https://docs.google.com/document/d/1jy3ZJGkmEahYzqRgoC0KZWqGEASINQD82jMqH9kZ_t0
Troparion to Saint Spyridon, bishop of Trimythus
Thou wast the Champion of the First Synod and [thou appeared] a
wonderworker, / O God-bearing Spyridon, our father. / Thou didst speak to one
dead in the grave, / and transformed a serpent into gold, / and while thou wast
chanting the holy prayers / the Angels were serving with thee. / Glory to Him Who
hast glorified thee gave, / glory to Him Who hast crowned thee, / glory to Him
Who through thee works healings for all.
Kontakion to Saint Spyridon, in the second Tone
Thou didst lend wings to thy mind with the fire of the Spirit,
wounded by love for Christ. Thy practical work was the practice of
contemplation, I inspired Spyridon. Thou didst become a divine altar, imploring
illumination for all.
/a short story by/
Elin Pelin /writer/
'Under The Monastic Vine' cycle
St. Spyridon’s Eyes – © Elin Pelin
Translated from Bulgarian by VID ©
Saint Spyridon was a poor shoemaker. Crouching over his low little worktable
across which his tools were scattered, and immersed in blissful reflections
about God, he worked all day. His sole rest was when he sat to eat quietly and
slowly his dry bread or when he lifted up his eyes to look through the little
window out to the beautiful picture of God's world, which always touched him.
White cold winter and hot golden summer brought him equal joy. In springtime,
when the sun melted the snow, St. Spyridon loved to listen in to the smooth
uniform noise of the droplets falling from the eaves of his shabby stall, and
to look how in the opposite garden in front of the little Church lilac puts
forth buds and the apple flowers up. The sweet aroma of the blossoms filled the
entire small quiet street, it entered in waves the narrow stall and incited
even more the youth’s soul to purity. On such days St. Spyridon was thinking
with special joy and hope of heaven, and sometimes he got up the low chair and
peeked through the window to look up at it.
He was young and pretty, but flattery and praise failed to ravage his soul with
sinful vanity. With exploit and repentance, he craved for praise from God
alone, but reckoned himself unworthy of it, although he had no sins. His only
thought was to cleanse his soul so it would blossom as the apple in front of
the opposite temple and its fragrance would feed the virtues just as the white
apple blossom feeds the bees.
His spiritual beauty extended its appearance also to the mortal shell – the
body. That poor young man was marvelous. His face beamed with holy purity and
running across his wise forehead – and merging barely visibly, were
white and pink clouds as if across a dawn May sky. His blue eyes – always
contemplating with joy the divine things, had a lake depth, where the
reflections of all heavenly bodies quivered.
Rich and beautiful maidens from the city passed frequently along this remote
street where the shoemaker’s of the youth was, and sought a chance to see him,
wanting to order festive shoes with him. This horrified the pious young man and
whenever he heard cheery female speech and noise of silk dresses, he bent his
pure eyes down and never raised them until outside the cheerful and quiet
calmness – that the small street had – reigned in again.
To avoid any temptation that might come he had placed in front of his stall’s
threshold a small chest with ashes. Any woman who came to him to order stepped
there and from the step’s mark the shoemaker took measure for his work. For the
pure youth chased out of his soul any desire for a woman that could disturb his
holy bliss, and kept his eyes [away] from the shadow of temptation and kept his
hands away from contact with a body born for lust.
Once, when St. Spyridon had stood up from the tripod stool and wanted to look
out the window and delight in a little white cloud, with which some invisible
little angel was playing in the heavenly azure, a gilded carriage stopped
before the stall and a young Turkish woman stepped down from it and knocked on
the door. Her yashmak was slightly open and St. Spyridon hurried to lower his
heavenly eyes to the dusty floor, so as the beauty of temptation would not
sneak through them into his soul.
The woman opened slowly and entered. Entering together with her – and
standing aside in the dark and poor stall – was also the nice spring day
that reigned outside. St. Spyridon heard the brisk noise of the fountain, the
love scrimmage of sparrows, some song of a young girl, [and] the masculine
laughter of young men. That cheerful vanity of life came in together with the
unknown woman and stood aside in the small stall.
The young man bowed his head further down and did not know what to say.
Then the woman gently, softly and imperatively told him to take measures for
new shoes.
"Step outside in the ashes in the chest. I'll take measure from your step,
good lady", St. Spyridon said meekly.
