THE STUFF HE WAS MADE OF.
The ensuing weeks passed quietly. The people gave their turns of
work[2] for the Count as they had always done, but the mandatar did not
appear to take much notice. For days he would be absent in the district
town, or in the villages round about, amusing himself with the officers
of the Imperial service. The peasants hardly ever saw him, but they
spoke of him the more frequently. On the day of his entry they had made
up their minds that the new bailiff was a sneak, "but we shall be up to
his tricks;" yet, somehow he rose in their estimation. True, there were
those--the old judge to begin with--who continued in their distrust,
but a more generous spirit prevailed with many as the days wore on.
"Let us be just," they said; "he has done us no harm so far." And being
laughed at by the less confident they would add: "Well, Taras thinks so
too, so we cannot be far wrong!" This appeared to be a vantage ground
of defence which the opponents knew not how to assail; old Stephen only
would retort, angrily, "It is past understanding how this lamb of the
lowlands should have got the better of every bear among us up here. But
you will be the worse for it one of these days, you will see!"
The judge spoke truth; it was a marvellous influence which the young
stranger had acquired in the village, and well-nigh incredible
considering the people he had to deal with. But if a miracle it was, it
had come about by means of the rarest of charms, by the spell emanating
from a heart, the wondrous honesty of which was equalled only by its
wondrous strength--a heart which had but grown in goodness and true
courage because its lot had been cast amid sorrows which would have
brought most men to ruin or despair.
Taras Barabola was born at Ridowa, a village near Barnow, the son of a
poor servant girl whose lover had been carried off as a recruit and
remained in the army, preferring the gay life of a soldier to hard
labour at home. Amid the hot tears of affliction the deserted mother
brought up her child, and not only trouble, but shame, stood by his
cradle. For the Podolian peasant does not judge lightly of the erring
one, and his sense of wrong can be such that Mercy herself would plead
with him in vain. It was long before the unhappy girl found shelter for
pity's sake, and little Taras, from his earliest days, had to suffer
for no other reason but that his father was a scoundrel. It appeared to
be meritorious with the people of Ridowa to scold and buffet the
frightened child, as though that were indeed a means of proving their
own respectability and combating the growth of sin. None but themselves
would have been to blame if, by such treatment of the boy, they had
reared a criminal in him, to be the disgrace and scourge of the
village. But it was not so with Taras, because amid all his trouble a
rare good fortune had been given him. The poor servant girl that bore
him was possessed of a heroic spirit. And when the little boy followed
his mother to church, she standing humbly in the porch, whilst he,
childlike, would steal forward till the sexton flung him back as though
his very breath defiled the sacred precincts; or when attempting to
join other children in their play about the streets he was kicked away
like a rabid dog, and nothing seemed left but to take his grief to the
one heart beating for him in a cruel world;--that heart would grew
strong in the suffering woman, lending her words so generous, so wise,
that one could have believed in inspiration were not a mother's love in
itself grand enough to be the fount of things noble and true. Many a
one in her position would have bewailed her child--would have taught
him to lay the blame upon others, sowing the seeds of cowardliness and
revenge. But she--well, she did cry; no child ever was more bitterly
wept over; but this is what she said: "Taras, grow up good! Do not hate
them because of their unkindness, for it is deserved! Nay, my child, if
you suffer, it is because your father and I have wronged them; they
think ill of you for fear you should become what we were! Yet you are
but a child, knowing neither good nor evil, and all they can say
against you is that you are the child of your parents; that is why they
ill-treat you! But one day you will show them what you are yourself,
and they will then treat you accordingly, after your own deserts! And,
therefore, oh, my child, do not repay them with evil: be good and do
the right, and they will love you!"
Thus she wept, thus she entreated him, and, young as he was, her words
were engraven on his brain and sunk deep into his soul. It was not in
vain that, in order to save her child, she had staked the one thing
left to her in life--the love of that child. Her own great love for him
was her safeguard that his hatred for others, which she strove against,
should not fall back upon her, who owned herself guilty, and for whom
she said he suffered. Taras continued to love his mother; and when he
inquired what it could have been whereby she had wronged all the
righteous people, and she told him he was too young to understand, he
was satisfied. But her words lived in his heart, laying the foundation
of a marvellous development of character, teaching him, at an age when
other children think but of eating and playing, that he must believe
the world to be just, and that his own act must be the umpire of reward
or punishment to follow. Thus he suffered ill-will without bitterness,
but also, knowing he had not himself deserved it, without humiliation;
and when, having reached his tenth year, he was chosen to be the
gooseherd of the village--not, indeed, with the goodwill of all, but
simply because no other serviceable lad had offered--he burned with a
desire to gain for himself commendation and approval. And he did gain
it, because he worked for it bravely, but also because of a fearful
experience which happened to him about a twelvemonth later, shaking his
young soul to its inmost depth.
It was an autumnal morning; he had driven forth his geese with the grey
dawn as usual. They fed on a lonely common; a cross stood there by the
side of a pond, but not a cottage within hail, and the foot-path which
traversed it was rarely used. The boy had his favourite seat on a stone
by the water, at the foot of the cross; he was sitting there now
contentedly eating some of the bread which his mother had given him,
and whistling between whiles on a reed-pipe he had made for himself.
