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 alclass="underline" ‘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.
‘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.
A journey? Ivanushka’s mind was racing. Could he mean his plan to go to the great River Don? Surely he must. And he had said nothing about him becoming a priest. At last there was hope.