THE WRONG VICTORIOUS.
Autumn, as a rule, is by far the most pleasant season in the Galician
highlands. The winter there is long, dreary, and trying; the spring
cool, and all too short; the summer exceedingly hot, and liable to
thunderstorms almost daily. But in the autumn Nature wears a genial
face in the uplands, with a delicious continuance of sunshine, when the
airy dome is scarcely ruffled by the breeze, and wondrously clear; day
succeeding day of this gentle splendour till late in November
sometimes. Not so, however, in the year we are speaking of. In that
season the birds had left early for their southern haunts, the earth
looking bare and cheerless all of a sudden; the sun had hidden within
heavy clouds, and the whirling snowflakes were at their chill play
before September was well out. Brighter days once more supervened, but
they were bitterly cold, ushering in a fresh fall of snow and a dismal
twilight of the heavens, which seemed determined to last.
The people sat gloomily by their firesides, growing the more alarmed at
this early show of winter as they listened to the tales of the old folk
among them, who remembered a similar season in their youth--the winter
of 1792--which was a terrible visitation in that country, beginning as
early as the present one. In that year the cold grew so intense that
men scarcely ventured outside their cottages, because every breath they
drew went like daggers to their lungs, and their limbs were benumbed in
the space of a few minutes, so that even in trying to get from one end
of the village to the other some had been frozen to death. And the snow
drifted in such masses that the dwellers in the glens were hopelessly
shut up, some actually dying of starvation. Thus ran the terrible tale;
but the old folk at Zulawce were like old people everywhere, and the
dread experience of their youth grew in horror with the receding years.
The spectres of fear roused by these memories kept glaring at men and
women within the lowly cottages.
Distress and suffering seemed at hand; and the poor were the poorer for
the loss of the common field, the produce of which would have yielded
them a welcome share. But more than this, the harvest had failed in
part, and the cold overtaking the land so early threatened to destroy
the winter crop. Thus the future was as clouded as the present, and
want might be looked for. Had such trouble befallen the men of the
lowlands they would have borne it sadly and meekly, bowing their heads
before the Lord of the seasons. But not so the defiant natures at
Zulawce, questioning their fate indignantly, and looking about for one
who might bear the brunt of their anger; for, with the strong,
affliction is apt to blaze forth in wrath. Their scapegoat was easily
found; for who else should be to blame for the loss of that field if
not Taras, their long-suffering judge!
Grievous days had come to him, and he would not have known how to bear
his burden, but for the conviction upholding him that the decision of
the court could not long be delayed now. This alone gave him the
strength to continue his sorrowful duty day after day. The mandatar
pitilessly went on grasping at every pound of flesh he might claim; the
community either could or would not yield it. If Taras tried to reason
with them to submit to the forest labour, which again had been sold,
they retorted it was not their duty, and even he might know now what
came of being too docile towards a rascally land-steward! Besides they
had not the strength for it now, they said, half-starving as they were;
and but for him the produce of that field by the river might now be
safely stored in their granaries. And on his replying that, in that
case, he must discontinue his office, they said scornfully their little
father Stephen had been a judge for fair days as well as foul; it was a
pity that he was gone, since his successor evidently was not like him
in this. And Taras felt this taunt far more deeply than even the
passionate appeals of his wife. He resolved to see the matter to its
end; and, since there seemed no other means, he had the required forest
labour done by his own men, or by others willing to work for his pay.
"We can afford it," he consoled his more prudent wife, "and if I thus
step into the breach for the parish it is not as though I took it from
the property which you have brought to me, since I have added to it
honestly by my own diligence. And I shall have a right to expect
indemnification when better days shall have come round. God surely will
see to our being righted, and He will lessen the burden we now have to
bear. Besides, a verdict must reach us before long, and there cannot be
any doubt but that the court will see that the village has been
wronged."
The verdict, however, was still delayed. Week after week passed amid
suffering and dejection, and Christmas to the villagers brought nothing
of its own good cheer. For the grim snowstorms continued, and if at
intervals the skies would brighten, it was only to usher in still
sharper frosts.
It was on the Epiphany of 1837 that the rigorous cold unexpectedly came
to an end. Quite early on that day the people had been waked from their
sleep by strange noises in the air, and rushing from their houses, were
met by an unwonted warmth. It was the south wind so ardently longed
for. It did not blow long enough to bring about any melting of the
snow, folding its merciful wings all too soon; but the terrible cold
nevertheless appeared to have received its death blow, the temperature
not again sinking much below freezing point.
