THE PASSION OF JUSTICE.
The pope, meanwhile, made what haste he could to Taras's house; it was
barely a ten minutes' walk, but it appeared to him fearfully long.
Having reached the farm, he rushed into the house--it was silent as a
churchyard; after much looking and shouting he discovered only little
Tereska near the hen-roost. The child had a tear-stained face, but
seemed to have recovered her spirits, taking evident pleasure in
chasing a hen. "Where is your father?" inquired Leo, anxiously.
"Gone!" said the child, and began to cry again.
"Gone?"--Father Leo crossed himself--"where to?"
"Don't know--he and mother----"
"To the meeting?"
"Don't know," repeated the little one, sobbing more violently. "Mother
was crying, and father was crying!" But the hen appeared to make its
escape, and the child was after it.
"They can only have gone to the meeting," said the pope to himself,
retracing his steps speedily.
The inn with the linden in front of it was a little way beyond the
church. The village seemed deserted; only a tottering old man in
front of a cottage sat basking in the sun. "I wish you would send my
grand-daughter back," he called out, querulously, "Taras will have
plenty of listeners without her."
Father Leo, indeed, found the place crowded; the very oldest and
youngest excepted, none of the village were missing. For the "general
meeting" is an event, and duly appreciated. The faces of the people
reflected its importance as they thronged in a circle about the linden,
where a table had been placed by way of a platform for the speaker.
Taras was just mounting it when Father Leo arrived; a murmur of
expectation ran through the people, of pity, too, with most, and of
spite with some. But surely this latter sensation was smitten with
shame at the sight of the unhappy man about to address them. His hair
had become grey, his face was worn, and his eyes burned with a piteous
fire deep in their sockets.
"Ye men of the village," he began, with trembling, yet far-sounding
voice, "and all of you who are members of this parish, I thank you for
coming here, and I thank the judge for having called this meeting. For
although it is but a duty on your part, and on his, to hear me, yet a
man who has lived to see what I have seen, is grateful even for that
much!
"Jewgeni will have told you why you are here: I want to render an
account--yet not concerning the past, as he seems to think, but
concerning that which is at hand. Listen, then, to what a man has to
tell you who has been happy and has become unhappy, because justice is
what he has loved and striven for most. Some of you love me, others
hate me, and I daresay I have grown indifferent to many. But I pray you
listen to me without love or hatred, as you would listen to a stranger
whom death overtakes in your village, and who is anxious to unburden
his soul before he goes hence. You would have no personal sympathy with
such a one, but you would believe him because he is a dying man. Well
then, believe me likewise, for I am a dying for your sakes!"
A shrill cry interrupted him, and a wave of excitement passed over the
closely-pressed people. In vain the pope endeavoured to force his way;
this wall of human beings stood firm as a rock. But on the other side
of the linden, towards the inn, some of the men were seen moving. "They
are taking away his wife!" was whispered from mouth to mouth. "She has
fainted!"
Taras had not stirred from his place. An agony of grief quivered in his
features, but he stood motionless. They saw him lift his hand, the
commotion subsided, and in silence they hung on his lips.
"Men and women," he resumed, "you have just witnessed that which is
enough to move any heart! Give her your tenderest pity! She needs it
doubly, not understanding that what I am about to do I _must_ do. Love
to me and to the children makes it impossible for her to follow my
meaning. But you will see more clearly; you will perceive it is not
wantonness and wickedness that forces me to separate from those that
dwell in peace. The guilt of it will not fall on my head, and I need
not fear the wrath of God. When the day of His reckoning comes I shall
be able to answer. But I also shall have a question to ask of Him in
that day, and I shall look for _His_ answer. Let me hope it will not
differ from what meanwhile I have said to myself in His name!
"Listen, then, to my confession. There is both good and bad to be said
of me, in accordance with the truth. For a man should not be unjust to
himself, any more than to others. And if in most cases it is but a
false shame that would conceal one's vices or one's virtues, it were a
crime in mine. My heart, therefore, of which I have not yet been able
entirely to root out pity for myself, shall not influence my speaking.
And what were the use of complaints? Am I not like a man whose fields
have been wasted, whose dwelling has been destroyed by the flood from
the mountains? Shall such a one sit down by his ruined home crying:
'Why should God have sent this to me? why should the flood find its way
just to my house?' Why, indeed! Surely it was not mere accident that
the pent-up waters should have broken through just in this direction;
and if he is wise he will not sit still, but will ascend the torrent
till he find the cause of his trouble. And I will not have you stand
about me lamenting, but you shall follow me up the stream to see why
the roaring waters have burst on my happiness, singling me out for
destruction.
"You are acquainted with my past, as though I had grown up among you.
You know I am a bastard, and that I had to suffer greatly on this
account; but you also know that, thanks to my mother, the wrong I
endured became a blessing. She had been brought to see that the heart
is poisoned which ceases to believe in justice on earth; so she
regarded not herself in order to teach me that faith. And when I had
been able to overcome a terrible temptation, when I had gained for
myself the goodwill of men, this faith of hers appeared to me also the
very bulwark of life. Yes, my friends, I had learned to look upon this
earth of ours as upon a well-ordered place where each man has his own
share of labour, and is rewarded according to his work: for equity and
justice seemed to be the foundation of things.