He was startled by a heavy footfall, and, turning, grew pale, for he
that approached him was a spiteful, wicked old man, Waleri Kostarenko
by name, one of the worst of those who delighted in bullying him. "You
are but a cur!" he would call out when the lad passed his farm, and
more than once he had set his dogs at him. And one day, finding him at
play with his own grandchildren, he beat him so mercilessly that the
little fellow could scarcely limp home for bruises. Nor was it any
regard for morality he could plead in wretched excuse. Taras's mother
had been a servant on his farm, and had been proof against his wiles,
so he was the first to cry shame when trouble overtook her, and like a
fiend he delighted in ill-using her child. Taras got out of his way
whenever he could, and on the present occasion took to his sturdy
little legs, as though pursued by the caitiff's dogs. It was not merely
the loneliness of the place which made it advisable to seek refuge in
flight, but the fact that the old man, as the boy had seen in spite of
his terror, was in a worse condition than usual. There had been a
merry-making the day before in a neighbouring village, and his unsteady
feet showed plainly that the power of drink was upon him.
"Is it you, little toad?" he roared, "I'll catch you!" But the boy was
too fleet for him, and he knew pursuit was vain. "Lord's sake," he
cried, suddenly, "I have sprained my foot! Taras, for pity's sake, help
me to yon stone!"
The boy turned and looked; the old man had sunk to his knee, a picture
of suffering, and the boy did pity him, coming back accordingly. "What
is it?" he said, "what can I do for you?" At which Waleri, bursting upon
him, caught him exultingly. "Have I got you?" he shrieked, clutching
his hair and treating him mercilessly.
"For heaven's sake," cried Taras, "spare me!" But pity there was none
with the old wretch; beside himself with hatred, he held the boy with
one arm, ill-using him with the other wherever his fist could fall.
Taras struggled vainly for awhile, but with a wrench of despair he got
free at last. He escaped. Waleri ran after him for a step or two. The
geese were wild with terror, and one of the creatures had got between
the man's feet; he fell heavily, knocking his head against the stone by
the cross. The boy heard a piercing cry; he saw that his enemy was on
the ground, but not till he had reached the further end of the common
did he turn once more to look back. The old man lay motionless by the
stone, the geese pressed about him, stretching their necks with a noisy
cackle. He felt tolerably safe now from his enemy, for even if it were
but another trick of his meanness he could scarcely overtake him at
that distance; but as he stood and gazed a wild fear fell upon the boy,
his heart beating violently.
"He is dead!" The thought flashed through him as a shock of lightning,
and he felt dragged back to the scene helplessly. He retraced his steps
towards the cross, and stood still within ten yards or so. A cry burst
from him of pure horror--he saw the blood trickling over the upturned
face. He pressed together his lips, and went close--slowly,
tremblingly--quite close. The man was evidently unconscious, his face
corpse-like and fearful to look at; there was a deep cut on the
forehead, and the purple blood flowed copiously over the distorted
face, trickling to the ground.
The boy stood still with labouring breath, as though spellbound. Horror
and disgust, joy, scorn, revenge, and yet again compassion, went
through him, the good rising uppermost in the great conflict that shook
his soul. He thought of his mother, and bending down to the water he
bathed the forehead of the unconscious man. The blood kept flowing. He
tore off the sleeve of his shirt, and, making a bandage, pressed it
upon the wound. Walen groaned, but did not open his eyes. "He is
dying!" thought Taras, but strove as best he could to stop the
bleeding, crying for help at the same time with all his might.
A young peasant, the son-in-law of the village judge, riding by at some
distance, heard his calling--the wind lengthening out the sound. He
came dashing up, and what he saw might well fill him with surprise.
"And you, Taras--you trying to save him!" he cried, when the boy had
told his story simply and truthfully. It was more than he could
understand. But he turned to the sufferer, sending Taras to the village
for assistance. The boy returned with the judge himself, together with
Waleri's son and some of his servants.
They took up the wounded man and carried him to his home, the judge
looking at the boy repeatedly with unfeigned wonder. "Taras," he said
at last, "I think if He whom they call the Christ were alive, He would
just be proud of you, I do indeed! That is to say, we are told He _is_
alive, and I daresay He will repay you for this!" At which the boy
blushed crimson, remembering what a struggle it had cost him; he did
not deserve any praise, he thought.
But from this hour the people thought well of him in the village; all
were anxious to show their approval, and those that had spoken kindly
of him before were quite proud of their discriminating wisdom. Waleri
recovered, continuing to hate him; but this utter ingratitude made
others the more anxious to befriend him. The judge especially,
henceforth, stood by the lad, giving him a place as under-servant on
his own farm; and, he being looked upon as the chief authority of the
village, his example told naturally. But of far more consequence than
these things was the influence of that occurrence upon the inner growth
of the boy. So far, he had simply believed his mother, that one must
deserve kindness by being good; now he knew it by his own experience.
"Yes," he said to himself, "justice is the foundation of things;" and
more than ever he tried to fulfil his every duty to the utmost. But the
golden opinions he gathered were his gain in a double sense; for there
is no greater help toward well-doing than the knowledge that one is
believed in, and all the clearer grew that fair creed within him which
his mother had taught him concerning the world and its retribution.
What at first had been only a sort of childish self-interest, grew to
be the very backbone of his character: he could not but try and be
good, just, and helpful. It could be said of him, without a shade of
flattery, that no servant-lad ever had been so well behaved as he; and
when his mother died, the fifteen-year-old youth had as many comforters
and friends as there were people in the village. The stain on his birth
even grew to be cause of praise. "Why, look you," the judge would say,
"this boy is really no proper child at all; anyhow he is quite
unfathered, and could be as rascally as he pleased, for there's none to
cast it up to him. I might give him a box on the ear at times, but that
could not make up for a father's thrashing. And, in the face of all
this, this Taras is just the best boy in the village. He will be a
great man one of these days, I tell you! My prophecies always come
true--you will find out what stuff he is made of before you have done
with him, and then please remember I said so."
