# "Heavens!"/Chapter 13

XIII.
Cvok walked along very slowly, his head full of Neducha’s letter, the contents of which oppressed all his powers of thinking like a nightmare. Living away from the world as he did, he never imagined that any particular notice had been taken of his having, from Christian charity, given shelter to a poor forlorn child, and undertaken the care of it. He even thought, from the natural kindness of his own heart, that this deed would be looked upon with approval. Neducha’s letter taught him otherwise, and filled his whole mind with trouble. For, in the simplicity and kindness of his character, he was incapable of imagining wickedness in others; and when they did fail, considered it only the consequence of error and weakness. This belief began to-day to be shaken, and his mind was losing its peace, stability, and usual equilibrium.
To keep his thoughts from going completely astray in this tangled maze of distracting ideas, he resolved to go and advise with Ledecký, whom he knew to be a practical man, whose wits were well sharpened by experience, and from whom he hoped to obtain some good advice.
But Ledecký did not receive his friend this time in ​his usual manner; it was plain to be seen that he would have been better pleased had he remained at home.
Cvok perceived this, and got so embarrassed that he did not know in the beginning what to do or what to say. He gave him the ten florins as an instalment of his debt, and, just for talk’s sake, uttered some commonplace, empty phrases.
Ledecký was an enemy of useless words. He saw quite well that Heavens was only trying to conceal his perplexity, and did not know how to begin upon his real errand. He knit his brow, and looked straight before him into vacancy. At last he said angrily and reproachfully—
“For goodness’ sake, man, what is this that you have gone and done?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the child you are keeping in your house.”
“You have heard about that already?”
“Heard! Why, for ten miles round every cock is crowing it as loud as he can! I should have to be a grouse if I had not heard of it. But tell me, if you please, where on earth was your common sense?”
“I only acted as a Christian should; and I hope that what I have done will be pleasing to the Almighty.”
“Indeed! It is certainly pleasing to men, because it gives them an opportunity of speaking evil of our clerical fraternity, and because it undermines all faith and religion, which we find hard enough to keep up amongst the people. And you expect that will be pleasing to God! If you were an inexperienced young man, I should say nothing; for young blood is hot, and more full of folly than wisdom, and young eyes hardly see ten steps before them. But you, a man of two score ​and ten, who always seemed to have more understanding than a dozen philosophers,—I ask you, man, in the name of common sense and decency, how you could have so far forgotten yourself as to take that foundling into your house?”
“Oh, if I only could—if I were only free to speak out, dear friend, you would not hurt me so to the quick!”
“I hurt you to the quick!”
“Unintentionally, I know. If I could but tell you all! But I am not at liberty to speak freely. In the mean time I will only say this much: appearances often deceive, but truth will triumph at last. Truth is sometimes a very delicate thing; if you let it out at a wrong time it may do harm, though if made known at the right moment, it will prove a blessing. Though what I say may seem to you now not quite to agree with my character, the time will yet come when you shall see that I was not untrue either to myself or to my sacred calling, and only acted for the best, as a man and a Christian. I knew from the first I should have to sacrifice myself and to suffer for what I have done; but it would have been cowardly in me to be afraid of that. And, as I said before, I am not disgracing our clerical profession; a good work does not bring shame on any calling, and certainly does not undermine either faith or religion.”
“There is something really curious about you, my dear friend!” said Ledecký. “You always seem to soar a little above the earth, instead of being actually upon it, as we other mortals are. You struggle with all your might against the stream, but you are not able to bring your own character to bear upon the circumstances. ​That is your whole misfortune; that is the reason you are misunderstood, and misrepresented, and slightingly spoken of under cover of fun. People are too indolent to try to understand you. That nickname they have given you—‘Heavens’—is not so inappropriate. There is something of heaven about you, truly. Now, if anybody except myself had listened to your speech, what would he have gathered from it? Very little, indeed; or even worse—for he might perhaps say you were a clumsy hypocrite. But I gather very much from your words. In the first place, that the child is not yours; in the second place, that his mother is Miss Jenny; and thirdly, that his father——”
“For God’s sake, stop—say no more!”
“Well, his father does not live far from Labutín anyway.”
Cvok was bathed in perspiration from fear and anxiety, and peered about the garden to make sure that nobody was within earshot.
“Don’t be afraid; we are quite alone here,” said Ledecký, to set his mind at rest. And, without appearing to notice the imploring expression in poor Cvok’s eyes, went on.
“And I gather still more from your speech, my dear friend—that you are shielding three people, and perhaps even more, with your own person. And it need not and ought not to have been so. Miss Jenny should have had more sense and consideration; but a woman is a woman and a mother is a mother all the world over. She only thought of you as the kind-hearted man, and forgot you were a priest too. Who can help that? And you thought that you were a man—that you were a Christian—and you also forgot the priest. This you might have helped, of course. But that is just the rub; ​you put the priest in quite another place from what we other priests do.”
