Russka - Edward Rutherfurd [39]
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.