‘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 chapel. 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.