transparent mask: an expression of ancient and solitary suffering which pride and dignity would not allow him to express.
A long time passed before the old man’s eyes returned to him. Then he again scrutinized Joseph sharply and suddenly asked in a commanding tone: ““Who are you?”
“I am a penitent,” Joseph said. “I have led a life of withdrawal from the world for many years.”
“I can see that. I asked who you are.”
“My name is Joseph, Joseph Famulus.”
When Joseph gave his name, the old man did not stir, but his eyebrows drew together so sharply that for a while his eyes became almost invisible. He seemed to be stunned, troubled, or disappointed by the information he had received. Or perhaps it was only a tiring of the eyes, a distractedness, some small attack of weakness such as old people are prone to. At any rate he remained utterly motionless, kept his eyes shut for a while, and when he opened them again their gaze seemed changed, seemed to have become still older, still lonelier, still flintier and long-suffering, if that were possible. Slowly, his lips parted and he asked: “I have heard of you. Are you the one to whom the people go to confess?”
Abashed, Joseph said he was. He felt this recognition as an unpleasant exposure. For the second time on his journey he was ashamed to encounter his reputation.
Again the old man asked in his terse way: “And so now you are on your way to Dion Pugil? What do you want of him?”
“I would like to confess to him.”
“What do you expect to gain by that?”
“I don’t know. I trust him, and in fact it seems to me that a voice from above has sent me to him.”
“And after you have confessed to him, what then?”
“Then I shall do what he commands.”
“And suppose he advises or commands you wrongly?”
“I shall not ask whether it is right or wrong, but simply obey.”
The old man said no more. The sun had moved far down toward the horizon. A bird cried among the leaves of the tree. Since the old man remained silent, Joseph stood up. Shyly, he reverted to his request.
“You said you knew where Father Dion can be found. May I ask you to tell me the place and describe the way to it?”
The old man’s lips contracted in a kind of feeble smile. “Do you think you will be welcome to him?” he asked softly.
Strangely disconcerted by the question, Joseph did not reply. He stood there abashed. At last he said: “May I at least hope to see you again?”
The old man nodded. “I shall be sleeping here and stay until shortly after sunrise,” he replied. “Go now, you are tired and hungry.”
With a respectful bow, Joseph walked on, and as dusk fell arrived at the little settlement. Here, much as in a monastery, lived a group of so-called cenobites, Christians from various towns and villages who had built shelters in this solitary place in order to devote themselves without disturbance to a simple, pure life of quiet contemplation. Joseph was given water, food, and a place to sleep, and since it was apparent how tired he was, his hosts spared him questions and conversation. One cenobite recited a prayer while the others knelt; all pronounced the Amen together.
At any other time the community of these pious men would have been a joy to him, but now he had only one thing in mind, and at dawn he hastened back to the place where he had left the old man. He found him lying asleep on the ground, rolled in a thin mat, and sat down under the trees off to one side, to await the man’s awakening. Soon the sleeper became restive. He awoke, unwrapped himself from the mat, and stood up awkwardly, stretching his stiffened limbs. Then he knelt and made his prayer. When he rose again, Joseph approached and bowed silently.
“Have you already eaten?” the stranger asked.
“No. It is my habit to eat only once a day, and only after sunset. Are you hungry, your Reverence?”
“We are on a journey,” the man replied, “and we are both no longer young men. It is better for us to eat a bite before we go on.”
Joseph opened his pouch and offered some of his dates. He had also received a millet roll from the friendly folk with whom he had spent the night, and he now shared this with the old man.
“We can go,” the old man said after they had eaten.
“Oh, are we going together?” Joseph exclaimed with pleasure.
“Certainly. You have asked me to guide you to Dion. Come along.”
Joseph looked at him in happy astonishment. “How kind you are, your Reverence!” he exclaimed, and began framing ceremonious thanks. But the stranger silenced him with a curt gesture.
“God alone is kind,” he said. “Let us go now. And stop calling me ‘your Reverence.’ What is the point of civilities and courtesies between two old hermits?”
The tall man set off with long strides, and Joseph kept pace with him. The sun had risen fully. The guide seemed sure of his direction, and promised that by noon they would reach a shady spot where they could rest during the hours of hottest sun. Thereafter they spoke no more on their way.
When they reached the resting place after several strenuous hours in the baking heat, and lay down in the shade of some vast boulders, Joseph again addressed his guide. He asked how many days’ marches they would need to reach Dion Pugil.
“That depends on you alone,” the old man said.
“On me?” Joseph exclaimed. “Oh, if it depended on me alone I would be standing before him right now.”
The old man did not seem any more inclined to conversation than before.
“We shall see,” he said curtly, turning on his side and closing his eyes. Joseph did not like to be in the position of observing him while he slumbered; he moved quietly off to one side, lay down, and unexpectedly fell asleep, for he had lain long awake during the night. His guide roused him when the time for resuming their journey had come.
Late in the afternoon they arrived at a camping place with water, trees, and a bit of grass. Here they drank and washed, and the old man decided to make a halt. Joseph timidly objected.
“You said today,” he pointed out, “that it depended on me how soon or late I would reach Father Dion. I would gladly press on for many hours if I could actually reach him today or tomorrow.”
“Oh no,” the other man replied. “We have gone far enough for the day.”
“Forgive me,” Joseph said, “but can’t you understand my impatience?”
“I understand it. But it will not help you.”
“Why did you say it depends on me?”
“It is as I said. As soon as you are sure of your desire to confess and know that you are ready to make the confession, you will be able to make it.”
“Even today?”
“Even today.”
Astonished, Joseph stared at the quiet old face.
“Is it possible?” he cried, overwhelmed. “Are you yourself Father Dion?”
The old man nodded.
“Rest here under the trees,” he said in a kindly voice, “but don’t sleep. Compose yourself, and I too will rest and compose myself. Then you may tell me what you crave to tell me.”
Thus Joseph suddenly found himself at his goal. Now he could scarcely understand how it was that he had not recognized the venerable man sooner, after having walked beside him for an entire day. He withdrew, knelt and prayed, and rallied his thoughts. After an hour he returned and asked whether Dion was ready.
And now he could confess. Now all that he had lived through for years, all that for a long time seemed to have totally lost meaning, poured from his lips in the form of narrative, lament, query, self-accusation — the whole story of his life as a Christian and ascetic, which he had intended for purification and sanctification and which in the end had become such utter confusion, obscuration, and despair. He spoke also of his most recent experiences, his flight and the feeling of release and hope that this flight had given him, how it was that he had decided to go to
