‘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?