faith, which has been fully manifested in this chosen vessel of God’s blessing; and secondly, the strong, inexhaustible, ever-strengthening stream of love, which, as during the Saint’s lifetime, so still more after his death, embraces all who have recourse to him for help.
Innumerable, immeasurable, are the miracles of the Saint across the face of his native land. This is why this precious name, so near, so dear to the heart, is reverently pronounced and invoked from the royal palace to the hut of the poorest peasant.
I myself in my early youth experienced a miraculous intercession by the Saint of God, and from that time there was definitively established in me a deep faith in the strength of his prayers and swift intercession before the Throne of the Most High.
Naturally I endeavored in every way to give thanks for all the benefits shown toward me, a sinner, even intending, if possible, to visit the place of the Saint’s struggles and prayerfully attest to my love for him before his holy relics.
But time passed. The tornado of revolution turned everything upside down, life took on the most abnormal forms, there began in the full sense a struggle for a half-starved existence, and the trip was involuntarily laid aside. So years passed.… But then came the year 1926, a wondrous year in some respects. Never before had a longing for the Saint embraced believers as in that year. Both the old and young rose up and hastened to Sarov. I remember how a whole pilgrimage set out from our city with those distinguished clergymen, now holy martyrs, 75-year-old Fr. M., Fr. Al., Fr. An., and many others, and after them stretched the laypeople. Some soulful, inexplicable, but powerful need to visit the Saint enveloped everyone. Some on returning back related what they saw and experienced, and were immediately replaced by others. And this happened everywhere. Only in a year did everything become clear, with the closure of Sarov and Diveyevo.
The Saint invisibly but powerfully called to himself all who loved him, in whom there burned even a feeble spark of faith in him. It was as if he were giving us a last opportunity to rejoice in the great joy of direct contact with him before he undertook his newest and greatest podvig—to suffer the terrible sacrilegious outrages against his relics and all the other holy things, that were perpetrated in Sarov and Diveyevo.
One thing is certain: the mystery of this podvig was in the plan of the Divine economy, and its meaning will be revealed only on the day of the final triumph of Light over darkness.
I also was drawn with irresistible strength to the Saint of God, and circumstances at that time developed favorably, to my joy. I decided not to travel alone, but to go with my great like-minded friend K. Not knowing the way, however, I turned to the worthy Fr. Adrian for help:
“Now, my dear one, turn to Engineer X. Why, he is their own man in Diveyevo. Blessed Maria even calls him our Mishenka,’ no less! He will explain and clear up everything for you.”
With joy I thanked the good father for his advice and hurried to the indicated address.
I found Engineer X. at home, having recently returned from Sarov.
He was, as I learned later, a remarkable individual.
After his wife was miraculously healed at St. Seraphim’s spring, Engineer X. became for the rest of his life one of the Saint’s most devoted admirers. Zealously devoted to Orthodoxy, direct, open, sometimes even rough in manner, he burned with ardent faith towards the Saint, had a big heart full of love and unbendable firmness in his convictions.
He had been arrested and interrogated many times by the Cheka and the GPU, and in 1918 he was sentenced to death for sabotage. But he conducted himself in such a manner that he called forth the involuntary respect even of the examining magistrates at the interrogations.
This is who I became acquainted with, and this acquaintance later developed into a deep and close friendship.
When I entered his apartment I was first of all struck that all the walls were adorned with icons, like an iconostasis. In the midst of them stood out a huge, full-length image of the Saint as he is usually represented—as a stooped elder in epitrachelion and cuffs, and with an uncovered head. There was also a smaller icon representing the Saint in his younger years, as a hieromonk.
Hearing why I had come, Engineer X. very readily explained the whole route to me, adding:
“My dear sir, I urgently advise you not to go through Arzamas, since you can’t avoid the vanity and the crowds, but to go to Mukhtolovo’ station, which is just before Arzamas. They know less about it, and you will easily reach Sarov. And that way you won’t miss the town of Ardatov with its women’s monastery, which St. Seraphim also took care of. There venerate the grave of the renowned Elder Anthony [of Murom]. You won’t regret it,” added my new acquaintance.
“Now you see,” he continued, “don’t forget to visit Elder Isaac while you are in Sarov. Don’t be surprised that this exceptional ascetic struggler of our time, in spite of his almost 60 years, looks like a 25-year-old youth. This is already from the Lord.
“I would give you a letter of recommendation,” he concluded, “but you know the times: then you would have no end of trouble. Simply search out Nun Alexandra, and in my name ask her to help you. As for the rest, the Lord and St. Seraphim will guide your journey in every way. Have no doubts.”
So it is decided, I am going. Brief preparations. A moleben for travelling at the Lavra, and the train smoothly carried us to Moscow.
