FATHER CYRIL
AT that moment, whilst Michael was still speaking, the doorway of
the hut was darkened by a man's figure standing between them and the
green light of the forest. The children huddled into a corner, like
frightened lambs; whilst Michael and Sergius stood out boldly in front
of them. The hearts of both of the boys were filled with trouble and
dismay. It was Father Cyril, the Batoushka, who had discovered their
retreat.
"Are you afraid of me, my children?" he asked in a gentle voice, as
he sat down on one of the logs, and stretched out his arms towards
the startled group. "Come to me, Velia; and little Clava, I have a
sweetmeat for you. Come and sit on my knee. Shake hands with me,
Michael and Sergius. I heard you singing some little time ago, and
after some trouble, I found out where you were hidden."
"Batoushka," said Michael, stammering and hesitating, "this old hut is
a secret."
"Not from me now," answered Father Cyril, "but don't be alarmed, my
boys, I respect your fathers, and I will not betray you or your people."
Michael stood aside, and pushed Velia and Clava towards the village
priest. He took Clava on his knee, and put his arm round Velia;
whilst the rest of the children drew near him, attracted by his kind
and benign aspect. His pale, thoughtful face was that of a youngish
man, though his uncut hair, parted in the middle, and hanging on his
shoulders, and his long beard, gave him a venerable appearance. There
was a half smile on his lips and in his eyes, in spite of the sadness
with which he regarded this childish band of heretics, already eager
for martyrdom. He knew better than they did the perils and sorrows
drawing nearer every day. The resolute, manly bearing of Michael, the
more timid yet firm manner of Sergius, the tender delicacy of Velia,
and the clinging weakness of little Clava, appealed irresistibly to
his pity. He felt as the Lord may have felt when they brought young
children to Him for His blessing, if He foresaw that these little ones
must pass through the fires of persecution. Father Cyril knew that
these helpless children were doomed to swiftly coming sorrows; and
his heart ached, and tears came into his eyes, as he laid his hand on
Clava's head and gave her a silent benediction.
"My children," he said, "I see you seldom, but none the less I feel
as if you belonged to me. You are in my parish, and the Church has
appointed me to be your Batoushka. I would give all I have—yes, and
lay down my life—to bring you, and all your people, back to the Church
you have forsaken. Yes, Michael, I know that cannot be at present.
The Church must be purified and reformed, but we too are Christians.
I would have no man dare to sign himself with the sign of the cross,
without truly recollecting the cross of Christ. No man should put an
icon into his house, except as a reminder of the constant presence
of God, before whose sight, he could not commit a wrong deed, and in
whose hearing he could not utter an evil word. The symbols must only
represent truths, or they are worse than useless. There will come a
time—but the end is very far-off."
Father Cyril paused, with a break in his voice like the sob of a
wearied runner. Velia pressed closer to him, and leaned her head
against him as if he had been her father. The hearts of the children
were touched, and they drew still nearer to him, clustering about his
feet. Michael's eyes were fastened upon the Batoushka's agitated face.
"Oh, I wish we could belong to you!" he cried. "But we cannot! We
cannot!"
"But we can pray together, my children," said Father Cyril.
Kneeling down in the midst of the children, under the roof of the
deserted hut, where alone the proscribed Stundists dared to worship,
the Batoushka offered a simple prayer, intelligible even to little
Clava, that God would be with them in the troublous times that were
coming, and save them from all evil, especially the sin of disobeying
His voice when He spoke through their conscience.
When they rose from their knees, he kissed each one of them on the
forehead; and they bent their heads as he pronounced a priestly
benediction upon them. The Batoushka and the band of childish heretics
were very near to each other at that moment.
Father Cyril walked slowly homewards through the thickly-grown forest.
He felt sure that he could win the people back to Orthodoxy but for the
persecution they were always encountering. He had no faith in coercive
measures. Besides, he acknowledged sadly and reluctantly that a vast
accumulation of superstitious rites and beliefs was suffocating the
Church. He had never been so conscious of it as since he had lived
in this remote country parish, where none of the spirit of town life
breathed over the stagnant waters.
When at last he came in sight of the church-house, he saw his wife—the
young Matoushka, as the villagers called her—standing at the door,
looking out anxiously for his return. She held in her hand a large
official-looking packet, which she raised above her head as he came in
sight.
"From the consistory," she called out, "with the archbishop's seal. Oh,
I am so curious!"
Father Cyril hastened in, and opened the document and read in unbroken
silence, whilst his wife waited impatiently for news. He sank down on a
seat, and covered his face with his hands.
"Oh, my dearest one!" she cried. "Tell me what is the matter quickly."
"A cruel thing," he groaned, "a cruel thing; and I must do it."
"What is it?" she asked again breathlessly.
"An order from the consistory," he answered, "that I must take all
Stundist children between two and ten years of age from their parents,
and place them in Orthodox families; their maintenance to be paid for
by fines levied on their heretic fathers. Think of it, dear wife—think
of our own little ones. Ah! Those monks who have neither wife nor
children do not know how cruel they are!"
The Matoushka burst into a passion of tears, when Father Cyril told her
with a broken voice and a face of profound pity.
"I'd rather see my children in their coffins," she sobbed, "than lose
them in such a cruel way. Poor Tatiania! Her husband in prison, and
little Clava to be taken from her. It will break her heart! And Velia
Alexovna! How old is she, Cyril?"
"Not ten yet," he answered. "Oh, it is frightful, and absolutely
useless! We shall never win them back if the authorities adopt measures
like these. Would to God I could disregard the order!"
"Cannot you put it off, and go to see the archbishop?" she asked.
"No," he replied; "the Starosta has got an order from the police in
Kovylsk to assist me in carrying out the order. Okhrim will rejoice
over it; he hates the Stundists with all his heart, and so does the old
Matoushka. Oh, they are at the bottom of all this!"
Father Cyril could not sleep that night, his brain was too much
worried with vexatious and perplexing questions. How should he break
the terrible tidings to the Stundist families? How could he bear
the heartrending scenes he would be obliged to witness—himself the
unwilling messenger of the cruel sentence? And what homes could he
choose for the children, whom he must provide for as carefully and
kindly as possible? They must be homes with which the sober, cleanly,
and religious parents might be moderately content. He awoke his wife
to ask her if she would be willing to take Velia and Clava into their
own home, to live with their own children, and she answered drowsily,
"Yes, yes, beloved!" Surely no objection could be made to this step. A
priest's house was an Orthodox house.
Then there was Yarina, the richest woman in Knishi, with only one
little girl. True she was Okhrim's daughter-in-law, but she was a widow
for the second time, and quite independent of her husband's father.
She was regular at church; though she was not as devout as the old
Matoushka, Father Vasili's widow, who never missed a church service. He
would not place a child with the old Matoushka—her temper was bad, and
she was too miserly—a child would lead a terrible life with her.
Well, he must do the best he could for all of them. They would be under
his own eye; and he would see each child every day in the village
school, which of course they would now be expected to attend. Poor
Michael! His little class would be scattered.
One clause of the order hurt Father Cyril's tender soul more than the
others. The parents were not permitted to hold any kind of intercourse
with their children unless they returned to the Orthodox faith. Ah!
What daily agony there would be both for parents and children! It
would have been almost better—more merciful—to have removed the little
ones altogether out of sight. Yet, after all, would there not be some
consolation to the mothers to see their children, even from afar?