Russka: The Novel of Russia

  Admittedly, some of the evidence was a little weak. While two defendants were clearly heretics, a third could only be accused of going to a meeting to argue the case for Orthodoxy against some Roman Catholic. Even that was enough, though.

  ‘For if this man had to argue about the matter,’ the prosecution pointed out, ‘if he did not know the answer, then how can he be of the true faith?’

  A trial was called for late October. All Moscow was buzzing with speculation. The Metropolitan, the Tsar, the high dignitaries of the Church and court would all be there. Already the party of Sylvester and his friends were badly frightened. The talk of Church land reform had subsided into a nervous silence.

  And this show trial might have been enough for the Metropolitan, but it was not enough for Sylvester’s rival in the council. Suddenly, now, a second case was brought – this time directly against Sylvester himself. The subject of the charge was: icons.

  They were in the great Cathedral of the Annunciation, in the very heart of the Kremlin; they had been recently executed under Sylvester’s authority and, the charge said, they were heretical.

  Even though Boris did not understand the details of the charge, like everyone else in Moscow, he knew how serious it might be. To speak heresy was dangerous, but a work of art that was heretical … that was something permanent, a matter of record: it was like erecting a totem, a statue of a pagan god from olden times in front of the Holy of Holies itself.

  It was some days before the show trial was due to start that Philip the priest offered to take Boris into the Kremlin to look at the icons in question. He accepted eagerly.

  The day was heavy, grey and sombre. The clouds were as thick and as solid as the ramparts of the city as the two men made their way across the emptiness of Red Square. They passed through the tall, grim gateway, under the watchful eyes of the streltsy guards, and made their way between barracks, armouries and other thick-walled buildings until they came finally to the central square of the Kremlin. It was a medium-sized stone square, on each side of which loomed the high, thickset, grey-white presences of the cathedrals and palaces. The Cathedrals of the Assumption, the Archangel Michael, the Annunciation; the Italianate Palace of Facets; the Church of the Deposition of the Robe; the Bell Tower of Ivan the Great: here they all were, with their massive walls and high, gleaming domes in this innermost heart of the vast empire of the Eurasian plain.

  ‘Come, I will show you the throne first,’ Philip said, as he turned towards the simplest and most stately of the buildings, the Cathedral of the Assumption.

  It was amazing how he seemed to be able to gain admittance everywhere. He spoke a few words to the priest at the door, and a moment later they were ushered in.

  It was a splendid building, made for the Tsar’s grandfather by an Italian architect, but modelled on the splendid old cathedral at Vladimir – a simple, pale stone Byzantine cathedral with five domes. Here, Boris knew, the Metropolitans were buried; with awe he looked around at the huge, high bare walls and round columns with their layers of enormous frescoes staring out into the airy spaces they owned. In this cathedral was housed the most sacred of all Russian icons, the Virgin of Vladimir, Our Lady of Sorrows, which had given the men of Moscow their great victory over the Tatars at Kulikovo, back in the time of the great St Sergius.

  But to Boris even this great icon seemed less important than the narrow, canopied golden throne that stood to one side.

  ‘So this,’ he murmured reverently, ‘is where my Tsar was crowned.’

  And he stayed there, staring at it for several minutes, until at last Philip had to drag him away.

  They crossed to the Cathedral of the Annunciation.

  The icons in question, which had caused such fear and trembling, did not look so unusual to Boris. Indeed, until Philip started to speak, he could not see anything wrong with them at all. But the intense young priest soon disabused him.

  ‘Look at that: did you ever see such a thing?’

  Boris looked. Before him was a figure of Christ, with wings, and with his palms closed.

  ‘It’s perhaps unusual,’ he ventured uncertainly.

  ‘Unusual? It’s outrageous! Idolatry. Don’t you see, the artist has invented that? Invented it for himself? There is no authority for depicting Our Lord in such a way. Unless,’ he added darkly, ‘it comes from the Catholics in the west.’

  Boris looked carefully. It was true. There was something markedly individual about the thing if one considered it. He was still doing so when he heard a gasp of outrage from Philip.

