Then followed categorical anathemas against those who refuse the blessing of redemption, who deny the holy sacraments, who do not recognize the councils of the Fathers of the Church and their traditions.
"All those who dare to presume that the Orthodox rulers are not seated on their thrones by the special grace of God, and that at their annointing and their elevation to that high station the blessings of the Holy Ghost do not descend upon them, and who dare, therefore, to rise in rebellion against them and to betray them . . . All those who blaspheme and mock the holy images . . ."
And after each exclamation the choir answered him sadly, the gentle, angelic voices groaning the word, "Anathema."
Hysterics began among the women.
The archdeacon had already finished the "Long Life!" service to all the deceased zealots of the church, when the psalm-reader mounted the platform and handed him a short note from the archpriest, in which he was instructed, by the order of the archbishop, to anathematize the "boyard Leo Tolstoy."— "See Chapt. L. of the mass-book," was added in the note.
The archdeacon's throat was already tired after its long exertions. Yet he cleared it again and began: "Bless me, your most gracious Eminence." He scarcely heard the low whisper of the old archbishop:
"May our Lord God bless you, archdeacon, to anathematize the blasphemer and the apostate from the faith of Christ, rejecting its holy sacraments, the boyard Leo Tolstoy. In the name of Father, and Son, and the Holy Ghost."
"Amen," came from the choir.
Suddenly, Father Olympy felt his hair standing erect on his head, becoming hard and heavy, like steel wire. And at the same moment, the beautiful words of the story he had read the night before came to him, clear and distinct:
. . . awaking, Eroshka raised his head and began to watch intently the night butterflies, which were flying around the trembling flame of the candle, and falling into it.
"You fool," said he. "Where are you flying? Fool, fool!" And sitting up, he began to chase the butterflies away from the flame with his thick fingers.
"Why, you'll get burnt, you little fools. Fly over there, there's lots of room," he was saying gently, catching the butterflies by the wings, holding them carefully in his thick fingers, and then letting them go.
"You're hurting yourself, and I'm trying to save you."
"My God! Whom am I anathematizing?" thought the archdeacon in terror. "Him? Is it possible? Didn't I weep all night in joy, and rapture, and admiration?"
But, obedient to the traditions of centuries, he continued to hurl those awful, stupefying words of anathema and excommunication, which fell into the crowd like the peals of a huge brass bell.
