was a sort of building which the Saracenese called the "church." It
was a heap of old tree trunks piled one on the top of the other in
the form of walls. In the old days--when, one does not know--these
kind of walls were open to the sky; later, one does not know when,
the walls had been made to converge in one place, to support what
was supposed to do duty for a tower. This--owing to the fact that
the supports of the facade had perished through the buffeting of
a very strong wind--had fallen towards the patient earth, dragging
the entire structure after it. And there it had remained ever since,
for the church counted for little in Saraceni; it was superfluous.
Priest? They say there is no village without a priest. Probably whoever
said this did not know about Saraceni. Saraceni was a village without
a priest. That is to say, it was a village with a priest--only this
priest was a priest without a village. Saraceni was unique in one
way. There had never been a priest who stayed more than three days in
Saraceni; he came one day, stayed the next, and left on the third. Many
guilty priests passed through Saraceni; whoever had stayed there long
would have expiated all his sins.
Then Father Trandafir reached this penitential spot. He could not
expect to do as the others had done, come one day, stay the next, and
depart the third. He was too much out of favour with the archdeacon
to imagine that he would send him to another village. He could not
remain without a village: a priest without a village--a cart without
a wheel, a yoke without oxen, a hat on the top of a wig. He began
to think what he must do; he must take things as they were, and stay
gladly in Saraceni. It was only a village in name, but no one could
say he was a priest without a village. But really a more suitable
priest for a more suitable village you could not have found. The
poverty of the priest corresponded to the poverty in the homes of
his parishioners. From the beginning Trandafir realized one thing:
it was much nicer in Butucani than in Saraceni. There the people all
had something, and you could always have some of it. In Saraceni
all the latches were made of wood. Then the Father reflected: the
priest did all the business of the town, but the town took care of
the priest's purse. Before long the Father began to feel sure that
the people who started by being charitable and hospitable were not
born fools. "It is a wise thing when men meet together to comfort and
cheer each other. Even our Redeemer began with almsgiving, and the
wedding at Cana of Galilee." Thus thought Father Trandafir; but in
Saraceni there was neither almsgiving nor hospitality.
"There is one thing," said the Father to himself a little later on,
"in a poor village there is no corn for the priest to gather. As long
as the people of Saraceni are lazy, so long shall I be hungry!" And
he began to think how he was going to make his parishioners
industrious. The industrious man eats the stones, makes soup out
of the stagnant water, and reaps corn where the hemlock used to
grow. "Then"--concluded the priest--"when the cow has fodder she is
no longer dry!"
Thus he spoke, and he set to work to put it in practice. A man who has
nothing to eat busies himself with other people's affairs. He does no
good that way! The blind man cannot aid the cripple; the hungry don't
improve their village; when the geese keep watch among the vegetables,
little remains for the gardener: but Father Trandafir was obstinate;
when he started, he went on--and he got there, or he died by the way.
The first Sunday Father Trandafir preached before the people, who
had assembled in considerable numbers to see the new priest. There
is nothing more agreeable to a man who desires the welfare of others
than to see his words making an impression. A good thought multiplies
itself, penetrating many hearts, and whoever possesses it and passes
it on, if he values it, rejoices to see it gaining ground in the
world. Father Trandafir felt happy that day. Never before had he
been listened to with such attention as on this occasion. It seemed
as though these people were listening to something which they knew
but which they did not understand well. They drank in his words with
such eagerness, it was as though they wanted to read his very soul
the better to understand his teaching. That day he read the gospel of
"The Prodigal Son." Father Trandafir showed how God, in His unending
love for man, had created him to be happy. Having placed man in the
world, God wishes him to enjoy all the innocent pleasures of life,
for only so will he learn to love life and live charitably with his
neighbours. The man who, through his own fault or owing to other
causes, only feels the bitterness and sorrow of this world cannot
love life; and, not loving it, he despises in a sinful manner the
great gift of God.