And in happy mood old and young that morning went to church; men even
who had been sworn enemies for years would look at each other
pleasantly at the welcome change. Taras also beheld brighter faces, and
heard kinder words than had fallen on his ear since the sorrowful
springtime. Indeed, so strong and general was the feeling of relief and
of gratitude due to the Almighty, that even the pope was seized by the
wave and carried to a shore of contrition he had not reached for many a
year. Mass had been read, and the people were about to depart, quite
accustomed to the fact that Father Martin, on account of his own sad
failing, would excuse the sermon; but they were startled by his request
to resume their seats, and he actually mounted his pulpit. Poor man, he
could not give them much of a discourse, but such as it was it lent
expression to their own feelings, and could not fail to touch their
hearts.
The people, who were in a good frame of mind, after church gathered in
groups outside. There was the weather to be talked about, and the
sermon, and the lawsuit; concerning the latter, some of those even who
bore Taras the deepest grudge were heard to say, "Who can tell but that
it may end well after all."
And the most cheerful was Taras himself. He moved about from group to
group, kindly words passing to and fro. "Let us trust God," he kept
saying; "He has dispelled the fearful cold; at His touch the wrong,
too, will vanish. My heart tells me so! The verdict cannot be delayed
much longer, we may even hear of it before the day is out."
These words had scarcely fallen from his lips, when that happened
which, however frequent in fiction, is rare enough in actual life--his
expectation was realised there and then. Up the road from the river a
sledge was seen advancing, driven by a peasant and carrying, it
appeared, a large bundle of fur-rugs. No human occupant was visible
when the vehicle stopped amid the staring peasantry, but the rug-bundle
began to move, throwing off its outer covering, a bear-skin; a
good-sized sheep-skin peeling off next, revealing as its kernel a funny
little hunchbacked figure, an elderly townsman rather shabbily clad. He
rose to his feet, inquiring, with a great deal of condescension: "My
good people, is the judge of this village anywhere among you?"
The stalwart peasants laughed at the puny creature, and even Taras,
moving up to the sledge, could not repress a smile. "And what do you
want with him?"
The stranger pursed his mouth; his hand dived into his pocket and
produced an alarming pair of spectacles, which he put upon his
shrivelled nose, plainly desirous of adding dignity to that feature,
and then he said slowly, almost solemnly, "A man like you should say
'your worship' to me! I am Mr. Michael Stupka, head clerk of Dr. Eugene
Starkowski."
Taras shook from head to foot, and clutching the man, he stammered,
"You have come to tell as the verdict! you have got a letter for me!"
And all the peasants pressed round them. "Ah!" they cried, "we have got
the field back, no doubt!... Long live Taras, the judge; he was right
after all.... But do read us your letter."
The terrified clerk all this time endeavoured to free himself from the
iron grasp that held him as in a vice. "Stand off!" he groaned. "I have
brought you the verdict--yes; but ..." He faltered.
Taras grew white. Hardly knowing what he did, he, with his strong arm,
lifted the little man right out of the sledge, putting him down on the
ground before him. "No," he said hoarsely, "it cannot be! The verdict
surely is in our favour?"
"Why, dear me, can _I_ help it?" wailed the dwarfish creature. "Are you
savages here, or what! Ah, you are strangling me ... it is not _my_
fault, I am only a clerk and of no consequence whatever ... I assure
you! And Dr. Starkowski tried his best. Moreover, the matter need not
rest here; don't you know that there is such a thing as an appeal?"
But Taras evidently did not take in this hint any more than he had
understood the preceding words. One thought only had laid hold of him,
and he reeled like a stricken man. "Lost!" he groaned hoarsely, the
ominous syllable being taken up more shrilly by the peasants, who
pressed closer still.
The clerk, meanwhile, had produced the documents of which he was the
bearer, the one being a writ of the court, the other a letter of Dr.
Starkowski's. "There!" he cried, thrusting them under Taras's nose.
Taras was striving to regain his composure. "We are usable to read
writing," he said, gasping. "You must tell us what the lawyers have got
to say. To whom have they adjudged the field?"
But Mr. Stupka did not feel it prudent to answer this question right
out. He broke the official seal, putting on a look of the greatest
importance. "With pleasure, good people," he said condescendingly,
"with pleasure! I'll read it to you, and translate it presently into
plain language. The legal style, you know ..."
But Taras interrupted him. "To _whom_?" he repeated, more emphatically.
"Well, I should say," stammered the luckless clerk, "I should say ...
to the lord of the manor, so to speak."
"It is a lie," shrieked Taras; "it cannot be!" But the peasantry
veering round, cried scornfully: "Did we not tell you that going to law
is a folly? You have done it now!"
Utterly beside himself with the passion of his disappointment, the
judge clenched his fists and set his teeth in the face of the mocking
crowd, but the two elders laid their hands on him gently. "Do not give
way," begged the faithful Simeon, "try and bear the blow; let us hear
the verdict first, and then we will consider what next can be done."
The clerk spread out the document. "In the name of the Emperor!" he
began, translating the somewhat lengthy preamble. The villagers loyally
had pulled off their caps; Taras only thought not of baring his head.