The woman laughed resonantly and nice and the pious young man thought that
crowds of young people stood in front of his stall and threw inside thousands
of fresh fragrant flowers. He covered his eyes with his hand and repeated his
request with such humbleness that the heart of the young Turkish woman shrank.
"No”, she said and paused. Then she added: "I want you to take the
measure from my foot."
Then St. Spyridon stood up, took the measure and without raising his eyes,
approached the unknown woman. She – gathered up her longish silk dress, raised
her beautiful leg and stepped on the low tripod stool. St. Spyridon gropingly
wrapped the lace around the sole. At that moment the holy youth lost the
thread, which linked his blissful thoughts to God and he – devoted to his work
– looked up to see what the measure showed. Then one corner of his eye saw the
exquisite foot, gently wrapped in a dark silk stocking. In the soul of the
pious youth something tumbled. A little longer, and he would have been ruined
forever. But the firmness of his faith did not leave him. Holiness, which had
sustained him for so long, had strengthened his will. It rebelled against the
awoken desires and St. Spyridon speedily snatched from the table the awl and
with a firm hand gouged out the eye inclined to temptation. Together with the
strong pain St. Spyridon felt and heard exultation of the soul saved from
destruction and in an ecstasy from the blessed delight he did not take down his
hand but hit harder with the awl and pricked out the other eye, too. It had no
fault. But in his thirst for purity the holy youth wanted to close the windows
of his soul, through which rays could pass reflected by seductive and sinful
things.
Having remained without eyes, St. Spyridon could work no more. He closed his
stall and went into the woods where a big river flowed between banks overgrown
with willows and osiers. Gropingly he cut rods, sat in the sun knitting baskets
and gave these away in exchange for a piece of bread to the peasants who passed
there on their way to the city.
It was so quiet, calm and happy around him. He listened to the splash of little
fishes that sometimes played in the river and stood long in silence by the
bank. The murmur of the bees and the weak noise of the white-stemmed birches
growing around filled up his relieved soul with delight. When he passed groping
his way from one place to another, he prayed to God to guide his feet so he
would avoid squashing ants and small insects that crawled through the grass.
The forever young and new breeze, which came to birth in the morning and in the
evening and died at noon, robbed the flavor of all grass-blades, flowers, and
lime-trees, brought it to the blind hermit and melted his soul into pleasure.
Amidst that strange silence St. Spyridon’s thoughts – cleansed hundredfold,
went out to God and for hours on end contemplated His wise, forgiving smile.
Only one thing troubled the holy man – the love singing of birds that filled
the woods. St. Spyridon could hear how doves, turtle-doves, nightingales and
all other birds sat on the boughs and their love caresses troubled him. He
gathered stones and threw them at random through the forest, shushed, waved his
hands and was trying to chase them away. But they continued to shout, sing, to
call each other. In the saint’s mind – despite his efforts – emerging
inadvertently were the pictures of their passionate indulgence and one day the
young saint realized with horror that there, inside his heart, there are other
eyes that he could not prick out.
And bent down over the basket he was knitting, he was pondering and
understanding that by contemplating the world with his bodily eyes, he had
never before felt pain like now when he contemplated it with the eyes of his
closed soul. Restlessness possessed him. Not knowing whence the reason for this
cometh, he thought he had committed some sin before God, and began spending his
days and nights in prayer. But day by day his spiritual peace was disappearing
more and more.
Once, placing the last braids of a basket, he was presented with the alluring
picture that made him prick out his eyes. He saw clearly with the eyes of his
soul the beautiful woman standing before him with skirts slightly raised under
which an exquisite foot in silk stocking showed. St. Spyridon wanted in vain to
expel that image – so clear and alluring, but was unable to. Wherever he turned
his blind face, he saw that woman and heard her laughter. The saint cried out
loud, bemoaning his lot and began calling onto God for help. In vain. The
seductive image grew and conquered him. He began to see it as he had not seen
it and he would not see it then when his blue eyes still shone. And so terrible
desires began pushing the blood in his veins. He wanted to pray, but his mouth
uttered ardent love words, which resounded in the silent woods like the cry of
an owl.
"God, why are you tormenting me! I plucked out my eyes, in order to
achieve You – and I'm still away from You. Teach me how to achieve You. Make a
sign, Oh Lord!"
And St. Spyridon fell down with his eyes to the ground in order to make a bow.
As he rose up again and turned his head to the sky the blue nice eyes shone up
anew on his young face with the depth of a lake in which all heavenly bodies
reflected.
(1909 - 1934)
first published 1936
Saturday,
December 24, 2011
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