He did get wild. He began to abuse the people. As he had proceeded to advise them, and to chaff them, so now he proceeded to abuse them. Whenever he got hold of a man, he abused him. But he did not get far with this. At first the people allowed themselves to be insulted. Later on, they began to answer back, on the sly, as it were. Finally, thinking it was going too far, they began to abuse the priest.
From now on, things got a little involved. Everything went criss-cross. The people began to tell the priest that if he did not leave off laughing at them, and insulting them, they would go to the bishop and get him removed from the village. That is what the priest deserved. The people had hit on the very thing! Throw him out of Saraceni! The priest began to curse in earnest. Off he went; the people got in to their carts to go to the archdeacon, and from the archdeacon to the bishop.
In the Book of Wisdom, concerning the life of this world, there is a short sentence which says: our well-wishers are often our undoing and our evil-wishers are useful to us. Father Trandafir was not lucky in getting good out of his evil-wishers. The bishop was a good soul, worthy of being put in all the calendars all over the face of the earth. He took pity on the poor priest, said he was in the right, and scolded the people.
Misfortunes generally heap themselves upon mankind. One gives rise to another, or are they, perhaps, inseparable? Anyhow, they are always like light and shade, one alongside the other.
By now Father Trandafir had three children. When he returned from the bishop, he found his wife in bed. There was a fourth little blessing in the house. A sick wife, three little children, a fourth at the breast, and a tumble-down house; the snow drifted through the walls, the stove smoked, the wind came through the roof, the granary was bare, his purse empty, and his heart heavy.
Father Trandafir was not the man to find a way out of this embarrassing state of things. Had it been some one else in his situation, he could have helped him: he could not comfort himself. For a long time he stood in the dim light of the little lamp; every one around him slept. The sick woman was asleep. Now there is nothing more conducive to melancholy than the sight of people asleep. He loved those sleeping forms; he loved them and was responsible for their happiness; he lived for them, and their love made life precious to him. Thoughts crowded into his brain. His mind turned to the past and to the future; considering the state in which he found himself, the future could only appear depicted in the saddest colours. His children! His wife! What would become of them? His heart was heavy, and he could not find one consoling thought, one single loop-hole of escape; nowhere in the world was there anything to give him a gleam of hope.