It was on a Sunday afternoon. The quiet of the holiday was noticeable
even on the mountains where, hand in hand, the little comrades walked.
They were nicely washed and arrayed in Sunday clothing, because Bacha
Filina would not suffer anybody to desecrate Sunday. Everyone who
could, had to go to the next town to church, though it was almost two
hours' walk. He himself seldom went; he was not able to take long
walks. Once a timber fell on his foot in the woods and from that time
on he had pains in it, but since he did not go down to church, he read
in his large old Bible. Today he had gone to church and the boys went
to meet him. They missed him very much. He ordered them to memorize
the reading of the Gospel for the day and each had to recite
separately.
Suddenly Petrik became silent; he drew his comrade aside and pointed
with a silent nod of the head toward a cut-down tree lying in the
woods. There sat Bacha Filina with his head resting in the palms of
his hands as if something were pressing him down to the black ground.
"Let us go up to the Bacha," advised Petrik; "he seems to be sad."
"Truly very sad," worried Ondrejko. "Perhaps the sadness will pass
from him when we come to him."
The crackling of dry branches under the bare feet of the boys roused
Bacha. He looked around. The children stood a short distance off.
Should they go to him--or not?
"Where are you going?" he called to them. They came running. "Only to
meet you, Bacha."
"Well, why did you come to meet me?" His usually rough voice seemed to
sound different. "We were lonesome without you," haltingly admitted
Ondrejko, and presently they sat on the moss carpet at the feet of
Bacha.
"And why, Bacha, were you sitting here so sadly?" Petrik looked
surprisedly at Ondrejko, that he dared to ask. Would not Bacha be
angry?
"Did you think that I was sad?" Bacha stroked the golden hair
surrounding the pale face of the child, which in the sunshine looked
like a halo on a saint.
"And were you not?" The blue eyes of the boy, like two lovely blue
flowers, gazed into the black eagle-like eyes of the man.
"Well, child, I was sad, and you have done well that you came to
meet me. While I rest a while, recite to me the Gospel that you have
learned."
Both boys, one after the other, recited the parable of the rich man
and Lazarus.
"May I ask you, Bacha, to tell me why the rich man did not help
Lazarus?" Petrik dared to ask.
"Why? Because his heart was like a stone. The dogs were better than
he. Remember that, children, and never do any harm to birds or
animals; they are better than we. Now let us go."
Bacha took Ondrejko by the hand and giving his book to Petrik they
walked through the woods toward home. High above them in the clearing
sounded the bells of the flock, and off and on the impatient barking
of Whitie and Playwell, and in between sounded the trumpet of the
youngest herdsman, Stephen. He played with such an ardor that it
seemed the notes were running over;
"Come, come, ye gentle sheep,
Keep out of waters deep;
Pasture on meadows green
Where grass grows sweet and clean."
How the trumpet resounded as if some one were weeping in the woods!
Even the echo seemed to answer in the same way.
The boys liked the beautiful tune. They knew the words of this song,
but Bacha bowed down his proud head as though some great burden were
pressing him down.
After they had finished their simple supper, they sat again as usual
in front of the hut, Bacha on a stump and the boys at his feet. They
were looking one at the other, wondering if they dare ask for some
story. He knew so many of them, and when he was in good humor he knew
very well how to tell good stories.
"I beg, Bacha, will you not tell us something?" Ondrejko finally
asked, and looked at the same time in such a way at Bacha that he
would have to be a very hard man to refuse.
Disturbed from his meditation, Bacha looked for a while into the
beautiful inquiring eyes, then with a deep breath he began:
"Many years ago I was a boy like you two. I'm telling you this that
you may know what you should never become, if the Lord God is not to
be very angry at you. I will tell you today something about myself
which I have not yet told anybody on earth," began Filina. He stopped
a moment and the boys waited eagerly for him to go on.
"When I was five years old my mother died. My father brought another
mother in the house. She was a young, beautiful woman, a widow. With
her came a son from her first marriage. We called him Stephen, and
when I look at you, Ondrejko, I always have him before me as he
entered our hut for the first time. On his head he had a hat with a
long band, a cloak thrown over his shoulder, an embroidered shirt, and
narrow trousers. He was like a picture of a saint--so beautiful and so
lovely.