And the time came when the young man gave evidence of the stuff
within him, but that which brought it out was a sore trial to the
brave-hearted youth. He was barely eighteen, and had come to be a
ploughman on the judge's farm, when one day the Imperial constables
brought an old soldier into the village, Hritzko Stankiewicz by name, a
wretched creature with a worn-out body and a rotten soul. Begging and
stealing, he had found his way from Italy to Galicia, where the police
had picked him up, and now he was being delivered over to his own
parish of Ridowa. It wad Taras's father. The judge, in well-meant pity,
was for concealing this from the young man, but the latter had heard
the name often enough from his mother, and he went at once to the gaol
where the vagabond had been located. The wretched man quaked when his
son stood before him, and fearing he had come to take vengeance for his
mother, the miserable coward took refuge in denial, insulting the woman
he had ruined in her grave. Pale as death, and trembling, Taras went
out from him, and for several days he went about the village mute and
like one demented.
The following Sunday after church the men of the parish gathered
beneath the linden tree in front of the village inn, after the usage of
times immemorial, the day's question being what had best be done with
the returned vagabond. "It seems plain," said the judge, "that we
cannot keep the thieving beggar in our midst. Let us send him to
Lemberg, paying for his maintenance. He won't like it; but it is a
great deal more than he has deserved. It is the best device, I
warrant." The men agreed. "It is," they cried, lifting their right hand
in token of assent.
At this moment Taras stepped forth. His face was ghastly, as though he
had risen from a sickbed. "Ye men," he cried, with choked voice,
folding his hands, "pity me; listen to me!" But tears drowned what
further he had to say, and he sank to his knees.
"Don't, don't!" they all cried, full of compassion, "you need not mind,
we all know what a good fellow you are."
But Taras shook his head, and with a great effort stood upright among
them. "I have to mind," he cried, "and in my mother's behalf I am here,
speaking because she no longer can speak! He is my father though he
denies it! Only him she trusted, because he was her affianced lover,
and never another! If I were silent in this matter, it might be thought
of her that after all she was a bad woman, and her son does not know
his own father. Therefore, I say, listen to me: I do know! and as my
mother's son I take it upon me to provide for my father. Do not put him
into the workhouse, he cannot work. And if I take care of him, he will
not be a burden to the village. For God's sake, then, have pity on
me--and leave him here!"
There was a long pause of silence, and then the judge said, addressing
the men: "We should be worse than hard-hearted if we refused him. But
we will not be gainers thereby; the parish shall pay for Hritzko what
it would cost us did we send him to Lemberg. It shall be as this good
son desires; and God's blessing be upon him!"
For eight years after, the miserable wretch lived in the village. It
was a time of continued suffering for Taras. Every joy of youth he
renounced, striving day and night to meet the old man's exactions; and
all the reward he ever had was hatred and scorn: but he never tired of
his voluntary work of love. "My mother has borne more than that for
me," he would say, when others praised him. "One could not have
believed how good a fellow can be!" said the people of Ridowa, some
adding in coarse, if real pity, "'Twere a kindness if some one killed
the old beggar!" But the suggested "kindness" came about by his own
doing--he drank himself to death. At the age of six-and-twenty Taras
was free.
"Now you must get yourself into a snug farm by marriage," advised the
judge. "You understand your business, you are a well-favoured fellow,
and, concerning your character, my Lord Golochowski himself might say
to you: 'Here is my daughter, Taras, and if you take her it will be an
honour to the family!' There is that buxom Marinia, for instance, the
sexton's girl; or that pretty creature, Kasia----"
But Taras shook his head, and his blue eyes looked gloomy. "Life here
has gone too hard with me," he said, "for me to seek happiness in this
place! A thousand thanks for all your kindness; but go I must!" And
they could not get him to change his mind; he looked about for a
situation elsewhere.
Two places offered--the one with the peasant, Iwan Woronka, at Zulawce,
the brother of Judge Stephen; the other with a parish priest on the
frontier. Pay and work in both places was the same. He would be
head-servant in both, and pretty independent; the latter for the same
sad reason--that both the peasant and the priest were given to drink.
Nor could he come to any decision in the matter by a personal
inspection of the farms, for really there was no preference either way.
So he resolved to submit his fate to that most innocent kind of
guidance which, with those people, decides many a step in life. He
would take the priest's offer if it rained on the following Sunday, and
he would go to Iwan if it were fine. But the day of his fate poured
such floods of sunshine about him that doubt there could be none, and
he went to Zulawce.
It was no easy beginning for the stranger. The people laughed at him
freely, his garb and his ways differing so entirely from their own;
they even called him a coward because he carried no arms and spoke
respectfully of Count Borecki as the lord of the manor. The fact was
that Taras just continued to be the man he had always been, taking
their sneers quietly, and the management of the farm entrusted to him
was his only care. Iwan Woronka was old and enfeebled, his tottering
steps carrying him a little way only, to the village inn, his constant
resort. It was natural, therefore, that the farm had been doing badly.
His only son had died, and Anusia, his daughter, had striven vainly
to save the property from ruin. She blessed the day when the new
head-servant took matters in hand, if no one else did; for not many
weeks passed before the traces of his honest diligence grew apparent
everywhere. "He understands his business," even Iwan must own, though
over his tipple he kept muttering that the sneaking stranger was too
much for him. But that Taras was neither a coward nor a sneak all the
village soon had proof of, when on a bear hunt, with not a little
danger to himself, he saved the old judge's life, killing a maddened
brute by a splendid shot in close encounter. This and his evident
ability in the fulfilment of his duties gained him most hearts before
long. "You are a good fellow, Podolian," the people would say; and not
a year had passed before they swore behind his back that there was no
mistake about his being a real acquisition to the village.
