The Troparion of Kassiani
By Photios Kontoglou
By Photios Kontoglou
Kassiani — also called Kassia or Ikasia — lived during the reign of Emperor Theophilos in Constantinople, from 829 to 842 AD. She came from a noble family, and for this reason she was among the most beautiful and most educated young women who were gathered at the palace so that the emperor could choose the best one as his wife.
But she lost the crown because of her intelligence. As the emperor passed in front of her, he was struck by her beauty and modesty, and, wanting to tease her, he said: “From woman came evil,” meaning that Eve brought the curse upon humanity. Kassiani replied: “But from woman also came what is better,” meaning that the Most Holy Theotokos brought salvation into the world. Then Theophilos, judging that she was too intelligent to take as his wife, gave the apple to Theodora and married her.
Kassiani then became a nun and built a monastery, which survived until the later years of the Byzantine Empire and was called Ikasion. There she spent her life in fasting and deep devotion. Her favorite work was reading and writing. Among the hymns she composed, the hymn of the Sinful Woman is the most famous; it is known as “the Hymn of Kassiani” and is chanted on the evening of Great Tuesday.
In earlier times, assistants and chanters would gather around the lead chanter and perform it with deep reverence; the people would weep, and often the chanters themselves would weep. But now — what things we see! How can someone weep listening to a bland, tasteless, theatrical singer with no heart?
So the hymn of Kassiani says:
Κύριε, η γυναίκα που έπεσε σε πολλές αμαρτίες, σαν ένοιωσε τη θεότητά σου, γίνηκε μυροφόρα και σε άλειψε με μυρουδικά πριν από τον ενταφιασμό σου κ’ έλεγε οδυρόμενη. Αλλοίμονο σε μένα, γιατί μέσα μου είναι νύχτα κατασκότεινη και δίχως φεγγάρι, η μανία τής ασωτείας κι’ ο έρωτας της αμαρτίας. Δέξου από μένα τις πηγές των δακρύων, εσύ που μεταλλάζεις με τα σύννεφα το νερό τής θάλασσας. Λύγισε στ’ αναστενάγματα της καρδιάς μου, εσύ που έγειρες τον ουρανό και κατέβηκες στη γης. Θα καταφιλήσω τα άχραντα ποδάρια σου, και θα τα σφουγγίσω πάλι με τα πλοκάμια τής κεφαλής μου· αυτά τα ποδάρια, που σαν τ’ άκουσε η Εύα να περπατάνε κατά το δειλινό, από το φόβο της κρύφτηκε. Των αμαρτιών μου τα πλήθη και των κριμάτων σου την άβυσσο, ποιος μπορεί να τα εξιχνιάση, ψυχοσώστη Σωτήρα μου; Μην καταφρονέσης τη δούλη σου, εσύ που έχεις τ’ αμέτρητο έλεος.*
“Lord, the woman who had fallen into many sins, when she realized Your divinity, became a bearer of myrrh and brought You fragrant oils before Your burial, saying in sorrow: Woe is me, for it is night within me — dark and without moon — the madness of prodigality and the eros of sin. Accept the streams of my tears, You who draw up the waters of the sea with the clouds. Incline to the groaning of my heart, You who bent the heavens and came down to earth. I will kiss Your pure feet and wipe them again with the hair of my head — those feet which Eve heard walking in the evening and hid herself in fear. Who can understand the multitude of my sins and the depth of Your judgments, O Savior of my soul? Do not reject Your servant, You whose mercy is without measure.”
Historians say that the phrase “those feet…” in the middle of the hymn was written by Theophilos himself. Years later, the emperor wanted to visit the monasteries. When he came to Kassiani’s monastery, he asked to be taken to her cell. When this sorrowful “nightingale” heard his footsteps, she fled in fear and hid in her place of prayer.
Theophilos entered the cell and saw on the lectern a sheet of paper where Kassiani had been writing this hymn, left unfinished at that very moment. As he read it, he was deeply moved, and he took the pen and wrote: “Those feet which Eve heard walking in the evening and hid herself in fear,” suggesting that Kassiani herself heard his footsteps and hid. What profound emotion holiness gives!
Kassiani herself, it seems, used to set her own hymns to music, according to the custom of the time. She also wrote many others, chiefly “Canons,” as the Katavasies are called. Among these, the most beautiful is the Canon chanted on Great Saturday, “By the Wave of the Sea” (Kýmati Thalássēs), which breathes with virginal purity and a certain breath of immortality:
“Be struck with awe, O heaven, and tremble; let the foundations of the earth be shaken: for behold, He who dwells in the highest is numbered among the dead and is received in a small tomb as a stranger. Him, O youths, bless; O priests, hymn; O people, exalt Him above all forever!”
She also wrote compunctionate hymns (doxastika) sung at the Vespers of Christmas and at the Nativity of the Forerunner, as well as hymns for the martyrs Samonas, Abibus, Eustratios, and Auxentios.
While I was writing about Kassiani, I received a letter from a deeply devout soul — a nun who had also dedicated her youth to the heavenly Bridegroom. I read it with tears in my eyes. Just as Kassiani left her manuscript unfinished, I also left mine and read with reverence the words of this new Kassiani. The tears that came to my eyes while writing about the ancient Kassiani mingled with those for the present one, who withdrew from the indifferent world, disgusted by its harsh and pointless turmoil, and “hid in fear” in a monastery on the holy mountain of Taygetus, together with other wise virgins, like deer fleeing from a bloodthirsty hunter.
My tears increased and fell onto those sacred words — words not written by a famous author, but by a “bodiless hand” nourished by the “heavenly bread.”
Why is it that none of those who possess this false artistic skill — which I myself also have and whose techniques I know — can move me to tears, while these simple and unrefined words do? Because beneath them shines the unsetting light that rises in a few souls, even the simplest and most overlooked. In fact, the more overlooked they are, the more they are illuminated by this hidden light: “Even if they are punished in the sight of people, their hope is full of immortality.”
Blessed is that hidden world that lives quietly — unknown to people and itself knowing nothing of human sinful activity — and this secret carrying of the light. These outcasts of the world were healed “not by herb or ointment, but by Your word, O Lord, which heals all things.” But for the rest of us, “a heavy night has been appointed, an image of the darkness that awaits us — and we ourselves have become darker than darkness.”
Source: From the book Christ Is Risen – The Trial of Reason by Photios
Kontoglou, Armos Publications. Translation by John Sanidopoulos.
Notes:
* Here Kontoglou provides his own modern Greek translation of the Hymn of Kassiani, which is kept in this English translation intact, and under it is an English translation of Kontoglou's modern Greek translation.
* Here Kontoglou provides his own modern Greek translation of the Hymn of Kassiani, which is kept in this English translation intact, and under it is an English translation of Kontoglou's modern Greek translation.
