Chapter 7 #2
“Oh really?” she muttered sourly. “That’s what he says, is it?
In that case, I can’t believe he got you to recognize Virgil from a single line.
How can you do that without studying or analyzing?
Don’t you know parts of the Aeneid by heart?
I seem to remember that’s what I heard the afternoon I arrived. ”
“We know lots of parts of poems and stories by heart—it’s the first thing we do with all books,” said Teseris in her gentle voice.
“He says it’s how you learn to love books; it’s got a lot to do with memory.
He says that when men fall in love with women they learn their faces by heart so they can remember them later.
They notice the color of their eyes, the color of their hair; whether they like music, prefer chocolate or biscuits, what their brothers and sisters are called, whether they write a diary, or have a cat . . . ”
Miss Prim’s expression softened a little. There it was again, the strange, dark, concentrated delicacy, the infuriating male ego combined with unexpected streaks of grace.
“It’s the same thing with books,” continued Teseris. “In lessons we learn bits by heart and recite them. Then we read the books and discuss them and then we read them again.”
The librarian removed her jacket with neat gestures and sat down on a bench.
“So your uncle believes you should enjoy books, not study them?”
“Yes, and he says it about other things, like music and paintings. Do you remember the day you arrived? You saw the Rublev icon and you measured it with a compass, remember?” asked Teseris.
Miss Prim flushed, suspecting that the child was about to question her approach to art.
“I remember,” she said curtly.
“You didn’t take any notice when I said no grown-ups had helped me paint the icon.
Grown-ups would have told me to use a compass.
My uncle says an icon is a window between this world and the other one, it’s what he learned from the old starets.
It’s also how old Athonites do it, and it’s how they’ve always been painted. ”
Miss Prim shifted uneasily on the bench. There was something troubling about these children, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Something unsettling that coexisted with a sunny, luminous innocence and their fond veneration of the Man in the Wing Chair and every word he uttered.
“You love him very much, don’t you? Your uncle, I mean.”
“Yes,” said little Deka, and his siblings nodded. Straight away he added: “He always tells the truth.”
“So, do other people lie?” she asked, astonished by his statement.
“People lie to children,” said Septimus solemnly. “Everyone does it, and no one thinks it’s wrong. When our mother died everyone told us she’d turned into an angel.”
“But she didn’t,” murmured Miss Prim, moved.
Septimus glanced at his sister, who shook her head firmly.
“No one can turn into an angel, Miss Prim. People are people and angels are angels. They’re different things. Look at trees and deer. Do you think a tree could turn into a deer?”
She shook her head.
“Maybe it’s a way of explaining it, or maybe it’s a legend. And what’s wrong with legends? What about fairy tales? Don’t you like fairy tales?” she asked, trying to change the subject.
“We like them,” said Eksi shyly. “We like them a lot.”
“What’s your favorite?”
“The story of the Redemption,” replied her older sister simply.
Astounded, Miss Prim couldn’t think how to respond.
The child’s strange statement showed that despite his efforts, despite his insistence and his arrogance, the Man in the Wing Chair hadn’t succeeded in instilling even the most basic rudiments of the faith that was so important to him.
He hadn’t managed to explain the historical background of his religion.
How could this be? All those morning walks to the abbey, all that reading of theology, all that ancient liturgy, all that playing at medieval jousting and what had he achieved?
Four children convinced that the texts he so loved were just fairy tales.
“But Tes, it’s not exactly a fairy tale. Fairy tales are stories full of fantasy and adventure; they’re meant to entertain. They’re not set at any specific time and aren’t about real people or places.”
“Oh, we know that,” said the little girl. “We know it’s not a normal fairy tale; it’s a real fairy tale.”
Miss Prim, pensive, adjusted her position on the old iron bench.
“What you mean is it’s like a fairy tale, is that it?” she asked, intrigued.
“No, of course not. The Redemption is nothing like a fairy tale, Miss Prim. Fairy tales and ancient legends arelike the Redemption. Haven’t you ever noticed?
It’s like when you copy a tree from the garden on a piece of paper.
The tree from the garden doesn’t look like the drawing, does it?
It’s the drawing that’s a bit, just a little bit, like the real tree. ”
Miss Prim, who had begun to feel hot—feverishly, suffocatingly hot—remained silent for a long moment. The sun had almost set in the distance when at last she got to her feet and gave the children permission to go and play by the carp pond for a while, before slowly heading back to her room.