  ‘See here.’ He was in front of another icon. ‘Our Lord depicted as David, dressed like a Tsar. And over there – ’ he had glanced across at another – ‘the Holy Spirit depicted as a dove. Never! Never in Orthodoxy.’

  He turned to Boris confidentially.

  ‘There are frescoes in the palace, they say, that are even worse. Heretics! Cunning fiends!’ His head bobbed so violently it was as if he feared contamination. ‘I tell you,’ he said, with his eyes, it seemed, focused angrily upon the tip of his beard, ‘I tell you, young Lord Boris, those accursed Catholics in the west may be rascals, but they have one good idea, and that is the Inquisition. That’s what we need in Russia. Root them out.’

  They left quietly, but all the way back to the Kremlin Gate and beyond the priest would mutter, every few paces: ‘Root them out. Root and branch.’

  And just as they came out into Red Square, Boris had his idea.

  ‘I think,’ he said quietly, ‘that they make icons like that in Russka.’

  On an overcast day in early November, the two visitors appeared in Russka. There was a cold, wet wind biting into their faces that threatened to bring heavy rain, or possibly snow at any time; and if Boris had not been anxious to make the journey at once, Philip the priest would have preferred to wait until a better travelling season.

  They went straight to Boris’s house and the young lord of Dirty Place soon sent a friendly message to Stephen the priest asking him to call. Meanwhile Boris had sent his servant scurrying to summon a pair of plump chickens from his steward, a bottle of wine, and anything else he could think of for their comfort.

  Despite the fact that they were both rather chilled, Boris was elated in a nervous way.

  Within two hours, they were dining, and while Philip was still eating, which he did with the same, emphatic bobbing motion that he used for everything else, Stephen arrived.

  He was glad to see Boris, and wondered if this visit could signal something good for the unfortunate Mikhail. Boris’s slightly nervous gaiety suggested to him that the young man might have been through some kind of minor crisis in his thinking recently; since he had brought a priest with him, Stephen hoped it had been of a religious nature.

  Under the influence of the wine, apparently, both men were very affable. Boris informed him that his friend had kindly agreed to spend a few days with him while he attended to his business in the country and he ventured to hope that Stephen would show him the village and the monastery. ‘For if he has to stay with me at Dirty Place all the time, I’m afraid he’ll be awfully bored,’ Boris explained with a boyish grin. ‘He’s a learned fellow, like you,’ he added amiably.

  During this conversation, Philip said little, concentrating on his eating. But now he began to talk a little. He asked Stephen a few ordinary enough questions about the little town, said a few words about his own humdrum life, and spoke with veneration, but very little understanding, about the icons in his own church.

  A pleasant, rather simple-minded fellow, Stephen thought, of no great education. He promised to show him round the next day.

  Two days, and the trap was set. Boris sent for Daniel the monk. And when their conversation was over, the young lord reflected that, including even the best moments of his brief marriage, these were the most exhilarating and most satisfying minutes he had ever passed in his life.

  ‘I find myself,’ he began, with perfect insincerity, ‘in a most difficult position.??
?

  He was sure, yes he was sure, that the monk did not know what was coming. Above the thick beard he saw Daniel’s eyes gleaming with their burning light.

  ‘It might not matter,’ Boris went on, ‘but for recent events in Moscow.’ He paused. It seemed that the monk’s face was frowning in puzzlement. ‘I am referring, of course, to the heresy trials,’ he said sweetly.

  The first trials had taken place on 25 October, and they had been a triumph for the Metropolitan. The evidence, such as it was, had been enough to secure for all the accused torture and life imprisonment; and now all Moscow was terrified.

  As a staunch supporter of the Metropolitan’s line, Daniel was delighted. But what could these trials have to do with this young landlord and himself at Russka? He looked up at Boris enquiringly.

  ‘It seems,’ Boris said, with apparent concern, ‘that we have heresy in our midst – right here.’ And he tapped the table reprovingly. Daniel stared at him.