A brief stop in Moscow, and we set out at six o’clock in the evening from the Kazan railroad station. It is night. Despite the uniform rocking of the carriage, sleep flees. Still it is hardly believable that our cherished dream might come true, and that every minute brings us nearer and nearer to our desired goal.
The morning was foggy and clouded over when at seven o’clock the following day our train arrived at the “Mukhtolovo” station (of the Moscow-Kazan railroad). We quickly stepped down from the car to the platform and looked around. On a hill to the left of the railroad tracks stood the small station building, behind which a small forest was barely visible through the fog. To the right of the tracks was a village. We were alone at the station; not a soul was around. A low shroud of rain covered the horizon, and everything seemed dismal and unwelcoming. In vain we walked several times around the station, hoping that at least some kind of driver would appear. To walk to the village was not desirable, as it might cause unnecessary suspicion.
We were particularly troubled by our rather heavy travelling bags containing various offerings for the monastery, mainly church wine, of which there was an acute need.
Having deliberated, we decided nevertheless to walk through the village on foot, to look at the road to Ardatov, and then—whatever God would send! Meanwhile the rain perceptibly diminished, and, loading ourselves with the bags, we bravely stepped out toward the village.
We had not gone even ten steps, however, when behind us, somewhere afar off, a bell began to sound. Before long a small wagon came up to us. Its owner, in an old, worn-out peasant coat and bast shoes, eyed us searchingly from head to foot, and as if in passing threw out:
“So, brothers, to Sarov no doubt?”
“To Sarov, to Sarov!” we both joyfully cried out. “Have the goodness, dear sir, to take us. We will pay you.”
“Well, you see,” answered the driver, “it’s not on my way. I’m from Ardatov, and from there to Sarov I suppose it is a good thirty versts.”
We earnestly began to try to persuade him, and the peasant quickly yielded. For three rubles he consented to convey us as far as Diveyevo, from where it was twelve versts to Sarov. It was evident that the Heavenly Queen Herself was directing our steps from the beginning to Diveyevo.
Rejoicing at the intercession of St. Seraphim, we quickly packed our things in the wagon, but decided to walk as far as possible on foot. The rain stopped. The gaunt little horse slowly dragged its feet, the driver peacefully dozed in the coachman’s seat, and we, walking far ahead of the wagon, sang an Akathist to the Saint. The road went at first through the thick forest, but in five versts the forest ended, and before us stretched out the endless, unbounded fields of our vast Mother Russia.
The weather finally cleared up and beneath the rays of the hot sun a light steam swirled over the damp earth. The shabby horse barely plodded along; all around was uninhabited, and the coachman blissfully slept, stretched out in the cart. But we were happy with our solitude and our journey, and loudly sang verses to the Saint.
We passed through several villages, poor and wretched, where crowds of children ran after us, asking for a kopeck. At this time our driver came to himself somewhat, and said that it was not far to Ardatov. The region became more elevated, and the road twisted among the hills, at times making rather sharp turns. Suddenly, on our left, against the background of a dark-blue sky, there rose up as if from under the earth a beautiful white church with a tall porch and portico with columns. Facing it there appeared the wall of the cemetery.
“What church is that?” we asked.
“Ardatov, no doubt,” said the coachman again, rubbing his eyes after his slumber.
Indeed, the town was hidden in a hollow place, and only now suddenly revealed itself to our gaze. An ordinary country town of old Russia with poorly paved streets, dilapidated wooden sidewalks, and one-story houses. Turning into one of the side streets, we began to ascend a hill, and soon found ourselves before the holy gates of the Ardatov women’s monastery, dedicated to the Protection of the Mother of God. A beautiful high red brick wall with corner towers girded the monastery. At the entrance to the monastery, the portress, an old nun, who was sitting on a bench, arose and bowed affably. Passing through the holy gates, we found ourselves in a comparatively spacious monastery courtyard, in the midst of which towered the main monastery church, closely encircled on every side by monastery cells and other buildings. Nestled up against the church itself were small white crosses and little fences on the graves.
It appeared that our coachman was their own man here, since he instantly disappeared into one of the rooms, from where two nuns in white apostolniks soon appeared, and in the name of the Mother Abbess warmly welcomed us and asked us not to disdain their bread and salt.
“Forgive, for the sake of Christ, our scarcity at the present time,” the elder of them kindly remarked, “but then, as it is said, better a dish of greens with love, than a roasted ox with hatred’” (Prov. 15:17).
Having strengthened ourselves with the simple monastery meal, we set off to thank the Mother Abbess for her hospitality and to ask a blessing to see the monastery’s holy places.
Learning that we were on our way to Sarov, the Mother Abbess remarked: “It is good that you didn’t pass us sinners by. You see, we also consider ourselves not to be strangers to our dear Batiushka. During his lifetime our monastery profited much from his generosity and blessings, and not a little did he give to our souls which were seeking salvation. And indeed, our deceased elder, Fr. Anthony, had previously labored together with the Saint at the Sarov Hermitage.”
