DESPAIR.
The days followed one another, and winter was at hand; Taras, in
silence, had taken up the old, changeless village life. He found plenty
to do on his own farm in spite of the care bestowed upon it by Simeon
during his absence; and, labouring with his men, the most diligent of
them all, he could forget at times that one thought which kept
burrowing in his brain. But for other reasons, too, it was well he was
thoroughly occupied, for intercourse with the villagers could have
comforted him little.
Ill-humour against him had risen to its height, since his journey to
Vienna also had proved a fruitless errand. He had but two friends left
besides the priest--his former colleagues, Simeon and Alexa. The others
either openly hated him, or treated him with unkind pity as the fallen
village king. As for his re-election to the judgeship, it was not so
much as thought of. Simeon, true to his word, had resigned his
vicarious honours at All Saints', rather expecting, however, the public
confidence would turn to him; yet not even he was elected, but a
certain Jewgeni Turenko.
The man thus chosen was a harmless individual, rather poor, who never
could have aspired to such luck had the freaks of fortune not singled
out his younger brother, Constantine, lifting him to the giddy height
of a corporal in the Imperial army. It had never been dreamt of in the
village, that any peasant lad of theirs could be more than a private,
and now this hero of Zulawce had actually returned as a corporal, a
live corporal, sporting the two white stars on his crimson collar. All
the village felt itself honoured in this favoured soldier, entertaining
the wildest hopes for his future. He has two years of service yet to
come, they said; who knows but that he may be a sergeant before he has
done? The young hero was ready enough to avail himself of the good
opinions thus showered upon him. By his own account, he was one of the
bravest of the brave, and as he could scarcely invent a great war as a
background to his exploits, he devised some minor fancies, laying the
scene in rebellious Lombardy--"Corpo di Bacco! where the heat of the
weather is such that an ox in the fields is roasted alive in two
hours." How could the good people of Zulawce have thought little of a
man who, in such a temperature, had saved a province to the Emperor?
And more especially, how should their womankind not have admired a
soldier who, to say nothing of his splendid moustache, had by his own
showing been proof against the allurements of the very countesses in
those parts--"devilishly handsome creatures, to be sure, but with the
enemy's females I have nothing to do!" It was a fact, then, that within
a few weeks, Constantine Turenko had the upper hand in the village; and
as he could not be judge himself, being only on furlough, he managed
that his brother Jewgeni should be elected, while two other friends of
his, equally humble as regarded their wealth and wit, were chosen as
elders. Thus aristocracy was laid low, the middle class rising.
Taras had not striven against it; he had voted for Simeon, but for the
rest he let matters take their course. "The beggars will be the ruin of
the village!" cried Anusia, in whom the pride of blood was strong. "It
is atrocious that men like my Uncle Stephen, and you, and Simeon,
should be succeeded by the rabble!"
But Taras took it quietly. "They are making their own bed," he said,
"let them try it!"
"I wish you would not pretend such callousness," exclaimed Anusia,
"there is no one who loves the village better than you do!"
"Perhaps not," said he, "but I cannot alter the state of things;
besides, I have other cares now."
"Cares? What are they?" she cried. "Is not the farm as flourishing as
ever?" To this he had no answer.
He did his work in those days with diligence and perseverance, as
though he were not the richest peasant in the village, but a poor
labourer merely, who had to gain his next day's bread. And whereas
formerly he had always been guided by his own opinion, he would consult
his wife's now, soliciting her advice. Anusia felt proud at this mark
of confidence, till she discovered that he desired to hear her views in
order to correct them. And as the question mostly referred to matters
concerning which, capable as she was, she knew nothing, since, by the
nature of them, they rather belonged to the husband's sphere, she lost
patience at last. "What have I to do with assessments and taxes?" she
exclaimed.
"You must get to know about them," he replied, gently.
"But why? Is it not enough that you should know?"
"Yes, now; but the time may come when you will have to do without me."
These words did not frighten her, appearing too ludicrous. A strong,
healthy man, not forty years old--how should she take alarm? "You
croaker!" she said, "we'll think about that fifty years hence."
"It is all as God may will," returned he solemnly; adding, "Do it to
please me."
"Well, if it tends to your happiness, certainly," she said,
good-naturedly, and did her best to understand what he explained to her
concerning the taxes and imposts.
In the presence of his friend, the village priest, Taras never let fall
such hints, meeting the good pope, on the contrary, with great reserve.
But Father Leo took no umbrage, redoubling his affection for the
saddened man, and doing all in his power to counteract the low spirits
to which evidently he was a prey. He even proposed to teach him reading
and writing. "It is useful anyhow," he said, "and you could amuse
yourself with entertaining books."
But Taras declined. "It is no use to me now," he said, "and will be
still less presently. Besides, that which would rejoice my heart is not
written in your books. Nor have I the needful leisure; these are busy
days on the farm, and after Epiphany I mean to go hunting. I shall be
gone a good while I think."
"Do, by all means," said good Father Leo approvingly, "it will cheer
you. And there is the general hunt before Christmas. You will not miss
that."
"I shall not take part," replied Taras, quietly, "even if they ask me,
which I do not expect."
"Not ask you!" said Father Leo. "You the best bear-hunter born!"
But events proved that Taras had judged right. Constantine objected to
his presence, so the people did without him. That warrior had
contracted a real hatred of Taras for various reasons, mostly foolish,
but in part spiteful. To begin with, the dethroned judge was the
natural leader of the more wealthy of the community, which was bad; he
was an "enemy of the Emperor," and that was worse; worse still, the
community had suffered loss "through him, and him alone;" the worst of
all being that Constantine still owed a certain florin to "this bastard
who had sneaked his way into the affections of an heiress."
