TAKING UP THE BATTLE.
Spring had returned upon the mountains. Some of the higher summits, it
is true, still wore their crown of snow, glittering now in the sunshine
of April; but the little village gardens of Zulawce were looking bright
with early flowers, and on the slope toward Prinkowce the graveyard had
burst into bloom where they had laid Judge Stephen to his rest. The
spot was carefully tended, and marked with a well-wrought stone cross,
as Taras had ordered, who was judge in his stead; for Harasim,
Stephen's only son, had not troubled himself about it: drink was doing
its work with him, and if his farm was kept in tolerable order it was
due simply to the care of his cousins, Anusia and her husband. Taras
had taken this burden also upon himself, though life pressed heavily on
his shoulders; for it grew more evident to him, day after day, that it
was no light thing to be judge of Zulawce while Wenceslas Hajek, as
Count Borecki's land steward, had power in the village. Again and again
the dying speech of Stephen rang in his ears.
As for the mandatar, he had rejoiced on learning that Taras had
succeeded the old judge; this gentle Podolian, who had always been on
the yielding side, seemed the very man for his plans. His fury
naturally was all the greater on discovering his mistake. The 'capital
subject' certainly never lost his temper or threatened violence, but
every unfair demand he opposed with an inflexible "No," which was all
the more effective for being given calmly, almost humbly, and fully
substantiated with good reasons. On one occasion, however, his
imperturbation was in imminent danger; Hajek had patted him on the
shoulder, saying, with a knowing wink: "Well, my good fellow, suppose
you allow me two labourers more; it shall not be your loss." Taras upon
this gave the rascal a look which took the colour out of his face, and
made him turn back a step, trembling.
From that hour there seemed enmity between the two, and the more the
one strove to encroach, the more the other met him with refusal. But
while Taras succeeded in maintaining a stern calm, the mandatar again
and again was seen foaming with rage. It was so upon a certain occasion
early in April, and for a trivial cause. Hajek was making a plantation,
and wanted the villagers to allow him a quantity of young trees from
their forest.
"We are not bound to yield that," said Taras, quietly.
The mandatar paced his floor, apparently beyond himself; but a
discriminating observer might have doubted the sincerity of his rage.
"Don't force me to take high measures," he roared. "Why should you
refuse me a few wretched saplings? I shall just take them, if you hold
out."
"You will do no such thing," returned Taras, as quietly as before.
"Do you think I am afraid of your guns and axes?" Hajek's words rose to
a shriek, as though he were half-suffocated with passion, but his eye
was fixed on the peasant's face with a watchful glance.
"No," said the latter, "I am thinking that there are magistrates in the
district. We shall never have recourse to violence, even if you should
make the beginning."
"This is palaver."
"I mean what I say," said Taras, drawing himself up proudly. "While I
am judge here, the men of Zulawce shall not take the law into their own
hands on whatever provocation.... But why speak of such things? The
trees you cannot have, so let me take my leave, sir."
"Go!" growled the mandatar, but a queer light transformed his features
no sooner than Taras's back was turned. "That is useful to know," he
said to himself with an approving smile. "This man is quite a jewel of
a judge.... No, there is no need to be wroth with you, my good Taras!
So, after all, my first impression of you was the right one!... Old
Stephen could never have had a better successor!"
But Taras, the judge, went home with a heavy heart. He had no thanks
for his battling, save in his own conscience; the men of Zulawce had
scarcely a word of acknowledgment. On the contrary, they considered him
far too yielding on many points; and, as they viewed matters, there was
truth in their charge. Severin Gonta and the late Count, for the sake
of peace, had not made good every claim to the very letter; but Hajek
demanded every tittle that was his by right of institution, granting
not an hour of respite, and foregoing not a peck of wheat; and Taras as
a matter of duty never opposed him in this. It was quite correct, then,
if the people said that the new judge insisted on their yielding all
dues far more strictly than any of his predecessors ever had done.
Indeed, it was only the love and respect he had won for himself in the
village that kept under any real distrust or open accusation. For he
was all alone in his work, no one helped him by explaining things to
the people, not even that shepherd of his flock whose duty it fairly
might have been. The reverend Martin sat on his glebe as on an isle of
content, all because of that strange man, Avrumko, who kept supplying
him so freely; and any sympathy he might have given was thus drowned.