Simeon endeavoured to remind him, but the judge shook him off. The
honest man looked at him doubtfully, and receded a step. The others did
not notice it, too intent upon the verdict.
It was a long piece of legal rhetoric, substantiating every statement
with a flourish of evidential reasoning, in the German language, which
in those days was the medium for judicial transactions throughout that
conglomerate of Babel-tongued countries going by the name of Austria.
It was no easy undertaking to translate the strangely intricate periods
of official verbosity into the simple vernacular of the listeners; but
Mr. Stupka, being as clever as he was small, contrived to make himself
understood. The verdict amounted to a dismissal of the case, because
the plaintiffs could not bring forward sufficient proof to uphold their
claim. The description of the field in the title deeds, it said, was in
favour of the party in present possession, and if a number of witnesses
upon their oath had given contrary evidence, their testimony was
invalidated by counter-evidence upon oath likewise. It was not the
court's business in civil cases to start an inquiry whether false
witness possibly had been tendered; it was rather the duty of the court
to decide which evidence weighed heavier in the scale, and the balance
had inclined in favour of manorial rights. It seemed strange, also,
that the village judge, as had been reported, should have opposed the
exhortation of the witnesses by means of the pope....
Up to this point Taras had listened in silence and motionless, but now
a shudder ran through his body, and he clenched his fists. "Ye adders,"
he panted; "ye deceitful adders!"
"Bear it," whispered Simeon, entreatingly, putting his arm round his
reeling friend. But Taras scarcely needed the admonition as far as
keeping silence was concerned, for his eyes closed; he seemed on the
point of swooning.
And moreover, the clerk continued, it was a fact that among those who
had given their oath in favour of the manorial claim had been several
heads of families of the village, men, therefore, who tendered witness
against their own interest. Such evidence could not easily be set
aside. Considering all these points, therefore, the case was dismissed,
the plaintiffs to bear the costs, as was meet and just.
"Just!" echoed the men in savage scorn, Taras alone keeping silence.
His hand went to his heart suddenly, he staggered and fell heavily, as
a man struck by lightning.
For hours he lay in a swoon. They had carried him into his house; but
neither the lamentations of his wife, nor their united endeavours to
restore animation seemed to penetrate the dead darkness that had fallen
on his soul. And when at last he opened his eyes his words appeared to
them so utterly strange that they were more frightened still. "The very
foundations are giving," he kept crying, "the holiest is being dragged
low!" And he, in whose eyes no one ever had seen a tear, was seized
with a paroxysm of weeping. He bemoaned his terrible fate, and between
his sobs he called for his children, to take leave of them, he said.
And he repeated this request so urgently that they could but humour
him. It was a pitiful scene, and one after another the neighbours went
away shudderingly, Simeon Pomenko only watching through the night by
the sufferer's couch. But in the village the news spread that the
judge, for sorrow, had gone out of his mind.
Not till the following morning did this piece of information come to
the ears of the mandatar, Mr. Hajek having spent the night at Zablotow,
playing at cards with the officers of the hussars. His under-steward,
Boleslaw, impatiently lay in wait against his return, never doubting
but that the news would fall on delighted ears, and he was not a little
surprised at the mandatar's evident dismay, Nor was this put on; for
the Count, still enlarging his acquaintances at Paris, had, through his
friends the usurers, got introduced to their solicitors, and Hajek knew
he must send him the wherewithal to stem the scandal of a prosecution,
whatever he might wish to keep back for himself. So money, more than
ever, was the need of the moment; and having succeeded in one
villainous trick, he might hope to develop his talents for the further
fleecing of the peasantry, and it was highly important, therefore, that
the community should be represented by a judge who, at the risk of
whatever loss to himself, was bent on keeping the people from offering
violence.
"Gone out of his mind? Dear me, I _am_ sorry," he said, honestly too.
"But I daresay report has exaggerated the fact. He may have had a blow,
but I do not believe he is the man to go mad. Go to his wife and tell
her, with my compliments, that I shall be pleased to send for the best
doctor at Colomea at my own expense."
The man hung back. "I am no coward," he said presently, "and I think I
could face any dozen of the peasants, if you wished it. But as for this
woman--sir, do you know she is a regular Huzul, quite a spitfire of a
temper--and a man after all has only one pair of eyes to lose!"
The mandatar did not care what risk these optics might run; the man had
to carry his message. He was relieved, however, on entering the judge's
house. The two elders, Simeon and Alexa were with the sufferer, and he
appeared to be listening to their words. The storm had not yet subsided
which tore his soul, and threatened to change the very drift of his
being. He who his life long had stood like a rock against the surges of
trouble, who had won happiness and prosperity through steadfast
endurance, was sobbing and wailing like a child, and his friends could
not but tremble for his reason as they heard his pitiful plaints. "I
have striven to pass my life in honour," he would moan, "and now it
must end in shame! And what of my poor children, since I have no choice
but to follow the dictate of my heart?"