Anusia said nothing. She was a handsome girl of the true Huzul type,
tall, shapely, lissom, with dark, fiery eyes. High-spirited and
passionate in all things, her partiality for the silent stranger made
her shy and diffident. She went out of his way, addressing him only
when business required. He saw it, could not understand, and felt sad.
Now, strange to say--at least it took him by surprise--by reason of
this very sadness he discovered that Anusia was pleasant to behold. It
quite startled him, and it made him shy in his turn when he had to
speak to her. But one day, riding about the farm, he without any
palpable reason caught himself whispering her name. That was more
startling still, and he felt inclined to box his own ears, calling
himself a fool for his pains. "You idiot!" he said, "your master's
daughter, and she hating you moreover!" And having mused awhile, he
added philosophically--"Love is only a sort of feeling for folk that
have nothing to do. Some drink by way of a pastime, and some fall in
love." He really believed it; his life had been so sunless hitherto,
that no flower for him could grow.
Well, love may be a sort of feeling, but Taras found that he could do
nothing but just give in. Then it happened, one bright spring morning,
that he was walking on a narrow footpath over the sprouting cornfields,
Anusia coming along from the other end.
"How shall I turn aside?" they both thought; et neither quite liked to
strike off through the budding grain.
"'Twere a pity to trample upon the growing blades," murmured he, and
proceeded slowly.
"It is father's cornfield," whispered she, and her feet carried her
toward him.
Presently they came to a standstill, face to face.
"Why don't you move out of my way?" she said, angrily.
He felt taken aback, and was silent.
"I have been looking over the fields--the wheat by the river might be
better," continued the damsel.
"It might," owned he, "but it is not my fault."
"Is it mine?" cried she.
"No, the field was flooded."
"That is your excuse!" retorted the maiden. "I think the seed was bad.
You are growing careless!"
"Oh!" said he, standing erect, "I can look for another place, if that
is all." He quite trembled. "I believe I hate her," he said to himself.
"Yes, go! go!" she cried, her bosom heaving, and the hot tears starting
to her eyes. Another moment, and they had caught one another, heart to
heart and lip to lip. How it could happen so quickly they never knew.
But the occurrence is not supposed to be unprecedented in the history
of this planet.
It was a happy hour amid the sun-flooded fields. They both believed
they had to make up for no end of past unkindness. But, being sensible,
they soon took a matter-of-fact view.
"You will just have to marry me, now," said Anusia; "it is the one
thing to be done. I will at once tell my father."
And so she did; but Iwan Woronka unfortunately did not consider her
marrying his head-servant the one thing to be done. She was his only
child and his heiress to boot, and he had long decided she should marry
his nephew Harasim, Judge Stephen's son--a young man who might have
been well enough but for his repellent countenance and his love for
drink. But Iwan argued, "Good looks are no merit, and drinking no harm;"
and therewith he turned Taras off his farm.
The poor fellow went his way without venturing to say good-bye to
Anusia, or letting her know where he could be heard of. It cost him a
hard battle with himself; but he knew the girl's passionate temper, and
he wanted to act honestly by his master. But the victory was not thus
easily got.
It was some two months later, a splendid summer night. The moon was
weaving her mellow charm about the heathlands, lighting up the old
tin-plated tower of the castle at Hankowce with a mysterious light,
till it sparkled and shone like a silver column. It was the abode of
Baron Alfred Zborowski, and Taras had found service there as coachman
and groom. He did not sleep in the stables at this time of the year,
but on the open heath, where the remains of a watchfire glowed like a
heap of gold amid the silvery sheen. A number of horses were at large
about him.
The night was pleasantly cool, but the poor fellow had a terrible
burning at the heart as he lay wakeful by the glowing embers, thinking
of her who was far away. There was a sound of hoofs suddenly breaking
upon the night, and a figure on horseback appeared with long hair
streaming on the wind. "Good heavens!" cried the young man trembling;
"is it you, Anusia?"
"Taras!" was the answer, and no more.
She glided from her horse, and his arms were about her.
"Here I am, and here I shall stay," she said at last. "I have scarcely
left the saddle since yesterday. It was Jacek, the fiddler, that told
me where I should find you. I shall not return to my father--not
without you. And if you will not go back with me you must just keep me
here. I cannot live without you, and I will not--do you hear? I will
not! I want to be happy!"
She talked madly--laughing, crying on his neck. And then she slid to
the ground, clasping his knees. But he stood trembling. He felt as
though he were surrounded by a flood of waters, the ground being taken
from under his feet. His fingers closed convulsively, till the nails
entered the quick--he shut his eyes and set his teeth. Thus he stood
silent, but breathing heavily, and then a shiver went through him; he
opened his eyes and lifted up the girl at his feet. "Anusia," he said,
gently but firmly, "I love you more than I love myself! and therefore I
say I shall take you back to-morrow as far as the Pruth, where we can
see your father's house, and then I shall leave you. But till then"--he
drew a deep breath, and continued with sinking voice, "till then you
must stay with an old widow I know in this village. I will show you the
way now; she will see to your wants."
The girl gazed at him helplessly, passing her hand across her forehead
once, twice; and then she groaned, "It is beyond me--do you despise
me?--turn me from you?"
"No!" he cried; "but I will not drag you down to misery and disgrace.