"He who has once admitted this belief into his heart and mind can never
be really unhappy, even if misfortune should overtake him like a
thunderstorm in summer. Trouble did come upon me. I bore it--first the
illness and death of my mother, and then the return of my father. The
first trial was the sorest, but my soul could rise from it with less
effort than from the intercourse with the vagabond, just as the body
will recover more easily from some painful gunshot wound than from a
lingering fever. You all know how I strove to do what was right by my
father, and you also praised me for it; but it was only a rendering of
justice, the paying back of the debt I owed to my mother. He denied
being my father, the memory of her that was gone was being sullied, and
that made me willing for any sacrifice, ready to bear any burden
without murmuring or sinking under the load. It made me serious, but
not sad. For did I not suffer for the sake of justice, which grew all
the dearer to my heart!
"The old man died. I did not rejoice; I felt like those men who all
their life long carry salt in heavy loads from here to Hungary,
bringing back packages of Hungarian tobacco instead. The poor slave
wipes his forehead and is glad to have arrived at his destination with
his burden of salt, but he is not therefore jubilant, for he knows that
he will set out with his bundles of tobacco to-morrow, which are just
as heavy, though otherwise different from the salt. Yes, my friends,
young as I was, I had already learned the lesson that this life of ours
is a mere changing of burdens, and I was content it should be so. For
did not everything depend on how we carried our load! But mine hitherto
had been heavy, and I longed for a change, longed for another burden
elsewhere. I believed that at Ridowa I should never cease hearing the
unkind and evil speeches of him for whom I had borne so much; the very
air, I believed, must be full of them. You know that even the wild
beasts can be driven forth from their haunts; destroy their home and
they will repair it, but if you befoul it they go. So I looked for a
place elsewhere, and chance brought me to Zulawce.
"Looking back on those days, how should I not be filled with the pity
of it all? You know how I came to you--a man loving diligence and
understanding his business, thoroughly capable of managing a farm,
honest in all things, and trustworthy. Of the pleasures of life I knew
nothing. I had never yielded to drink, had never conquered a man in
fight, never kissed a girl for love. But I did not regret it, enjoying
in those days what I believed to be the greatest satisfaction of
all, a real content with myself. And why should I not? Was I not doing
my duty? Was I not endeavouring to be just--yes, and had suffered
for righteousness' sake! Added to this, I had complete power of
self-control as far as that may be said of sinful man. I knew that this
Taras, a self-made man, who from a despised bastard had risen to a
position of respect among his fellows, would all his life long be noted
for integrity, for helpfulness and justice; that he would never permit
any wrong, nor ever intentionally repay evil with evil. Thus I believed
myself strong and safe, come what might; for I could never be false to
myself, and the world could not fail me, since, to the best of my
knowledge, it was so firmly grounded on justice."
He drew a deep breath, a sad smile hovering on his lips. "Bear with me,
my friends; did I not warn you there were some good things to be said
of me? But be very sure there is cause for blame as well, nay, I must
bring an accusation against myself concerning the very days I speak of.
My self-reliance was far stronger than could be justified by any virtue
or success of mine. I not only believed myself to be a good man--which
no doubt I was--but the very best man of my age and condition. This
ugly delusion, like my virtues, was the natural outcome of my history,
of my every experience. If a man has to climb a very steep mountain, he
must believe in himself, considering himself stronger and more capable
than perchance he is, else he would never set out on his journey, at
any rate he would fail by the way. And how much more so if he is all
alone! 'The thumb thinks more of itself than all the four fingers put
together,' our much-lamented Father Martin used to say--one of the few
sensible sayings he could boast of.
"You may wonder that I should accuse myself just of _this_ vice! If I
were to put the question to you to bring home to me any proud saying or
act of conceit, I dare say none of you could do it. Have I, then,
deceived you--shown myself different from what I am? Do I stand here a
hypocrite, self-convicted? Nay, God knows it is not so, and this will
not explain the apparent discrepance. It was no trouble to me to be
gentle and good and kind to every one, first at Ridowa and then at
Zulawce--helpful to all, and ready to serve them. I did but follow my
own inmost nature, and to be different would have cost me trouble.
Indeed, that pride of mine which possessed me was of a peculiar kind.
I, at least, never knew a man who was lorded over by a similar
taskmaster. The consciousness was ever present with me--'This Taras
Barabola is a good man, and righteous and just. I am glad I am he!' But
it were a mistake on your part to suppose that for this reason I was
happy, wrapped up in my own esteem. No, indeed--that pride of mine,
again and again, was the cause of shame to me, when I examined my deeds
and those of others. 'No man is a church-door,' says the proverb with
us. And I, too, was of flesh and blood; I, too, must fail and sin where
I would not. Little sins mostly, at which another might have laughed
without therefore being counted wicked or specially hardened. But to
me, they were grievous beyond words. And no effort, no honest will of
mine was a defence against them; for man is but human, and walking
along the dusty road of this life he can scarcely keep his skirt
entirely pure. The careless man will not be troubled by a little more
or less of dust on his garment; but he who, so to speak, has a habit of
frequently looking at himself in the glass, cannot but feel the
smallest speck a burden. And thus, just because of my pride, my little
sins have weighed on me far more than many a man can say of his
grievous ill-doings, and to atone for them seemed almost impossible.
"But more than this, even the ill habits of others would be a burden to
me in the same way. For instance, to exemplify it by the most frequent
occurrence, it was a real pain to me to see any neighbour of mine yield
to drink, carrying not only his earthly gains but his very manhood into
the public house, there to lose them. Others would find it best to mind
their own business, but that pride of mine left me no peace. 'What is
the use of your being so good, Taras,' it would say, 'unless you strive
to help and save? What is the use of your being so sensible, so sober
and self-denying, except that you should be an example to these
besotted fools?' I was just driven to do what I could to rescue the
man; my pride would have torn me to pieces had I forborne; and if I
failed in my endeavour, as in most cases I could not but fail, it made
me sad at heart, and I believed myself bad and useless because of it.
