“Very reasonable,” remarked Peter and the monk’s smile seemed to be reflected on the Tsar’s face; they understood one another without words.
“And the icons,” continued Theodosius, “being but man’s work, according to their teaching are idols. How can painted boards work miracles? You throw them into the fire, they burn just like ordinary wood. It is not the icons but God, who should be worshipped. And who gave the saints ears so long as to enable them to hear the prayers said on earth? If, say they, a son is slain by a stick or a knife, how can the slain man’s father love that knife or stick? In the same way how can God love the wood on which His Son had been crucified? And the Virgin, they ask, why should she be honoured? She is like a plain bag filled with precious stones and pearls. When the bag is emptied of its treasure what value or honour remain to it? About the Eucharist, too, they use sophisms: how can Christ be broken up, distributed and eaten at the services of which such numbers are held all over the world on the same day? How can the prayers of priests change bread into our Lord’s body, especially as there are all sorts of men among priests: drunkards, sybarites and veritable scoundrels. This is highly improbable and we very much doubt it. The bread smells bread to us, and the blood, so far as our senses can ascertain, is but red wine.”
“It is not right for us Orthodox even to listen to such heresy,” the Tsar checked Theodosius.
The latter stopped short, yet his smile seemed to grow only more insolent and more malignant.
The Tsarevitch raised his eyes and furtively glanced at his father. He seemed to notice confusion in Peter’s look. The Tsar no longer smiled; his face had grown serious, almost wrathful, yet at the same time helpless and perplexed. Had he not a moment ago recognised the basis of heresy as being reasonable? Accepting the basis how can he regret the inferences? It is easy to forbid, but how refute? The Tsar is clever, yet is not his cleverness exceeded by that of the monk; was not the latter leading the Tsar, as an evil guide leads a blind man, straight towards a precipice?
Thus thought Alexis; and the subtle smile of Theodosius found reflection no longer on the father’s but on the son’s face. Now they too understood one another without words.
“There is nothing to be wondered at in Fomka and Dmitri,” said Avrámoff, breaking the awkward silence.
“‘The music sways the dance.’ The sheep do but follow the shepherd.” He steadily eyed Theodosius; the same took the hint and quivered with rage.
At this moment some immeasurable force hurled itself against the shutters, as if a thousand fists were beating at them. This something hissed, howled, wailed, and then died slowly away in the distance. Then the assailants seemed to return more and more formidably to the attack, and to be breaking into the house.
Devière ran out every ten minutes to learn about the rise of the water. The news was bad, the Mia and Fontanna were already in flood. The town was panic-stricken.