Anusia felt it a personal insult, shedding passionate tears when the
hunting party passed the farm; but Taras did not move a feature,
continuing quietly to fill the sacks of corn that were to be sold. One
thing, however, he did when the last sound of the noisy party had died
away. He entered the common sitting-room, calling upon his eldest boy
Wassilj. "My child," he said, "you are eight years old, and our little
father Leo is instructing you well--do you know what an oath is?"
"Yes," said the little boy.
"And you understand what is being a judge?"
"Yes, it is what you were!"
"Well then, lift up your right hand and swear to me that never in your
life you will offer yourself for the judgeship, nor accept it if they
ask you. Will you do that, and never forget?"
"I will, and will not forget it," cried the little boy, earnestly
lifting up his childish hand.
And Taras kissed him and returned to his work.
But Father Leo, on learning of the new insult offered to his friend,
expressed his hearty sympathy.
"There is no need to trouble about it," said Taras; "you see I am
quiet."
"And so you have every right to be!" cried the pope, warmly. "Have you
not always done your duty, ay, and a great deal more! If sorrow is your
part now, you can accept it with a strong heart, as of God Himself. He
has been gracious to you, bringing you to this village and blessing you
abundantly; and if He now chastises you, it surely is for your good in
the end. The ways of God sometimes are dark."
Taras shook his head. "I don't believe that," he said, curtly.
"Not believe in God?" cried the honest pope, aghast.
"I do believe in Him," said Taras, solemnly, "and I believe that He is
all just, but that He brought me into this village, and that all this
bitter grief has come upon me by His will, I do not believe. For if He
guided every step and action of ours, if our fate were all His doing,
no wrong could be done on earth. Nor does He, and we are not mere
puppets in His hand!"
"Puppets! what an expression!" cried the pope, rather perplexed and
therefore doubly vehement. "Nay, we are His children!"
Taras nodded. "His children, yes," he said; "if we may use an earthly
simile to describe our relation to Him, that is the word. But what does
it mean? we owe to our natural parents life and the training they give
us; beyond this they cannot influence us; and so some of us are good,
some are bad, some are happy, and some unhappy, whereas every one
surely would be good and happy if the will of our parents could bring
it about. And it seems to me we stand in a similar relation to Him
above. He has made this world and the men that live therein, revealing
to them His will: '_Be righteous!_' He does give us a training by the
very fact that the circumstances of our birth and childhood are as He
wills them. But what we make of it, and what steps we take in life,
that plainly is our doing. I own that we cannot go to the right or to
the left in unbiassed liberty, for we choose according to our nature,
following our heart and mind, such as they have become."
"I do not seem to understand," owned the pope, hesitatingly; "but it
would appear you believe in a blind sort of predestined fate, like any
old crone of the village."
"No," cried Taras, sharply. "Let me try and explain. During the years
of my happiness, when blessings were about me, full and rich, like the
summer sun ripening the harvest, with no shadowing cloud overhead, I
did believe the goodness of God had thus ordered my day, and in my
heart I thanked him. But when darkness overtook me with sorrow
unspeakable, I grew sore at heart and hopeless as the lonely wanderer
in the storm-tossed wilderness, seeking for shelter in the driving
snow, and not a star to guide him in the night; before him and behind
no voice but that of howling wolves.... No, said I, _this_ is not the
will of God; it is fate! Let me go the way that is destined--happiness
and blessings were to be, and the misery is to be, and the end is not
mine to choose! Of what avail that I should strive thus wearily,
seeking the path in darkness and battling to escape the wolves, since
it is destined that either I be victorious, or fall their helpless
prey? It was foolish, nay, maddening, while I thought so, but now I see
differently: Nothing is predestined, our fate is here and here"--he
pointed to his head and heart--"our virtues and vices are our guides in
life, and besides this there is but one guidance to those that will
listen to it, that all-encompassing will of God--'Thou child of man,
act righteously!' That is it."
"This is not a faith I can hold," said the pope, "but I am glad, at
least, that you do not believe either in a blind fate or in mere
chance. For my part," he added, solemnly, "I shall always believe in
the overruling of a Divine Providence that numbers the very hairs of
our head."
"That faith has been taken from me," replied Taras. "His heaping sorrow
upon sorrow on me could be compensated for in the world to come; but I
see the right trampled under foot, and the wrong victorious, and this
cannot be by the dispensation of God. No; it is just the outcome of the
folly or the wickedness of man. As to chance, I certainly believe in
it--who could live on this earth for well-nigh forty years and deny it,
having eyes to see! There surely is such a thing as chance. Have you
forgotten what I told you as to my coming hither, or do you think it
was God's special providence to let that Sunday morning be fine? Did He
order His sun to shine, merely that a poor man, Taras Barabola, should
become head servant of Iwan Woronka's at Zulawce, and not of that
priest to whom I might have gone? Is it not sheer presumption to
suggest as much? I say, there is a chance, but it does not make a
plaything of us, we rather play with it, making it subservient to our
destiny. The bright sunshine that Sunday morning certainly brought me
hither; but do you think it made me the husband of Anusia, or brought
about my becoming the people's judge? Do I owe to that sunshine the
good that has come to me since, and the great load of evil? Surely not,
that was all my own doing, and nothing else. Chance, then, is nothing;
but what we make of it can be little or much."
He drew himself up, looking proudly at the pope. "And this," he cried,
"must explain my every act hitherto, and my future actions. If I could
believe that Providence has mapped out my fate, I would follow blindly.
Could I believe in chance or destiny, I should abide quietly what
further they will make of me. But I believe no such thing--I hold that
every man must follow the voice within, ay, the voice of God speaking
to him in the highest law: 'Be righteous! Do no wrong, and permit no
wrong!' And these two commandments, equally sacred, I will obey while
life is mine!"