If you stayed here, Anusia, you could only be a servant-girl in the
village where I work. We should suffer--but that is nothing! Marry one
another we cannot; not while your father lives, for the Church requires
his consent. You could only be my--my----. Anusia, I dare not!"
Whereupon she drew herself tip proudly, looking him full in the face.
"I am a girl of unblemished name," she said. "If I am satisfied to be
near you----"
"You! you!" he gasped, "what do you know about it? You are an honest
girl! But I--good God, my mother----. Go! go!" And there was a cry of
despair; then he recovered himself "God help me, Anusia, it must be.
The woman that will take care of you now lives next door to the church,
the old sexton's widow, Anna Paulicz--this way!"
The girl probably but half understood him. As in a dream she moved
toward her horse, seized the bridle, and turned back to Taras
mechanically.
She stood before him. Her face was white as death; she opened her
colourless lips once, twice, as though to speak, but sound there was
none. At last, with an effort, a hoarse whisper broke from her, "I hate
you!"
"Anusia!" he cried, staggering. But answer there was none--the
thundering footfall of a horse only dying away in the night.
Harvest had come and the harvest-home. The Jewish fiddlers played their
merry tunes in the courtyard of the castle at Hankowce, and far into
the evening continued the dancing and jumping and huzzaing of the
reapers. The baron and his coachman were perhaps the only two of all
the village who took no pleasure in the revelry--the one because he had
to provide the schnaps and mead that were being consumed, the other
because his heart was nowise attuned to it.
Dreary weeks had passed since that impassioned meeting on the heath,
but the girl's parting words kept ringing in poor Taras's ear. "It is
all at an end," he said, "and no use in worrying." But he kept
worrying, and that she should hate him was an undying grief to his
heart. It was little comfort that he could say to himself, "You have
done well, Taras; it is better to be unhappy than to be a villain."
Comfort? nay, there was none! for what self-conscious approval could
lessen the wild longings, the deep grief of his love? And so he went
his way sadly, doing his duty and feeling more lonely than ever. He did
not grudge others their merry-heartedness, but the noisy expression of
it hurt him. For this reason he kept aloof on that day, busying himself
about his horses, plaiting their manes with coloured ribands, but
anxious to take no personal part in the feast. But the shouts of
delight would reach him, clashing sorely with his sorrowing heart. Then
the poor fellow shut the stables, and, going up to his favourite horse,
a fine chestnut, he pressed his forehead against the creature's neck,
sobbing like a forsaken child.
He was yet standing in this position when a well-known voice reached
his ear--a man's voice, but it sent the blood to his face. Could he be
dreaming? but no, there it was again, and a ponderous knocking against
the door, which he had locked. He made haste to open--it was Stephen
Woronka, the judge.
Taras was unable to speak, and the old man on his part could only nod.
He looked mournful. "Come!" he said, after a brief pause that seemed
filled with pain.
"Where to?" faltered Taras.
The judge appeared to consider explanation needless. "I have already
spoken with your master; he allows you to go on the spot. Your things
can come after you. My horses are ready to start."
"I cannot," murmured Taras, turning a step aside.
Old Stephen nodded, as though this were just the answer he expected.
"But you must," he said, "we cannot let the girl die, Iwan and me. It
is no light thing for us, to let her marry you, for you have just
nothing--a poor stranger--and," he added, with a sigh, "my Harasim
might be saved by a good wife. However, we have no choice now and
neither have you!"
"Then she is ill?" shrieked Taras.
"Yes--very; come at once." And such was Stephen's hurry that he barely
allowed Taras to take his leave of the baron. The judge drove, and so
little he spared his horses, that the vehicle shot along the moon-lit
roads like a thing demented.
"Let me take the reins," said Taras, after a while.
"No!" returned the judge sharply, adding more gently, as though in
excuse: "Anxiety would kill me if I were at leisure."
"Then she is dying!" groaned the young man in despair.
"The Lord knows!" replied old Stephen huskily. "We can but do our duty
in fetching you. Though she will not see you, she says, raving
continually that she will kill you or kill herself if ever you come
near her.... What is it that took place between you?" he cried, raising
his voice suddenly and turning a menacing countenance upon Taras.
"That I must not tell," returned the latter firmly.
The judge gazed at him angrily, but nodded again, "I am a fool to ask
you," he murmured. "You have either been a great villain to her,
or--or--just very good.... Whatever it was, it is between you two, and
you must settle it with her."
Nothing more was spoken that night. In the early morning, when the
horses where having a most needful rest, they only exchanged some
indifferent remarks. And starting once more, they hastened towards the
purple hills, as fast as the panting creatures could carry them. But it
was evening before they crossed the Pruth and approached the village.
The air was sultry; clouds hung low in the heavens, hiding the moon.
The judge pulled up before they reached Iwan's farm. Taras dismounted.
"I thank you!" he cried, seeking to grasp the old man's hand.
But Stephen withdrew it, shaking his head. "I cannot be wroth with
you," he said, "but there are things that go hard with a man.... You
don't owe me any thanks, however. I have now repaid you for that shot
of yours which saved my life. We are quits."
"But I shall thank you while I live," cried Taras, walking away quickly
in the direction of Iwan's farm. He stood by the door with bated
breath; it was opened for him before he could put his hand on the
latch, by Iwan Woronka.
"She--she is alive?" faltered Taras.
"Yes, but only that. Step in softly, she knows nothing of your coming."
He did step in softly, but his heart laboured wildly. The room was lit
with a subdued light, and he could barely distinguish the figure of the
stricken girl.
"Who is coming?" she cried, with trembling accents. "Who is it?" once
more, with awe-burdened voice.