He saw the under-steward enter cautiously, and his pale face grew
crimson at the sight. Simeon rose hastily to send away the unwelcome
visitor, but Taras interfered. "Glad to see you, friend Boleslaw!" he
cried, cuttingly. "What good news has brought you hither?"
The giant delivered his errand, stammeringly.
"Send for a doctor--indeed--at his own expense!" repeated Taras. "Well,
I did not require this proof to tell me that the mandatar is an honest
man!" And therewith he closed his eyes, lying still like a sleeping
babe.
Boleslaw paused. "Shall I----" he began presently, addressing the
elders. But at the sound Taras opened his eyes. "Leave this house!" he
cried, with a voice of thunder, and the powerful man quaked, making
good his escape.
Taras watched his retreat, smiling strangely. "This message is
something to be thankful for! You, my friends, could not help me, but
this insult brings me back to myself. I shall fight against my ghastly
destiny while yet I may!"
"What destiny?" said Simeon, soothingly. "Do look at it calmly. You
have, in a just cause, done your utmost to see us righted; and you have
failed honourably. What else could there be said?"
"What else?" reiterated Taras. "And since it is a just cause--but what
use in talking!... I daresay you thought I had lost my reason, because
I have cried and wailed like a woman--did you?" His friends endeavoured
to look unconcerned. "But, I tell you," he continued, with trembling
voice, "it will be well if you never have occasion to find out that,
though reeling, my mind was terribly clear!... I will try to spare you
the discovery. I want to see that clerk again."
"He has left," returned Simeon; "he thrust his papers into my hand when
you had fainted, and turning his horses' heads he made the utmost speed
to leave us. The poor creature was really quite frightened; never in
his life again would he carry a verdict to savages, he said."
Taras could not help smiling. "Then I must ask the pope to read me that
letter," he said. "Leave the room, I shall be ready to join you in a
few minutes."
"Do not exert yourself just yet," entreated Simeon.
But Taras looked up sternly. "Do not hinder me, man," he cried, "cannot
you see that my very fate is at stake!"
The men left him misgivingly.
"What do you think of it?" said Alexa, as they stood waiting in the
yard.
"God knows!" replied Simeon, troubled. "But I cannot forget how he
refused to uncover when the verdict was being read."
The voice of Anusia was heard, who would not let her husband go from
the house. "You will be fainting again!" she lamented. But Taras,
though white as death, stepped forth, treading firmly.
The three men walked away to call on Father Martin; but on entering the
manse his housekeeper, Praxenia, met them with a tearful face. She was
an elderly spinster from the village who had presided over his domestic
concerns since the popadja had departed this life, leaving the pope a
widower.
"God o' mercy," she sobbed, looking at Taras, "it's a blessing that
you, at least, have got back your wits. They said in the village that
you had lost them. But you are all right, I see--would I could say as
much for the poor little father. _He_ is quite off his head, I assure
you; regular mad if ever man was!"
"He will come round again, no doubt," said Taras. "I daresay he has had
a glass too much."
"Ah, no," wept the good spinster; "that were nothing since we are used
to it! He has not had a drop since yesterday, poor old man, who never
could do without his tipple; it is that which frightens me! He is lying
quite still now, staring blankly, and talking a heap of nonsense
between whiles."
"Humph," grunted Simeon, "that certainly looks alarming. I have known
him these twenty years, he never showed such symptoms."
"Didn't I say so--a very bad sign, surely! And all on account of that
sermon, would you believe it? But let me tell you how it happened. I
had gone to his room quite early yesterday morning--would I had bitten
my tongue off first! though my going in was quite innocent-like.
'Little Father,' I said, 'there's a thaw setting in, and the parish is
just beside itself with joy.' 'Beside itself? dear! dear!' he said, 'I
must go and see,' and off he trotted. But very soon he came back again,
his eyes positively shining. 'Naughty, naughty, little father,' I said,
'you have gone and been at Avrumko's--very naughty, so early in the
day, and before reading mass!' But he insisted that he had not been
near the inn, and that nothing but the common delight had so excited
him. 'Ah! Praxenia,' he said, 'what a day to have seen--all the village
is praising the Lord for His goodness. I must give them a sermon
to-day, I must, indeed!' 'Little Father,' I said, severely, 'you had
better not attempt it; you know it is beyond you now, and the people
will only laugh at you; don't you remember how it was five years ago?'