He turned abruptly and went away.
Christmas had come. It is not a day of the children in the Carpathians;
they have no presents given them, and the Christmas-tree is unknown;
the one thing marking it out from other days being a certain dish of
millet, poppy seed and honey, with mead as a beverage. In Taras's
family, too, the day hitherto had thus been kept; but now he sent one
of his men to Zablotow, ordering him to get various little presents for
his own children and those of Father Leo. "It is a way they have at
Vienna," he said to his wife; "it seems a pleasant custom. And I would
wish that the children should remember this Christmas Day."
"Why so, what is there about it?"
"Well, for one thing, I have been away so long this year," said he
hastily, turning to some occupation.
Christmas over, he had two large sledges laden with corn, taking them
with his servant, Jemilian, to the New Year's market at Colomea, as was
his habit.
But on the second of January the man returned alone. "The master has
business with the lawyer," he said; "he will be home in three days."
Anusia grew frightened, and ran to her friend, the popadja. "He is not
going to come back," she wailed. "Now I understand his strange
speeches, and why he insisted on making presents to the children that
they should remember this Christmas. It was his way of taking leave of
them!"
But the pope reproved her. "If you do not know your husband better than
this," he said; "I, at least, know my friend. It grieves me, to be
sure, that he should re-open matters with the lawyer. But he has sent
you a truthful message, there is no doubt about that."
Nor was he mistaken. Taras returned even sooner, on the second day. "I
guessed as much," said he, when Anusia clasped him, sobbing
passionately; "you took alarm because I had business with the lawyer;
so I made what haste I could and travelled through the night."
"But what is it?" she asked.
He drew a little packet from his belt, unfolding it carefully, and
producing a large sheet of paper.
"The Emperor's decision!" she cried, exultingly; "there is an eagle
upon it!"
At which he laughed bitterly. "No, my dear. That eagle merely shows the
Government stamp for which I paid five florins. The decision, that is,
the refusal of my petition, need not be looked for for months. What
need of hurry is there concerning a mere peasant!" But suddenly growing
serious, he said: "Listen, my wife! This paper affirms that I have made
over all I possess to the children, but to be yours while you live. I
have kept back nothing for myself, except some money and my guns."
"Wherefore?" she cried, trembling, "what can be the meaning of it?"
"Because--because--" he hesitated, the honest man could ill
prevaricate--"because I might be fined heavily for the lawsuit...."
"It is an untruth!" she exclaimed. "You think of taking away your
life!"
"No, indeed," he asserted with a solemn oath. But she could not take
comfort, despatching little Wassilj with a message to the pope. Father
Leo came at once, expressing unfeigned wonder on being shown the
document.
"Why, it's a deed of gift, in due form and legally attested. But what
for, my friend; what for?"
"You must not ask me."
The pope looked at him; his gloomy face wore an expression of
unbendable resolve. And Father Leo, thereupon, was silent, knowing it
would be useless to inquire. After awhile, however, he began again: "I
will not press you, Taras; but tell me one thing: Did you inform Dr.
Starkowski of your reasons?"
"No," replied Taras. "And that was why he refused to make out the deed.
'I require to know your intention,' he said. But fortunately there is
another solicitor at Colomea now--a young man who did not trouble about
my reasons."
"Fortunately?" echoed the pope, with marked emphasis.
"Yes, fortunately," returned Taras, equally pointedly. "I have fully
considered it."
Again the pope was silent; and then he spoke of everyday subjects in
order to inquire presently with all the indifference he could command.
"And what are your plans for the present?"
"I have told you some time ago," said Taras. "To-morrow is Epiphany;
after to-morrow I shall start for a several weeks' hunting."
"Not by yourself?"
"Oh, no. I shall have Wassilj Soklewicz with me, and my two men,
Jemilian and Sefko--that is, if I may take them, Anusia," he added,
with a smile, "for you are mistress now."
"Do not jest," she said. "I am well content you should take them. There
is little to be done on the farm now, and they are faithful souls. But
I hope you will let the two boys and Simeon go with you as well, they
are just longing for it."
"No," said Taras, "that is impossible." Nor did he alter his mind when,
the following day, Hritzko and Giorgi pleaded their own suit. "Have we
in any way offended you?" they vehemently inquired.
"Certainly not," he assured them kindly. "You are fine fellows, both of
you, but I cannot possibly take you. Your father is a true friend to
me, and he is getting old. I--I must not let his sons risk their life."
"Risk! Why, what risk should there be? We did so enjoy it last year."
"All sorts of things may happen on a bear hunt; and, indeed, I will not
take the responsibility, on account of your father. It is different
with those others who will accompany me; they have no special family
ties, either of them. It is really impossible, my good fellows, much as
I would like to have you."
He took leave of them affectionately, as he did of their father, of
Alexa, and of the pope's family. They all felt concerned at his
going, but none of them could have given any reason. Anusia alone was
brave-hearted. "You will recover your spirits," said the faithful wife,
"and, therefore, I am pleased you should go. When shall I expect you
back?"
"In six weeks at the latest."
And thus they parted. Anusia once again ruled the farm, and did so with
a strong hand, equal to any man's for determination. The new judge,
Jewgeni Turenko, before long found occasion to testify to her firmness.
