Father Hilarion and Father Sergius were so different in character that it might have been imagined they could never get on together. Yet they lived in perfect harmony.
“Father Sergius is a chosen vessel,” Hilarion used to say; “God has chosen him for honour and me for dishonour. He is made of white ivory and I of black. To him everything will be forgiven. From me everything will be demanded. He soars like an angel, while I creep like an ant. His salvation is certain, while mine is scarcely probable. But when I feel myself perishing I will seize the hem of the skirt of Father Sergius, and he will lift me up with him, perhaps.”
“Father Hilarion is a solid rock, a pillar of orthodoxy, an impregnable wall,” Father Sergius used to say. “I am but a leaf driven by the wind. But for him I should have fallen long since, and wandered away from all the ancient traditions. He is my bulwark. I am as safe with him as in the bosom of Christ.”
Father Sergius did not repeat to Father Hilarion his conversation with Tichon, but Hilarion guessed everything. He scented a heretic, as the wolf scents the lamb. One day Tichon by chance overheard a conversation between the two hermits.
“Be patient, Hilarionoushka,” besought Sergius. “Be patient with him for Christ’s sake! Live in peace and charity with him.”
“In peace with a heretic!” retorted Hilarion, “a heretic must be fought with unto death. His pernicious spirit must be avoided. Love your own enemies, not God’s. Shun a heretic, never talk to him about the true faith, only spit on him. Truly he is worse than dogs or swine. Let him be accursed, anathema!”
“Be patient, Hilarionoushka,” repeated Father Sergius, but his voice half wavered.
Tichon went away apart. He suddenly realized that it was vain for him to expect help from Father Sergius: this great saint, strong as an angel before the Lord, was as weak as a child before men.
A few days later Tichon was again sitting with Father Sergius on the stone steps which led to the cell. They were alone. Father Hilarion had gone off fishing.
It was a hot white night, darkened by clouds. A storm had been beating up for some days. On the earth there was absolute quiet, while on the sky heavy silent clouds were sweeping across, like dumb giants hurrying to a battle. From time to time a gentle, distant subterrannean rumbling as of thunder was heard, like the grunting of a great sleeping animal. Pale violet lightning flashed in the sky, as though the night was trembling with apprehension. And at each repeated flash the lake reflected clearly in every detail the island, even to the last cross on the pine-tree tops; all the double island suspended between two skies. And after each flash all relapsed into peace and gloom, only disturbed by the low muttering of the thunder.