In the middle of the night, Arseny felt something warm moving on his belly. He thought it was a rat and jolted to toss it off.
Shh, whispered the hostelry keeper’s wife. The big thing is not to make any noise, my fees are low, just a token amount, you might say, I would not charge anything, but my husband—an animal, as you have seen for yourself—thinks there should be an economic component to any matter, and changing his mind is impossible, the scoundrel, and you want it, you want it...
Go away, he whispered to her, barely audibly.
She continued stroking Arseny on the belly and he felt himself lose all his will under the hand of this woman who was neither young nor pretty. He wanted to tell Ustina that everything that had been forming all those years might now be broken, but then the hostelry keeper’s wife croaked out, at almost full voice:
And I know your type inside and out...
Her hand glided down toward the very bottom of his belly and Arseny jumped up, hitting his head on something hard and resonant that fell from the wall, rolled, bounced, and flew out of the room along with the hostelry keeper’s wife.
The fire began smoldering in the next room.
No, just have a look, will you, have a look, shrieked the hostelry keeper’s wife, pointing at Arseny. He started coming on to me.
He was using my moment of weakness, said the hostelry keeper, who was nearly sober and thus mean.
He was coming after me, Ladle! My garment is left in his hands. But I got away.
Arseny extended his hands and they were empty:
I have nobody’s clothing.
The hostelry keeper’s wife looked at Arseny and shouted, more calmly now:
Look at you, could not keep your hands to yourself, you are not in your Pskov. Pay a gold coin for this dishonor.
This is the Grand Duchy of Lithuania, said the hostelry keeper, and I, in other words, will not allow anyone...
Arseny began weeping.
Listen, Ladle, said Ambrogio, I have a document that I will present to your local authorities. But I will inform them orally (Ambrogio walked right up to the hostelry keeper) about how guests are received in Sebezh. I do not think they will be pleased.
And what about me? said the hostelry keeper. I know of this only from what she says. You need not pay for the dishonor if you wish.
The tavern keeper’s wife cast a stern look at him:
Oh you, Ladle. This one sayde to me, I will revell in youre beauty. And I did denye him. At least give me something, even if it is not gold coin.
To pay you for your beauty, asked Ambrogio.
We will pay her because she rejected me, said Arseny. For if she rejected me in words, then she is capable of doing the same in deed. And I am to blame for all, and this is my fall. Forgive me, kind woman, and you forgive me, too, Ustina.
Without saying a word, Ambrogio took a ducat and extended it toward the hostelry keeper’s wife. The woman stood, eyes cast down. The hostelry keeper shrugged. His wife looked at her husband and took the ducat, embarrassed. It was getting light outside.
They rode silently from Sebezh to Polotsk. Arseny rode a bit ahead and Ambrogio did not catch up.
After so many years of silence, said Ambrogio, it is difficult for you to get used to speech again.
Arseny nodded.
When they dismounted yet again, Ambrogio said:
I understand why you took the blame upon yourself. He who holds the world within answers for everything. But you did not think about how you deprived that woman of feeling the blame. Thanks to you, she is convinced everything is permitted for her.
You are wrong, said Arseny. Look what I found in my pocket.
He took his hand from his pocket and unclenched his fist. In his palm there lay a ducat.
In Polotsk they dismounted by the Spaso-Evfrosinevsky Monastery. Ambrogio tied the horses to an old elm. Arseny pressed his forehead to the monastery fence and said:
Hello, O Saint Evfrosinia. As you likely know, my traveling companion Ambrogio (Ambrogio bowed his head) and I are going to Jerusalem. It is not our place to tell you just how complicated is the journey there, for you have made it and we are at its very beginning. And it would be even more inappropriate for us to tell you how complicated is the journey back: we have not even begun it. And you, saintly one, totally forewent it and, with God’s favor, found your resting place in the Holy Land. We are going there to pray for two women and are counting on your help very much. Bless us, O Saint Evfrosinia.
The pilgrims bowed and rode away.
Ambrogio addressed a pedestrian on the outskirts of Polotsk:
We are looking for the road to Orsha.
Orsha is on the Dnepr, said the pedestrian. The Dnepr is a big river and that, correspondingly, opens up great possibilities.
He showed the direction to Orsha and went about his business.
I have noticed, said Ambrogio, watching the pedestrian leave, that the people of ancient Rus’ prefer a water route because of unfit roads. By the way, they do not yet know that Rus’ is ancient but they will figure that out over time. Certain skills of foresight allow me to assert this. And this, too: the condition of the roads will not change. Basically, the history of your land will unscroll in a rather unusual way.
Does the history of my land truly unroll as a scroll unrolls? asked Arseny.
All history is, to a certain extent, a scroll in the Almighty’s hands. Some people (me, for example) are granted the opportunity to peek every now and then, to see what lies ahead. There is just one thing I do not know: if that scroll will suddenly be thrown away.
Do you mean the end of the world? asked Arseny.
Yes, the end of the world. And the end of the dark underworld at the same time. This event, you know, has its own symmetry.
They rode for several hours without uttering a word. The road ran along the Dvina. The road followed the river, looping, fading, and sometimes even getting lost. But the road invariably turned up somewhere further on. They rode into a pine wood and the sound of hooves became more ringing.
Arseny asked:
If history is a scroll in the hands of the Creator, does that mean that everything I think and do is my Creator’s thinking and doing, rather than mine?
No, that is not what it means: the Creator is good but not everything that you think and do is good. You were created in God’s image and likeness, and your likeness consists, among other things, of freedom.
But if people are free in their intentions and actions, then it works out that they create history freely.
People are free, Ambrogio replied, but history is not free. As you say, there are so many intentions and actions that history cannot bring them all together, and only God can holde them all. I would even say that it is not people that are free but the individual person. I liken the confluence of human wills to fleas in a container: their movement is obvious but do they really have a common purpose? That is why history has no goal, just as humanity has none. Only an individual person has a goal. And even then, not always.
It was already their second day riding along the river. As they were riding through a forest, they saw a glade with a slope leading down to the water. Ambrogio dismounted to water his horse. He slipped on the clay at the very edge of the river and fell into the water. It turned out to be unexpectedly deep, almost to his throat. Ambrogio laughed as he spat out river plants. His long, black hair resembled river plants, too, streaming down his laughing face. Ambrogio’s laughter splashed on the water’s surface like sunny glints.