The mandatar, for reasons known to himself, had been keeping at a
distance lately; but whenever he was present at the village Jewgeni had
no easy time of it. For Mr. Hajek continued in the path he had begun,
and his claims were many, the new judge being nowise equal to his
predecessor in distinguishing the just ones from the unjust. And being
something of a coward besides, he made all sorts of concessions which
clashed with his duty to the village. So, hoping to conciliate his own
party, he sought to lay the burden on their opponents. And, since
Anusia for the time being was unprotected, she seemed a fit person in
his eyes to try the experiment upon. Consequently, he showed himself on
her premises one day, informing her that she must tell off two extra
hands for the forest labour about to fall due. "There is no such claim
on me," she said, curtly, "it will be no use wasting any words about
it." He ventured to remonstrate, showing his fist; but the judge of
Zulawce had the worst of it--he retired rather hastily, bearing away on
his face some visible tokens of her prowess.
The sixth week had not elapsed when old Jemilian presented himself
before his mistress with a splendid bearskin, and delivered his
message: Taras sent his love, and prayed for further leave of absence;
he would return for Palm Sunday.
"Is he well?" inquired she.
"Yes, quite well."
"And of a cheerful heart?"
"Yes," averred the man. His eyes sought the ground, but Anusia did not
notice that; she trusted the honest servant, who for upwards of twenty
years had lived on the farm. "Then I am quite satisfied," she said;
"let him stay as long as it gives him pleasure. It is five weeks more,
to be sure; but let him have it."
And thereupon Jemilian went over to the pope's. "My master has sent
me," he said, "he is anxious to know whether the imperial decision has
arrived, he gave directions to have it transmitted to you.
"Nothing has come," said Leo; "but how is your master?"
Jemilian repeated his statements, but Father Leo was not taken in,
although he had trouble of his own, and sympathy with others might
have been in abeyance--his youngest child was grievously ill of the
small-pox. But he was a true friend of Taras's, and could turn away
from his own grief. "Look me in the face," he said, sternly; "it is not
meet to offer an untruth to the priest. Tell me what you are after up
there."
"Well, we hunt," Jemilian replied, hesitatingly. But the pope was not
thus turned off, and after a little more of prevarication the man was
obliged to confess. "Ah, your reverence," he said, "such hunting as
Taras's the Carpathians have never seen. The Almighty must have clouded
his reason; He must, indeed! On first starting we all took it for
granted he would lead us to the Red Hollow, the best hunting ground far
and wide. But he took us on--on, far away into the mountains. He never
notices the track of the bear, and if we call his attention to it
he shrugs his shoulders. On--on, we go. He seems to have but one
object--to get to know his way in the mountains. If we pass a dense
forest he takes his axe, making his mark upon the trees. If we come
across a herdsman he does not inquire what life the bears have led him,
but is anxious to learn the character of the neighbourhood and its
bearings. It is the same if we put up with any cottager. He makes
friends with the people, giving them cartridges for their guns, and
asking them for nothing but directions to find his way. On we go,
westward chiefly, but exploring right and left--from mountain to
mountain, from glen to glen. Denser grows the forest, more ragged the
clefts; we seek a path through the rimy brushwood, our hands torn with
the brambles.... Ah, your reverence, I am a bear hunter of thirty
years' standing; but what the Carpathians are I found out but lately."
"And have you asked him what is the object of all this?"
"Indeed I have--again and again, but to no purpose. How often have I
said to him: 'What is the good of roaming through the wintry waste like
this? Your servants would be well content if they could see you enjoyed
it; but you push on, sad unto death--what is the good?' His reply being
always the same: 'It must be, my men, and if you love me you will
follow.' Love him?--of course we do. Your reverence knows as much as
that yourself, that to know him is to be ready to go to the death for
him.... Well, we followed him like sheep their shepherd, chiefly
westward, for the space of twenty days, when we reached a cottage, and
the people there were Huzuls still, but of different ways from ours.
'We are of the Marmaros,' they said. We spent the night with them, and
it was the same as everywhere. Let Taras but begin to speak with
people, telling them of his life and inquiring into theirs, and his
charm is upon them; they look up to him and are glad to serve him.
Indeed, your reverence, he has a wonderful influence over men, if he
chooses to use it; this has been very plain in our roamings. From that
cottage he led us back again towards Pokutia. 'It was useful to have
seen something of Hungary,' he said; 'but now we will turn our steps
homeward again.' That was both sensible and pleasant, and for sheer
satisfaction I forgot to ask him why it should have been useful to seek
a weary way through brambles and riven rocks to have a look at the
Marmaros. Nor could I feel satisfied long, for he soon turned from the
rising sun, striking off northward, over mount and dale, as we had done
before. Never a shot he fired, though we met the finest deer; he only
kept noticing the country. At last we stopped far beyond Delatyn; he
gave us a day's rest, and then in quick marches he brought us back to
these parts, stopping near the Red Hollow. We arrived two days ago,
putting up for the night in the dell of old Michalko, and yesterday we
had some hunting at last. We were fortunate too, for not two hours
passed before we sighted a splendid bear, and Taras killed him, rather
carelessly, but the bullet hit clean between the eyes. It was the first
time these six weeks that I saw him smile--he was pleased with his good
shot. And when Lazarko and I had drawn the creature he sent me home
with the skin."
"Lazarko," interrupted Father Leo, "who is he?"
Jemilian had tripped evidently. He grew red and stammered: "Oh!... some
fellow.... who joined us...."
"Don't attempt what you have so little talent for," returned the pope;
"your lies are transparent. Why do you depart from the truth?"
"I cannot help it," said the man, apologetically; "Taras has enjoined
me so very sternly not to mention Lazarko, for fear of harming the poor
youth...."
"Lazarko?" repeated the pope, rubbing his forehead, and exclaiming
suddenly: "You don't mean Lazarko Rodakowicz, of Zolince, surely!"
"Yes I do," confessed Jemilian.
Father Leo was dismayed: "And this man our Taras suffers near him! Is
he not aware that Lazarko is a murderer? Why the fellow shot the
mandatar of his village!"
