Object of Virtue by Nicholas B. A. Nicholson

Author:Nicholas B. A. Nicholson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2004-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

The next morning, Sasha showered and pulled himself together. He needed to be at church by eleven. He dressed in a dark suit, and for once he wore a somber tie.

The weather was cold, but Sasha looked forward to the short walk to the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Sign. The cathedral and the synod of bishops were, in fact, contained within a large neo-Georgian mansion at the corner of Ninety-third Street.

Sasha entered the courtyard of the beautiful building and climbed the sweeping marble staircase that rose to the old ballroom, where the cathedral was installed. Entering through the tall French doors, Sasha took in the beauty of the sanctuary. Though converted from secular use, the room gave the impression that the parishioners were in the private chapel of a palace in Saint Petersburg.

The plaster moldings were rococo, and frivolous, but to Sasha the palms had only ever referred to Christ’s entry into Jerusalem, and he was incapable of seeing the cathedral as anything but that—a sacred space, and a Russian one.

Within the walls of the cathedral, Sasha had had, as a little boy, his first taste of Russia. Surrounded by Russians of all the emigrations, Sasha had heard the language in all its forms, from the elegant clear Russian of his grandfather to the Soviet Russian of recent immigrants, to the ancient and melodious old church Slavonic of the liturgy—the language that was the vernacular when his first ancestor had accepted Christianity.

In church, Sasha had been introduced to Russian music, and had been exposed to the beauty and the soul of the Russia his mother had always hoped that he would come to know and appreciate. As a child he hadn’t, but once he was grown and visited Russia for the first time, Sasha felt something special when he entered his first church there. He knew that, no matter where he was, if he entered a Russian Orthodox church, in some kind of strange spiritual extraterritoriality, Sasha was in Russia itself.

He entered the sanctuary and purchased candles from the woman behind the counter near the door. He moved around the room, venerating the feast day icons and the icons of his family’s patron saints, listening to the murmuring voices of the readers as they chanted the texts. Sasha saw the line of parishioners approaching the priest to say their confession. Sasha joined the line, made his confession, and then retreated into the crowd, letting the service wash over him. Services often reminded him of his mother, but today, all he could think of was how much he wanted to return to Russia.

He looked around the room and made eye contact with Princess Constantine, who beamed at him. He recognized many people, most of whom nodded at him in acknowledgment and in pleasure at seeing someone young in church.

Though the service was long, it passed by in a flash. Leaving, he walked by Princess Constantine. They spoke in Russian.

“I promised I would come.”

“I knew that you would. Before a

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