'I do,' he said, ruefully, 'but I shall do better to-day.' There was no
convincing him, he locked himself into his study, and through the door
I could hear him at his sermon--pacing his floor I mean--vigorously,
till the bells began ringing for service. I went to church, not a
little anxious, you will believe me, and when he mounted his pulpit, as
he had threatened, I said to myself: 'You'll stick fast, little father,
and be sorry that you ever went up.' But not he--well you were there
yourselves, and you know how beautifully he got through it, never once
blowing his nose or scratching his ears--the beautifullest sermon ever
spoken, though I say it, and moving all the parish to tears! I walked
home proudly to look after his dinner, poor man, and said to myself he
should have as many glasses now as he liked. But what was my surprise
on going to his room presently, to find him weeping there, shedding the
biggest tears. I ever saw. 'Ah, Praxenia,' he sobbed, 'to think of the
Lord's goodness in giving me this day. I have not deserved it,
miserable old tippler that I am!' What was I to answer? I got his
dinner ready, putting his bottle beside it; and he sat down at my
bidding, but never a morsel he touched, his eyes looking brighter and
queerer than ever. 'Have a drop, little father.' I said, 'I'm afraid
you are faint-like.' 'No,' he said, sharply, pushing the bottle from
him. Then I knew that something was wrong. And all the rest of the day,
till late in the evening, he kept walking about his room, muttering the
beautifullest words--preparing his sermon, he said, when I asked him.
Not till late at night could I get a spoonful of soup down his throat,
making him take to his bed--no great battle, for although he is hardly
more than sixty, he is just a child for weakness when the schnaps is
out of him. 'Now you must go to sleep,' I said, sternly. But not he! He
folded his hands, lying still, with his shining eyes, muttering at
times. He is going to die, I tell you!"
The men were endeavouring to dissuade her from this mournful view, but
were less certain of their own opinion when they stood by the bedside.
The poor pope's appearance had changed alarmingly since yesterday. The
face was worn and white, the wrinkles had deepened, and there was a
strange light in his eyes.
But he knew Taras. "Ah--is it you?" he murmured.... "'And he judged
Israel in the days of the Philistines twenty years.' ... The bells are
ringing.... I must preach to the people.... What is it you want?"
"I came to ask you to read a letter to me, but I am afraid you are not
well, and it is rather a closely-written epistle."
"Epistle? yes," returned the pope, catching at the word. "The first of
the Corinthians.... 'Though I speak with the tongues of angels, and
have not charity.... believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth
all things.... Charity never faileth.' ..." And on he wandered.
The men saw it was hopeless, and left him. "It is strange," said
Simeon; "our pope never spoke such edifying words while he had his wits
about him. It does seem alarming."
But Taras's thoughts ran on a different track. He started. "I must go
to Colomea," he said. "There could not be much in a mere letter, after
all. I must see the lawyer myself as soon as possible."
He appeared so fully determined that his friends could but listen in
silence, and even Anusia saw he must have his way, though she demurred.
"It were far better to leave the thing alone," she said. "If you are
bent on making a sacrifice for the parish, give them the field we
bought two years ago, it will make up for their loss, and it were
better than losing everything through the lawyers."
"You are the best of wives," he said, "but you do not understand. It is
not merely about the field which is lost: but my fate, and yours, and
the children's is at stake."
"What is this you are saying?" she cried, alarmed; but he had touched
his horse, and the sledge was flying along the road towards the
district town.
He entered the outer office of Starkowski's the following day, but no
sooner had Mr. Stupka caught sight of him than he flew from his chair,
disappearing in an inner chamber with the startled cry: "Heaven help
us! a ghost ... the dead judge!"
But the attorney came forth undaunted. "I am pleased to see you," he
said, shaking hands. "I felt pretty sure my clerk had been exaggerating
in reporting you dead. I suppose it was the painful disappointment
which stunned you?"
"More than this," said Taras, "it was the bitter consciousness that
this verdict must change all the future current of my life, unless,
indeed, it can be annulled. I have come to find out whether this is
possible. Maybe your letter said something about it--I cannot read."
"No, the letter was only to tell you the costs," explained Dr.
Starkowski, "one hundred and twelve florins. But there is no hurry
whatever, you may pay me at your convenience. I had nothing further to
tell you, for I never advise carrying a suit into a higher court unless
there be some hope of a successful----"
"Sir," interrupted Taras, speaking slowly, and his voice was hollow,
"think well before you tell me--you do not know how much there is at
stake."
The man's manner, and still more his distorted face, staggered the
lawyer. "Of course, I may be mistaken," he said; "but the examination
of the witnesses, from which I hoped everything, has proved a bad
business for us, and yet it appears the commissioner tried every
conscientious means for arriving at----"
"Conscientious means!" cried Taras; but conquering his rising anger he
described the scene which had taken place outside the village inn,
Kapronski not so much as putting up his horses; and how the peasants
had their own shrewd guesses how much had been paid by the mandatar to
every rascal who had forsworn himself. "Sir, I hope you will help me in
this trouble!" he said, in conclusion.