"He did. But only because the mandatar dishonoured the girl he loved."
"That is true. I knew the parties, Zolince being but a couple of miles
from my late cure. The mandatar was a wretch, the girl honest, and the
youth had borne a good name. But to commit murder is an awful thing
nevertheless, and Lazarko, so far from in any way expiating his guilt,
made it worse by escaping into the mountains, where he joined the band
of Green Giorgi, thus becoming a brigand--a 'hajdamak.' I trust Taras
was not aware of that!"
"He was," said Jemilian, "for Lazarko came to us straight from the
outlaws. And since the matter has escaped me, I may as well tell your
reverence the plain facts of it, for you are Taras's friend. We knew
well enough, on going beyond the Red Hollow into the heart of the
mountains, that we must fall in with some 'hajdamaks'; for the
Carpathians are their natural haunt, and not all the Whitecoats[4] of
the empire will be able to say a word against it. We had no fear; four
of us, and carrying arms, we were a match for the devil if need be.
Besides, it is well known that the hajdamaks hardly ever attack a
peasant or a Jew; they are the sworn enemies of the Polish nobles only,
and of the Whitecoats if driven to it. So we went ahead fearlessly, and
our first encounter with one of their kind was not calculated to
terrify us--a beardless milksop, half-starved and frozen. Our
watch-fire brought him near, and he begged humbly for leave to stay.
But Taras stepped up to him: 'Let us first see if you deserve it!' he
said sternly. 'Is your mother alive?' 'She is dead.' 'Then answer me
truly, as you would wish her to be at rest in her grave. I presume even
a fellow like you will own the sanctity of that oath! Why did you take
to the mountains?' 'Well, just because of my mother's death; my father
married again, and the step-mother turned him against me. I, the heir
to the farm, had to do the meanest labour, and was treated like a dog
besides. So I ran away!' 'This is no reason for taking to the
mountains! Why did you not try life in another village, eating your
bread honestly, as the servant of some respectable peasant?' The fellow
looked abashed. 'I had heard of the merry life up here,' he said at
last. 'Away with you!' cried Taras, 'it is mere laziness and greed of
enjoyment that made you a hajdamak! Away!' And his look was such that
the fellow made the greatest haste to escape. A few days later we had a
more serious encounter. We were deep in the heart of the mountains, not
far from the Marmaros, resting one night in a forsaken cattlefold. Our
fire was lit, when suddenly an armed band appeared, headed by a
handsome young man, with a finely-twisted moustache, carrying the white
bunda[5] carelessly on his shoulders, with the green, silver-broidered
jerkin beneath...."
"Green Giorgi himself," cried the pope, crossing himself involuntarily.
"Yes, himself! Your reverence will be aware of the stories concerning
him--that he has power to show himself in different places
simultaneously, and that he knows men and all about them, though he has
never set eyes on them before. How that should be I cannot tell, but he
certainly knew us. 'I make you welcome, Taras!' he said,
condescendingly. 'I intend to start a-hunting tomorrow, and rejoice to
fall in with the best bear-hunter of the country!' But Taras did not
accept the proffered hand. 'If you know me so well, Giorgi,' he said,
'then you must be aware, also, that I never shrink from saying the
truth. We are but four of us, and you about three times the number; we
have but our guns, and you, I see, carry pistols besides. If you wish
to attack us, we are lost. But nevertheless, I tell you, I shall
neither hunt with you to-morrow, nor suffer your company a moment
longer than I can help it this night. A man like you must poison the
very air I breathe,' Giorgi grew white. 'Why?' he hissed, snatching at
his girdle, where a pair of silver-mounted pistols were to be seen. 'I
am not bound further to explain my opinion,' replied Taras; 'to be a
hajdamak is a miserable trade, yet there are reasons which may force an
honest man to take to it. You have no such excuse. You are a mere
deserter from the ranks of the Whitecoats. And you carry on this sad
trade after a cruel and shameful fashion besides. When the peasants
of Roskow, last autumn, called upon you to help them against their
hard-hearted lord of the manor, you were not satisfied with plundering
this Polish tyrant's property, but you committed robbery in the village
besides; you not merely killed the tyrant, who deserved it, but you
killed the innkeeper, a poor Jew, whose only crime consisted in having
saved up a little money, which roused your cupidity. I could lay many
similar charges at your door, but I daresay this will suffice.' But, so
far from sufficing, it was more than the ruffian could brook. He drew
his pistol, foaming with rage. But we three--Sefko, Wassilj, and I--had
cocked our guns at him, his own people standing by gloomily. He would
have discharged his pistol, nevertheless, had not one of his party made
a dash at him, whispering something we did not understand. He gave a
scowling look at his followers and turned to go. 'You coward!' cried
Taras, 'an honest man's bullet is too good for you!' At daybreak
we learned the reason of his yielding, and, indeed, had guessed as
much--he could not rely on his men. They had joined him, believing him
to be an honest hajdamak, and not a murdering brigand...."
"No hajdamak can be honest!" interrupted Father Leo, sharply.
"Well, honest, as the saying is," continued Jemilian, a little abashed.
"I was going on to say that at daybreak two of his men, Lazarko and
Iwan, came to us, assuring us they had thus believed in him, and
entreating Taras to take them under his protection, as they were tired
of the wicked life. He listened to Lazarko but not to Iwan, although
the latter swore by his mother's grave that he also had intended to be
an honest hajdamak...."
"Honest! honest!" broke in the pope once more. "I wish you would not
thus use the word."
"Well, honest, as people take it," rejoined Jemilian. "I meant to say
that Iwan had become a hajdamak only because he had shot a tax-gatherer
who was unlawfully going to distrain the goods of his mother, a poor
widow."
