BLESSING THE HERETICS
AT night Father Cyril could not sleep. The scenes he had recently
passed through haunted his brain, and drove away sleep.
On the day that was just past, the last day, he had allowed every
mother to see the children she was compelled to leave behind, for the
last time. Tatiania had not come to say good-bye to little Clava; and
to Father Cyril this seemed the saddest thing of all. He dreaded the
day that was coming; for then the women would be carried away from
their native village, probably never to return.
They were in his parish, his people, though they did not acknowledge
him. Yet he was absolutely powerless to help them. He had gained a few
alleviations for them. He had obtained permission for Michael to join
the convoy at the nearest railway station, which was two days' march
from Kovylsk. But that was all.
His brain whirled with useless and hopeless thoughts. Hour after hour
he lay awake, praying for the unhappy people who would rather perish in
Siberian wildernesses than forswear themselves. More than the rest, the
fate of Tatiania and her children perplexed him.
Between two and three hours before the dawn, he heard stealthy
footsteps pass his window. Most of the rooms were on the ground floor;
and the little chamber where Velia and Clava slept opened out of his
own. Very quietly he got up, and looked cautiously through the window.
It was bright moonlight, and, three shadows, one that of a woman, lay
upon the ground. Very soon he heard a stifled cry. The door into the
children's room fitted badly, and there was a chink wide enough for him
to look through. He recognised Michael and Sergius; Michael was bending
over Velia asleep and softly kissing her hair, whilst Sergius was
holding Clava in his arms, and wrapping a sheepskin about her. Father
Cyril understood in an instant what the boys were going to do.
He stood spellbound; tears smarting under his eyelids. He had never
doubted for a moment that to take children from their parents was a
crime against God. He had hesitated to carry out the order of the
consistory, but to refuse to obey was simply to give over his parish to
the hands of those who would execute the sentence without mercy. What
was he to do now?
He watched the silent and rapid movements of the boys, and saw them
give the sleeping child into the stretched out arms of the woman whose
shadow he had seen. They were only going to steal Clava away. He knew
the vital importance of this step for Khariton Kondraty's family. If
they remained in Knishi, to-morrow they would be plunged into the
direst distress. The boys were doing the best thing in their power.
Should he hinder them?
"No!" he said to himself. "God help them!"
It was Paraska who received little Clava into her arms; for the boys
had not ventured to tell Tatiania of their desperate scheme. Michael
and Paraska were to start at daybreak in the telega for Kovylsk, and
the child could easily be concealed at the bottom of the cart, till
they were far enough away to be no longer afraid of detection. Once in
Kovylsk, Clava could be included in the convoy, as Kondraty's children,
three in number, were entered on the list. They started at the first
streak of dawn, calling at Tatiania's house, that she might see for
herself that little Clava was with them. Michael was so much excited
that he scarcely thought how he was leaving home again, this time
probably for ever.
Sleep was farther than ever from Father Cyril's eyes, after what he had
seen. He felt almost as if he was a boy again, rejoicing with the boys'
joy over the success of their enterprise. At any rate, the burden of
Kondraty's family would now be taken from him.
He had never before been in a parish containing heretics. He was known
throughout the diocese as a very estimable and successful parish
priest in country places. And in consequence he had been chosen to
follow Father Vasili, and had been sent to Knishi to wage war with the
Stundists. He came willingly, with high courage and confident hope. But
instead of finding blasphemous, ignorant, and godless people, he met
with devout and simple Christians, better grounded in the Scriptures
than himself, though ready to listen to him with respectful attention.
Now he saw and shrank from the pitiless spirit of persecution. He had
never been face to face with it before. Well might our Lord say to
His disciples, who wished to command fire to come down from heaven
on the Samaritans, "Ye know not what spirit ye are of." Father Cyril
understood now the spirit of persecution, and he quailed before it.
It might turn cowards into hypocrites, but it could not make true men
forswear their consciences.
When the Matoushka awoke in the morning, Father Cyril was up and
dressed. His eyes looked heavy, and his whole appearance was dejected.