These simple words, breathing their own truth and sadness, went further
with the lawyer than the most urgent entreaty. He had followed the
legal profession for many a year, but the sense of the utter sacredness
of his calling had perhaps never been so strong with him, nor his
desire to see justice done more earnest, than at this present moment
when that peasant had told him his tale. He promised to forward an
appeal to the higher court at once. "There is yet another way we could
try," he said; "you could inform against the perjurers. But if we
failed in bringing the charge home to them, you would be in danger of
imprisonment for libel yourself. I do not like to risk that, so we had
better try the appeal."
"Do what seems best to you," said Taras. "I trust you implicitly. But
what a world is this if a man can be put into prison for making known
the truth! Is not truth the foundation of justice? Can the world
continue, if falsehood and wrong carry the day?"
The lawyer no doubt could have given an answer to this question--a sad,
painful answer--but somehow he felt he had better be silent. He
contented himself with assuring this man, who seemed a very child in
the ways of the world, that he would not fail in his most faithful
endeavour, and set about the matter at once, moved by a feeling he
scarcely could analyse. The appeal was on its way to the upper court at
Lemberg before Taras and his servant had reached their upland home.
They were nearing the Pruth in the evening of the following day when
the sound of bells came floating towards them, and a red glow appeared
through the dusk where the ground sloped away in the direction of
Prinkowce. "Something on fire!" cried the man, pulling up the horses.
Taras peered through the twilight, and, bowing his head, he crossed
himself piously. "Drive on," he said; "it is the torches at the
cemetery. They are burying the pope."
And it was so. Father Martin had died that morning, and they were
laying him to his rest already, as they are wont in the mountains.
There was no great show of mourning, poor Praxenia's sorrow, perhaps,
being the only honest sadness evoked. "Ah!" she kept sobbing, "if it
were not for that sermon, he might be here to conduct his own funeral!
It is the sermon he died of, and not old age, as the apothecary said."
But the peasants had their own idea concerning the cause of his death.
"It is the wretched schnaps Avrumko has introduced," they said. "If the
rascal gave us unwatered stuff, we might live a hundred years, like our
fathers before us."
Slight as the feeling of mourning was, it ye sufficed to turn the
people's thoughts into a different channel, the loss of the pope thus
acting as a palliative to the loss of the law-suit; and the question
who should be Father Martin's successor was discussed with real
interest. It was not mere curiosity which stirred them, for in the
person of the pope a good deal of a parish's fate is bound up in those
parts, and the congregation has no voice in the matter. They can but
wait and see. But the men of Zulawce were soon relieved of any anxiety,
and had every reason to be satisfied.
Not a mouth had passed when the desolate manse once more was inhabited,
and it was a young pope who had come to pitch his pastoral tent in the
upland parish, having till then been curate-in-charge of Borkowka, a
village in the plain. Leo Woronczuk was his name, and it spoke well for
him that his late parishioners accompanied him in procession as far as
the wooden bridge over the Pruth, where Taras, at the head of the
peasants, stood waiting to receive him. But what pleased his new flock
more than anything was the fact that the stalwart young shepherd did
not arrive singly, but with a blooming wife--the most good-natured of
popadjas, to all appearance--and three round-cheeked, chubby little
boys. For the Galician peasants are apt to be prejudiced against a pope
who is either a bachelor or a widower, or, worse still, a monk of the
Order of St. Basil, thinking it impossible for such a one to enter into
the every-day joys and sorrows of his people, or to understand their
more earthly needs.
Now, Father Leo had a heart for these things, and this not only because
he himself was blessed with a wife and three jolly little boys! He was
no brilliant star in the theological heavens, no paragon of superhuman
virtues; he was a simple village priest--a man among men--with
warm-hearted sympathies; and if his intellectual horizon did not extend
immeasurably beyond that of his peasants, he at any rate had a
clear-headed perception of all ordinary points and bearings within that
sphere. It was not without diffidence that he accepted his new charge,
influenced chiefly by the peremptory need of income, his late curacy
having been sadly inadequate in this respect, considering the growing
wants of his family; and, if the truth must be told, the bad reputation
of that upland parish, which might have tempted a priestly soul of more
enthusiastic ambition, only tended to discourage him; he, poor man, not
feeling himself divinely commissioned to make up for the many years'
failings of his predecessor. He would far rather have been called to
shepherd a people of a less demoralised kind than appeared to be the
case here, where a number of men, on the very face of things, were
guilty of wilful perjury. But once having accepted the charge devolved
upon him by his superiors, he had made up his mind, like a brave man,
to do his duty as best he could, be it pleasant or otherwise.
