Russka Page 9

  Everyone knew the story of the Blessed Vladimir’s conversion: how he had sent out to the three great religions – Islam, Judaism and Christianity – and how his ambassadors, having visited Constantinople, reported to him that in the Christian church of the Greek, ‘We did not know whether we were on earth or in heaven.’

  In such cathedrals as this, the emperors of Constantinople – and now the princes of Kiev who copied them – brought the visible heavens to earth and reminded their people that they, the rulers who prayed in the galleries above, were regents for the eternal Godhead whose golden universe was present, though unknowable, amongst them.

  Igor, part oriental, found peace in the contemplation of this absolute, unknowable authority. Ivanushka, half Slav, instinctively shrank from such a God; he yearned for a warmer, softer deity. And this was why, in the great church, he shivered as though from cold.

  A few minutes later, he was glad to be out of the church and riding towards the gate, beyond which lay the track through the woods to the monastery, and his destiny.

  At last they were at the monastery gates.

  Their ride along the path from the citadel had been so delightful it had filled Ivanushka with joy. After passing through the scattered huts of the lesser folk outside the city walls, the track had led southwards, up to the little promontory of Berestovo, now a suburb, where St Vladimir himself had kept an extra residence. Over the treetops on the left, one could see the river shining far below, and past that, on the other side of the broad expanse of floodwater, the woods stretched across the flat plain into the distance. The oak and beech coming into leaf spread over the landscape like a soft, light green mist under the washed blue sky. Nothing disturbed the gentle sounds of the birds in the stillness of the spring morning, as Ivanushka rode happily behind his father towards the wide south-western promontory, two miles from the citadel, where the monks lived.

  And still Ivanushka had no idea why he was really there.

  Igor was silent, deep in thought. Was he doing the right thing? Even for a boyar as devout and austere as he, this morning’s expedition was an extraordinary step. For Igor’s idea was that Ivanushka might enter the religious life.

  It had cost him dear. No boyar normally wanted his son to be a monk or even a priest. The life of poverty seemed like a reproach; and those of noble blood who chose the religious life did so, almost always, against their family’s wishes. True, a boyar like Igor might spend many hours in prayer each day; a prince, on his deathbed, might take the tonsure of a monk; but for a young man to bury himself and take vows of poverty – that was another matter.

  It was just after the appearance of the red star that the idea had taken shape in his mind. ‘I do not say Ivanushka’s a fool,’ he had said to his wife, ‘but he is a dreamer. That night I found him gazing at the star – if I hadn’t fetched him in he’d have frozen to death. The boy should be a monk.’ Igor had worked so hard to make himself a man of affairs, a warrior and member of the druzhina: he knew what was required. ‘And I cannot see Ivanushka succeeding,’ he admitted sadly.

  ‘You are too impatient with him,’ Olga had replied.

  Was he impatient? Perhaps. But what father can tolerate the weaknesses of the one who was – though Igor would never admit it – his favourite son? And did a tiny voice, deep inside him, say: ‘The boy is like you, as you might have been.’

  So it was that, as the weeks passed and no opportunities seemed to present themselves for the boy, he wondered: Perhaps, though it is not my desire, God means to claim this son for His own service. And then, since it was his nature, he began to make plans for this undesirable outcome.

  These included a long talk with Father Luke, to whom he confided all these thoughts. Indeed, he might slightly have exaggerated Ivanushka’s interest in the religious life. He had begged the old monk to take a look at the dreamy boy and to encourage him if he showed any signs of vocation. For if Father Luke himself suggests it, he reasoned, that will greatly influence the boy.

  He had only told his wife the day before, and when he did, Olga’s face had gone white. ‘No! I beg you, don’t push the boy away,’ she had pleaded.

  ‘Of course not,’ he had answered. ‘He will only go to a monastery if he wishes.’

  ‘But you mean to encourage him.’

  ‘I shall show him the monastery, that is all.’

  Olga’s face had remained distraught. She, too, knew her youngest son. Who knew what might seize the boy’s imagination? He might easily take it into his head to become a monk. And then she would lose him for ever.