"I was my father's youngest child. The older ones died, so I never had
a brother, and suddenly he came--and was to be my brother. You love
each other--I know. That also reminds me of my childhood. I began to
love him more than I could my own brother. We were of equal age, but
I was strong and he weak; I was wild and he tame; I was ugly and he
beautiful. In spite of this we loved each other, and our parents were
well satisfied. They could leave him under my care--because they knew
I was able to defend him--and could leave me under his care, because
when he was with me I was much more tame.
"Would that it had remained so always. But a proverb says, not in
vain, that 'Where the Devil cannot go himself he will send an old
woman.' And he sent her to us. It was your father's Aunt, your
great-aunt, Petrik. She came once to us and asked me aside if the new
mother liked me, and was sorry for me that I was a poor orphan. Said
she, 'Who has a step-mother has also a stepfather. Your father doesn't
love you as much as he does Stephen.' She didn't stay long with us.
Just as she came, so she went, but she took with her my love for
Stephen. Because I was so wild and always did something wrong, my wise
father had to punish me often; but Stephen was never punished because
he always did what was pleasing in the sight of father and mother.
From that time on I always remembered the words of the great-aunt
that I was punished and he not because they loved him, and his mother
interceded for him, and there was no one to stand by me. But my
step-mother quite often interceded for me. She was a kind woman and
never did me any harm, but I wanted her to show more love to me than
to her own boy. But that could not be. This wrong thought grew in my
heart, and my envy increased from year to year till we were about as
old as you two boys; and now comes the sad part which I never shall
forget, and that is what is pressing me to the earth unto today."
Bacha pointed over to the mountain opposite them.
"Do you see yonder mountain?" The boys nodded.
"There we used to live at the foot of the mountain. Look toward the
West, where the sun is lying down to sleep; there in the valley lived
the weavers, to whom from all our homes, the wool was carried to be
woven. Two paths led to those huts; the one up and down over the
rocks--the other through the valley, easier but more dangerous,
because there was a stretch of swamp into which, if somebody fell, he
could never get out by himself. One who knew how, could get over by
jumping from rock to rock and to clumps of grass, but it seemed as if
some black power wanted to pull one down.
"Once our parents had us carry our wool. Going, we went the upper
way, as we were told, but after we delivered the wool to the weavers,
Stephen handed me an apple, which the weaver's wife had given him,
saying he had another in his bag from his mother. Mother gave me
nothing for the journey because I didn't take leave of her, and she
didn't even see me when I grabbed my bag. And now, even the weaver's
wife had not given me anything. It made me sad. I got angry, threw the
apple away, and would rather have cried. Here was evidence, I thought,
that what the great-aunt said was true. Nobody cared for me, at home,
nor anywhere else. Everybody liked Stephen, and it always would be so.
"I used to hear some people say that the Devil is walking on the
earth, though we do not see him, and whispers to us what we should
think and do. If it is true, I don't know, but that he was with me
that time and gave me bad, gruesome advice, is sure. Only he could
have told me that. When we left the weavers, I said to Stephen,
'Going over the mountain is too far. Let us go by the lower and more
convenient path; it is nearer.'
"'But mother said we must go only over the hill,' objected Stephen,
'and father called also from the yard, 'Do not go by the lower way.'"
"Well, however it was, when we came where the paths divided we went on
the lower path anyway. I claimed that my feet hurt, I had stubbed my
big toe, and had a thorn in my heel. Stephen was sorry for me, and
thought that when we explained it to mother she would see the reason,
and father also, why we took the lower path after all.
"Truly it was fine to run there, like on carpets, till we came to the
swamp. 'You must now jump from rock to rock,' said I, and I ran ahead.
We came near the opposite side. There was only one more jump. Because
I was larger, and my feet longer I managed to jump over, but I knew
that Stephen could not jump over. There were bunches of grass and I
advised him to run over them. He listened to me, came over two or
three, but the third one began to move under him and he jumped back on
the rock.
"'Stay there,' I called to him. 'Not far from here lives the forester;
I will run for him and he will help you.' I ran as fast as I could but
not to the forester's house.