It was the same regarding the laziness or unfitness of any in their
daily work. I would try to get hold of such men gently, teaching them
without hurting their vanity. In these things I mostly succeeded, for a
man will more readily take your advice concerning the ploughing of his
field or the management of his cattle, than he will take it in matters
of drink or ill-usage to some poor girl. Moreover, I could always fall
back on myself--I mean, if some idle or besotted neighbour would let
his farm go to ruin I could come to his assistance; for the diligent
man is never short of time, and my own farm need not suffer because of
my helping another. Indeed, I have often thus helped a neighbour,
sometimes because compassion was strong in me, but more often it was
just that same pride that made me do it."
"You should not say so!" broke in a voice, quivering with emotion. "You
should not, indeed! How dare you call it pride--how dare you make a
vice of what is the rarest of virtues?"
It was Father Leo. With a troubled heart, shaken to its depth with pity
and with grief, he had listened to his friend. He alone had understood
what Taras meant in saying he must "separate from those that dwell in
peace," and he knew that the terrible forebodings which had come to him
during the interview with Jemilian were about to be fulfilled. But how
to prevent it--ah, how, indeed? Every fibre of his honest soul trembled
with the apprehension of it; every faculty of his brain was bent on
finding a means of averting the great sorrow at hand. "I am unable to
hold back ruin," he murmured, pressing closer to the table, longing to
be nearer his friend when the terrible word would be spoken. And
standing there with a beating heart, the whole history of the strangest
of men once more passed before his soul--all the shaping of so dread a
fate--since first he beheld Taras, the leader of the community gathered
by the Pruth to receive him on making his entry into the parish; all he
had known of him since, until the interview by the window in the past
night, until that cry of despair still ringing in his ears but far
distant already, for God only could tell how much of the terrible
history had been woven even since that cry....
"It is all as it must be," sighed he, bowing his head; "there is no
help for it!" But his impassioned heart could not surrender without a
struggle. If he could do nothing else for his friend, he at least would
not allow that best of men to accuse himself unjustly before this crowd
of listeners, of whom few indeed were fit to look upon so noble a soul
thus laid bare to their gaze. It was for this reason he had interrupted
him at the risk of a sharp rebuke from the highly-wrought speaker.
But Taras was calm, smiling even as he made answer: "Nay, your
reverence, I must distinctly contradict you--I know it was pride. But I
will own to you that the only man to whom I ever opened my heart before
this hour, speaking to him about this vice, shared your error. The man
I mean was that honest compatriot of ours at Vienna, Mr. Broza, and he
spoke words to me which I should not repeat if I were not a dying man.
'This is sheer blasphemy,' he said, 'do you not see whom you accuse of
sin, if you call that kind of disposition pride? None other, let me say
it reverently, than the Saviour Himself--Christ Jesus, the Lord! In
this sense He also was proud--ay, a thousand times prouder than
you--the very proudest man that ever lived.... But happily,' he added,
'happily we call it by another name--the beneficence of him who being a
law to himself is filled with tenderest love to his neighbours.... I do
not mean thereby to compare you with our Lord, Taras,' he concluded,
'but you are a rare man nevertheless--a Christ-like man.' Bear with me,
men and women, for let me say it over again, it is a dying man that
dares repeat such words to you. And surely I know my own heart better
than another can know it. It was pride that moved me; it was sin.
"But having now laid bare my inmost heart to you, showing you the good
and the bad within me, you may judge for yourselves how I must have
felt when first I came among you. It was as though I had entered a
strange world, it was all so different from the lowlands--different
and, as I was ready to say, worse. But my pride did not permit me to
look down upon you on that account, or to rejoice in finding you
wanting; on the contrary, it urged me at all hazards to correct your
ill habits. It was no easy matter for me to understand you, and find a
reason for your doings; but I set about it and perceived where to make
a beginning, and to what length I could go. My task grew plain. There
was need to improve your agriculture, giving you for your low-lying
fields the ploughshare of the plain. There was need to show you how to
benefit your live stock by increasing the number of herdsmen and
providing the cattle with shelter. There was need to accustom you to a
garb more suitable to your labour, need to teach you the advantage of
adding rye-bread and beef to your staple food. There was need, above
all things, to break you from that wildest of your habits, so full of
danger to yourselves, the constant wearing of arms...."
He stood erect, stretching forth his hand, as he scanned the people
proudly. His eyes shone, and his voice increased in fervour.
"For twelve years I have lived in this village. As a poor serving man I
came hither, and for years I bore the scorn of many. I have never
boasted of what you owe me; no word or look of mine ever called your
attention to what I have done for you. Nor would I do so now. What,
indeed, were the gain of your thanks to a man in my position? But I
will have you know the _truth_ about me, and justly you shall judge me;
it is therefore I ask you--Have I done these things, and were they for
your good? Have I benefited you, and is it my doing--mine alone?"
His voice swelled like thunder: "Speak the truth, men of Zulawce--yes
or no!"
There was a breathless silence, broken after a minute or two, as the
forest silence is broken by a gust of wind when the branches whistle,
the stems bend and creak, and every creature starts up affrighted, the
many voices blending in one mighty sound; and thus to the pale, proud
man but a single answer was given, bursting simultaneously from these
hundreds of men.
"Yes, Taras, yes--it was all your doing!"