But Taras continued bravely and hopefully, comforting his wife when her
courage failed. "The right must conquer," he would tell her; "and for
the rest, have we not an Emperor at Vienna, and God above?"
"But Vienna is far, and God in heaven seems further," said she,
disheartened.
"Not so far," cried he, "but that both will hear us if we must call for
redress. But things will not come to such a pass; even a mandatar will
scarcely dare to subvert the right and do violence."
He was mistaken. Hajek dared both. It was about a month after that
conversation concerning the trees. Taras in the early morning was in
his yard, giving orders to his two servants, Sefko and Jemilian,
concerning the sowing of the wheat, when he was startled by a dull
report, which quivered through the air, a second and a third clap
succeeding.
"Gunshots!" he gasped.
"Some one out hunting," said Sefko.
"No!" cried Jemilian; "it is near the river. Could it be 'Green Giorgi'
with his band?" referring to a notorious outlaw of those days, a
deserter, George Czumaka by name, who wore a green jerkin.
"No!" cried Taras, in his turn, and making for the road. "In broad
daylight he would never dare.... What has happened?" he interrupted
himself, changing colour. A young farm labourer, Wassilj Soklewicz,
came dashing along wild with terror.
"Help! help!" he shrieked. His clothes were torn, and he looked white
as death.
"What is it?" repeated Taras, seizing him by the arm.
"Help!" groaned the poor fellow. "They have just killed my brother
Dimitri!"
"Where? Who?"
"The mandatar ... on the parish field!" said Wassilj; continuing
brokenly: "We had gone there early this morning, my brother and I,
together with the two sons of Dubko, to work on the field as you told
us. We had taken our guns with us, intending to have a shot in the
afternoon. We had just put the oxen to the ploughs when the mandatar
arrived with a number of men, all armed. 'Get ye gone,' he cried; 'you
are trespassing on the Count's property.'"
"'Begone yourselves!' returned my brother Dimitri, seizing hold of his
gun, which he had laid down, we doing likewise. 'This field has been
parish ground time out of mind; I shall shoot any one that says the
contrary.'
"The mandatar at this fell back, but urged on his men from behind, and
they attacked us with guns and scythes. We sent our bullets amongst
them, and the foremost of the party, Red Hritzko, turned a somersault
and lay still on his face. One of us had hit him. But they also fired
their guns, and my brother fell, shot through the heart!... They were
too many for us, and they turned upon as with their butt ends. But we
got away!..."
The poor youth told his tale amid gasps and sobs, and before he had
finished a crowd of villagers had gathered. From their houses, from
their fields round about, the men came running, gathering about their
judge. Most were fully armed, and all were wildly excited; for the
parish field is sacred ground with every Slavonic community; he who
dares touch it is not merely an offender against their property, but
against their very affections; it is all but sacrilege in the eyes of
these men.
Taras also felt his soul upheave, but he conquered his wrath, knowing
the people. "If I lose self-possession," he said to himself, "blood
will flow in streams to-day!" So he faced the men, who were for
pressing on to the scene of the outrage. "Stop!" he cried, "we shall go
in a body! Call the elders and the rest of the men."
The command was scarcely needed, for they were coming, every man of
them, and the wives and the children. Wrathful cries filled the air,
the women wailed, and children shrieked with an unknown fear. The
mother of the young man who had been shot, a widow named Xenia, came
rushing along; she had torn the kerchief from her head, and her grey
hair fell in tangled masses round her grief-filled face. "Avenge my
child!" she implored the judge, clasping his knees.
He lifted her, speaking to her gently; and turning to Simeon and his
fellow-elder he ordered them to let the men fall in. "The heads of
families only," he said; "let the women and young men stay here!"
"Stay here!" shrieked Xenia.
"Yes, why?" shouted the excited people. "Let every one follow who is
able to lift a gun."
"My orders shall be obeyed," cried Taras, drawing himself up in their
midst. "I pledge my head that I shall do my duty!" These words of his
were like magic, the people yielded, and the procession formed.