And he made it his first aim to look into the apparent want of
integrity among the people; to discover, if possible, who might be
trusted and who not. He set about it quietly, without thrusting himself
into people's confidence; nor did he think it necessary to frighten
them into a higher state of morality by firing their imagination with
grievous accounts of the punishment to come. His sermons were
peculiarly simple, suitable in every way to the hearers' daily life--"a
peasant almost could preach like that," said the people when he had
dismissed them without once thumping the pulpit. But they discovered by
degrees that, if his eloquence did not come down upon them
thunderously, there was that in his words which might cling to them
like good and sensible advice; while, on the other hand, he, not a
little to his joy, could see that these people, after all, were not so
black as they had been painted. Leaving the one vice out of the
question, which in that country is as common as air and water--the
wretched tendency to drunkenness--the worst these highlanders could be
accused of was their defiant spirit so apt to break out into violence.
The pope soon found that they were not without a conscience, and that
they had a true feeling of right and wrong, though it might be somewhat
dulled by the unpruned egotistical instincts of human nature left to
its own luxuriance. Not many weeks had passed before Father Leo was
sure in his own mind which had been the perjured party on that fatal
day in September, but he avoided individual accusation. Nor was it more
than a moral certainty with him, as though he could take his oath that
the black cross had not always stood in the centre of the contested
field. But however strongly he felt in his honest mind that a vile
wrong had been committed--robbing a poor, untaught, and easily
misguided people not only of their property but, what was worse, of
their good conscience--he yet repressed his wrath, and never by word or
look showed the mandatar how entirely he abhorred him. Nor was this
reserve the outcome of mere selfish prudence, but rather of a wise
perception that he could do more for the furthering of right and
justice and the peace of his people in thus forcing the miscreant at
the manor house to observe a show of good will.
Hajek, indeed, was deceived. He thought he had taken the measure of the
new pope in believing him to be an honest but rather blockheaded
parson, whom he treated accordingly with a certain amount of flattery,
and even of deference. The mandatar would graciously yield a point
whenever Father Leo, on behalf of the people, petitioned for a respite,
or even for the lessening of an irksome tribute, assuring him that he
was quite as anxious as himself to maintain the peace of the parish.
The fact was, that while the suit yet hung in the balance, and a
further examining of witnesses was a prospect to be dreaded, it was
important that the village priest should think of him as an honourable
man, not prone to harsh dealings, far less to open violence, or such a
thing as an instigation to perjury.
Thus Taras by degrees found an unexpected ally in the pope, nay more, a
true-hearted friend. The saddened man would not have looked for such
happiness, and when the unsought gift had come to him he met it almost
timorously. It was a good honest friendship which sprang up between
these two equally honourable, yet entirely different natures; but a
friendship which, for all its truth, left the last word unspoken,
because neither of them, whatever their mutual sympathy, was able to
enter into, the inmost depth of the other's being.
But the more the pope saw of the judge, the greater was his joy at
having met such a man upon earth, a man so guileless and spotless, in
whom selfishness was not, who seemed guided only by his own sense of
justice and duty, and whose strength was the outcome of his great faith
in the moral equity upholding this structure of a world. "A true, godly
man," the pope would say to himself; but somehow the heretical thought
would follow, "Why, this man does not even need the Christian's belief
in a future life in order to be what he is." This feeling could not but
breed certain doubts, but it did not lessen his hearty admiration of
his friend's purity of nature, nor his longing to help him. He did what
he could to ease the heavy burden of his dealings with the mandatar,
coming forward as a mediator whenever it was possible; and he never
lost an opportunity of proving to the villagers that their judge had
acted righteously throughout. Taras was Father Leo's senior, but there
was something of a parent's tenderness for his child in the pope's
constant readiness to stand by his friend. Indeed, Taras would often
appear to him in the light of a grown boy whom no evil thing had come
nigh to corrupt.
"I could understand him," the pope would say, "if he were fourteen
instead of nearly forty." And greater than his delight in the man was
his surprise sometimes that he should understand so little of human
nature and the way of the world. He took this for granted, but he was
mistaken. Taras was not wanting in the power of seeing things as they
are, but only in the capability of turning such perception to any use.
He was one of those rare beings who must ever follow their own inward
prompting, who cannot be bent in this or that direction by any outward
compulsion; but who, for this very reason, are so easily broken and
bowed to the dust. There is much sadness in life, though little of real
tragedy; but what of it the world has known has ever had for its heroes
such natures.
But neither did Taras fully understand his friend. He would have
blessed the day which brought Father Leo to the village, even if the
latter had remained a comparative stranger to him; for the late pope's
unworthy conduct had touched him far more deeply than any one else in
the village, because his instincts for everything good and holy were so
much keener. He knew well enough that many a village pope was no better
than Father Martin had been; but he had felt to the depth of his true
soul that it was a terrible perversion of what ought to be, if a
village judge out of reverence for the sanctity of the oath sees it
laid upon him to oppose an exhortation of the people by their own
priest. It was an unspeakable relief to him that things had changed in
this respect, and that the man who had come to represent the spiritual
interests in the parish was of good report and fit to be an example;
his gratitude rising to boundless devotion on perceiving that in word
and deed the honest pope was bent on sharing his burden--yet he could
not always understand his friend.