And then only the excited answers of individuals were heard.
"Yes, indeed," exclaimed an old man, "just eight years ago Taras built
us the first cattle-fold, and the gain since has been double!"
"Long live Taras!" cried Simeon, half choking with sobs.
"Yes! yes!" broke in Wassilj, the butcher, "if we feed better, it is
because he showed us how!"
"And it is all true concerning the plough--I ought to know!" chimed a
voice like that of a little boy. It was Marko, the smith, a giant to
look at, who owned this queer little voice.
"Long live Taras!" repeated Simeon; one after another joining in the
cry--"Yes, Taras for ever!"
But the unhappy man stood trembling, his bosom heaved, and tears ran
down his haggard face. He tried to speak, but the words would not rise
to his lips, nor could he have made himself heard for the people's wild
acclamation. At last he succeeded, and, holding out his folded hands to
them, he cried with a voice so rent with agony that his listeners grew
white with dread.
"Stop! stop! for pity's sake, stop! Let not your thanks overwhelm me,
lest your reproaches presently be the harder to bear. For pure and
honest as my intention was, you will come to see I have lived to be a
curse to myself and my family; a curse, also, to you!..."
There was a deep silence when he had thus spoken, a solemn pause, and
all the harsher sounded the spiteful voice of the corporal which broke
it: "A curse? ah, you own it! but you took care it should fall lightly
on yourself, you who fooled an heiress and sneaked into the judgeship!"
"Hold your tongue, you villain!" burst from a hundred voices; and when
Simeon added, indignantly, "Be off, wretch that you are!" the echo went
round, "Be off!" The worthy hero grew pale, continuing, however, to
smile and to twist his moustache, that finest of moustaches in all
Pokutia. But ere long his smile forsook him, for he beheld a little
armed band that had pressed up to the speaker, endeavouring now, with
cries of resentment, to make their way to him. There were six of
them--Hritzko and Giorgi Pomenko, the sons of Simeon; Sefko and
Jemilian, Taras's men; Wassilj Soklewicz, and with him a stranger--that
same Lazarko Rodakowicz, whom Taras had admitted to his own followers,
although he had come to him from Green Giorgi, the outlaw. They were in
a towering rage, and evidently bent on punishing the corporal.
Constantino trembled visibly, offering not the slightest resistance
when two of his comrades--like him, on furlough--took hold, one of his
right arm and one of his left, to drag him away towards the inn. The
people made room, but the words which fell from their lips were
anything but complimentary. "You cur!" cried the men, "you heartless
scoundrel, how dare you insult that man in his sorrow? ... Cannot you
see that he has resolved upon an awful thing, even his own death? ...
And besides this, are you not one of ourselves, you beggar? Do you not
know that respect is due to the general meeting?"
The crestfallen warrior saw fit to hold his peace, making what haste he
could towards the safety of the inn. Not till he had gained the
threshold did he find courage to bethink himself of some witty remark,
but it shrank back within his own soul on his entering the parlour; he
stood still, abashed.
They had laid down the wife of Taras on one of the broad wooden benches
of the deserted place. The heart-broken woman was a sight to move any
man; some of the women were striving to comfort her, especially the
good little popadja and a kindhearted Jewess, the innkeeper's wife.
Poor Anusia had recovered from her swoon; she lay with wide-open eyes,
moving her lips, and burying her hands wildly in the black masses of
her hair, which hung about the death-like face. But her mind seemed
wandering, she gazed absently; and no words--a moaning only fell from
her lips, rising to a smothered cry at times, and dying away. The women
who tended her felt their blood run cold with the pity of it--no
impassioned speech, no flood of tears, could have moved them like that
stifled cry, as of a wild creature in an agony of pain. Once only she
found the power of words when the corporal had just entered the
room--"Away, whitecoat!" she cried.
But the next moment she raised herself on the bench, clasping her hands
and holding them out to him with piteous entreaty: "No--stop--hear me!
Make him a prisoner--don't let him go--for the merciful Christ's sake,
make him a prisoner!"
She sought to gain her feet, but the women held her back gently: "She
is going out of her mind!" they whispered, awe-struck, making signs to
the corporal to be gone. He was only too glad to obey, quaking with
horror, and retreating to the open air. Silence had fallen without, and
the crowd once more prepared to listen to the haggard, grief-maddened
man, who had once been the gentlest and most peace-loving of them all,
and whose wife could but entreat his meanest enemy now to hold him back
from lawless deeds....
"To come to the point," Taras was saying, "the most painful part of it
all--how did I come to be a curse to you, to myself, to all in this
place? It is the consequence of an awful mistake; yet it was not my
belief itself that was at fault, nor my trust in you, but my confidence
in others!
"To this day it is my deepest, holiest conviction, and I will maintain
it with my dying breath, that this world is founded on justice. To each
of us, I hold, God has given a duty to perform, but we have our rights
also, which others must not infringe. This indeed is the staff which
the Almighty has given us to enable us to bear up under our load. For a
burden each one has to carry. And for this reason no one shall dare to
touch his neighbour's staff, or to add unrighteously to his load. For
He that dwelleth above has ordered all things wisely, adjusting the
burden of each man, and weighing it in the scales of His equity. The
man who dares to interfere with this highest justice, sins against
God's rule upon earth, and he shall not do so with impunity. But the
Almighty does not visit every deed of wrong with His own arm; for He
will not have us look upon justice, or atonement for its violation, as
on something supernatural, but as on a thing essential to this life
of ours, like the air we breathe. For this reason He has portioned
out the earth into countries, calling a man to the rulership of each,
to be judge in His stead, to protect the well-doer and to punish the
evil-doer. This God-appointed man--it is the Emperor with us--has a
great burden laid on him by the Almighty, but also a stronger staff to
uphold him than any of ours, the Imperial power. Yet the most powerful
man is but human, and even an emperor has but two eyes to see; and,
like the poorest of his subjects, he can only be in one place at a
time. So he, again, follows the divine example, portioning out his
great empire into districts, appointing a man in each to be judge
in his stead, and investing him for that purpose with some of his
power--for since he is to bear part of the Emperor's burden, it is but
fair he should have part of the Emperor's staff to strengthen him.