"And that is an honest reason?"
"Taras admitted it as such. But he nevertheless refused the young man's
request, because he had assisted Green Giorgi in a deed of cowardly
violence. He gave this account of it himself, crestfallen enough: 'Some
weeks ago,' he said, 'while scouring the lower Bukowina, we received
information that a Jewish wine-merchant from Czernowitz was travelling
by himself along the mountain road to Transylvania. On learning this,
the captain disguised himself as a peasant, requesting me to do
likewise. We lay in waiting by the roadside. The Jew arrived presently,
driving his car, and Green Giorgi begged him to give us a lift. He
good-naturedly agreed, although his vehicle was small, and, taking our
places beside him, we drove on for about a couple of hours, engaging
him in conversation. But on entering the dark, narrow valley of the
Putna, the captain stunned him with a sudden blow, ordering me to fire,
which I did, yet with so trembling a hand that the bullet merely grazed
his arm. Thereupon Green Giorgi drew his pistol and despatched him.'
Thus Iwan, amid sobs and groans; we listened horror-struck, but no one
was more moved than Taras himself.
"'Was not the Jew a broad-built man, with a reddish beard, and blue,
kindly eyes?' he inquired presently, with husky voice. 'Yes, yes,'
groaned Iwan; 'ah, it is those eyes I cannot get rid of....' 'Villain!'
cried Taras, 'I knew the man; he showed me a similar kindness. But even
if I had never seen him I could have nothing to do with an assassin!'
'Have pity on me,' pleaded Iwan, 'I could not gainsay the captain, and
it was but a Jew!' 'Away, villain!' repeated Taras furiously; 'is a Jew
not a man? And you need obey no one for the committing of murder!' Iwan
fell on his knees. 'If you reject me, I can but shoot myself,' he
cried. 'There will be no harm done if you do,' said Taras, 'for it is
what you have deserved!' We turned from him, going our way. And he did
as he had threatened, the lads of old Michalko telling us only
yesterday that they found him dead in the forest, the discharged pistol
in his stiffened hand. We were sorry, but Taras never altered a
look...."
The priest paced his room excitedly while this report was being given,
and now he stood still. "These, then, are your hunting pleasures!" he
cried, wringing his hands. "Is this the pastime by which Taras hopes
to regain his spirits? And the worst of it is, it seems to delight
him--he will return for Palm Sunday only! How do we know he will return
then?"
"He will keep his word," said the man, confidently. "I was no less
alarmed than you, and would not have come hither with his message had
he not sworn faithfully to return by Palm Sunday."
Father Leo took comfort, asking presently: "And did he tell you what he
means to do now?"
"Not in so many words, but I am pretty sure he will now take us through
the Bukowina...."
Leo stared at the man, horror-struck, his whole figure trembling. His
plump, honest face was livid with the thought that had come to him. He
grew purple and white again, and big drops stood on his forehead.
"Jemilian...." he groaned.
The man had watched him, his own appearance as it were reflecting the
pope's emotion. But now he stretched forth his hands as though
combating an unworthy suspicion. "No, no!" he cried, "do not--do not
insult the pure-hearted man!"
The pope drew a deep breath, and fell again to pacing his room.
Some time passed in silence; the labouring man seemed lost in gloomy
thought. When he looked up presently, Leo started as out of a dream.
"Go," he said with trembling voice, "and God be with you! Tell him our
conversation, and that I shall look for him by Palm Sunday without
fail. If we were not in trouble ourselves, I would think nothing of the
twenty miles' distance, but would go with you to urge his return even
now."
"Do you know him so little?" said the man with a smile. "'Twere easier
to make the Pruth flow backwards than to turn him from his purpose. But
he will keep his promise." He drew a breath. "Doubt him not! And pray
for him," added the faithful soul, "he sorely needs it."
Jemilian departed, and Father Leo returned to the bedside of his
youngest child. The little boy lay in high fever, tossing the more
wildly as his hands were tied up for fear of his scratching the painful
pustules.
The apothecary who had seen him a couple of days ago had judged that
the illness would run its course favourably, but that it had not yet
reached its height. And it was so; twelve weary days had to pass before
the danger was over. And even then the poor parents could not lift
their heads, for when the little one recovered, both the elder boys
sickened with the same terrible disease, and all their anxiety began
afresh. No one could have blamed Father Leo if in this season of sorrow
he had thought little of the absent friend, all the more as the daily
visits of Anusia had ceased; she was obliged, for her own children's
sake, to hold aloof. But on the contrary, he thought much and pitifully
of the roving man and his strange hunting-time. It scarcely needed the
sad news which reached him on the last Sunday in Lent to rouse his
sympathy afresh.
For on that day a messenger from the district town brought over the
long-expected imperial rescript. Leo knew what the contents would be,
and yet he hesitated to break the seal. Those thoughts that had come to
him as he listened to Jemilian's report--thoughts of a suspicion which
he had striven to combat--surged up in him afresh. And he felt as if
that red seal in his hands were dyed with the heart's blood of the most
righteous man he had known. He almost felt forbidden to break it, and
when he did so at last it was with a sigh. He was not mistaken; the
writ contained not merely a denial, but also a reproof for having
wantonly troubled the ear of His Majesty. Father Leo groaned. "Taras
must never know that," he murmured. "I shall not give him the literal
contents."