What kind of people are the lazy people, the people who make no
effort, who do not stretch out a hand to take this gift? They are
sinners! They have no desires--only carnal appetites. Man has been
given pure desires which he may gratify with the fruit of his labours;
longings are put into his heart that he may conquer the world while
God Himself contemplates him with pleasure from on high. To work is
the first duty of man; and he who does not work is a sinner.
After this, the Father sketched in words which seemed to give life
to his ideas the miserable existence of a man perishing from hunger,
and he gave his faithful hearers the thoughts which had germinated
in his own intelligent brain--how they must work in the spring and
in the summer, in the autumn and in the winter.
The people had listened; the Father's words were written on their
faces; going home they could only talk of what they had heard in
church, and each one felt himself more of a man than before.
Maybe there were many among them who only waited for Sunday to pass
that they might begin their first day of work.
"There has never been such a priest in Saraceni!" said Marcu Flori
Cucu, as he parted from his neighbour, Mitru.
"A priest that does honour to a village," replied Mitru, as if he
felt that his village was not exactly honoured.
Other Sundays followed. Father Trandafir was ready with his sermon. The
second Sunday he had no one to address. The weather was wet, and people
stayed at home. Other Sundays the weather was fine; probably then the
people did not remember in time; they were loath to part from God's
blue sky. And so the Father only had in church some old woman or some
aged man with failing sight and deaf ears. Sometimes there was only
Cozonac, the bell-ringer. In this way he made no progress. Had he
been a different kind of man he would have stopped here.
But Father Trandafir was like the goat among cabbages in the
garden. When you turn it out at the door, it comes in through the
fence, when you mend the fence, it jumps over it, and does a lot more
damage by destroying the top of the hedge.
God keep him! Father Trandafir still remained a good man.
"Wait!" he said. "If you will not come to me, I will go to you!"
Then the priest went from door to door. He never ceased talking from
the moment it was light. Whenever he came across anyone he gave him
good advice. You met the priest in the fields; you found him on the
hill; if you went down the valley you encountered the priest; the
priest was in the woods. The priest was in church; the priest was
at the death-bed; the priest was at the wedding; the priest was with
your next-door neighbour--you had to fly the village if you wanted to
escape the priest. And whenever he met you, he gave you wise counsel.
During a whole year, Father Trandafir gave good advice. People
listened gladly--they liked to stay and talk to the priest even if he
did give them good advice. All the same, the old saying holds good:
men know what they ought to do, but they don't do it. The Father was
disappointed. After a certain time he ceased to give advice. There
was not a man in the village upon whom he had not poured the whole
weight of his learning: he had nothing more to say.
"This will not do," said the priest once more. "Advice does not pay.
I must start something more severe."
He began to chaff.
Wherever he found a man, Father Trandafir began to make him ridiculous,
to make fun of him in every kind of way. If he passed a house that had
not been re-roofed yesterday, he would say to the owner: "Oh, you are
a clever man, you are! You have windows in the roof. You do love the
light and the blessed sun!" If he found a woman in a dirty blouse:
"Look at me! Since when have you taken to wearing stuff dresses?"
If he met an unwashed child: "Listen, good wife, you must have a
lot of plum jam if you can plaster your children with it!" And if
he came across a man lying in the shade he would say to him, "Good
luck with your work! Good luck with your work!" If the man got up,
he would beg him not to stop work, for his children's sake.
He began like this, but he carried it altogether too far. It got
to such a pitch that the people did their utmost to get out of the
priest's way. He became a perfect pest. The worst thing about it was
that the people nicknamed him "Popa Tanda" because he chaffed them
so. And "Popa Tanda" he has remained ever since.
To tell the truth, it was only in one way the people did not like the
priest. Each one was ready to laugh at the others with the priest;
no one was pleased, though, when the others laughed at him. That is
human; every one is ready to saddle his neighbour's mare. In that way,
Father Trandafir pleased his parishioners, but he was not content
himself. Before the year was out, every man in the village had become
a tease; there was not a person left of whom to make fun, and in the
end the wags began to laugh at themselves. That put an end to it. Only
one thing remained to do: the village to make fun of the priest.