These men are the magistrates; and in their turn they follow out the
example of their master, the Emperor, and the higher example of Him
above--they see that every parish is administered by its own judge,
yielding to him part of their power to guard the right. In like manner
every village judge behaves to the heads of families. I look upon it as
a glorious ladder, replete with comfort, uniting earth with heaven, and
bringing us poor sinful men nearer to Him who made us. I say it is
glorious, because the proudest intellect could not add anything to its
perfect goodness; and I say it is replete with comfort, because the
very lowest step of this ladder is under the same law as the highest.
For no matter whether I be a shepherd or a king, he who wrongs me is
committing equal sin, and it is the duty of those to whom God has
entrusted the power to protect the shepherd as though he were a king.
My duty is to do what is right, and not suffer any wrong silently, but
to report it to those whom God has appointed to protect me. All further
responsibility must rest with them!
"Such being to this day my holiest conviction, I am unable to swerve
from my former opinion concerning you. You appeared to me like wild
beasts, your love of avenging yourselves filled me with horror until I
perceived whence it came; it was because you had not yet been taught to
wean yourselves from the ways of your ancestors, who, descending from
the mountains, settled here. They did well to look upon their firelocks
as the best argument in maintaining their rights. For God will have the
right respected, and the ladder I have spoken of is subservient to it;
but where the influence of that ladder cannot make itself felt, as in
the far-off mountain districts, the power of watching over his own
right must return to the individual man. God Himself must have so
willed it, otherwise He would not have peopled those outlying haunts.
But you, who are within reach of the law, continued to act as though
God had never made the provision I have spoken of! It filled me with
horror unspeakable; and if your lesser shortcomings had power to rouse
that pride of mine, how much more so this offence!...
"Many of you will remember my wedding-day, and how I was laughed at for
being so serious; but I was not sad, only full of thought. I knew that
I was about to enter upon an entirely new life, a life beset with the
most difficult duties. For when I stood before the altar I not only
married the girl I loved, but, if I may so express it, I married this
village; and not only to her, but to you also, ay, and to Justice
herself, I promised with a sacred oath to be faithful unto death. No
words of mine could ever express what I felt on that day, how my
thoughts from my own newly-granted happiness would roam away to a
solemn future. For I knew that all my life in this place would be a
falsehood if I did not strive with might and main to bring you to
accept that will of God for yourselves also.... On my wedding-day! such
a terrible taskmaster was that pride of mine!...
"I set about it. I soon perceived that I could do little unless I had
power vested in me--unless I were elected to the eldership. But I
scorned the idea of bringing about that end by despicable means. I
could only leave it with God--whose kingdom I strove to uphold--to
guide your minds. And when I had been chosen, I directed my every
effort to the furthering of the glorious end I had in view.
"That same end was still my desire when the new mandatar arrived four
years ago. You there and then turned against him; I spoke for him.
Events have since shown that you were right in your antipathy, for he
is a wicked man; but you were wrong nevertheless, hating him only
because he was the mandatar. This dislike of yours came to be the test
of my influence with you; for those of you whom I could convince that
it was wrong to hate him because it was his business to claim the
labour we owed to his master, could learn to understand also about that
will of God. I did succeed with many of you, and the day was at hand
that should prove it; for when the mandatar came down upon as with his
demand, expecting us to render the tribute of our live stock to the
very day, you accepted my view of the question. It was the same in the
more difficult matter concerning the forest labour. I shall never
forget what I felt after those meetings. 'Thou God of Justice'
my heart kept crying, 'these people are learning to accept Thy will!'
Old Stephen turned from me--a real grief--but it could not lessen
the holy joy I felt. Indeed, that same joy would have been mine if
those meetings had cost me"--he said it slowly, and with marked
emphasis--"the love of my wife, or the welfare of my children! The
rupture between me and him was irretrievable; there could be no
agreement between the village as it had been and the village as it
should be according to my hopes, and, therefore, none between Stephen
and me. Even his dying words, greatly as they touched me, offered
abundant proof that his thoughts and mine concerning the most sacred
things in life had ever been widely apart. I did not understand him
when he said to me, 'It cannot but end ill when the judge is of another
caste than the people he is called to rule.' ... I believed, on the
contrary, that it would be an ill thing for Zulawce if the judge, like
the rest of the people, were given to violence. Now if there had been
among you a man of a like mind with myself, and better than I, I would
have thought it wrong to seek the judgeship; but as it was, my very
conscience laid it upon me to do so. I was chosen unanimously, as never
a judge before me or since. I was glad for myself, and more glad for
your sakes. There was little danger now, I thought, that you should
ever fail in your duty to the Count, or try to right yourselves by
force of arms. That the new mandatar was a miserable scoundrel I knew
soon enough; it caused me vexation and disgust--the kind of disgust one
feels in touching a toad--but I never for a moment considered it a
cause of alarm. How should the righteous come to suffer in a country
where justice prevails? So I never even threatened him; ay, more than
this----"
He paused as though he had to brace himself up for pronouncing the
words that must follow. But presently he added, "I have to say that
which hitherto has been utterly unknown to you. Let your wrath be upon
me, for it furnished the root whence all this trouble has sprung. Yet I
could not have acted differently. It was myself who assured the rascal,
on his hypocritical inquiry, that we should never meet violence with
violence; and it was this assurance of mine that gave him the courage
to wrong us, coward that he is!"