  ‘He can be here in Kiev,’ Igor had replied. Secretly, because he was ambitious, he had hoped that the boy might go for a time to one of the great Greek monasteries at far away Mount Athos – for that was the way to reach the higher church offices. The boy might even be another Hilarion! But he did not tell her this.

  ‘I shall never see him.’

  ‘All sons must leave their mothers,’ he went on. ‘Besides, if it is God’s will, then we must submit. And who knows? He may truly find happiness in the religious life. He may be happier than I.’ And this, though he scarcely knew it himself, was as near to the truth as it was tactless. ‘I shall only take him to visit the cathedral and the monastery,’ he promised her. ‘Father Luke shall talk to him. That is all.’

  And what of the boy?

  Let’s hope he sees the monastery and takes an interest, he thought. Then he would have to tell Ivanushka the truth, that he would never succeed in being a boyar. That will break his heart, he acknowledged to himself. But by then there would be an alternative. And then we shall see, he concluded.

  And so it was, that morning, that Ivanushka came to the monastery.

  He had never been there before.

  They reached the top of the promontory, then continued until, by a clearing in the trees, they came to a stout wooden gateway. A monk in a black habit bowed to them as they passed through, while Ivanushka, pale with excitement, looked about him.

  It was not much of a place. There was a small wooden chapel and a cluster of dwelling houses, together with two low, barn-like structures, one of which was the refectory where the monks ate, the other a hospice for the sick. It was nothing like the grand cathedral, and Ivanushka was rather disappointed. It seemed to him that there was something sad about the place.

  The morning dew still clung to the dark wooden huts although the sun was well up in the sky, as if the buildings had been permeated by the cold, wet ground. Rocks appeared amongst the trees. Here and there in the clearing were patches of light brown mud. Yet somehow, in the midst of rising spring, there was a feeling of autumn, as though leaves were still falling.

  It was hardly twenty years since Anthony the Hermit, travelling from Holy Mount Athos in distant Greece, had come upon this deserted spot and found the caves. Soon others had joined the holy man in his cave above the Dniepr, and this little community of a dozen or so hermits had burrowed out a network of tiny cells and passages deep underground. These cells were under their feet now; and it gave Ivanushka a strange feeling to know that the holy men were down there, like rabbits in a warren, aware no doubt of his presence above.

  Anthony himself, he knew, dwelt apart from the community in a cave on his own, occasionally appearing for some important purpose, such as to demand that the Prince of Kiev give the monks the hill, and then disappearing again. But his saintly spirit was said to hover over the place like a wreath of mist over the ground. Meanwhile, the faithful monks, led by kindly Theodosius, had built up the monastery above the ground as well as beneath. And of this number of saintly men was Father Luke.

  Ivanushka and his father dismounted. One monk had led their horses away; another, after a whispered conversation, had walked to a small hut and disappeared.

  ‘That is the way down into the caves,’ his father explained.

  They waited. Several minutes passed. Two elderly monks accompanied by a young monk in his twenties walked slowly past and into the wooden cha
pel. One of the old monks, Ivanushka saw, wore a big, heavy chain round his neck and seemed to walk with difficulty. ‘Why does he wear a chain?’ he whispered.

  His father looked at him as though he had asked a foolish question. ‘To mortify the flesh,’ he answered abruptly. ‘He is close to God,’ he added with obvious respect.

  Ivanushka said nothing. A faint, cold breath of wind made itself felt against his cheek.

  Then the door of the hut opposite slowly opened and the monk emerged, holding the door open for an unseen figure. Ivanushka heard his father whisper: ‘Here he comes.’ He held his breath. He saw the skirt of a robe in the doorway. This was the moment – the splendid figure who was to tell him his destiny was approaching.

  And then from the doorway emerged a small, scrawny old man.

  His hair was grey and, though he had combed it, not very clean; nor was his black habit, tied with a leather belt that was mottled with mildew. His beard was straggly and untidy. He shuffled slowly towards them, the younger monk walking just behind him as though to catch him should he stumble.