Taking leave of the Mother Abbess, we set off to see the monastery, escorted by the nun we had already become acquainted with.
The tall three-altared cathedral church, although not striking for its size, was quite elegant in its architecture.
“You have heard, of course,” said our companion, “that in his youth, while still a novice, Batiushka Father Seraphim learned the art of carpentry well, and was a skilled wood-carver. And look, our monastery was honored to receive from Batiushka himself this gift of his work.” She led us to one of the columns of the left side-altar of the church and showed us where there was hanging on it, under a small glass cover, a carved crucifix with the Marys standing by—the Mother of the Lord and Mary Magdalene. With reverence we kissed this holy relic.
Having visited the church, we were directed to a small wing, where once had lived the blind elder Anthony, renowned for his God-pleasing life. We entered through a small dark passage into a fairly small room with one little window. Near the left wall stood a simple wooden divan, and next to it a table and some chairs. On the right side there was also a table, but of considerably larger dimensions, on which were displayed books, a cross, a prayer rope, and, lying on a wooden plate, something like a kamilavka, but of a rather unusual form, covered with black material. In a corner were many icons. Lampadas burned. Nuns behind the analogion in the middle of the cell read the Psalter.
“Right here our elder labored,” said Matushka, “and right here, on the day of the Dormition of the Mother of God, the holy one also reposed. Exceedingly difficult indeed was the path of his life, and great were his sufferings and privations. With heavy podvigs he wearied his flesh, fighting with passions, and with God’s help he overcame them.
“Just look,” continued Matushka, indicating the wooden plate, “at this hat, which Batiushka always wore during prayer as a sign of his victory over the enemy of our salvation. And don’t only look, but also put it on. Here, receive, as it were, a blessing from the elder himself.”
I approached the table, wishing to fulfill the advice of Matushka, took it, and right then almost dropped it on the floor from surprise.
It turned out that this “hat” was of cast iron and only covered by material. It weighed about twenty pounds. Only with difficulty was I able to hold it for a few moments on my head, and I involuntarily thought, “How was Batiushka able to pray in it for so long?” As if guessing my thought, Matushka remarked:
“It is difficult even to picture to yourself how Batiushka could burden himself with such a weight, but did you know that in his youth, in obedience to his elder, he even walked to Kiev in this hat, and thereby lost his sight?”
I was shocked. To bear such a superhuman podvig only to lose a most precious gift of God, one’s vision, was absolutely incomprehensible, and I openly expressed this to Matushka.
Having listened to me and gently smiled, Matushka added:
“To our feeble understanding much seems incomprehensible, and certainly if a man would of his own will deprive himself of this great gift, it would be an unforgivable sin. But then, a still more valuable gift than our sight is our soul and eternal blessedness. The Lord, through the mouth of the great elder, Hierarch Anthony of Voronezh, seeing the fervent desire of Batiushka to save his soul, sent him precisely this podvig. Who knows what terrible temptations or snares of the enemy might have threatened Batiushka, had he had bodily eyes. We see this in examples from the lives of certain ascetics. The Bishop’s clear understanding foresaw that while losing bodily sight, Batiushka would instead receive spiritual vision.”
“Forgive me, Matushka,” I could only reply, “you are deeply right, how very feeble our understanding is, to dare to comprehend the incomprehensible.”
Silently we walked from the cell to the porch.
“Matushka, where is the elder buried?”
“There, you can see Batiushka’s grave by the church.” We approached nearer. Near the altar wall of the church lay a large cast-iron gravestone, and a wooden cross stood with a burning lampada within it. Somewhere from the window of a monastery cell wafted the harmonious singing of women’s voices, harmonizing with the all-encompassing picture.
“It is our choir rehearsing,” explained Matushka. I asked permission to photograph the grave of Father Anthony. The picture came out successfully.
The sun had begun to go down, and the day’s heat was noticeably subdued, when we, having thanked the mothers for their kind-hearted hospitality, set out from the gates of the monastery. The road again passed through fields. All around appeared shocks of cut grain. It smelled pleasantly of wormwood and savory, and our horse’s little bells rang melodiously. The evening sky was painted with delicate, light tones, and golden flocks of clouds harmoniously moved in solemn procession to somewhere a great way off. The fading day, like departing youth, always embraces the soul with some kind of feeling of involuntary sadness and regret over the irrevocable past.
