“And how did you do that?”
“I read Hegel. I discovered that true knowledge, the true subject and object of philosophy, is the spirit knowing itself as spirit.”
“I have never been to Optina Pustyn.”
“You should go. I mean, really you should. From the longing in your voice, I can tell that it is what your soul craves. For me there was an added impetus, in that one of the monks there, Father Amvrosy, taught me as a seminarian. He also taught my father. He is an old, old man now. He will die soon. There was a chance that if I did not go this year, I would never see him again in this life. He is without doubt the holiest man in Russia.”
“It is a long way to Optina Pustyn.”
“For sure. One must take the train to Moscow. From there one travels to Kozelsk. But there is no road to the monastery itself. One must approach it on foot or by river, or as I did.”
“And how is that?”
“On my knees.”
Porfiry sighed. “Perhaps one day I shall go. One day very soon.”
“I would urge you to.”
“What was the date you left St. Petersburg?”
“Let me see, it was the twenty-eighth, I believe. The twenty-eighth of November. The train left at twenty minutes past eight in the morning. Isn’t that a strange coincidence?”
“You arrived in Optina Pustyn?”
“On the evening of the following day.”
“And you returned to St. Petersburg when?”
Osip Maximovich’s eyes flitted briefly as he calculated. “Two days ago, was it now? I have been so busy since returning, and this existence is so different from the spiritual calm of the monastery. It seems a lifetime ago since I left there.”
“Thank you, Osip Maximovich. You have been most helpful,” said Porfiry with a bow. “Now there is just one question I would like to ask Vadim Vasilyevich.”
Porfiry moved quickly to the adjoining room. His sudden appearance seemed to surprise the secretary, who tried to give the impression that he was busy wrapping books, and had been for some time. It was obvious, however, that he had been listening.
“Vadim Vasilyevich, on the day Osip Maximovich took the train to Moscow, you accompanied him to the station, did you not?”
“Yes?”
“Did you see him onto the train?”
“I saw him onto the train and waved him off.”
“And you remained in St. Petersburg the whole of the time that he was away on retreat?”
“Indeed.”
“Thank you.” Porfiry bowed and was about to leave, but there was something in the other man’s expression that sought to detain him.
“May I ask you,” began Vadim Vasilyevich hesitantly. “The work that Stepan Sergeyevich was doing for us, the Proudhon translation-do you know what has become of it?”
“It is in my possession.”
“We would appreciate it very much if it could be returned to us. We have a book to prepare, you understand. And we must find another translator to complete Stepan Sergeyevich’s work. Possibly I will have to undertake the task myself, or Osip Maximovich. It would be helpful to know how much Stepan Sergeyevich managed to complete.”
“I’m afraid that will not be possible just yet. I have not finished analyzing it. It may turn out to be important evidence.”
“How long do you think you will need it for?”
“I can’t say.”
“I don’t see what possible use it could be to you.”
“That is for me to determine.”
Vadim Vasilyevich stared at Porfiry for a long time. His eyes narrowed but did not blink. “Osip Maximovich is a saint,” he said at last.
Porfiry bowed, as though in gratitude for this information.
An Abundance of Icons
She moved through the Apraxin Arcade with the same inflexible determination with which she had crossed Petrovsky Park, only a few days before. Those who saw her coming stepped aside. Those who didn’t felt the buffet of her shoulder or the swipe of her arm, and skipped out of the way with an angry sidelong glance at the force that had impelled them. They saw an old woman bundled in layers of ragged clothes, a strange, sealed expression on her face. It was almost a smile, but cunning prevented it from going so far. If anyone studied her face for long enough, they would reach the conclusion that there was a secret contained in it. But whatever that secret was, it could not escape through the tight slits of her eyes.
She reached the corner of the market where the icon dealers were to be found. Her approach stirred the sheepskin-clad traders into an exchange of nods and winks. There was something conspiratorial, but also competitive, in the way they bristled at the prospect of her. They vied for her custom with friendly cries and waves: “Hello Granny!” “Madam!” Those who knew her name called out, “Zoya Nikolaevna!”
But she chose today, as had done on previous days, a dealer who made no effort to get her attention or her business. It was his face, and more specifically his eyes, that drew her. He had the eyes of Christ the Redeemer. And just like the Christ figure in one of the icons he sold, his long hair fell around his shoulders in ringlets, and his beard was divided into two soft points. He was a young man, the youngest of them. His face was always serious, giving the impression that he was well aware of the solemnity of his trade. The others hawked their icons like half-kopek cakes.
He acknowledged her presence at his stall with a silent upward tilt of his head. Her greeting in return was an involuntary twitch of the mouth.
She scanned the banks of icons, arranged according to the holy personages represented and the manner of representation. Here the Christs: Christ Immanuel, Christ Redeemer, Christ’s Descent into Hell, Christ of the Fiery Eye, Redeemer with Moist Beard, Redeemer Not Painted by Human Hands. Next to the Christs were the Marys (although, of course, both figures were featured in depictions of the Nativity): Virgin of Compassion, Our Lady of Vladimir, Our Lady of Kykkos, Our Lady of Refuge and Succor. And then the saints: Saint Nicholas, Saint John, Saint George, Saint Paul, Saint Demetrius. The lights of the market glinted softly in the gold paint and jewels.
As well as those on display, there were deep baskets filled with icons. Zoya stood over one and closed her eyes. She held out one hand and let it hover. Then she dropped it to caress the varnished surfaces, before forcing her fingers down. It was a question of wheedling and teasing, of flexing her fingers to engineer minute shifts in the abutment of edges. She was able to plunge her arm all the way up to her elbow before withdrawing it. And then, at last, she opened her eyes and inspected her forearm. It seemed strange to her that no visible change had been wrought upon it; that it was not glowing or dripping with gold.
The young icon dealer tolerated all this without comment, too polite even to give any indication of noticing. Zoya, however, chose to see something other than politeness in his gently averted eyes. In them she saw infinite compassion.
Looking back to the icons that were hung up around his stall, her eye was drawn to one she hadn’t seen before, a heavily jeweled representation of the Savior. His halo was formed from circles of pearls, alternating with settings of sapphires and lapis lazuli, all on a base of beaten silver. Seeing it for the first time, she felt the breath leave her body in amazement. It was not simply the beauty and richness of the jewels and precious metal that impressed her. She understood that this was meant to represent Christ’s splendor. Her soul grasped too the inadequacy of any earthly treasures to convey it. The Savior’s face remained unmoved by the riches surrounding him. And it was the face she stared at, the face that humbled her.
Finally she addressed a remark to the dealer: “Haven’t seen this one before.”
His eyes flashed toward where she was pointing. “It came in today.”
“Is it old?”
“Seventeenth century.”
Zoya’s eyes narrowed further. She seemed to find this information discouraging. “It’s not the oldest I’ve seen. Was it in a church?”