  Father Luke’s face was wrinkled and ghostly white, and his brows hung over it heavily, partly because he stooped so much. As he came slowly forward he opened his mouth once, as though flexing stiff muscles in preparation for a smile he knew he must make. Ivanushka saw that several of his yellowed teeth were missing. The eyes were not, as he had imagined, like suns. They were old, a little rheumy and, it appeared, slightly crossed. The old man seemed mostly concerned with staring at his feet, encased in leather shoes which were full of holes, so that his grimy feet could be seen within. But there was something worse than his appearance, something Ivanushka was completely unprepared for.

  It was the smell.

  For those who live long underground acquire not only pale skins like corpses, but also a terrible aroma; and it was this smell, preceding Father Luke, that came towards the boy. He had never encountered anything like it: in his mind rose a vague image of wet clay, dead flesh and rotting leaves.

  And now the monk stood beside them.

  ‘This is Ivanushka,’ he heard his father say.

  He bowed his head.

  So this was Father Luke. He could not believe it. He wanted to run away. How could his father have cruelly deceived him in this way? If only, he prayed, he does not touch me.

  When he looked up, he was aware of his father and the old man talking quietly. The monk’s eyes, which looked up at him, were blue, sharper and more inquisitive than he had supposed. They glanced at him from time to time, before staring down at the ground again.

  His father and the monk were discussing quite mundane affairs in a matter-of-fact way – the trade and politics of Tmutarakan, the price of salt, the building of the new Monastery of St Dimitri inside the citadel. He found this surprising and rather dull. So he was taken off-guard when Father Luke suddenly nodded towards him and remarked: ‘So this is the young man you told me about?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Ivan,’ Father Luke went on, half to himself, though smiling slightly at the boy. ‘A very Christian name for a young man.’

  It was true that as yet few Russians had taken the name Ivan, the Slavic form of John, as their first name. But while Igor had given his first two sons the usual Slav names and reserved the Christian ones for their baptismal names, he had for some reason given his third son only a single, Christian name.

  Ivanushka saw that his father was giving him an encouraging smile that was meant to reassure him, but in fact told him only that Igor was anxious he should make a good impression: and as always upon such occasions, he immediately felt something tighten within him, while his mind became a sea of confusion. The monk’s next question completed this.

  ‘Do you like it here?’

  What could he say? He was so upset, so disappointed, and the direct question seemed suddenly to bring all his misery to the surface. With tears coming into his eyes, half in fury at his father, half in numb disappointment, unable to look up at them he blurted out: ‘No.’

  He could feel his father stiffen with rage. ‘Ivan!’

  He looked up and saw Igor’s furious look. The monk, however, did not seem put out. ‘What do you see here?’ he asked quietly.

  Again, the question took him by surprise. It was so simple that, too agitated now to collect his thoughts, he answered it without thinking at all: ‘Rotting leaves.’

  He heard his father’s gasp of exasperation, then saw to his surprise the monk reach out his pale, bony hand and take Igor gently by the arm. ‘Do not be angry,’ Father Luke admonished soflty. ‘The boy has only spoken the truth.’ He sighed. ‘But he is young for such a place.’

  ‘Some boys have come here,’ he heard his father say crossly.

  The monk nodded, but apparently without much interest. ‘Some.’ He turned back to Ivanushka.

  What was coming next? Ivanushka could not imagine. Certainly not what did. ‘So, Ivan, should you like to be a priest?’

  A priest? What could the old man be thinking of? He was going to be a hero, a boyar. He stared, open-mouthed, at the monk in horror.

  With a wry smile Father Luke turned to Igor. ‘Are you sure about this, my friend?’

  ‘I thought it would be best.’ Igor’s brows were knitted, both in anger and embarrassment.

  Ivanushka looked up at his father. It was hard for him, at first, to understand even what was being said, but through the fog of his confusion he began to realize: if his father thought he should be a priest, then he must be judged unworthy to be a boyar. And so now, fresh from the disappointment of finding the awesome Father Luke to be nothing more than a shabby old man, two thoughts formed themselves in his mind. His father had betrayed him, never even told him about his plans; and he had rejected him.