Two whole years passed without Trandafir being able to stir up the
people, even when he had passed from advising them to annoying
them. They became either givers of advice or they were teasers:
all day they stood in groups, some of them giving advice, others
joking. It was a wonderful affair; the people recognized the right,
despised the bad; but nothing altered them.
"Eh! say now, didn't Father Trandafir mind? Didn't he get angry,
very angry?"
He did get wild. He began to abuse the people. As he had proceeded
to advise them, and to chaff them, so now he proceeded to abuse
them. Whenever he got hold of a man, he abused him. But he did not
get far with this. At first the people allowed themselves to be
insulted. Later on, they began to answer back, on the sly, as it
were. Finally, thinking it was going too far, they began to abuse
the priest.
From now on, things got a little involved. Everything went
criss-cross. The people began to tell the priest that if he did not
leave off laughing at them, and insulting them, they would go to
the bishop and get him removed from the village. That is what the
priest deserved. The people had hit on the very thing! Throw him
out of Saraceni! The priest began to curse in earnest. Off he went;
the people got in to their carts to go to the archdeacon, and from
the archdeacon to the bishop.
In the Book of Wisdom, concerning the life of this world, there is
a short sentence which says: our well-wishers are often our undoing
and our evil-wishers are useful to us. Father Trandafir was not lucky
in getting good out of his evil-wishers. The bishop was a good soul,
worthy of being put in all the calendars all over the face of the
earth. He took pity on the poor priest, said he was in the right,
and scolded the people.
And so Popa Tanda stayed in Saraceni.
Misfortunes generally heap themselves upon mankind. One gives rise to
another, or are they, perhaps, inseparable? Anyhow, they are always
like light and shade, one alongside the other.
By now Father Trandafir had three children. When he returned from the
bishop, he found his wife in bed. There was a fourth little blessing
in the house. A sick wife, three little children, a fourth at the
breast, and a tumble-down house; the snow drifted through the walls,
the stove smoked, the wind came through the roof, the granary was bare,
his purse empty, and his heart heavy.
Father Trandafir was not the man to find a way out of this embarrassing
state of things. Had it been some one else in his situation, he
could have helped him: he could not comfort himself. For a long time
he stood in the dim light of the little lamp; every one around him
slept. The sick woman was asleep. Now there is nothing more conducive
to melancholy than the sight of people asleep. He loved those sleeping
forms; he loved them and was responsible for their happiness; he
lived for them, and their love made life precious to him. Thoughts
crowded into his brain. His mind turned to the past and to the future;
considering the state in which he found himself, the future could only
appear depicted in the saddest colours. His children! His wife! What
would become of them? His heart was heavy, and he could not find one
consoling thought, one single loop-hole of escape; nowhere in the
world was there anything to give him a gleam of hope.
The next day was Sunday. The Father went to church with bowed head,
to read Matins.
Like the generality of mankind, Father Trandafir had never given much
thought to what he was doing. He was a priest, and he was content
with his lot. He liked to sing, to read the Gospel, to instruct
the faithful, to comfort, and to give spiritual assistance to the
erring. His thoughts did not go much beyond that. Had he been asked
at any time whether he realized the sanctity, the inner meaning of
his calling, maybe he would have laughed to himself at all those
things which a man only grasps in moments of intense suffering. It
is man's nature when his mind comprehends a series of more or less
deep thoughts, to measure the whole world by this standard, and not to
believe what he does not understand. But man does not always think in
this way. There are events during which his brain becomes inactive:
in danger, when no escape seems possible; in moments of joy, when he
knows not from what source his happiness is derived; at times when
his train of thought seems to have lost all coherence. Then, when
man has reached, in any way, the point where the possible becomes
indistinguishable from the impossible, he ceases to reason, instinct
asserts itself.
Father Trandafir went into the church. How many times had he not
entered that church! Just as a blacksmith might enter his forge. But
this time he was seized with an incomprehensible fear, he took a few
steps forward and then hid his face in his hands and began to sob
bitterly. Why did he cry? Before whom did he cry? His lips uttered
these words only: "Almighty God, succour me!" Did he believe that
this prayer, expressed with all the energy of despair, could bring
him help? He believed nothing; he thought of nothing; he was in a
state of exaltation.