"'Petrik, do not leave me. I am afraid,' called Stephen after me, and
right after that followed a cry:
"'Mother mine!'
"Thus I have heard him day and night, as in the past years, so even
till today, and I shall perhaps in the hour of death and in the whole
of eternity. I was still a small boy, but a bad one, and at that
moment hard as a rock. 'Surely he will fall in and will drown,' I
consoled myself. 'Nobody will give him any more apples, and people
will love me and me only.' No old criminal could have felt worse than
I felt then. I began to run still faster till my legs broke down under
me and my breath failed. Yes; I ran through the woods alone, forsaken,
as once Cain did when he killed his brother and ran away from the face
of God. Suddenly a great pain gripped me that could not be expressed,
because the voice that whispered to me before, 'Drown him in that
swamp,' now whispered to me, 'You dare not go home. What will you say
when they ask you about Stephen?' Tired and hungry as I was I threw
myself on the ground and started to cry bitterly till I fell asleep.
"At day-break the drivers passed by with their wagons for lumber. They
found me and, recognizing me, laid me sleeping on a wagon and took
me as far as our hut. There they awakened me, laid me down, and
half-sleeping I didn't realize at once what had happened the day
before. I ran to the hall and opened the door.
"The rays of the rising sun struck our bedroom first--the same that
day. It lit up the bed of my father, and ..." Bacha stopped and tears
ran down his cheek.
"And what, Bacha? Oh, what, Bacha?" with bitter cries both boys
exclaimed. The tears were already running down Ondrejko's pale face.
"There on the bed in the rays of the sun like a holy picture, rested
our Stephen, sleeping. Mother sat beside the bed. There was a humming
in my ears and blackness before my eyes, and if father had not jumped
and caught me I would have fallen over. It was long before they
brought me back to consciousness."
"So he didn't drown?" both boys were astonished and rejoicing.
"Didn't he fall into that swamp?"
"He fell in it, children. Oh, he fell in, and there was no man who
could have saved him. But we had a large dog called Whitie who went
around always with us, as Fido with you. When we left home we left him
behind, but he followed us, and the Lord God Himself sent him in that
moment when the stone under Stephen gave way, and he lost his balance
and fell. Whitie caught him by the hair and dragged him to the shore,
and whined and barked till the forester came.
"He carried Stephen to the brook, washed off the mud, and revived him,
for he was almost dead, and then carried him home. I expected father
would punish me but he did not. Mother kissed me crying, and gave me
breakfast. They were afraid something had happened to me. They thought
I had been drowned because I couldn't be found anywhere. I saw clearly
that they both loved me very much, but it did not please me, I was
afraid it would become known what I had intended to do. My parents
are already in eternity, and I can not now ask them for forgiveness
because after death there is no more forgiveness.
"Stephen never let it be known that I made him go that way, and from
that time on we loved each other as from the beginning. I was no
longer jealous of the love of father and mother to him. I knew and
felt now that they loved me also, and that I didn't deserve this love.
"From that time I couldn't look at the dog Whitie. It was always
painful to me that he, a dog, saved Stephen, when I wanted to drown
him. But though he didn't drown that time the Holy God took him to
Himself. He must be angry at me, a sinner, to this day. Thus I say,
'Never do any harm to animals; they are much better than people; they
are God's creatures; they never do wrong things before God but obey
always.' And now, boys, run and go to sleep."
Though the boys had many questions on their hearts they obediently
bade him "good night" and went. For a long time, lying on the hay,
they spoke together about Stephen, how he jumped over the bunches of
grass, how the rock turned under him, how he fell, and how Whitie
saved him.
"I am very sorry for Bacha Filina," said Ondrejko. "I can never forget
it. It must pain him--could it be that God is still angry with him?"
"But where is this Stephen?" worried Petrik. "They were the same age,
so he must be just as old now. Perhaps he will tell us some other time
about him." They were stopped from further talking by Fido. Somehow he
had managed to get to them and they were rejoiced. They told him once
more about the hero Whitie and enjoined upon him to follow him. He
wagged his tail, licked their hands and faces, whining for joy as if
he were promising it all, and when the boys slept, he slept with one
eye open because he had to stand guard over his comrades.