But answer she needed none. A terrible cry burst from her, and darting
like a wraith from her couch she flew past him, vanishing in the night.
He followed her; but the hiding darkness without was such that he could
scarcely keep in sight the white glimmer of her figure, although she
was but a few yards ahead of him, on her way to the river. His hair
stood on end when he knew the direction she took, and his every limb
felt paralysed. It was but a few seconds, but she gained on him, and he
saw he could not reach her in time.
"For God's sake, stop!" he cried, with the voice of horror; "you shall
never see me again."
But it was too late. He saw the white figure sink, and rise again
mid-stream. He was in after her, and reaching her, caught her by a
tress of her floating hair. She struggled violently to free herself
from his hand, and it could only have been the maddest despair that
gave her the power. But he kept fast his hold--it was all he could do;
and thus they were carried awhile, side by side, on the bosom of the
icy mountain stream. Taras felt his grasp grow weaker in his two-fold
struggle against the river and against the girl. A fearful picture
flashed through his brain; he saw himself and his loved one two corpses
washed ashore, old Stephen bending over them in sorrow. The pangs of
death seemed upon him, but he held fast the tress of hair, and with his
arm strove to keep himself and her afloat.
She yielded at last, her body floating as he pulled her; the power of
life seemed to have left her, and with a mighty effort he brought her
to land.
They were fearful days that followed. A burning fever ran its course in
the girl's body, but the sickness of her soul seemed more devouring
still. "I am dying--dying for shame!" she kept crying. "I love him--I
hate him!" But as the fever spent itself, the struggle of her heart
grew weaker. And at last she lay still, weary unto death, but saved,
and her mind was clear. She wept blessed tears, and suffered him to
touch her.
She suffered it, but did not return his caresses. "Taras!" she sobbed,
"do you despise me?"
"Despise you? Good God!" he cried, covering her hand with kisses.
"Ah, yes--but you might--you ought!" she wept. "No only, because----,"
a burning blush overspread her pallor. "But do you know why I struggled
so desperately when your hand was upon me in the river? I knew you
would hold fast, and I wanted to drag you down with me in death. Can
you forgive it?"
"Yes!" he cried, and his face shone.
"As sure as you wish your mother to be at peace in her grave?"
"Yes, Anusia!" he cried again.
"Then I may kiss you," she said, twining her arms about him.
That was their troth plight; and soon after they were married.
Thus the stranger had become the owner of the largest farm but one in
the village. Yet no one grudged him his good fortune; even Harasim
appeared to have submitted to his fate. And but rarely was there an
attempt at making fun of his garb; he had acquired their mode of
address, saying "thou" to young and old, but he could not be prevailed
upon to adopt the Huzul's dress. But no one disliked him for it, the
people had ample proof apart from this how faithfully he had adopted
the interests of his new home, and even if they did not openly confess
as much to themselves it was very evident he was benefiting them
largely. Without in the least thrusting himself upon them, or pushing
his views, this blue-eyed, quiet stranger in the course of a few years
had become the most influential man, even a reformer of the parish; in
the first place because of his ever helpful goodness, in the second
place because of the rare wisdom governing his every act.
But it was not without a struggle with himself that he came to feel at
home in his adopted village; everything here seemed strange at first,
and some things unheard of--their dress, their speech, their mode of
life, their food, the way they reared the cattle and tilled their
fields; nay, every domestic arrangement. A farmer should be able
to move his limbs freely; but these men did their ploughing and
threshing in tight-fitting breeches, in doublets that were the veriest
straight-waistcoats; and the breeches, moreover, were scarlet--perhaps
to delight the bulls they ploughed with. They wore their hair flowing,
and their beards were long; and no man of them was ever seen without
his array of arms. It quite frightened him to see them go tending the
cattle with the gun on their backs, or discourse with a next-door
neighbour axe in hand. "What on earth is this dangerous nonsense for,
with a passionate, easily-roused people?" Taras would ask himself. And
that such was their temper was shown by their very speech. In the
lowlands people, as a rule, speak measuredly, in well-ordered
sentences; but these men flung their notions at each other as though
every statement must leave a bump or cut upon the other's head.
Nor was this all: their ways in some things appeared to him past
conception. They seemed like grown children for carelessness, sending
their sheep or cattle into the mountains miles away, with only a lad or
two to mind them--was it in consideration of the prowling wolf and
bear? These visitors, indeed, were not slow in carrying off what
pleased them, whilst others of the scared cattle strayed into hopeless
wilds or came to grief in some rocky solitude. Less startling than this
manner of cattle-keeping was their agriculture; yet even this raised
Taras's wonder. Their ploughs were peculiar, and their seasons of
sowing, harvesting, threshing, all differed from his every experience.
A man of poorer quality would simply have shrugged his shoulders,
saying it was no concern of his. But Taras began to consider and to
compare, and it was quite a relief to his mind--nay, a joy to his
heart--to discover that, though much with them was peculiar, his new
neighbours must not just be looked down upon as fools. He understood
that the people of Zulawce had a good reason for setting about their
various field labours at other times than did the farmers of the plain.
It was because their seasons differed. And he perceived that the
Podolian plough, broad and shovel-like, was fit for the rich, soft
earth of the lowlands, but not for the stony, upland soil of Zulawce.
