The child clung frantically to his mother’s skirts, as if he were expecting some terrifying experience. Then the train came in and drew up with an ugly grinding noise. Bologa, dressed in black, bare-headed and with a long brown beard which he had grown in prison, descended from one of the carriages. For a moment or two he stared at the crowd on the platform, and then quickly made his way towards little Apostol. He picked the child up in his arms and kissed him noisily on both cheeks, while the people cheered. Terrified, the small boy began to cry and to struggle in the arms of the stranger, who was now listening to the speech of the Protopop and was trying to pacify his son by rocking him gently in his arms. Finally, as the little one’s frightened sobs almost drowned the words of the speech of welcome, Bologa, enervated, felt obliged to hand him over to his mother, whose face had turned crimson from shame and emotion. In her arms Apostol became quiet, but he continued to stare fearfully at the gentleman with the brown beard.

That very evening Bologa had a solemn talk with his wife regarding the child’s education. He enunciated in pompous phrases certain principles, quoted the names of several well-known educators, advising her to read their works, which he himself had read in prison with Apostol in mind, and, above all, begged her to bring energy, concentration, and firmness to her task.

“The child must understand right from the beginning that man’s life is only of value if he follows an ideal!” added Bologa, rather touchingly. “Our parental responsibility is only just beginning. We must do our utmost to make a man of our boy.”

Doamna Bologa wept and wrung her hands.… From her husband’s speech she gathered that she was being asked to moderate her mother-love, to give up her petting and spoiling. Nevertheless, she gave in without a murmur. Bologa, fêted by everybody, a martyr with the halo of imprisonment and that impressive beard, seemed to her an unspeakably wise master, whose right it was to exact obedience and submission. So she resigned herself to loving her babe in secret and to keeping her caresses hidden from Bologa’s eyes. On the other hand, she increased her religious instruction, and kept alight the faith in Apostol’s heart. In this matter her husband left her a perfectly free hand; although he himself was not a believer, he included religion in education as a means for developing the imagination.

Apostol, subdued and timid, without playmates, felt deeply the stern atmosphere which his father imposed on the household. The fright of that first meeting remained imprinted on his heart, and he looked upon him as a stranger who had come to terrorize them. His only happy hours were those spent with his mother, when they were alone in the house or with Protopop Groza, who, being a childless widower, found pleasure in the company of the gentle and intelligent child. But over all the little boy’s thoughts and fancies there hovered a mystic kind of love in which God was paramount.

When he was six years old another strange event made a deep impression on him. Doamna Bologa, thinking that the child would have to start school soon, talked the matter over at great length with the Protopop Groza, wondering what she could do to make this change less difficult for him. They both agreed that help from the Almighty would have to be asked. Finally, they decided to make Apostol say an “Our Father” on a certain day during Holy Mass. They made their preparations in great secrecy, in order that Bologa should not get wind of it and spoil their plan. At last, on the chosen day, the Bologas took their places as usual in the right-hand-side pew, and in front of them sat Apostol, dressed in new clothes, his eyes shining with excitement. Doamna Bologa, tearful and trembling, kept on crossing herself, and nervously fluttered the leaves of her prayer-book. Then, when the time for prayer had arrived, she bent over fearfully and whispered: “Now, my pet!” With head held high and firm tread, Apostol walked up to the altar, fell on his knees, and folded his hands. A moment later his thin voice floated like a white silken thread through the tense silence, rose upwards towards the star-sprinkled ceiling, and fell back among the hundreds assembled there. At first his eyes saw only Protopop Groza, who, from the altar, smiled at him kindly and encouragingly; afterwards he only saw the golden cross, which seemed to him to be floating in the air. Then, just as he was crossing himself at the end of the prayer, the sky seemed to open all of a sudden, and in the far distance, and yet so near that it seemed to be in his very soul, there appeared a curtain of white clouds in the midst of which shone the face of God like a golden light, dazzling, awe-inspiring and withal as full of tenderness as the face of a loving mother. And then from the midst of this divine radiance there emerged a living eye, infinitely kindly and magnanimous, which seemed to pierce all deep and hidden places.