But at this juncture Anusia pressed through the crowd, her youngest
child on her left arm, her right hand brandishing a musket. "Take it!"
she cried, offering it to her husband; "it is my father's gun and never
yet missed fire!"
"Go home, wife," said Taras, "this is not woman's business, I go
unarmed."
"Why? why?" yelled the people; but she caught him by the shoulder in
wildest excitement. "Taras!" she screamed, "let me not regret that I
was saved from the river! It is a man to whom I yielded, and not to a
coward!"
"For heaven's sake, woman," cried Simeon, aghast, "you know not what
you are saying!"
But she continued: "He who would have peace, since blood has been shed,
disgraces his manhood. Will you allow yourself to be killed without
striking a blow, lamb that you are?"
Taras stood proudly upright, but his face was livid, his eyes were
sunk. His breast heaved with the tumult within, but not a word passed
his lips. Thus silently he held out his hand, motioning the woman
aside, and she obeyed, confounded.
"Men of Zulawce," he said at last, slowly and distinctly, but with a
voice which, from its strange huskiness, no one would have recognised
as his, "I speak not now of the dishonour my wife has put upon me; I
shall do that by-and-by, in your presence likewise. But now I ask you,
will you obey me as your judge, or will you not? Once again, I pledge
my head that I shall do my duty!"
"We will," they cried unanimously.
"Then let us go." And the procession started, some sixty men, heads of
families, following Taras, who led the way with the two elders, Simeon
and Alexa Sembrow, his own successor.
The field in question, the common property of the community, was an
irregular square, sloping towards the river, its upper boundary being a
coppice which also belonged to the parish. A large black cross rose in
the centre.
On stepping from the coppice, through which their road lay, the
peasants could overlook the field at a glance. The mandatar with his
men had established himself by the cross; he evidently had hired
reinforcements, for they numbered some forty. At the lower end of the
field, by the river, two of his labourers were seen ploughing with a
yoke of oxen; another team stood ready for use by the cross. On the
upper part, near the coppice, lay the body of the slain youth,
evidently dragged thither by Hajek's men. But when the peasants beheld
the corpse, and the armed band below, their fury knew no bounds; a
thundering "Urrahah!" burst from them, and they pressed forward.
But Taras was before them, snatching at Simeon's pistol and turning it
against his own forehead. "Stop!" he cried with a voice that could not
but be listened to. "Another step, and I shall kill myself before your
eyes."
They fell back, hesitating; but they obeyed.
The mandatar's men meanwhile prepared for fight, Mr. Wenceslas himself
hiding behind them. He let his under-steward be spokesman in his stead,
a huge fellow from Bochnia, Boleslaw Stipinski, by name.
"What do you want?" roared this giant; "are you for fighting or for
peaceful speech?"
"We have come to defend our right," shouted Taras.
"Your wrong, you mean," retained Boleslaw. "But no matter, we stand on
our master's soil, and shall yield it only with our lives. Mr. Hajek is
prepared to affirm this to the judge and elders, if they will step
forward."
Taras was ready to parley, being followed by Simeon and Alexa. They
found the mandatar crouching on a stone, some of his men lifting their
guns behind him.
"Tell them to put away their firelocks," said Taras, quietly; "you need
not tremble like that; if it were for fight, we had been here sooner."
"Then you are peaceably inclined?" inquired Hajek.
"If you will own yourself in the wrong, offering some atonement for the
crime committed."
"And if not?"
"Then we must refer the matter to the court of the district."
The mandatar recovered himself; he even smiled. "Perhaps that will not
be necessary," he said. "You are a sensible law-abiding man, Taras, and
I daresay you will understand my view of the case quickly enough. You
know that in the days of the Emperor Joseph a survey of the property
was taken. I have the papers, and therein it is plainly put down: 'The
boundary of the parish field is marked by the coppice on the one side,
by the black cross on the other; beyond the cross as far as the river
the soil belongs to the Count.' So you see I am entitled to claim for
my master that part of this field which beyond a doubt is his."
"No," cried Taras; "for when the survey was taken, and until fifteen
years ago, the black cross stood close by the river, leaving a footpath
for the Count who has always had the fishing in the Pruth. When the old
cross was weatherworn the parish erected a new one in the centre of the
field. That, sir, is the plain truth."