The people there, then, were right in substituting a strong, digging
wedge of a ploughshare, being unreasonable only in this--that they
would use this same plough for their low-lying fields by the Pruth,
where the earth was rich and yielding. It was much the same with their
manner of feeding. The Podolians have rye and beef; the Huzuls up in
their mountain haunts must be satisfied with oats and sheep. Now the
people of Zulawce just followed the Huzuls' example, although they
reared cattle, and could grow both wheat and rye. And, again, their
clothing was ill-adapted to their needs, and their carrying arms
uncalled-for and foolish, but it was neither more nor less with them
than simply preserving the habit of their upland neighbours. The Huzul
must carry his gun, for his life is a constant warfare with bears or
bandits. Now, at Zulawce things went more peaceably, but the
belligerent habit remained. This mixture of the reasonable and
unreasonable was most apparent in their ways with the cattle. It was
natural that they should keep their live stock on the hills, utilising
the land round about their village to its utmost agricultural
possibilities; but it was stupidly careless to provide neither fold nor
capable herdsmen. The Huzuls had no choice but to leave their flocks at
large for want of hands, an excuse which could not be pleaded at
Zulawce.
Now Taras was fully aware that these things could, and must, be mended,
but he also knew it would be hopeless to attempt convincing his new
neighbours of anything by the power of speech. On the contrary, advice,
however excellent, which cast a slur on their habits would be the
surest means of rousing both their anger and their opposition. So he
strove to teach them by the force of example, letting his fields be a
sort of model farm in their midst. And his strongest ally in this
silent labour of love was their own self-interest waking a desire of
emulating his gain. They watched him in the spring, they came to borrow
his plough in the autumn, and by the next season they had provided
themselves with a ploughshare like his. It was the same with other
things. They began to perceive it might be an advantage to see to the
safety of their grazing cattle, without much inquiring into their own
reasons for adopting a plan they had neglected or despised so far. And
Taras was the very last to remind them that they owed him any thanks,
it being to this man the fairest of rewards that his silent endeavour
should bear fruit.
But the recompense he coveted was not his in all things; he would find
himself baffled, yet he renewed his quiet conflict unwearyingly,
seeking to overcome that savage spirit of contention, that love of
avenging themselves, prevailing with the men of Zulawce. If two had
cause of quarrel it was a rare proof of moderation to allow the village
judge a voice in the matter. And whatever the object of contest might
be, a strip of land or a fowl, the stronger took possession. If the
other succeeded in ousting him, or if the judge managed to arbitrate,
it was well; if not, the stronger just kept his booty, and that, too,
was considered well. As for appealing to law, it appeared out of the
question; the far-off Emperor was welcome to his crown, but that any
appointed authority in his name should dispense justice at Colomea they
simply ignored. They would, indeed, have thought it an insult to have
to do with any magistrate--their very thieves were too good for that;
they would thrash the rascals and let them go. And as for their
relations with their count, it was a natural state of warfare, if not
with him personally, then with his steward or mandatar, old Gonta; and
shouts, of victory filled the air whenever they succeeded in wresting
from him the smallest tittle of his claims. That any mandatar ever
should attempt to worst them they had little fear, for did they not
carry axe and gun? But this state of things seemed utterly horrible to
Taras, whose course of life had taught him to look upon Justice as the
lode-star and centre of all things. He could not understand these men,
till he perceived that concerning their personal character also he must
seek explanation in the fact that they clung to the peculiarities of
the mountain tribe, be it in virtue or in vice.
The more he grew acquainted with the upland forest, and the more he saw
of the Huzuls, the better he learned to judge of his neighbours in the
village. Neither wealth, nor extreme poverty are known in those
pine-covered haunts; envy, therefore, in these solitudes has no power
to separate the hearts of men. Life goes hard with each and all
alike--privation, the inclemency of the weather, the wild beast, being
the common foes of all. The individual man makes a mark only in so far
as he has power to overcome these foes; hence a feeling of equality and
oneness, based upon the similarity of all. And whereas the people of
the lowlands once a week only, on Sundays and in their churches, are
taught to look upon men as equals in the sight of God, these
highlanders know of no other church but their own wide forest, in which
they bow the knee to no man, if ever they bow it to Him of whom they
vaguely believe that He dwelleth above. It is natural, therefore, that
they know of no difference of rank in men, using the simple "thou" to
each and all alike. Now the men of Zulawce were not so circumstanced;
some of them were masters, and some of them were serving-men; some knew
poverty and some knew wealth; but the spirit of the tribe continued
with them. A little envy, a little respect for riches, had found a
footing with them; but, nevertheless, a strong feeling of equality
survived, and they were too proud to cringe before any man; the rich
peasant was addressed as familiarly as the beggar. Their speech was
rough; but the feeling whence such roughness sprang was not in itself
despicable. And it was the one point in which Taras yielded his habit
to theirs, adopting their ways in this, at least, that he also said
"thou" to everybody, and was satisfied that from the judge to the
meanest of his own farm labourers all should say "thou" to him.
