TRIFON, THE FOUNDER OF THE MONASTERY.
Not many persons are acquainted with the fact that in Finmark, far away to the North, and on the very shores of the Arctic Ocean, there once stood a large monastery, which was famed, in its day, throughout the Greek Church for its sanctity, its wealth, and its industry.
That monastery was the most northerly one on the globe. It was situated on the seventieth degree of latitude, not far from the mouth of the Petschenga River, and immediately to the east of the present boundary between Norwegian Lapland and Russia. The districts of Neiden, Pasvig and Petschenga (or Peisen) formed, as is well known, a debateable territory, on which both Norwegians and Russians levied taxes.
At the present time the monastery of Solowetski, which stands on an island in the White Sea, is the most northerly in the world, as the monastery of Petschenga no longer exists. There are not even any remains or ruins of its numerous buildings or of its handsome churches to be found. All are gone; they are either overgrown, or buried, or removed, and have entirely disappeared. Trees which are a hundred years old have grown up on the site. Traditions concerning it still exist among the older folk of the country, and vague, romantic, and wonderful tales are told about the monks, their wealth, their shipbuilding, their whale fishery, and their commerce with foreign lands.
The founder of the monastery was known as Trifon, and his name is celebrated to-day throughout the Greek Church. He [[11]]is still regarded as a great saint, and is reverenced and invoked as such. But Trifon was not always a saint. Tradition relates that in his youth he was a wild freebooter, ‘a valiant warrior against a foe.’ He used to haunt the frontiers of Finland and Karelen with a band of outlawed comrades, and there ‘he plundered numbers of people, set fire to dwellings, and spilt much blood.’ It is evident that he was the captain of a band of brigands. It will be interesting to inquire how he came to be a saint, and who was the means of his conversion.
Traditions has it that during his wild career as captain of the brigands, Trifon was always accompanied by a beautiful young woman. Sometimes she dressed as a man, and followed him on horseback. But whether she was his lawful wife or his mistress, no one seemed to know. Her name was Ellen, and she is said to have been of noble parentage, and to have belonged to a Russian family of distinction; whereas Trifon, on the other hand, was of humble origin, the son of a poor priest at Torschok, in the department of Tver. He had been a teacher on her father’s estate, and what is constantly happening still, occurred in this instance—the daughter of the house fell in love with the tutor, and ran away with him, following him about in his unlawful and desperate career. Her gentle nature, by its influence over Trifon, often saved innocent persons, and curbed his fierce passions.
On one occasion she wished to save a young man from death who had, for some time, been in Trifon’s service. He had been brought to Trifon in bonds by his comrades, who charged him with meditating treason. There was no doubt of his intended guilt, and he was condemned to death. But just as Trifon was in the act of striking the death-blow Ellen threw herself in front of him so as to shield the young man. Trifon’s jealousy was so inflamed at this, and he was so maddened at her conduct, and with the strong drink which he had too freely taken, that he struck such a desperate blow at his beloved one as to cleave open her beautiful pale brow, and she fell forward, with her outstretched arms covered with blood, and soon lay dead at his feet. Trifon, appalled at what he had done, drew back a little, and gazed speechlessly at her, while his companions also stood terror-stricken around him. Then he threw aside the blood-stained sword, clasped his hands before his [[12]]face, and threw himself with a wild shriek of despair on the dead body.
After a time he raised himself up, and found that he was alone; but he was a changed man. He at once left the band of brigands and sought for solitude, hiding himself away from the haunts of men in lonely forests and desolate places. For a long time he would not look another person in the face, for there was constantly before his eyes, whether he was sleeping or waking, the vision of Ellen with her blood-stained, cloven brow. He had loved the woman, who, though rich and of good birth, had forsaken all on his account. Compunction and remorse so preyed upon him that he appeared like a living corpse. And the more his body wasted away, the wilder became his illusions and dreams.
One night he dreamt that Ellen was standing in the broad daylight, alive, before him, with the gaping wound in her brow, from which the blood, drop by drop, was trickling down her face, and she seemed to say distinctly to him:
‘Trifon, Trifon! you will never have peace or repose, either in life or in death, until you do penance. Do penance! Do penance!’