The Holy Scriptures teach us that just as the ploughman lives on the
fruit of his toil, so does the spiritual pastor, who serves the altar,
live by the result of his service at that altar. Father Trandafir
always believed in the Holy Scriptures; he always worked only for the
spiritual welfare of his people, and expected that they, in return,
would furnish him with his daily bread. But the world is not always in
agreement with what is written and commanded; only the priest agreed
with it, the people did not. The Father got little from his office,
anyhow not enough; this is to say, four pieces of ground near the
village, a poll-tax on the population, and baptismal and burying fees.
Taken altogether, it amounted to nothing, seeing that the earth
produced scarcely anything, the poll-tax existed only in name, the
new-born were baptized for nothing, and the dead were buried gratis
by the priest.
Near the church was a deserted house; a house in name only. The
owner of the house could have kept cattle, but he had no beasts. By
the side of the house there was room for a garden, but there was
no garden because, as we have already said, there were no fences in
Saraceni. Father Trandafir bought the whole place and lived in it. As
the house belonged to the priest, nothing much was done to put it
in order, and it was quite dilapidated, the walls had holes in them,
there were rents in the roof. The Father only troubled himself about
other people's houses.
The priest's table was no better than the house. According to the
old saying, man follows the ways of other men even when he wants
to make them follow his own: the priest lived like the rest of the
village. Happily he had his wife's dowry, but often one does not try
to get help from just the place where it is to be had. The season of
Lent drew near.
"It will not do!" said Father Trandafir. "This will not do!" And he
began to do as the rest of the world does, to occupy himself first
and foremost with the care of his own house.
Directly the spring-time came, he hired a gipsy, and set him to work to
plaster the house with clay. In a few days all four walls were firmly
plastered. After that, the priest enjoyed sitting outside more than
inside the house, because you could not see the walls of the house
so well from within; a plastered house was a fine thing in Saraceni,
especially when one could say to oneself, "That is mine!" There was
one thing, though, which was not as it should be. Every time the
Father's eyes fell upon the sides of the roof he went indoors--he
felt he had seen enough. He did not want to see the defective roof,
but every time he wanted to look at the walls he had to see the
roof. That damned roof! It could no longer be left like that.
Down in the valley where there are numerous pools, not only willows
and osiers grew, but here and there were to be found sedges and rushes,
cat's-tail and a species of reed. "That is what I will do!" thought the
priest. He engaged a man, and sent him out to cut sedges and rushes
and cat's-tail and reeds. One Saturday the house was surrounded by
bundles tied with osiers; and the following Saturday the roof was
mended and edged on the top with bundles of reeds over which were
stretched two strips of wood fastened with cross pieces. The work was
good, and not dear. People passed by the priest's house nodding their
heads and saying, "The priest is one of the devil's own men." Now
the priest could stay happily outside.
But this happiness did not last long. There was still one thing that
was not quite right. The priest felt that he was too much in the
open. There was no other house in the village like his, and it would
have been better a little separated from the village. The Father hardly
liked to say "At my place," when "my place" was "in the village." There
must be a fence, and a gate for the people to enter by, when they came
to see the priest; it might be a fence in name only, and the gate only
a hurdle, but it must be an understood thing that before anyone could
enter the priest's house he must cross the priest's yard. Once more the
priest hired a man and sent him to cut briars and stakes. He fixed the
stakes into the ground, and placed the briars between them, and there
was the fence, ready made. In front of the house, in the direction of
the church, about half an acre of ground was enclosed: the gate was
formed by four poles fastened by two others placed crosswise. The
priest's wife especially rejoiced at being thus shut in, and the
priest rejoiced when he saw his wife's pleasure. There was not a day
on which either the priest or his wife did not say to the children:
"Listen! you are not to go outside the yard; play quietly at home."
Once a man starts, he never gets to the end. One desire gives rise
to another. Now the priest's wife got an idea in her head.
"Do you know, Father," she said one morning, "I think it would be a
good plan to make a few beds for vegetables by the side of the fence."
"Vegetable-beds?"