A cry of rage, not unmixed with surprise, burst from the assembled men,
followed once more by a deep silence, when nothing was heard but their
excited breathing; they were anxious to hear more, and he continued:
"You have a right to be angry! But I also was right in thus speaking to
him. And the proud confidence whence those words of mine had sprung did
not forsake me when he dared violence. I was more deeply roused than
any of you, because I loved the right more deeply. But we had need to
keep our hands pure, both for our own sakes and for the dear sake of
justice, for the guilt of it all must be left with him entirely;
therefore, I staked my very life to prevent your having recourse to
violence on your side. I thanked God that I succeeded; and for the rest
of it, it no longer was concern of ours, but of the imperial law court.
I waited for the verdict as never before did human soul wait and hunger
for the word of man! and when at last it was given--well, if you will
take into account my life and the man I am, you will understand that no
human tongue can describe the indignation which possessed me. I was
utterly broken, yet not with impotent rage, nor yet with my just
resentment against those miserable weaklings that should have righted
us--but only with an utter pity for myself. For at the very moment when
that hunchback creature of a clerk made known to us their decision, the
conviction darted through me: 'Poor Taras! if right and justice are not
to be trampled under foot, you will have to become a law-breaker in the
sight of men!'--I, the happy husband and father, the good, peace-loving
judge--a _law-breaker_! ... _That_ was what smote me down, making me
swoon like a woman, and for _this_ reason I cried and moaned like a
child when I returned to consciousness. Still, it was at that time only
a thought, brooking no gainsaying it is true, but there was no resolve
about it, still less any planning. My mind was overshadowed with the
thunder-cloud that hung heavy on the inward horizon. I had not yet come
to consider the ruin that lurked in its blackness, and as yet I gazed
upon it with horror and dismay as upon a thing within the range of
vision only, but outside the circle of my soul. And once again
confidence lifted her head. What though the court of the district had
failed to do right, there were other steps of the ladder beyond! I
carried our complaint to the court of appeal at Lemberg, hoping and
waiting yet again. But not with the strong hope of the former waiting!
The mind yet clung to it, but my heart had lost its assurance. And the
cloud remained. It spread more and more, forcing me to consider how it
would break. And then,"--his voice sank to a hoarse whisper--"and then
I felt an inward compulsion to go hunting in the mountains ... it was
there I came to see how it would end....
"On returning--it was about this season last year--I found the superior
court's verdict. The plea was declared to be groundless. I did not
burst into a rage, I did not even lament; but I saw that the cloud must
break. It was due, however, not only to me and mine, but even to
humanity, once again to consult my legal adviser. He mentioned the
Emperor; it was only by way of saying something, for the poor man,
himself helpless in the matter, pitied my distress. But that remark lit
up my night, comforting me greatly; it sent its radiance across the
dreary wild in which the straying wanderer had vainly been seeking his
home. The darkness, the terrors were forgotten, for the light of his
own hearth had shone forth to guide him. I had forgotten that there was
one on earth whom the matter concerned even more than myself, because
God had laid it upon him as a great and holy duty; and I knew now it
was my duty to go to that man--to appeal to the Emperor. I went to
Vienna, upborne by a boundless hope! it gave me courage to face the
strange country, to face every difficulty in my way to reach the ear of
Majesty....
"But when I had seen him--it required no word of his--I knew that my
hope was vain. Now, I will not have it said of me that I speak unjustly
of any man; let me say, therefore, I do not look upon the Emperor of
Austria as on one who loves wickedness or unrighteousness. He is a
poor, sickly creature, fond of his lathe they say, and he seemed very
anxious to know about my boots and breeches. That is all; for he is my
enemy now, whom I shall have to oppose as long as there is breath in
this body, and it behoves a man to speak more generously of his enemy
than of his dearest friend....
"I returned home as a man who knows what is before him, and,
recognising his duty, determines that the inevitable shall not find him
unprepared. I acted accordingly with a sadness unspeakable, abiding the
imperial decision. Not that I was foolish enough to hope it might turn
out favourably; but what I meditated grew to be right only when the
Emperor's refusal had reached me. It would have been sin before! But
the time of waiting must not be lost.... Once again I retired into the
mountains, endeavouring to make myself at home there more and more....
"Last night Father Leo transmitted to me the final decision. It is
unfavourable. I have it much at heart that you should understand it is
the denial in itself and nothing else in the writ that has ripened my
intention. Some foolish clerk has clothed the refusal in unkind words,
talking of prison unless I submitted. But I know better than to imagine
that he did so by order of that harmless man, the Emperor, who is too
good-natured to think of hurting a fly. It is not that which moves me.
Nay, if he had penned it with his own hand I would not care a straw
about it, any more than I should be influenced to the contrary if he
were to write: 'My dear Taras, it grieves me sorely to deny your
request; but I am anxious to reward your honest zeal by sending you the
golden cross with which I decorate great heroes.' I should send back
his cross, and would proceed with the duty which is before me."