But it was not merely the pride of freedom, it was that inveterate
habit of avenging themselves in matters of right and wrong which had
come to them from the parent tribe. The Huzul is bound to fight for
himself. A man who any moment may meet some desperate outlaw in the
mountain wilds must be prepared to defend himself or perish. And not
merely in such cases the Huzul must be his own protector. Supposing two
men far up in the mountains, a hundred or more miles away from the
nearest magistrate, fall a-quarrelling over a strip of pasture-ground,
shall he who is wronged appeal to law? Granted he were willing to
undertake the tedious journey, it might be a year or more before some
law officer could put in an appearance up there for taking evidence on
the spot. Justice from her appointed centres cannot easily reach such
outlying regions. But supposing even a magistrate's verdict had been
obtained, what power on earth can force the loser to abide by it? The
Emperor's authority?--he barely knows his name, and the far-off majesty
is little enough to him--or coercion? But who is to take a body of
armed constables on impossible roads to the very heart of the
mountain-range, merely to make sure that a slip of pasture-ground for
the feeding of a score of sheep shall belong to Sfasko and not to
Wasko! Why, even if it could be done what were the gain? Sfasko,
indeed, might rejoice if the servants of the law had got there, for
Wasko would have the keeping of them, and Wasko must give up the
contested land. But no sooner than their backs were turned, Wasko, by
right of the stronger, would pay him out for it, turning Sfasko's
victory to defeat. Under such circumstances, then, and because no law
can be enforced there, it is natural that the children of the forest
should manage their own justice, each man for himself. But to Taras it
appeared a deplorable state of things that the more civilised peasants
of Zulawce should also require to fight for themselves. So he set about
an all but forlorn hope of reforming their minds, striving earnestly,
and making little impression save on his own suffering soul. Twice he
succeeded in persuading the quarrellers to submit their suit to Judge
Stephen's decision, and this only because the men in question had
benefited by his generous kindness and did not like to lose it. In most
cases he failed entirely; the people still anxious, perhaps, of
retaining his goodwill, would listen to him with some show of patience,
but took matters into their own hands nevertheless, calling him an
innocent lamb of the lowlands for not knowing that a bear had his paws
to use them.
But for all that, these contentious creatures had found out that the
"innocent lamb" was nowise wanting in manliness. They liked to take his
advice on general things, and elected him to the civil eldership as
years went on, which greatly added to his influence; and with might and
main he continued to strive for love of peace in the parish. Somehow or
other, the men by degrees did not fly to arms quite so readily,
perceiving that in most cases they did better to submit to Judge
Stephen, abiding by his decision, or rather by that of Taras; for the
judge, himself prone to wrath, would pass them over to the younger man
in order to save his own temper.
"You have introduced this nonsense here," he would say; "it is meet,
therefore, you should have the bother of it. 'Twere easier to settle if
they had come to blows first."
But Taras was only too glad to be thus "bothered," sparing neither
time, nor trouble, nor patience; and at such cost it was given him more
and more to convince the contending parties of the justness of his
judgments.
But so far he had succeeded only in little things. In matters of more
importance he was unable to prevent the shedding of blood--as, for
instance, when he that went by the name of Red Schymko fell out with
his brother Waleri concerning the right of pasturage on a certain
field. That was considered a great matter; and not till Schymko had
been maimed by a blow from Waleri's axe, in return for which he lodged
a bullet in his brother's thigh, did they permit the judge and elders
to have any voice in the matter. Judge Stephen and his coadjutors were
most anxious to pass righteous judgment, examining matters carefully;
but as their verdict could not otherwise than be in favour of the said
Waleri, it resulted in Schymko's marching his armed labourers to the
contested field by way of maintaining his claim. And the matter ended
in Waleri's yielding, leaving Red Schymko in possession after all.
It was concerning this business that Taras very nearly lost his
eldership by reason of a word of sensible advice. It was just before
the yearly election, when Schymko, with his labourers, had taken
possession of the field, that Taras said to him, "If you will not abide
by the judge's verdict, you can but appeal to the magistrates of the
district." "Go to law!" roared Schymko. "Go to law!" echoed the people,
as though Taras had advised the direst folly ever heard of. But they
took it seriously, and when, a few days later, it was a question of
readmitting him to the eldership, the general opinion was to the effect
that being honest and good was a recommendation certainly, but an elder
had need to be no fool! He was chosen, nevertheless; but even his
friend Simeon, to whose strenuous exertions his re-election was partly
due, could only say, "You see, he _is_ a lowlander--how should he know
any better?"
Such experiences made Taras more careful, but they could not discourage
him. He saw that even at best it would take the work of a lifetime to
lay a foundation of better things with these people. They must be
taught in the first place that the authority of their own judge should
be unquestioned. He took great care never again to hint at the
existence of law-courts, but to educate them up to the lesser point. He
gained ground, though very slowly. He could work for it patiently, for
had not good fortune smiled on him in all things besides, making his
own life pleasant at last and happy beyond many! His homestead seemed a
cradle of success, and the children his wife had borne him grew like
olive branches round about his table. There was not a cloud in his
heavens, and every good seed he had sown was like the grain on his own
fields, bearing fruit, some thirty, some sixty fold; surely this one
thing for which he laboured would yet come to be added to his golden
sheaf!
Returning home in the evening he would rest by the side of his faithful
wife, his little boy Wassilj upon his knee, and there was no greater
joy to him at such times than to glance back to his own early years and
to follow with the inward eye the growth of his life's happiness--a
struggling thing at first, but a strong tree now with spreading
branches, beneath which he and his might safely dwell. "It is no puny
seedling," he would say, looking about him with happy pride, "but even
like the strong pine that strikes root the deeper for having chanced
upon the hard and rocky soil where no man's favour helped to rear it,
and the sun of God's justice only yielded the light towards which it
grew!" And his prayer in those days was something after this fashion:
"Thou righteous One in the heavens who hast given me many things, if so
be that Thou wilt let me keep them, I have just nothing left to ask for
but this one thing: that I might teach these people, whom I have come
to look upon as my brothers, that Thy will is very beautiful because it
is just. There is this foolish old priest of ours always telling them
of Thy grace and never a word of Thy justice--how should they
understand their duties aright!" ... For himself in those days Taras
had nothing to ask for.
Such was Taras Barabola at the time when Mr. Wenceslas Hajek made his
entry at Zulawce--one of the happiest and most upright of men.