The Novgorod Nun

Olga was studying at the L.I.C.I.(1)
 She passionately loved her future profession. She would wake up at five o`clock in the morning to go sketch at the Smolny Convent. Olga and I had grown up in the same apartment courtyard, and had gone to the same school (I in Class A, she in Class B); that is to say, we had know each other from childhood. I used to draw a little, and naturally it occurred to Olga that we sketch together. I readily agreed.

We would take bread and milk with us and walk from the Tauride Palace to Smolny. In the early morning emptinnes, Leningrad was spacious and very majestic. The slanting rays of the rising sun falling on the cast iron lattice of Tauride garden fence, reflected its shadow on the asphalt. Fresh breezes off the Neva River would whip under our dresses, making us quicken our pace. At the convent we would climb over the fence and settle ourselves on high ground so we could look down and see the cathedral in its entirety. During this time I was fascinated by impressionism, while Olga belonged to classical academic school of painting. She found my drawings too abstract, but this did not prevent us from spending many hours together calmly and peacefully.

One day, taking note of our progress, Olga proposed that we go sketch in Novgorod. This old Russian town attracted her because of its architecture, and, well… I was never one to refuse a journey. When we arrived in Novgorod, we felt as if we were in a different era. Compared to the
European, imperial city of Petersburg(2) with its tall spires and straight avenues, Novgorod was one-storied, uneven, very ancient and very Russian.

Fortunately we were able to rent a little room, or more precisely a cell, in the convent. It was a Sunday, and after resting a little, we went to the vespers service at the cathedral in the same convent. The service had already begun. In the cathedral there was a smell of candles and incense. A large icon of the Blessed Virgin flickered dimly in a shrine. A church choir of no more than ten people was standing before the apse. My attention was immediately fixed on a nun about thirty-eight years old whose voice stood out in the choir by its depth and strength. It was a deep-chested, low voice, and it was absolutely mesmerizing. And the nun`s appearance was unusual. Her enormous gray eyes were striking against her olive skin. Her face was austere , almost grim.

She sang. And her voice, flowing freely like a mighty river, enveloped me, bewitched me, leading me from the twentieth century back into the depths of time. It seemed as if Eternity itself was singing. The soul of Russia. Never before in my life had I heard such a voice.

«Olga, what a miracle that nun is. We must meet her!» The nun was almost ready to leave when
we caught up with her at the church door used by the clergy.

«Please wait! You sang so beautifully. What is your name?»

Turning to us, she raised her enormous gray eyes in her olive face and said «Efimiya», in such a way that my heart throbbed. «But I must go, please excuse me. Thank you for your kind words.»

With that she disappeared. No smile, no handshake. Only her long garments flashed around the corner of the convent. But her voice continued to ring out inside me, and her image stood still before me, taking my breath away.

«Olga, I`m in love. Did you hear that voice? And her name: Efimiya. Almost like an ancient Greek efimnium – a hymn`s refrain. She understands the meaning of life, although she has renounced this worldly life. What a woman!»
We were overflowing with unusual sensations as we returned to our cell, where we found only one narrow bed. They had also given us a folding cot but Olga did not want to bother unfolding it and suggested we share the bed. I must confess we were somewhat cramped, and we kept inadvertently touching one another.

«Efimiya probably lives in this convent, maybe even in the next cell. If she were to come in here, what would you do?»

«I get a warm feeling inside me when I think of her. I would begin to kiss her hands and ask her to lie down with us. She must know many of life`s secrets. After all, the voice is the mirror of the soul…»

At that point I felt Olga`s body quiver and her tears on my hand.


 



1 The Leningrad Construction Engineering Institute
2The name of St. Petersburg, the imperial city founded by Peter The Great in 1703, was changed to Leningrad after the 1917 Revolution and the capital city became Moscow. It was changed back in the 1990`s.