"May be," returned Hajek, smiling. "I suppose that would be a question
for the magistrates to look into; in the meantime, I shall act upon the
evidence of my own eyes. It was natural that I should request the men I
found ploughing here to take themselves off. They fired their guns and
killed one of my men; what could we do but fire ours? and I shall keep
the two yoke of oxen to indemnify the Count for his loss. There, I have
done."
"But we have not," said Taras, solemnly, baring his head. "I call the
Almighty to witness that we are grievously wronged! And I protest that
we could never own you in the right! It is in obedience to our Lord the
Emperor, and in obedience to the law of God that we have refrained from
violence. But both the Emperor and the Almighty will see us righted!"
"Well done!" said the mandatar, with a sneer. "This is a finer flourish
than ever fell from the lips of Father Martin; the pope might fairly be
jealous of you!"
Taras felt outraged; but he repressed the reproof that rose to his
lips, and moved away in silence.
"Well!" cried the peasants when their leaders returned to them; "does
he yield? or will you permit us now to offer him proof of our right
after our own fashion?"
"No!" said Taras, "you shall follow me back to the village; we must
convene a public meeting. But, first, we must carry the dead man into
his mother's house, and you, Simeon, meanwhile, ask his reverence to
join us with the Host."
"But what if I find him incapable?" objected the elder.
"No matter, it will not affect that which is holy."
Within an hour the community had assembled under the shade of the lime
tree, outside the village inn. Father Martin, too, had arrived in full
vestments, carrying the pix. It being yet early in the day, the elder
was fortunate in finding him in his right mind.
But before Taras opened the meeting he had a domestic matter to settle.
His wife lay at his feet, and her repentance was as passionate as her
wrath had been.
"Trample upon me," she wept; "cast me from you, I have fully deserved
it!"
But Taras lifted her up--kissed her. "I forgive it," he said, "but not
again!"
And then he went to speak to the people: "There is not a shadow of a
doubt as to our right," he said, "and therefore the district court will
be on our side. Self-avenging yields tears and bloodshed only, and is
likely to leave us in the wrong. I shall start this very day for
Colomea to demand justice against the mandatar, and you shall swear to
me now that you will keep the peace while I am gone."
Father Martin elevated the Host, and the men, kneeling, took the oath.
By noon Taras had set out on his way. He had taken his best horse and
borrowed another on the road, but the distance being a good fifty miles
he could not reach the town before noon the following day. A courier
from the mandatar had forestalled him.
The district governor, therefore, Herr Ferdinand von Bauer, a
comfortable elderly gentleman, was not exactly pleased to see the
village judge, and would have none of his statements. "I know all about
it already," he said, "there is no need to repeat it." But Taras
insisted on substantiating his charge with fall particulars, which
appeared to differ from the account that had been rendered to the
governor. Anyhow this comfortable gentleman began to shake his head,
and to pace the floor of his office. At last he pulled up in front of
the peasant, examining his face. "Is this the truth you are giving me?"
he demanded gruffly.
Taras met his glance fully. "It is the truth," he said solemnly, "so
help me God!"
"Humph! humph!" was all the answer vouchsafed, and the governor again
fell to pacing the floor, till after a while he once more stood still
in front of Taras. "Be hanged, both of you!" he said amiably. "I mean
both lord of the manor and peasantry. Can't you ever keep the peace! A
nice thing to have to arbitrate between you by way of resting one's old
bones!" To be a district governor in Galicia, to his idea, plainly was
not a bed of roses. "Go back to your people," he continued more gently,
"I am unable to decide from a distance, but will send a commissioner to
take evidence on the spot. Meanwhile, you can bury your dead, since we
cannot bring them back to life, whatever we finally decide."
The judge returned quieted. The peace of the village had been kept, in
spite of the towering rage of the peasants at having to stand by and
let the mandatar till the field that was not his. The part beyond the
cross, which Hajek left to the villagers, was ploughed and sown
presently by Taras's men. "A man of the law will soon be here," he
comforted himself and others, "and then we shall be righted."
