All that could be heard was a faint, almost imperceptible murmur: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner! Lord Jesus Christ…’ Lord Jesus… Lord…! The prayer book lay open on the little table, though the words had long since become indistinguishable. The light from the candle on that same oval table flickered in Sister Elizabeth’s cell, just enough to cast various phantasms upon the walls. They looked like shadows from another world; it seemed as though her thoughts were reflected on the wall… Was it a dream?!
– Lord Jesus Christ…! Lord Jesus Christ…! Were the shadows blood-red, or was it the light of the candle? The candle’s flame went out… but the shadows did not.
– Lord Jesus Christ…!
Before midnight, the Mother Superior awoke for Midnight Prayer.
– Could it have been a dream? Had I fallen asleep? It felt so real! My dear Mother, do not forsake me, a sinner; do not let me fall into the hands of the enemy! I know my own wickedness, Lord! My sins are many, but do not let me be overcome by the shadows of my thoughts!
* * *
Mother Elisaveta was not exactly at the very beginning of her monastic life. She had been abbess for many years at Bascovele in the Argeș region, and after her sister, Mother Platonida, the abbess of Dintr-un Lemn, had called upon her to come to her aid, Prince Grigorie Brâncoveanu had appointed her as abbess of the monastery founded by Marica Brâncoveanu, knowing her to be a devout nun, full of zeal for holy things, finding greater delight in the sweetness of prayer than in the food she prepared with secret skill and placed in earthenware pots. At Bascovele she had demonstrated her skill in administrative matters, where she had built the new cells and restored the church.
On her arrival at Surpatele Monastery, she found the monastery not well managed, though not exactly poor: the cells needed new roofs; the paintings in the church had to be cleaned of soot; the orchards, once bountiful, now lay largely fallow; the apiary no longer had enough honey even for the sixteen nuns who remained at that time; the vineyards, though numerous, barely yielded the wine needed for the Divine Liturgies, and the mills ground grain mostly for others. Ban Grigorie, the sole surviving member of the Brâncoven family, supported her in becoming abbess not only through the words he spoke to Bishop Galaction, but also by opening his own purse to make up for the shortfalls the abbess had found here. She also brought with her from Dintr-un Lemn two trusted nuns, Petronia and Isidora, who were close to her, whilst her niece, Anica, would make the journey from Dintr-un Lemn to Surpatele every few days—a route which, some time ago, Lady Marica herself had often travelled, praying with tears in her eyes for those of her household who had passed away. Anica carried with her thoughts of one abbess after another, from Elisaveta to Platonida, but along with these she also carried her childish longing…
She was a sixteen-year-old girl who had been living at Dintr-un Lemn for some time, under the care of her aunt, Mother Platonida, and had left behind at home, with her widowed mother, eight sisters and two brothers. She adapted very well to monastic life, taking great pleasure in psalmody and possessing a gift for painting icons. She was always the first to arrive for the divine services and, whilst the other nuns assigned to the choir were still arriving, she would arrange the necessary books, being well-versed in the liturgical order, which she had learnt from Mother Eufimia, the liturgy master. She had studied the Slavonic texts from a young age, having spent—from the time she was just a few years old— she would often spend months at a time with her aunt, where Father Simeon would read to her from the Lives of the Saints and tell her stories from the holy books, preparing her for what he foresaw the child would become. She would draw saints and icons with the same tenderness with which she sang. Her voice would bring tears to the nuns’ eyes at every All-Night Vigil, as they felt vividly how the gentle Light of the holy glory dispelled all the dark thoughts lurking in the recesses of their minds. The beauty of her singing even impressed the renowned psalmody teacher, Anton Pantoleon Petroveanu, who, having come to teach at this monastery, became Anica’s mentor in deciphering Byzantine music.
Father Simeon had been a disciple of the renowned Bishop of Argeș, Iosif, a man of holy living, born in Mălaia in Loviștea Vâlcii. Now, Archimandrite Simeon was completely white-haired from age and prayer, whilst Iosif shone in heaven. Simeon had far surpassed his mentor, attaining unceasing prayer. Like the Righteous Simeon, the elderly archimandrite carried Christ the Lord, not in his frail arms, but in his heart, strengthened by the fragrance of the Word. What Bishop Joseph had not taught him, the books had taught him. His only delight in this world was books and the Divine Liturgy, which he celebrated day after day ever since Bishop Filaret of Râmnic had ordained him as a hieromonk. He was so devoted that he had long since stopped even tasting the sweets prepared by the nuns. He slept three or four hours a night. Most of the time he would doze off on his prayer stool, no longer enjoying the comfort of his wooden bed, upon which he had spread nothing but a thin layer of wool. The candle before the icon of the Mother of God in his cell had not gone out for decades, for he himself could no longer remember the last time he had stepped outside the monastery gates. The only one who knew anything of Father Simeon’s secrets was Sister Ecaterina, a nun who had come to Dintr-un Lemn as a child, one year after the hieromonk Simeon had received instructions from his bishop to serve as chaplain and spiritual father of Dintr-un Lemn Monastery. Sister Ecaterina had attached herself to him as if he were a father, and now, in her old age, she looked after him and spent much time with the reverend to seek his counsel, recognising the spiritual heights to which Archimandrite Simeon had ascended.
– It seemed as though some robbers were plundering our monastery. They took everything of value they could find in the holy altar, they took the money from the iconostasis and took me, and Isidora… O Lord Jesus, do not forsake me, a sinner. Do not let the whole monastery suffer because of me! Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!
Anica woke in the middle of the night for the Vigil. She splashed water on her cheek, placed her headscarf on her head, and went to the church to prepare the necessary books for the service.
She thought there was no one in the church and was marking the books as required. It seemed to her that she could hear something coming from the miracle-working icon of the Mother of God, the treasured treasure of the Dintr-un Lemn Monastery. Mother Superior Elisaveta of Surpatele was kneeling, her forehead resting on the velvet cloth spread out before the icon. No words could be made out, only the mother’s sighs and scattered syllables. Sister Elisaveta was a mother figure beloved not only by the nuns, but also by the laity. She had a mother’s love for everyone. There was no pilgrim who came to Surpatele who was not shown mercy by her. Yet, alongside the mercy she showed to those in need, Mother Elisaveta always had a word of comfort. She offered her own mercy and sought God’s mercy. She seemed a stern person, but her rigour was merely a mask of humility through which she concealed her kindness.
– Mother of God, take your servant under your protection and do not let her be weighed down by the fleeting beauty of life, and do not leave me in the hands of my oppressors; forgive me, my Mother!
The Mother Superior had dreamt of her own death! Not merely death, but her very own funeral. She had seen herself being carried to the grave. The nuns were weeping for her as they would for a mother, for that is what she had been to them.
Was it a devilish deception or a revelation from God?!, the Mother Superior wondered.
She did not know what to believe, feeling helpless, both in regard to herself and to Anica.