As these words were falling from his lips his armed companions--Sefko
and Jemilian, Wassilj Soklewicz and Lazarko Rodakowicz--had approached
him more closely, standing quite near to him now. Their faces were
white and quivering with emotion, most of all Jemilian's, who could not
restrain his tears as he turned to his master, handing him his gun.
"Not yet," said Taras gently; but he took the weapon, leaning upon it
as he continued, distinctly, slowly, and solemnly: "Now listen to me,
ye men, and all that have come to hear me! Listen attentively, that you
may be able to repeat my words to any that should ask you. A fearful
wrong has been committed in this village--there has been robbery and
perjury. I have used every means provided by the law to undo it. It has
been of no avail. The perjured witnesses remain unpunished, and the
wrongdoer enjoys the benefit of his robbery. Nay more--not only have I
vainly appealed to the constituted authorities, the guardians of our
right, but I have done so to your hurt and mine. I have been a curse to
the village, because I strove for justice. He who loves the right must
suffer, and the evildoer flourishes!
"It is incredible, and how should one understand it? Is that fair faith
of mine falsehood and deception? Is it not true that God has put an
Emperor over the land, giving him much power, that he should see to the
right? Is there no such ladder as I have spoken of binding earth to the
high courts of heaven?
"Yes--yes, and yes again! It is so, it must be so everywhere where men
would dwell in safety; but it is not so with us. In this unhappy place
the arbitrariness, the unfitness, the carelessness of men has
counteracted the holy will of God, making the wrong victorious!
"What, then, is the consequence for every right-seeking man? I have
shown that wherever the divine institution is powerless, as for
instance in distant mountain haunts, it is not incompatible with the
will of God that every man should be the guardian of his own right. And
how should it be otherwise in an unhappy place, where the wicked man's
violence is left to trample down the right with impunity? In such a
place also the power of protecting his life and goods must return to
the individual man. If there is no Emperor to help me, I must help
myself!
"Hear, then, these three things. Let them he repeated from mouth to
mouth, that all men shall know them who dwell in this unhappy land in
which justice is not to be found!
"Firstly! Since the Emperor is not doing his duty towards me, I am not
bound by my duty towards him. And therefore I, Taras Barabola, declare
before Almighty God and these human witnesses that I can no longer
honour and obey this Emperor Ferdinand of Austria. His will in future
is nothing to me, I disown and disregard it; and in all things in which
hitherto I have acted according to his laws I shall henceforth be
guided by my own conscience solely. Should he cause me to be summoned I
shall pay no heed; should he despatch his soldiers to catch me, I shall
defend myself. And since his magistrates abuse their power to the
furtherance of wrong, and he takes no steps to prevent it, I shall
strive to lessen that power as much as possible, waging war upon it
wherever I can! I shall do this anywhere, everywhere, while I can lift
a hand! Yes, I, Taras Barabola, in the name of Almighty God, herewith
declare war against the Emperor of Austria!--War!--War!"
A shriek rose from the people, surprise, horror, approval and disgust
blending together in a single cry, which died away as suddenly and
completely as though it had been wrung from these hundreds of
listeners--an involuntary outburst of their mute dismay.
"Secondly! Because justice is withheld from us, I shall take it by
force. I shall oblige the mandatar to indemnify the village. Yet this
will not be the extent of my duty, but only a beginning. If the name of
Almighty God is not to be dishonoured in this country, there is need of
a judge, of an avenger, before whom the evil-doer shall tremble and
whom all good men can trust. And since there appears to be no one else
for this holy office, I shall undertake it, looking upon it as a sacred
duty while life shall last. I will be a protector to the oppressed in
the Emperor's stead, since he is not. And because his power is with the
wrong-doer, I shall require a strong arm to oppose it. I shall unfurl
my banner up yonder in the mountains; let each and all come to me that
will serve the right. The wild forest which hitherto has been the haunt
of lawbreakers only, must now be a gathering-place for those that
honour the law, but to whom justice is dearer. There I shall dwell,
beyond the reach of any of their hirelings. I shall swoop down upon the
dwellings of men whenever the high calling I have accepted requires me
to do so, and I shall return thither having avenged the wrong."
"A hajdamak!" cried Simeon, despairingly. "Our Taras a hajdamak!"
"Taras a hajdamak!" echoed the people, some scornfully, some in utter
dismay, according to the hatred or pity that rose uppermost.
"No!" cried Taras, a deep flush overspreading the pallor of his face.
"God forgive you for insulting me at this time. A hajdamak is a
brigand, but I shall be the leader of a band of avengers, and we shall
fight against every evil-doer--against those scoundrels also who go by
that name. Let me add, now, what in the third and last place I have to
say. Within a week from this, by Easter Sunday, my banner will be
unfurled up yonder. Whoever can come to me with pure hands, either to
inform me of a wrong committed, or to join my band, will be able to
learn my whereabouts from any honest herdsman or bear-hunter of the
forest. But let him consider it well before he becomes a follower of
mine. If he seek pleasure or lawlessness let him not come near me, for
our living will be of the poorest, and I shall maintain the strictest
discipline. If he hope for booty let him keep away; for no plundering
will be allowed, and with my own hand shall shoot the man who, while
following my banner, shall dare to touch any man's goods. Let none come
to me who can testify to being happy, for he that follows me must know
that there is no returning, that he has separated himself for ever from
all men dwelling in peace; he must be ready to meet death any day,
either in open combat, which is a death to be courted, or on the
gallows, as though he were an evil-doer indeed. It would not be thus if
men were different, if generosity and self-denial were not so rare in
the world; for then my banner could be that of open insurrection,
enlisting all good men against the common foe--the wrong to be put
down. But this cannot be; I must be satisfied with the possible.