There was still fairly far to go to Diveyevo, and the coachman decisively seated us on the vehicle. Having rested, the horse boldly jogged along in the evening coolness with a gentle trot. It quickly began to grow dark, and the sky became more and more covered over with clouds. Here and there, where they parted, a lone star attempted to peek out, but they too were soon hidden behind the clouds. It was sad and disappointing that we were unable to see the monastery through the darkness, in order to bow down before it. When we arrived at last, it was already about eleven o’clock in the evening. Everything around slept. The darkness was so thick that only with difficulty could one see a few paces ahead, and everything further away blended into one dark shroud. Imperceptibly we entered the enclosure of the monastery, and our coachman, who was well oriented in the darkness, took us to a certain building and began to knock on the shutter. Soon the door creaked and let a thin strip of light slip through. At the threshold appeared an eldress with a candle stub who kindly invited us to enter. After the chill of the night it was more than agreeable to enter a warm room, and still more so one that smelled wonderfully of freshly baked bread. Evidently we had come to the monastery bread-bakery.
“Forgive me, my dears, that because of the late hour it is not possible to welcome you as we should. But anyhow, sleep until the morning, and then the Abbess Herself, the Queen of Heaven, will direct everything.”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Matushka. We are already very happy that the Lord has deemed us worthy to come to your blessed corner from far-away Kiev.”
“So you are from Kiev?” Matushka took still greater interest. “In former times, the Saint of God Seraphim, as a young pilgrim, visited and venerated the holy places of Kiev, and now, behold, you have taken on yourself the labor to come to venerate the Saint. Believe that for this gift of love towards him, the Saint will never leave you in a difficult moment of life.”
In half an hour we were already fast asleep on prepared beds, worn out from the road. Awaking early in the morning, I at first couldn’t even grasp where I was and what had happened to me. Then suddenly, like an arrow, the thought flew by: “O God, is it really not in a dream, but in reality, that I am in blessed Diveyevo?” I jumped up and rushed to the window. Before me, in the rays of the rising sun, like a wondrous vision, stood a large church with five cupolas. The morning fog swirled like incense. Apart from the church rose the bell tower. —No, this is a dream come true! I am in Diveyevo! From this thought my heart began to tremble with joy. My companion also woke up, and we, quickly dressing and not disturbing anyone, walked toward the cathedral. Having walked up the steps of its tall porch, we entered. Beautiful, full of light, adorned like a wonderful Diveyevo painting, the cathedral church struck me by its spiritual beauty and the harmonious blending of all its lines. My first thought was, of course, to bow down before the most holy object of Diveyevo, the miracle-working icon of the Mother of God “Of Tender Feeling,” before which St. Seraphim had prayed throughout his whole life, and before which he had died. And here, glorified in gold and precious stones, she reigned on the right side of the church.
At this early hour there was almost nobody in the church, with the exception of a few nuns, and we could pray privately as we wished.
Soon they rang for Liturgy, and the Cathedral filled with the people who came to pray. Liturgy passed quickly. At the end of it a novice approached us and delivered, in the name of the mother treasurer, an invitation to tea. We had already heard much in Kiev about Mother Ludmilla the treasurer, as about one of the living relics of the monastery, a great woman of prayer and guardian of Church and monastery traditions.
When we entered into a large room where several nuns were already sitting at a table, we were met by Mother Ludmilla herself. Two novices gently supported her by the arms. She was completely blind, of medium height, in appearance an eldress not yet advanced in years, in a white apostolnik, radiant with some sort of unearthly inner beauty. A slight blush covered her animated face, which her blindness not only didn’t mar, but perhaps enlivened still more.
We remembered the words of Nilus: “Remarkably pleasant is old age in Diveyevo.”
“Come, come, my dear long-awaited ones,” said Matushka quietly. “Well, thanks be to the Lord, at last you have gathered yourselves together and come to visit the Saint,” continued Matushka. “He has been waiting for you a long, long time.”
Confused, not knowing what to answer, we approached silently to receive her blessing. They handed her prepared enamel icons of St. Seraphim in metal settings. Matushka slowly made the sign of the cross over each of us with them and, holding her hand over our heads a little, she added, “May the Lord protect you, may the Lord keep you, may the Lord direct you, through the prayers of the Heavenly Queen and St. Seraphim.” And so much genuine kindness sounded in her eldress’ voice, so welcoming was the smile on her lips, that one was drawn towards her with all one’s being. Only a loving mother could so welcome her children after a long, long separation.
After tea and a brief conversation, Matushka called her novice, “Grunyushka, do take our guests to Mother Kypriana. Let them settle there, and they will profit from her. She is an eldress of spiritual life, and the place is blessed, so it will be good.”
We warmly thanked Mother Ludmilla for her exceptional Diveyevo hospitality. I dared to address her with a request to allow me to photograph some places of Diveyevo, particularly the canal, which I had never yet seen a picture of.
“Well, why not take pictures to the glory of God,” answered Matushka with a smile, taking leave of us.
http://orthodoxinfo.com/general/stserap ... image.aspx
TO BE CONTINUED