But not four-and-twenty hours had passed before all the villagers
knew that the Emperor had written a letter to Taras, saying: "You
good-for-nothing subject, if ever you trouble me again about your law
suits, I shall have you shut up in prison!" It was the corporal who
thus paraphrased the imperial decision, having it direct from Harasim
Woronka, who was a common labourer now, thanks to his drink, working
for the mandatar. It was Mr. Hajek's doing that this version was thus
carried to the people; he had learned at Colomea that the decision had
arrived, and had instructed his under-steward accordingly. Father Leo
was greatly incensed, and saw he had no choice now but to inform Taras
of the full contents, there being no mention of prison at any rate. And
he made up his mind to get an insight into Taras's heart if possible,
hoping the confessional in Passion Week would yield the opportunity.
Palm Sunday was at hand. Early spring had made its appearance, the snow
was fast melting, the south wind blew, and the hearts of men were
happy. Father Leo especially had reason to bless this early spring, the
vivifying influence of which made itself felt in the sick-room, helping
to conquer the dread disease. But the parents yet took turns in sitting
up at night.
And thus the night before Palm Sunday found Father Leo awake in the
dimly-lit chamber; the boys were asleep, he, with stockinged feet,
walking up and down between them and the window. Again and again he
stood still by their little beds, looking down wistfully at the pale
faces of his children, on which the illness happily had left no
ravages, and, turning back to the window, he would gaze out into the
moonlit night. The village street was bright as day, but solemn in
silence. The trees, just breaking into tiny buds, stretched forth their
branches into the glimmering air, and there were quivering sounds as of
the whispering winds of spring. From a copsewood near, the call of the
screech owl was heard; it is counted a death omen in most places, but
Father Leo scarcely noticed the dismal notes for the kindly light
pouring down upon the world. And the pious man lifted a full heart to
the Giver of all goodness, who had brought back his little ones from
the arms of death. "If I could but tell them," he murmured, resuming
his walk, and seeking words for the holy things that moved him. The
good man was making his sermon for the morrow.
He was startled by a sound from the window, a finger tapping the pane
gently. A dark figure stood without, and, looking close, he recognised
Taras.
He hastened to open the sash a couple of inches. "Welcome! welcome!" he
said warmly, "I am glad you have made good your promise."
"I returned an hour ago," replied Taras. "My wife and children are
well; but you have seen trouble?"
At which the pope made haste to add that the Lord's goodness was being
shown to him even now. "Come in," he concluded.
"It is late," said Taras; "I only wanted to have a look at you. Though,
let me say, I know what you are keeping for me, happening to fall in
with the two lads of Simeon by the Czeremosz yesterday, and they told
me the imperial decision had arrived."
"But I daresay they have not told you correctly," said Father Leo,
anxiously. "We will put off everything till to-morrow, but no false
report in this respect shall grieve your heart; a minute longer than I
can help. The rescript consists of a few lines only, and I have read
them so often that I know them by heart. It is true that your petition
is refused, because the verdicts of the local courts had plainly shown
you in the wrong. And you are warned from again appealing to the
Emperor needlessly; it is condoned this once, because of your evident
zeal for the good of the parish. These are the very words: 'The subject
Taras Barabola is herewith instructed to refrain from again troubling
His Apostolic Majesty or the Imperial magistrates, and to submit to
justice.' That is all, I assure you; never a word of prison. And it is
bad enough as it is."
"Bad enough," repeated Taras slowly. "What were the last words?"
Father Leo looked at him, he could see his face plainly in the
moonlight; it was quite calm. So he repeated the final clause.
"To submit to justice," said Taras after him, slowly. "Good-night."
The pope would have wished to detain him, but the clock had struck one
some time ago, and it was the hour for giving the children their
medicine. So he shook hands with him through the window and returned
to the little patients, where the phial stood by the side of a
night-light.
He was just taking up the bottle, when suddenly--fearfully--a cry rang
through the stillness without, half lost in the distance, but so
terrible, so death-inspired that he shook violently, sending forth a
cry in return. The children sat up in their beds sobbing, but he flew
back to the window, trembling, and listened. Deep silence had settled
without, and not again was it broken; yet he gazed out anxiously,
prepared for the very worst.
But all seemed at peace; the little cottage gardens, and the street,
and the fields beyond, lay swathed in moonlight, but deserted and
still. Nowhere a trace of living soul, not a sound to be heard, save
the whispering of the branches bending to the night air. Was it Taras?
Did ever human breast send forth such a shriek of mortal agony? The
priest could not tell, but he remembered the screech owl. "The bird of
night may have flown past the house," he reflected, straining his ear
to catch a repetition of the sound. But all was still; only the wind
kept swaying the branches.
He crossed himself and returned to his children, endeavouring to calm
them; and having given them their medicine, he strove to take up the
thread of his sermon. But that was well-nigh impossible. Again and
again he stood still, listening; but only the gentle voices of the
night reached his ear, no sound of alarm--the screech owl was
silent....
The small hours passed slowly, gloomily. With the dawn the popadja
entered to take his place. "Little father," she said, "have I been
dreaming, or did I hear it? A terrible cry broke upon my sleep, as of a
man being strangled and crying for help...."
"I daresay you dreamt it," returned he, huskily, making haste to gain
his study; there was early service at eight o'clock, and he really must
collect his thoughts for his sermon.
But it was impossible, for while he was yet dressing he was suddenly
seized with a burning desire to see his friend, and nothing was to be
done but follow the inward compulsion. He snatched up his cloak and
hurried from the house.
Entering Taras's farmyard, he found his two eldest boys in their Sunday
garments, with bright plumes in their brand-new caps. They were making
a desperate noise with toy trumpets. On seeing the pope they ran up to
him and kissed his hand.
"Father returned last night," they cried, "and see what he brought
us--a trumpet each and these beautiful caps."
"Is he at home?" inquired the priest.
"No. He is gone to see Jewgeni."
"The judge?"
"Yes--that judge," returned little Wassilj, with all the contempt he
was capable of. "He has business with him. He would never go and see
him for the pleasure of it."