A fortnight had elapsed when the expected official made his appearance;
but this, unfortunately, did not mend matters. It was a certain
district commissioner, Mr. Ladislas Kapronski, called the "snake" by
his colleagues, which appellation fitted both his character and his
gait, for in the presence of a superior this man never did anything but
wriggle. He may have owed his advancement either to this peculiarity or
to the number of his years, since preferment went by seniority, but
never to his merits; for, whatever might be said of his cringing and
deceitful nature, it was impossible to say aught for his capability, or
even his desire of doing well. And having, moreover, a reputation for
being frightened at the shadow of a hen, not to say at the sight of an
infuriated peasantry, this commissioner plainly was the man for his
mission!
And he did not belie his fame. The question of murder he disposed of in
an off-hand way. "Both sides have had a man killed," he said, "let us
suppose that they are quits. I may presume they killed each other, and
since they are dead we cannot punish them; so that is settled." After a
similar fashion he decided the question concerning the field. "I find
the mandatar in possession for the Count," he said, "and he can prove
his claim from the title-deeds. I must, therefore, give judgment in his
favour."
"And if we had ejected him forcibly," cried Taras, bitterly; "if we had
not refrained from righting ourselves by means of bloodshed, _we_
should have found that possession is law?"
"Well, well," said Mr. Kapronski, trembling at this outburst, "I am
sure it is very praiseworthy that you did not have recourse to
violence. And I did not say that possession was law; indeed, it is not
always. The field may really be yours; in that case, you must just file
a suit and fight it out against the lord of the manor, leaving him in
possession meanwhile."
The peasants demurred, but Taras urged silence. "Is that all you have
come to tell us?" he inquired of the commissioner.
"Well, yes--certainly.... No, stop; there is something else. You shall
see how anxious I am to judge fairly. The two yoke of oxen which the
mandatar has seized shall be returned to you this very day. I have so
ordered it, for justice shall be done. But be sure and leave the Count
in possession; now do, or you will offend grievously."
He had jumped back into his vehicle, in a great hurry to be gone. He
considered he had done his duty, and drove away, greatly relieved to
see the last of these people with their battle-axes and guns.
Taras for some hours was disconsolate, but his faith in justice
restored him. He called together the people. "The right will right
itself," he cried. "I trust in God and believe in the Emperor. We must
go to law!"
But his influence seemed gone. "It is your fault," they exclaimed, "and
you must bear the consequence! We men of Zulawce carry a cause with gun
and axe, and not pen-and-inkwise. It is just your tardiness that lost
us half the field, we will not lose the other half by a law-suit. Or,
at least, if you will try the law, do so at your own expense."
"I am ready for that," said Taras. "A man standing up for the right
must not stop short of victory, even though he should be ruined in the
attempt."
Again he went to Colomea and called upon the district governor. But
Herr von Bauer turned on his heel. "We have done our part," he said
curtly; "if you are not satisfied there is an attorney in the place."
"I do not understand," replied Taras, modestly but firmly. "I want the
law to see us righted and is it not you who, in the Emperor's stead,
are here to dispense it?"
"You great baby!" snorted the governor. But good nature supervened; he
came close to Taras, laying a hand upon his shoulder. "Let me make it
plain to you," he said. "If you go and kill the mandatar, or if he
kills you, it will be my business to come down upon you with the law,
even if no complaint has been urged, for that is a crime. But if you
and your peasants assert that a field is yours, which the steward of
the manor has possession of we can only interfere if you bring an
action, preferring your complaint through an attorney, for that is a
matter in dispute. Now do you understand? if so, go and instruct your
lawyer. Do you take it in?"
"No," said Taras; "the right surely must be upheld, whether life or
property be touched; and to the men of Zulawce that field is as sacred
as my life is to me. Is not justice in all things the world's
foundation? and does not he who disregards it wrong the very law of
life! Can it be the Emperor's will that such wrongdoing is not your
business?"
"Dear! dear!" groaned the magistrate; "have I not always said, it's a
precious business to be a district governor in Galicia? Why, you are
just savages here--no notion of how the law works! But you don't seem a
man to be angry with, so begone in peace."
Taras quitted the office, standing still outside. Disappointment and a
sense of personal injury surged up within him with a pain so vivid,
that he had to wrestle with it for fear he should burst into a shriek
like some wounded animal.