  It had been so easy – though he had been astonished at how neatly and cleverly the priest Philip had played his part. Bobbing his head, asking rather simple-minded questions, the devious fellow had gone round Russka all day with the obliging Stephen. Never once had he asked the local priest’s opinion on any but the most trivial matters. He had been shown the icons for sale in the market, had visited the monastery and walked round the big fields near the monastery walls. Now and then, it appeared, he had been struck with disapproval by something he had seen, and then tried to hide it. Only towards sunset, as they stood by the gate of the town and gazed down at the rich monastery below, did he seem to forget himself and burst out bitterly: ‘A rich little monastery.’

  ‘You find it too rich?’ Stephen enquired curiously.

  At once Philip became guarded and looked at him nervously.

  Stephen had smiled, then taken his arm gently.

  ‘I understand.’

  Philip looked relieved.

  ‘One must be careful nowadays, my friend,’ he said softly.

  ‘Of course. You are a Non-Possessor then?’

  The priest from Moscow bobbed his head in acknowledgement.

  ‘And you?’ he asked Stephen.

  ‘I too,’ the simple-minded Russka priest confessed.

  They had walked quietly back together to Boris’s home where they had embraced before Stephen returned to his home.

  The next day Philip had inspected the icons in the market and at the monastery carefully. Then he had given Boris his opinions.

  ‘The priest is a Non-Possessor. At present it’s not clear whether he’s a heretic, but he reads too much and he’s a fool. There’s no knowing what heresy he might easily tumble into. As for the icons, I find four designs that are a disgrace.’

  ‘Heretical?’

  ‘Absolutely. As bad as anything I’ve seen from Novgorod.’

  In the minds of some purists, the products of that city were always suspect, because of its proximity to the Baltic ports and to Lithuania with their dangerous Catholic and Protestant influences from the west.

  ‘So I could prosecute?’

  ‘I think you should.’

  Boris had smiled.

  ‘I promise you, the matter will receive my full attention,’ he replied.

  And so now, to the astonished monk, he blandly outlined his conclusions.

  ‘It seems, Brother Daniel, that the icons that the Peter and Paul Monastery is producing are heretical. They are being sold in the market under your direction.’ Seeing Daniel look baffled, he continued quietly: ‘I’m afraid that it is so. I have it on very good authority, and as you know, in the current climate … it places the monastery – or some of those in it – in danger.’

  There was no question about it, Daniel was beginning to look nervous. For the matter of the heretics having been disposed of, the charge concerning the icons was still under consideration in Moscow. Who knew what would happen?

  ‘If this is so,’ Daniel began, ‘of course we should take advice.’

  ‘Certainly,’ Boris agreed. ‘Although, of course, by raising the matter with higher authorities, you also run a risk.’

  ‘But surely no one could think we intended …’

  ‘Brother Daniel,’ Boris cut in, ‘I have come from Moscow. I must tell you that the atmosphere there …’

  It was true. The atmosphere was electric. Already the condemned heretics, under the customary torture, were starting to denounce anyone they could remember talking to. Search parties were going out to arrest supposed heretics amongst the Volga Elders far out in the forests of the distant north.

  ‘Besides,’ Boris explained smoothly, ‘I am very much afraid your own family connections may be linked to the business.’

  ‘My family?’

  ‘Of course. Your cousin Stephen our priest. He is, I suppose you know, a Non-Possessor.’

  Even under the thick beard, it was possible to see Daniel blanch. He had long ago guessed, of course, that his cousin had these feelings.

  ‘But I am utterly opposed to such views – if he has them,’ he added cautiously.

  ‘I know that as well as you. But we also both know that at times like this, when the authorities are looking … It is not the truth that counts but what may be perceived, what may be said. They will look at you, the icons, and your cousin – with whom you are often seen – and they will create a pattern that will speak the word “heresy”.’

  The beauty of the thing, the exquisite irony. Though monk and priest were exactly opposed in their central beliefs, it was possible by a neat analysis and synthesis to bind them together like a pair of felons.

  There was a long pause.

  ‘I do not need to tell you of my regard for you both, nor for my family’s regard for the monastery to which we gave its most cherished icon.’