"And where is your mother?"
"Getting ready for church."
"Well, tell your father to come to me in the vestry directly after
service. Do you understand?"
Wassilj promised to deliver the message. "And I know what for," he
added, with childish importance, "the Emperor's answer has arrived."
Full of disquietude the priest retraced his steps. "What business can
he have with the judge?" he wondered.
Explanation was at hand. He came upon the judge at his own threshold.
"Glad to meet your reverence," said Jewgeni. "I have called for your
advice. My brother is against it, but all the people are for it."
"For what?"
"It is Taras's proposal. He came to me this morning saying: 'I want you
to call together the general meeting directly after service--not merely
the heads of families, you know, but all the community. You are aware
that the final decision has arrived from Vienna. I want to render an
account to the people. Now whether you are my enemy or my friend is
nothing. You are the judge, and I claim this as a matter of right,' I
need not tell your reverence that his friend I certainly am not. For,
firstly, he is against the Emperor; secondly, he is a bastard; thirdly,
he is only a lowlander who has sneaked into our village; and, fourthly,
that wife of his----"
The man involuntarily put his hand to his face. Father Leo understood
the gesture, but his heart was too heavy for a smile.
"I know," he said quickly, "you are not exactly his friend, good man
though he is. But what answer did you give him?"
"None at all," replied the judge, rather bashfully. "How could I
without first consulting my brother Constantine, and he is against it.
'Do you want him to talk the people over?' he said. 'What have we to do
with his petition to the Emperor? If he has lost his case it serves him
right,' said Constantine."
"For shame!" cried the honest pope. "But what of the people? You said
they are for hearing him. I hope they are."
"Well," returned Jewgeni, "my brother ought to know, being a corporal!
But the elders and others of the men who heard of it think differently.
'He shall have the meeting,' they said; 'it is due to him in simple
justice.' And what may be your reverence's opinion?"
"Call the meeting, by all means!" cried Father Leo, warmly. "Shall this
man, who has sacrificed so much of his time, his money, his powers, for
the good of the people, not be permitted to render his account, because
he has stood up for your right, even beyond his duty? Of course you
must hear him!"
"Very well, then," said the judge, meekly, kissing the priest's hand,
"the meeting shall be called. The people can be informed after the
service, but I will send a message to Taras at once. Yet I am not sure
my brother, the corporal----" he scratched his head and went his way.
It was high time for Father Leo to repair to church for early mass. He
hastened to his vestry, where the sacristan stood waiting to assist him
with the vestments. And Father Leo began his duties.
The church was one of the United Greek community, in which mass was
read according to the Roman Catholic rite, but in the language of the
people, consequently the worshippers were able to follow intelligently.
It was a good congregation, and they appeared to listen prayerfully
whilst Father Leo with his choristers chanted the antiphony. But the
good father himself had trouble in centering his thoughts on his
sacred occupation. His eyes had scanned the people, and he knew that
neither Taras nor Anusia were present. But Taras's companions had
come--Jemilian, Sefko, and Wassilj Soklewicz, looking haggard and worn.
Mass over, the priest returned to his vestry to put off the heavy
garments before mounting the pulpit. He was on the point of re-entering
the church, when the outer door leading to his sanctum was torn open,
little Wassilj bursting in, sobbing.
"What is it?" cried the priest, white with apprehension.
"Little father," sobbed the child, lifting his hands beseechingly,
"mother entreats you to come to us at once--at once! It is a matter of
life and death, she says."
"Good God--what is it?"
"Alas!" cried the boy, "I cannot tell you! I only know that mother is
in despair."
"Is your father at home?"
"Yes! We were just starting for church, when a messenger from Jewgeni
arrived, saying, 'The judge will comply with your desire, and the
general meeting shall be called,' Thereupon father turned to mother,
saying, 'Then we cannot go to church, for I owe it to you to tell you
before telling the others.' And to us he said, 'Run into the yard,
children.' But we remained in the hall ... and ... we never did it
before!" sobbed the child.
"Did you listen?"
"Yes! We heard father's voice, he spoke lowly and we could not
understand. But presently mother gave a sharp cry, as though she were
suffering some fearful pain. I could not help bursting in, Fedko and
Tereska after me. Mother was on her knees before father. 'Don't do
it--oh!' she sobbed. 'But I _must_!' he said, 'not even pity for you
and the children must prevent me!' And we began to cry, and mother
said, 'Yes, children ... come and kneel to him! Perhaps he will listen
to your tears, if he will not to mine!' Ah, little father, her face was
streaming...."
"Go on; what else?"
"We knelt, we lifted up our hands, and we cried, 'Don't do it, father,
for pity's sake!' But he shook his head, big tears running down his own
face. And then mother sent me to fetch you. Do come, little father!"
said the child, weeping.
Father Leo's chest heaved. "How can I?" he said, "the people are
waiting for the sermon! It would be wrong to disappoint them."
"It would, your reverence," remarked the sacristan. But the child had
got a hold of his gown, repeating anxiously, "Come; oh, do come!"
"It is the lesser wrong," said Father Leo, with a sudden resolve. "Run
home, Wassilj, and say I am coming directly."
And hastily he entered the church. "I beg your leave, good people," he
cried. "I cannot give you a sermon to-day. God will forgive me, there
is a holier duty waiting," and he vanished into his vestry.
There was a loud murmur in the congregation, surprise being uppermost.
And then there was a flocking forth from the building. But outside
Jewgeni and his elders kept crying: "Go to the linden, all of you! We
call the general meeting for the hearing of Taras."
The corporal stood by, smiling an evil smile. "Let us go and hear the
joke!" he said, following the stream of the people.