But he recovered himself and went to seek the lawyer. He soon found
him--Dr. Eugene Starkowski--a sharp-witted attorney, who at once caught
the gist of the matter. He shook his head. "It was foolish," he said,
"to move a landmark! But I will see what I can do for you."
"How soon can we expect a decision?"
"Some time in the autumn."
"Not before!" exclaimed Taras.
"No, and you will be lucky if more of your patience is not required. It
will not be my fault, but you see the gentlemen of the court like to
take it easy."
"Take it easy!" echoed Taras, as one in a dream, staring at the lawyer
in helpless wonder. "Take it easy!" he repeated wildly. "Oh, sir, this
is not right! Justice should flow like a well which all can reach, for
it is hard to be athirst for it."
Starkowski looked at the peasant, first with a kind of professional
interest only, but with human sympathy before long. He smiled--"I will
really do my best for you," he said, and his voice was that of a man
comforting a grieving child.
And he did his best, using his every influence to expedite the matter.
In most lawsuits at that time in Galicia six months would slip away
before even a writ was served upon the defendant, but Mr. Hajek, in the
present case, received his within a week. To be sure, he was entitled
to a three months' delay to get up his defence, and he availed himself
of it to the day--for what purpose, the poor peasants presently had
reason to suspect. On the very last day of the term allowed to him he
sent in his reply, pleading in exculpation the reasons he had given to
Taras, and demanding in his turn that a commission should be appointed
for the examining of witnesses on the spot.
Taras's counsel was not a little surprised. To examine the peasants
upon their oath was the one means within the reach of the law for
arriving at the truth concerning the alleged removing of the cross
which marked the boundary. It plainly was in the mandatar's interest to
prevent this if possible, and to take his stand on the ocular evidence
in his favour, as given in the title deeds. Strange that he should
propose the very means of settling the contest which of all was most
likely to go against him! Dr. Starkowski could not make it out. "He is
a fool," he thought, "unless, after all, he is sure of his claim, or,
indeed, has bribed his witnesses." And both conjectures appeared to him
equally unlikely, the former because of the solemn soul-stirring manner
with which Taras had invoked his help; the latter because of the good
opinion Mr. Wenceslas enjoyed in the district town. For his Parisian
antecedents were not known there, and society had admitted him to its
bosom as an amiable gentleman of irreproachable character.
But since both parties were ready to be put upon their oath, there was
nothing else to be done. And the same genius of justice who in the
spring had so capably decided that there was no one to be accused of
murder, was despatched in the autumn to act for the civil law.
"Examine matters carefully, Mr. Kapronski," said the district governor;
"take the depositions of every individual witness, impressing them with
the sanctity of the oath. Go into the case thoroughly--there is no
danger to yourself--and be sure not to hurry it over."
The commissioner, with an obsequious wriggle, departed on his mission.
"The old fool," he said, when seated in his vehicle, "as though it did
not depend on a man's sagacity much more than on his taking time! I'll
see through the business in less than two hours, I will."
He was expected at Zulawce, and all the community had turned out to
receive him--men, women, children, not to forget Father Martin, who,
let it be said of him, for once had eschewed his favourite solace, and
was perfectly sober. Mr. Hajek, too, had arrived, followed by the
gigantic Boleslaw and a number of labourers on the estate. The
commissioner drew up amongst them, and alighting beneath the village
linden, called for a table from the inn.
"That is the first of my requirements," he said to the mandatar; "the
second I have brought with me," pointing at a puffing clerk, who was
seen descending from his seat by the coachman, with a huge parcel of
red-taped foolscap and an inkstand large enough to bespeak the
importance of the proceedings. "The third requisite," continued the
commissioner, "a crucifix, no doubt these good people can provide."
They procured one from the nearest house. It was placed upon the table.
"To add to the solemnity," whispered the clerk, "two burning candles
..."
"No need," interrupted the commissioner. "I myself will be a light to
their understanding." But his voice, as he turned to the people,
quivered with anxiety. "I have come," he said, "to find out where the
black cross, now in the centre of the so-called parish field, may have
stood sixteen years ago. This is all the evidence I care for. So
whoever of you has no testimony to offer on this head may take himself
off--have the goodness to retire, I mean!"