The pope, to give an instance, might endeavour to correct some black
sheep by saying: "You are not a bad man on the whole, it's just the
drink which is ruining you; it were a great thing if you could overcome
that failing!" At which Taras would think that this was an untruth,
because the man was bad in other respects besides the drink; that the
pope was quite aware of this, and how could it be right to depart from
the full truth, even with a good object in view? Or, if Father Leo
endeavoured to arbitrate between two quarrelling parishioners, he would
tell them: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the
children of God!" endeavouring to bring about a compromise even if the
one, whether erroneously or feloniously, had been coveting the other's
property; but can it be right, thought Taras, to connive even in part
at a wrongful intention for the love of peace? And if the pope was
anxious to obtain some benefit for the people, he would not only listen
patiently to the richest self-praise of the miserable mandatar, but
might even enhance it by some word of his own; yet, shall a man fawn on
an evildoer for the sake of mercy? These questions occupied the judge
seriously, and one day, when they had been at the mandatar's together,
he could not but unburden his heart to his friend.
The pope smiled, saying: "It is written, Be ye therefore wise as
serpents."
"Yes," cried Taras, "and harmless as doves!"
"Certainly," returned the pope. "It would be wrong to meet any one with
the serpent's wisdom in order to overreach him. I never do that, and to
the best of my knowledge I strive to advance the good and to fight what
is evil. But since I have to do with sinful men and not with angels, I
must be content very often to fight with human weapons."
Taras shook his head. "How could deception ever be right in order to
further a good cause?" he exclaimed.
"Nor is it," returned the pope. "But if I can keep back the wicked man
from further wickedness by speaking civilly to him, and not
contemptuously, I am not wronging nor deceiving him, but on the
contrary doing well by him."
The judge walked on in silence, saying at last, gently but firmly, "I
cannot see this; deception can never be right. I do not understand
you."
At which the pope might look up at the towering figure by his side,
saying tenderly within himself, "He is simple as a child!" But what
shadows even then were overlying Taras's soul not even Leo could know,
though a strange fear at times stole over him that this soul, so
childlike and so pure, was undergoing a conflict with the powers of
evil, and was being worsted. There were outward signs of such battling:
Taras hardly ever now smiled; he would sit for hours in moody silence,
with a stony look in his eyes, and his healthy countenance was being
marred by the furrows of anxious care. Anusia, too, would come to the
manse with her trouble, saying sorrowfully, "He hardly sleeps now, for
day and night this worry is upon him, making an old man of him before
his time."
"But what is it?" said the pope; "I am at a loss to know."
"Why, what should it be but this cursed lawsuit," sobbed the passionate
woman, clenching her fists. "Would I could strangle the mandatar and
all the tribe of lawyers along with him!"
The pope rebuked her, nor did her explanation satisfy him. "It cannot
be the lawsuit that so weighs on him," he said; "for he speaks about it
calmly, hoping for a favourable verdict from the court of appeal. I do
not see what can thus oppress him, unless it be his troubled relations
both with the mandatar and with the people, which are improving daily
though, for I am doing my best to heal the breach," he added, with some
complacency.
The honest man had not the faintest idea that, however successful he
might be, he was only lessening his friend's outward burden, that which
lay on his shoulders so to speak, and which he had strength enough to
bear, whereas there was a burden crushing his heart and leaving him
utterly helpless in his silent despair; for Taras kept his deep trouble
hidden even from the eyes of the priest, his spiritual guide, feeling,
perhaps, that the fundamental difference of their natures must keep
them apart on the soul's deepest issues. "I should only sadden him," he
said, "and make him angry; but I could never convince him, nor could he
talk me out of it. No one could, for the matter of that, not the
Almighty Himself, I fear; for if He can look on quietly when wrong is
being done here below, I do not see that even He could do away with the
consequences!"
Matters had come to an ill pass with Taras even then. He had grown calm
outwardly, but the fearful thought which had overpowered him so utterly
on his first learning that the court's decision had gone against the
parish had not left him. If it was not added to in these months of
weary waiting, while the verdict was being reconsidered, neither did it
lessen. And as he went on with his duties day after day, waiting for an
answer from the court of appeal, he was like some traveller traversing
an endless desert beneath an angry sky. The air is heavy, and the
thunderous clouds sink lower, he hastening onward through the
friendless waste; onward, though the storm will break and the flashes
of heaven are charged with death. No shelter for him anywhere; on, on,
he hastens, though his doom await him--no hope, unless a strong wind
from the healthy east be sent to drive the dark clouds asunder ... But
how should he hope for such kindly blast while the hot air is heavy
about him, and cloud draws cloud athwart the heavens? He can but bear
up and continue, a weary traveller, utterly hopeless, and conscious of
great trouble ahead!