"Clava is gone to see her mother," he said briefly; "do not speak of
her to anybody, my dear wife. Take Velia and our little ones into the
forest for the day. I do not wish them to see the women and children
setting off."
"Is Clava going with her mother?" asked the Matoushka, who sympathised
deeply with Tatiania.
"It is not quite settled yet," he replied.
The hour for starting was early, and Father Cyril went down to the
barrier. A crowd of villagers surrounded the carts which were taking
away their old friends and neighbours, probably for ever. There were
nine women, the oldest, Matrona Ivanovna, nearly seventy years of age;
and the youngest just over twenty, with her first baby, only two months
old. Thirteen children were with them, either big boys and girls over
ten years or babies under two years of age. All the children between
those ages were left behind in Knishi. Six out of the nine were bereft
of some of their children. One amongst them was bereft of all, and she
sat in the cart, tearless and speechless, with a look of despair on her
face. The others were weeping and lamenting, calling out the names of
their little ones, and beseeching Father Cyril to take care of each of
them. All except Tatiania, who sat still, with closed eyes, yet with
an expression of secret satisfaction struggling against the sorrow of
quitting her native village.
Marfa gazed about her with bewildered and sombre eyes. All of them had
been born there, and most of them had never been a day's journey from
Knishi. They were passing out of a familiar and beloved world to enter
into one of which they knew nothing. It would have been less strange to
go to the City of God, whose pearly gates and streets of gold they had
often dreamed about.
In the crowd, watching their departure, there were brothers and sisters
and other relatives who had not abandoned the Orthodox Church. The
young wife who had a baby two months old had a father and mother gazing
their last at her with tear-dimmed eyes. What crime had their child
committed that she should be torn from them, with scarcely a hope she
should ever see them again?
Yarina was there, her heart aching for the mothers of the two children
whom she had adopted, who were now holding their little ones in a last
passionate embrace.
"They shall be as my own," she cried, sobbing; "and when I know where
you go, I will write to you about them."
The last minute was come, and Matrona stood up in the cart where she
was sitting, and looked round her with eyes dimmed with age.
"I've lived here sixty-five years," she said, "and now I go away; and
I shall never go to the well again, and never hear the church bells
ringing. Tell me, have I done any one of you any harm? Have you aught
against me? Have I ever refused to help when I could help?"
"No, no, Matrona Stepanovna!" sobbed Yarina.
And a shout of "No!" came from the crowd.
"Then I bid you farewell comforted," said Matrona; "for this I know,
that wherever they send us, we shall be in the hollow of God's hand,
and no man can pluck us out of our Father's hand."
"Come, we are all ready to start," said the officer who had come to
convey the women and children to Kovylsk.
Then Father Cyril stretched out his arms in the attitude of blessing.
The Orthodox people knelt down, and the women in the carts bent their
heads, whilst he said in a tremulous voice—
"'The peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts
and minds through Christ Jesus.' . . . 'The grace of the Lord Jesus
Christ, and the love of God, and the communion of the Holy Ghost, be
with you all. Amen.'"
At last the sorrowful cavalcade set off. The banished women stood up
in the carts, and stretched out their arms towards their lost homes,
the hearths where they had rocked their babies, and the roofs that had
sheltered their happy families. The villagers tried to set up a shout,
but they broke down. Now the heretics were going, old animosities and
jealousies were forgotten. These sorrow-laden women and sad boys and
girls were never to return. As they passed slowly out of sight, a low
wailing came back on the wind, and was echoed by the sobs and moans of
the crowd.
Father Cyril went home, and passed the long day in solitary meditation
and prayer before the altar in his church. He was greatly distressed
in spirit. These exiled men and women were accepted of God; for did
they not fear, ay, and love Him, and work righteousness? Yet they were
despised and rejected of men, oppressed and afflicted, and acquainted
with grief. They were fellow-Christians, disciples of the same Lord,
and yet they persecuted them in His name, and thought that even when
they hounded them to death, they were doing God service.