Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog Read Free Page A

more easily. Saint Ioann Zlatoust writes that the Lord’s gracious mercy is aroused most powerfully by nocturnal prayers, “when you make the time of rest for many the time of your lament.”
    But his prayer had no soul, it was no more than an idle parroting of words, and the reverend bishop did not acknowledge prayers of that kind. He had never even imposed penances of prayer on anyone, regarding it as sacrilege. Prayer was not prayer at all if it merely passed through the lips without touching the heart.
    Very well, Pelagia can go, Mitrofanii decided. Let her find out what happened to that thrice damned Zagulyai.
    Immediately he felt easier, and the cicadas’ polyphonic chirping no longer chafed his weary soul but lulled it instead, and the moon no longer stung his eyes but seemed to bathe his face with warm milk. Mitrofanii closed his eyes and the wrinkles on his stern face relaxed. He slept.
     

    IN THE MORNING they blessed the fruit in the bishop’s chapel on the occasion of the Lord’s Transfiguration, otherwise known as the Feast of Our Savior of the Apples. Mitrofanii loved this festival, though it was not the greatest of the twelve, for its brilliance and pious frivolity. He did not lead the service himself but stood at the back, on the bishop’s dais at the side, which afforded him a better view of the apple-bedecked church, the large congregation, and the priests and deacons in their special “apple” chasubles of blue and gold with a pattern of fruits and leaves embroidered around the top. As they walked in from both sides, the choristers of the famous bishop’s choir thundered so loudly that up under the white vault the rainbow-bright pendants on the heavy crystal chandelier began to shake. Father Amfiteatrov began blessing the apples: “Our Lord and God, Who hast vouchsafed the use of Thy creations to those who believe in Thee, we pray Thee, bless these fruits we offer with Thy word…”
    It was good.
    The service at Transfiguration is short and joyful. The cathedral is filled with the smell of fresh fruit, because everybody has brought their baskets along to have their apples sprinkled with holy water. Even the table beside Mitrofanii bore a silver dish with immense red king-pineapple apples from His Grace’s orchard—succulent, sweet, and aromatic. When the reverend bishop gave these to someone, it was a mark of special distinction and favor.
    Mitrofanii sent the servant who looked after his bishop’s crook to the left-hand choir, where the nuns appointed to serve by teaching in the diocesan school for girls were standing placidly in a row. The emissary whispered into the ear of the tall, gaunt directrix, Sister Christina, that the reverend bishop wished to give her an apple, and she glanced around and made a slow grateful bow. Standing on her right, I think (one cannot be certain at first glance from the back), was Sister Emilia, who taught arithmetic, geography, and several other subjects. Then came the lopsided Sister Olympiada, the one who taught Scripture. After her came two equally stooped sisters, Ambrosia and Apollinaria, and there was no way to distinguish one from the other; one taught grammar and history and the other taught the domestic arts. And at the end, by the wall, stood the short, thin Sister Pelagia (literature and gymnastics). Even if one wished, it would be impossible to confuse her with anyone else: Her wimple had slipped over to one side, and protruding from under its edge in a manner quite shameful and impermissible for a nun was a lock of ginger hair, shimmering with a bronze sheen in a ray of sunlight.
    Mitrofanii sighed, wondering yet again whether he had not committed an error when he gave his blessing to Pelagia’s taking the veil. It had been impossible not to give it—the girl had been through such great grief and terrible suffering that not every soul would have withstood it, but she was really not cut out to be a nun: She was far too lively, fidgety, curious,