"And now I pray you to make this known, not forgetting to add that
Taras Barabola will continue this war until he has gained the great end
he strives for, until that glorious, divine institution is visibly
established in this land. If I can but succeed, let happen to me what
may, and though I should have to pay for it with my own life, I should
meet even the felon's death a victor indeed."
He paused, his breast heaving, and then he added, with faltering
voice:--
"And now ... fare ye well! Accept my best wishes, individually and as a
community .... I am grateful to those who ever did me a kindness, and
forgive those who have done me any wrong ... Be good to my unhappy
wife, to my poor little children.... I leave them here--ah, forsaken
indeed.... Pity them, don't pity me.... If you will but believe I am
not wantonly becoming an outlaw that is all I look for.... It may be
the last time you see me.... May your life be happier than mine....
Farewell!"
These broken words fell upon so deep a silence that they were heard
plainly by all that crowd of listeners, although his voice had sunk to
a whisper, quivering with tears. And none dared break the silence when
he had finished, until, with a sudden leap from the table, and
surrounded by his companions, he strove to make a way for himself
towards the church.
Then only the sacred awe which held them spellbound was lifted from the
souls of these men, yielding to a commotion unheard of, even among that
savage people--in their 'general assembly' at least. Every man seemed
ready to attack his neighbour; it was a tumult unspeakable, and some
time passed before one voice succeeded in making itself heard above the
rest. It was that of the corporal. "Stop him!" he roared. "He is a
rebel, I will make him a prisoner in the Emperor's name. You must help
me, all of you. Jewgeni, what is the good of your being judge?" He was
not left alone this time, some dozen of old soldiers rallying round
him.
But the rest of the men indignantly opposed him. "We are no policemen!"
chirped the infant voice of the herculean smith. "No policemen!" echoed
the people.... "Let him go in peace!... He has addressed the general
meeting, and has a right to go free."
"In the name of the Emperor!" reiterated the corporal, white with rage,
and, snatching a pistol from the belt of his nearest neighbour, he
pointed it at the men, "Let me do my duty, or woe to your lives!"
"Woe to yourself!" cried Wassilj, the butcher, brandishing his axe in
the would-be hero's face; and blood would certainly have flowed had not
the judge interfered, an unwonted courage coming to him from the
urgency of the situation.
"Do you know this sign?" he cried, thrusting his staff of office
between them. "There is power vested in it; this is the general
meeting, and I command you, desist!" And the combatants owned his
authority, Wassilj dropping his axe and the corporal his pistol.
Taras, meanwhile, surrounded by his little band, attempted to break
through the ranks; it was not so easy, for the people pressed round
him, endeavouring to hold him, and discoursing wildly. But far harder
to the parting man was the sorrowful entreaty of his friends. Alexa
Sembrow, the late elder, had fallen on his knees before him, his white
hair framing an agonised face. "Don't Taras, for God's sake, don't do
it!" he kept repeating, while old Simeon bethought himself of another
means, haply, to stop him. He was pressing to the inn to bring hither
poor Anusia. Father Leo alone looked on with folded arms, his face
quivering, his lips unable to move.
He was the only one for whom Taras yet had a word; turning to him with
deep emotion, he said: "Forgive me, thou best of friends, forgive my
silence, and my grieving thee now so sorely. Thou hast loved me truly,
I know!"
That was too much for Leo; he lay weeping in the arms of his friend.
"Alas," he sobbed, "what a man is lost in you!"
"Not so!" replied Taras, disengaging himself gently. "He who obeys the
dictates of his own true heart cannot be lost, happen what may--at
least not in the eyes of the just ones...." He turned away, stopping
once again: "Father Leo," he said, below his breath, so that the priest
only could understand him, "Father Leo, will you promise me one thing?"
"Surely. What is it? About your wife?"
"Nay; I require no promise on her account, for I know your heart. It is
about--myself--when one day--my last hour shall have come--may I send
for you? Will you come to me--to any place?--no matter how terrible it
be?"
"I shall come," faltered the pope.
"Do you pledge me your word ... to any place?"
"Wherever it be."
"Thank you for all your friendship--for this last proof most of
all...."
He turned away hastily, whispering to Jemilian, "Are the horses ready?"
"Yes; behind the church, as you commanded. Young Halko has saddled
them, and is waiting your orders."
"Then let us be gone."
But one more wrench before he could be free. The sons of Simeon,
Hritzko, and Giorgi, had caught his knees.
"Take us with you," they cried; "we cannot--we will not let you go
without us!"
"Get up!" he cried, sharply; and there was no gainsaying his voice,
hoarse though it was with emotion. "Do you think I am villain enough to
ruin the sons of my friend?" Adding, with a quivering smile: "You are
quite incorrigible. What was the use of my resisting your importunity
before? But love me always, and remember me when I am gone. You are
dear to me. Good-bye!"
He walked away, and none stopped him. Having mounted, he was about to
spur his horse, when once again his name was called with a shriek so
heartrending that he shuddered and paused.
He knew who was calling him. His unhappy wife was standing outside the
inn, looking after him with despairing eyes. She would have fallen to
the ground had not old Simeon supported her trembling figure.
"Farewell!" faltered Taras; but the sound did not reach her, falling
dead at his own feet as it were.
He could but wave his hand, and, spurring his horse mercilessly, the
creature dashed away in a maddened gallop, his men following; and the
little band vanished in the mysterious shadows of the fir-covered
uplands.