  Daniel bowed his head. The icon by Rublev was certainly the best thing they had. He could not deny that the founder’s family had been steadfast. He also saw clearly that Boris was offering an opening.

  ‘How might we proceed?’ the monk enquired.

  Boris took a long breath and looked thoughtful.

  ‘The question is,’ he mused, gazing at the ends of his fingers, ‘whether I can persuade my friend, a priest from Moscow, that this matter does not require reporting. ‘

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It is he who has pointed all this out to me, and he is zealous.’

  ‘Perhaps if I spoke with him?’

  ‘Unwise. He would take it as an admission of guilt.’ He paused a moment. ‘I have also my own position to consider.’

  He allowed silence to settle upon the room.

  ‘I should certainly be sad,’ Boris remarked after a time, ‘to see misfortune fall upon a family – a large family, with many members – whom we wish well.’

  Many members. He watched as Daniel worked this out. Himself the monk, Stephen the priest, then there was Lev the merchant and then, ah, yes, of course, Mikhail the peasant was also his cousin. Boris waited until he saw that Daniel had thoroughly understood.

  ‘I am sure we all wish yourself, and the estate at Dirty Place, well,’ the monk murmured carefully.

  They understood each other.

  ‘Well, I shall see what I can do,’ Boris remarked briskly. ‘Let us say no more of this for the present.’

  But as the monk was leaving, he said casually: ‘By the way, Brother Daniel, if you chance to see Lev the merchant, would you send him to me?’

  And later that afternoon, with perfect equanimity shown by both sides, Boris borrowed another eight roubles from the merchant at the derisory interest rate of only seven per cent.

  Before returning to Moscow the next day with Philip the priest, he assured him that the offending icons would be altered at once and that Stephen the Non-Possessor had been sternly warned. He also made him an interest-free loan of a rouble which, as he had foreseen, the stern enemy of heresy accepted with alacrity.

  How sweet was the taste of victory. He departed in gr
eat good humour.

  He did nothing for Mikhail the peasant. There was no need, now that he had nowhere to go.

  In the winter of that year, when the snow lay on the ground, a huge expedition set out from Moscow led by Ivan’s best men, including the brilliant Prince Kurbsky. They were going to Kazan.

  Amongst the ambitious young men who went with it was Boris.

  He had been gone a month when Elena went into labour. It was a long labour, but as she suffered, she prayed: Surely now, if I endure all this pain, God will make him love me.

  When the child was born, it was a girl.

  In the Year of Our Lord 1553, from the kingdom of England, with a message of universal brotherhood from their boy king to any they might encounter, there set sail three ships under the command of a brilliant member of one of England’s most illustrious aristocratic families: Sir Hugh Willoughby. His pilot general was the skilful Richard Chancellor. They were looking for a trade route round the north-east coast of Eurasia that might lead them to Cathay.

  Sadly, in those treacherous northern waters, two of the three ships were separated; for months Willoughby and his men wandered the northern seas until, at last, trapped on an island off the Lapland coast, they froze to death in the terrible darkness when the sun completely departs for the months of Arctic winter.

  But while Willoughby wandered, lost, a very different fate befell the remaining ship, the Edward Bonaventure, in which Chancellor sailed.

  For in the summer months he proceeded north – so far north that he entered a strange region where, at that season, the sun never went down at all. And it was here, in the month of August, that he put ashore in a curious land where the local fishermen prostrated themselves at his feet.

  So it was that the first Englishman in centuries came to the land now called Muscovy.

  George Wilson liked Moscow. No one had ever taken much notice of him before, but in this place he seemed, along with his shipmates, to be something of a celebrity.

  He was a ratty little man: small, thin, sinewy, with a narrow face, hard, cunning eyes set too close together, and a shock of yellow hair which these strange Russian folk would sometimes pat in their curiosity. Indeed, in Muscovy, where most men and women were stout, he looked rather like a jackal in a company of bears. He was thirty years old. He had only come on this voyage because, after a small business failure as a draper, he had been rather at a loose end.