  Father Luke now drew out a book from the folds of his habit, and opened it. ‘This is the liturgy of St John Chrysostom,’ he said. ‘Can you read this?’ And he showed Ivanushka a prayer.

  The boy stumbled through it and Father Luke nodded quielty. Then he drew another little book out and showed it to Ivanushka; but in this one the writing seemed different and Ivanushka shook his head. ‘This is in the old alphabet which the blessed St Cyril invented for the Slavs,’ the monk explained. ‘In fact, some monks still prefer this old writing which uses some Hebrew characters; but today we use the alphabet designed by Cyril’s successors, which is mainly Greek and which people call, incorrectly, Cyrillic. If you were a priest, it would be useful to know both.’

  Ivanushka hung his head and said nothing.

  ‘We in this monastery,’ Father Luke went on quielty, ‘live by the rule which our Abbot Theodosius has chosen. It is a wise rule. Our monks spend much of the time singing and praying in the chapel, but they also occupy themselves with useful tasks like caring for the sick. Some, it is true, follow a harsher discipline and remain in seclusion in their cells or in the caves for long periods. But this is their own choice.’

  ‘It is a holy choice,’ Igor said respectfully.

  Father Luke did not look impressed. ‘But not for all.’ He sighed, though it sounded more like a short hiss. It seemed to Ivanushka that the monk used less breath than other men. ‘The life of a monk is a constant drawing closer to God,’ he went on quietly. Whether he was addressing Igor or his son now was hard to say. ‘In this process, the flesh dries up, but the spirit is fed, and grows, through communion with God.’ To Ivanushka, the monk’s quiet voice sounded like the falling of leaves.

  Then Father Luke coughed, with a dry, rasping sound. And Ivanushka thought: He is like a husk, buried in the earth.

  ‘And so the body dies, that the soul may live.’

  Ivanushka knew that some monks kept their coffins in their cells, in this long preparation for death.

  He realized that Father Luke was watching him dispassionately, observing how he received these words. But he could not conceal his disappointment, his desire to escape from this image, as it seemed to him, of death.

&nb
sp; ‘Yet it is not death,’ Father Luke went on, as though following his thoughts. ‘For Christ overcame death. The grass withereth, but the word of the Lord does not. So it is that, even in our mortal condition, our souls live in the world of the spirit, humble before God.’ But if this was meant to bring Ivanushka comfort, it brought him none.

  It was an old idea, this ascetic ideal of the withering of the body. For centuries it had been practised by single-minded hermits in Christian Syria. This was not the wild infliction of pain that was often indulged in by the flagellants in the west, but rather the slow process of sapping the vital juices from the body, reducing it to a useless husk that would not interfere with the life of the spirit and the service of God.

  Still watching him carefully the monk continued: ‘These extremes are only for a few. Most of the monks here live a simpler life, devoted to the service of God and their fellow men. Indeed, this is the rule favoured by our Abbot Theodosius.’

  Ivanushka was too discouraged, however, to find comfort even in this.

  ‘Do you wish to serve God?’ the old man asked abruptly.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He was almost in tears though. The idea of serving God had always been such an exciting thought before. With a single heart, a single mind, he had seen himself riding in God’s service over the waving grasses of the steppe, fighting the heathen horsemen.

  The old man gave a grunt.

  ‘The boy is young. He loves his body.’ It was said calmly, without anger, but it was obviously the monk’s final judgement. He turned his back on Ivanushka.

  ‘You do not think he would make a priest?’ Igor asked anxiously.

  ‘God touches each man at the proper time. We do not know what we shall be.’

  ‘He should not be trained for the priesthood then?’ Igor sought clarification.

  Instead of answering, Father Luke turned back to Ivanushka and laid his hand on his head, in a gesture that might, or might not, have been a blessing. ‘I see that you are going on a journey,’ he said, ‘from which you will return.’ Then he turned away again.