"Yes; we can sow onions, carrots, haricot beans, potatoes, and
cabbages."
The Father was astonished. To him that seemed quite beyond their
powers. Vegetable-beds in Saraceni!
For a few days his head was full of vegetable-beds, of potatoes,
cabbages, and haricot beans; and a few days after that, the ground
was already dug up and the beds were ready. Not a day passed on which
the priest and his wife did not go about ten times to the beds to see
if the seeds were growing. Great was the joy one day. The priest had
risen very early.
"Wife, get up!"
"What's the matter?"
"They have sprouted."
The priest and his wife and all the children spent the whole day
squatting by the beds. The more seeds they saw appear above the ground,
the happier they were.
And again the villagers passed by the priest's house and looked through
the thorns at the priest's vegetable-beds, and they said once more,
"The priest is one of the devil's own men!"
"Listen, wife," said the priest. "Wouldn't it be a good plan to sow
maize along the fence and round the beds?"
"Indeed it would! I like fresh maize!"
"So do I, especially when it's roasted on the embers!"
Here was a new task! The priest surrounded himself with maize. He
laughed with pleasure when he thought how pretty it would be when the
maize grew up all round and shut out the briars on the fence which had
begun to offend his eyes. But there is the old proverb, "Much wants
more." At the back of the house was another strip of ground, about
four times the size of the bit they had cultivated. The priest could
not get it out of his head. Why should this land lie fallow? Couldn't
he plant maize at the back of the house too? In the fields opposite,
men were ploughing and sowing, the ground was untouched still in the
village because it was the village.
Marcu Flori Cucu, the priest's neighbour, had a plough; it was
rather dilapidated, but it was a plough, and Mitru Catamush, Marcu's
neighbour, had two feeble oxen and a foundered horse. The priest,
Marcu, Mitru, the oxen and the horse, worked all one day from morn
till eve. The ground was ploughed up and sown with maize. From
thenceforward, the priest was happier when he was at the back of
the house.
It was a wonderful and beautiful bit of work--what furrows! And here
and there among the furrows a blade of maize peeped out. In spite of
this, the priest scratched himself once or twice, and then fairly
often, behind the ear. It seemed as though something still weighed
upon his mind. It was a difficult matter, which he hardly dare take in
hand: the glebe lands. Up to now, they had been neglected; at present,
he did not know what to do with them. He would have liked to work
them himself. He would have liked to see his own men sowing them;
he would have liked to take his wife there in the autumn. It was very
tempting. He talked a great deal to his wife about the matter. They
would need horses, a cart, a plough, a labourer, stables--they would
want a quantity of things. Moreover, the priest did not understand
agriculture.
However, the vegetable-beds were growing green, the maize was
springing up. The priest made up his mind; he took the residue of
his wife's dowry and set to work. Marcu's plough was good enough
to start with. The priest bought one horse from Mitru; a man in the
Rapitza Valley had another one; Stan Schiopu had a cart with three
wheels. The priest bought it as he got a wheel from Mitru, to make
up for the horse being foundered.
Cozonac, the bell-ringer, engaged himself as labourer to the priest,
for his house was only a stone's throw away. The priest drove four
posts into the ground at one end of the house, two long ones and two
short, and he made three sides of plaited osiers and a roof of rushes,
and there was the stable all ready.
During these days, Father Trandafir had aged by about ten years; but
he grew young again when he placed his wife and children in the cart,
whipped up the horses, and drove off to see their ploughed land.
The villagers saw him, and shook their heads, and said once more:
"The priest is the devil's own man."
The priest's wife had her own feminine worries. She had a beautiful
Icon which had been given to her by the son of the priest at
Vezura. At present the Icon was lying at the bottom of a box wrapped
up in paper. For a long time she had wished to place it between
the windows, to put flowers and sweet basil round it, and look at it
often; because this Icon represented the Holy Virgin, and the priest's
daughter was called Mary. But the walls were dirty and the Icon had
no case. There was another thing that annoyed the priest's wife:
one window was filled in with a pig's bladder, and in the other were
three broken panes mended with paper. The house was rather dark.