A few labourers from the lowlands only obeyed this injunction, no one
else moving. All eyes were fixed on him, such proceedings, indeed, not
being an every-day spectacle.
"It is alleged," resumed Mr. Kapronski, "that the cross in question was
removed from its formed position fifteen years ago. Now, those only can
affirm or deny this who were not children at the time. I will listen to
no one, therefore, who has not passed his thirtieth year. I mean, all
that are younger, I will ask them kindly to retire."
No one stirred. Kapronski looked about with an uncertain gaze. Happily,
Taras came to the rescue.
"Have you not understood?" he cried, with far-reaching voice. "Whoever
has not reached his thirtieth year is not wanted."
It sufficed. First the girls ran away, followed by the women and
children, the young men leaving reluctantly. Some two hundred of the
villagers were left, forming a dense crowd round the table.
"And now, listen," continued the commissioner. "Whoever has no clear
personal recollection where the cross stood sixteen years ago, let him
lift his right hand."
Only two hands were lifted--those of the leaders of the contending
parties. "I came to the village eighteen months ago," said the
mandatar. "And I ten years ago," said the judge.
"Never mind!" cried Kapronski, hastily. "Please stay; these men
might----" he surveyed the stalwart assembly with evident
embarrassment, and then added, "you have a right to watch the
proceedings! Please, Mr. Mandatar, step to the right of the table; and
you, Mr. Taras, to the left."
"Now then, listen!" he repeated, addressing himself once more to the
people. "Whoever of you remembers for a certainty that sixteen years
ago the black cross stood where it now stands, in the centre of the
field, let him step to the right, taking his place beside Mr. Hajek.
But whoever, on the contrary, is sure of recollecting that the cross
sixteen years ago stood by the river and was removed thence to its
present place a twelvemonth later, let him step to the left side,
joining your judge."
The division took place amid ominous growls, which broke into
exclamations of unbounded wrath and indignant imprecations when the
opposing parties stood facing each other. "You curs!" cried the
peasants, brandishing their axes. For not only was the mandatar
supported by the labourers and farmers of the manorial estate, but,
contrary to all expectation, some of the villagers had gone to his
side--drunkards and others of low character. Now, whatever these might
be thought capable of, no one had given them credit for such open
treason against the community--the very worst of crimes in the eyes of
those people, to whom no bond is more sacred than that between man and
man for the common weal. And what carried their disgust to its height
was the fact that the son of their own old judge had joined the enemy.
Harasim Woronka, too, had taken his place beside the mandatar, not won
over by bribery like the rest of them, but by his own thirst for
revenge: it seemed an opportunity for crushing the hated stranger.
Harasim was fast going to ruin, and in his fuddled brain the thought
kept burning: "If it were not for Taras I might be judge this day,
besides being Anusia's husband and the richest man of the village." And
whatever benefit he had received at the hands of the noble-hearted
stranger had been like oil to the fire of his hatred. Too cowardly for
an open act of revenge, he had lent a willing ear to the tempter coming
to him in the guise of Boleslaw; but what little good was left in his
degraded soul must have pleaded with his conscience even now, for he
stood trembling visibly.
"You miserable woman of a man!" roared the insulted peasants; "you
disgrace your father in his very grave!" Harasim grew white, his hands
clutching the air like a drowning man, for not a more terrible reproach
can be offered to a child of that race. Indeed, he would have owned his
wickedness there and then by returning to the ranks of those to whom he
belonged by kinship and destiny, had not Boleslaw interfered, seizing
the wavering object with his huge hand and holding him tight.
"Murder!" roared the peasants, making an onslaught against the giant.
It seemed as though the fury of bloodshed were let loose.
The three men by the table looked upon this scene with greatly
differing sensations. The commissioner had grown ashy, being ready to
swoon. Mr. Hajek, on the contrary, quivered with elation, but strove to
hide his sense of victory beneath a mask of aggrieved consternation,
saying to the representative of the law: "There, now, is it not almost
impossible to maintain one's right with such people?" The virtuous
creature would have felt doubly elated had one of the uplifted axes
silenced Harasim for ever.