At that moment the noonday bell sounded. The priests both stood up, crossed themselves reverently, and said the Angelus. Spinster Regina was seen coming from the house. She happened to be in the cellar when Cvok arrived, so he had got into the garden without her knowledge.
“Soup is on the table,” she announced.
The two gentlemen stood up and walked on into the house, Miss Regina following behind and nearly scorching them with her angry eyes.
The dinner was a sad affair. The soup over-salted, the sauce burnt, the meat like leather, and the pudding without flavour. The priests ate their dinner in silence, and went out immediately after into the garden. On the grass before the arbour where they sat, a tame jackdaw was hopping about.
“I wish I was that jackdaw,” said spinster Regina to herself, while preparing the coffee. “I should be able to hear everything they said, and chatter it out again on purpose, till both of them would have more than enough of it.”
Unfortunately for her pleasure, this benevolent intention remained only a pious wish for the present. Cvok took the letter he had got that morning out of his breast pocket.
“What is that letter about?” asked Ledecký.
“Just on account of this letter I have come to Suchdol to-day to ask for your advice. There, read it. I wonder what you’ll say to it.”
Father Ledecký put on his spectacles and began to read. Every now and then he shook his head, but did ​not utter a word till he had read it to the end. Even when he had finished it, he did not speak for a while.
“That letter has touched you deeply, has it not?” he asked at last.
“More than words can tell. If anybody had written to tell me that Mathew had died suddenly, I could not feel more cast down and grieved.”
“In truth, he is a good artillerist. His words are like the reports of a piece of ordnance; a man can hardly help wincing at them.”
“What am I to do with him? Give me your advice. I cannot live without his respect. I should fret myself to death if he remained in this erroneous opinion of me.”
“My advice is this: sit down at your writing-table, dip your pen in the ink-bottle, and tell him the whole simple truth just as it is.”
“I am bound by a promise, and I must keep the secret.”
“The secret need not be violated by you. Tell him all under the seal of confession, and Neducha will not refuse you his absolution.”
Father Cvok was silent for a few minutes, lost in thought. At last he said,“ I must allow that you are right. There is no other help, no other way to take the load from my heart, and bring back peace to my mind. And now, one word more, brother. What do you advise me to do in future to put down this scandal among the people?”
“Have the child removed out of your house. The cackling gossips will then grow quiet and go to sleep over it, and all this talk, like everything else in the world, will slowly sink into oblivion.”
“That I cannot do. My word is pledged, and must be ​kept sacred. Besides, if you only knew Pepíc̓ek , you’d be sure to love him as well as I do. Every fibre trembles in me at the bare thought of putting him away; of sending the little innocent at random into the wide world.”
“Well, if you are determined to breast the stream, come what may, do so by all means; but you will want strong pair of arms and a heart of steel for that, I can tell you! If you feel that you have the power to do this, say again, do it by all means.”
”Cvok replied, “When I had read Neducha’s letter, my mind was rent in two, and I wavered like a weakling, to and fro; but now, thanks to your good advice, my mind has recovered its firmness, and is fortified against the wickedness of the world and against all possible accidents. The child I will not put away, whatever happens. The knowledge of doing what is right will be a sufficient reward for all the trouble and difficulties that may perhaps arise. I wonder now how I could have wavered for a moment. It was caused, no doubt, by Mathew’s letter. He cannot, of course, know how a man feels who of his own free will suffers for the innocent and the faulty, in order to do them good, and to shield them from the ill will of the world; more especially if it be in the cause of a helpless, defenceless child and a weak, deserted woman.”
At this moment spinster Regina tore open the garden gate in the utmost haste, and announced that Mr. Ferdinand from the castle had come with a message to the reverend father. Ledecký stood up, not overpleased, and went into the house. In about half an hour he returned to the garden, dressed in his best clerical garments, and said to Cvok, ​“It seems as if a letter-bag had burst to-day. I have got one too, and from no less a personage than the old baroness herself, who has graciously written a little note to me with her own hand, to say she would be glad to speak to me as soon as possible, and to advise with me in some delicate matter. Of course, her wish is as much as a military order. I must leave everything, and drive to Labutín with Mr. Ferdinand to the audience.”
“I wonder if there will be any talk about me and Pepíc̓ek?”
“Very likely it will be about nothing else.”
“What will you do for me?”
“Whatever I can, you may be sure. You need not turn pale with fear. As I am, particularly from this time forth, your sincere friend, I shall be a careful diplomatist with the baroness.”
They shook hands heartily and parted. Heavens went without delay by the garden gate, to which Ledecký had purposely brought him; and the Suchdol priest, then putting on the best face he could, returned to the house to Mr. Ferdinand, and drove with him after a little while to Labutín in the castle equipage.
Mr. Ferdinand had not failed to observe through the garden hedge, as he came to the house half an hour before, that Cvok was sitting with Ledecký in the bower.