But that, to his disappointment, was prevented by the resolute and
magnanimous courage of Taras, the judge. The treachery of Harasim had
hurt him more than any of the others; but for a moment only did he
yield to his feelings, duty coming to his rescue and making him strong.
"Forbear!" he cried, with powerful voice. "Forbear," echoed the elders,
and with them he faced the enraged peasants. They fell back, leaving a
space between the two parties.
Kapronski kept shaking and quaking; his blanched lips opened and shut,
but they framed not a sound. Luckily for him, an incident--partly
ludicrous, but in truth most sad--at this juncture diverted attention
from his own miserable self; for, when the parties once more stood
facing each other, they perceived what had escaped their infuriated
senses before, that one man had not joined either side, but was left
standing in the middle--the village pope, Martin Sustenkowicz. Nor did
the shepherd of Zulawce at this moment look like the happy peacemaker
between his belligerent parishioners, being too plainly of a divided
mind, and dolefully unsettled.
"Why, your reverence," cried the under-steward, "what are you about!
Did you not swear to me yesterday that the mandatar was in the right?"
"Ah--hm--yes--yesterday!" stammered the pope, with a dazed look at the
peasants, and taking an uncertain step to the other side.
"Stop! not this way, little father!" broke in Alexa, seizing him by his
caftan; "did not you tell me this very morning: 'The field is yours
most certainly, for with my own hands I consecrated the new cross
fifteen years ago'?"
"Hm--ah--yes--consecrated!" groaned the poor man helplessly, a
distracted figure in their midst. The mandatar took pity on him.
"Move this way," he said, with wicked sarcasm, "there is room behind
the table right away from the contending parties. We have no candles to
solemnise the scene, let the light of your countenance make up for it,
illumining this crowd of witnesses."
The commissioner meanwhile had partly recovered, and had found his
voice, though a husky one. "I must administer the oath," he said, "for
you have given evidence by taking your position either on this side or
on that. Let any one who cannot swear to his deposition show it by
lifting his hand."
Not a finger moved.
Kapronski gasped. He was anxious to get over the business, but this
state of things seemed to force from him some kind of exhortation. "My
good people," he cried, "why, perjury is no joke! There's a Judge in
heaven you know, and--hm--I mean--_we_ punish any one convicted of
swearing falsely. And--it seems plain--only one of the parties can take
their oath honestly. So do consider, I entreat you! Now then--which of
you cannot--hm--ought not, to swear?"
But his well-meant speech fell flat. The only witness whose hand seemed
to make an upward movement, Harasim Woronka, let drop his arm when the
overpowering Boleslaw whispered in his ear: "Wretched coward, shall
Taras rejoice after all?"
The commissioner wiped his brow--this was more than he dared report to
his superiors. "Unheard of case!" he groaned, turning to the mandatar.
"Hadn't we better get the priest to speak to the people?"
"By all means," replied Mr. Hajek, with his most pious mien; "I have no
doubt he will vastly influence the sleeping conscience."
But Taras shook his head. "Mr. Kapronski," he said, "it is a sad thing
for people to be shepherded as we are. You see with your own eyes what
manner of man he is. But we poor peasants have no voice in the matter,
we can only strive to reverence the holy things, if we cannot reverence
him who dispenses them. Therefore we try to avoid anything that must
lower him in our eyes, for it is not well when the people are given
cause of mockery. Nay, it is not well, God knows! Judge for yourself,
sir, would it be fit to let him speak to the people at this solemn
moment? For is not an oath an awful thing, terribly awful?"
Kapronski breathed, relieved. Were not the peasants the accusers in
this matter? If they, then, were satisfied to have no further
exhortation, he was not accountable for any consequences. He stepped
forward. "I put you all upon your oath," he said, baring his head, and
every one present followed his example. And having once again stated
the matter to be sworn, the peasants, one after another, passed in
front of the crucifix, giving their names and lifting three fingers of
their right hand, saying: "I swear." But the mandatar's party after
them, to a man, took the oath likewise. It was done quietly and
quickly.
The commissioner pulled out his watch. "An hour and forty minutes," he
said, triumphantly. His vehicle had stood by in readiness. He mounted
at once, and quitted the village with all possible speed.