OUTLAWED.
THE "good judge!" ... the "great avenger!" ...
It was not only after his death, not in commemorating song only, that
Taras was first so designated. These appellations dated from the
spring-time of 1839. When Palm Sunday had come and gone they were
echoed from mouth to mouth, while the strange declaration of war that
had been uttered beneath the linden of Zulawce was fresh in the minds
of all. His mission was believed in, though as yet unaccredited by
deed. As on the wings of a mighty wind the news sped from village to
village, from district to district. Not a week passed before all the
people had heard it--in Pokutia, in the Marmaros, in Podolia, and in
the Bukowina; and gathering in groups after the morning service on
Easter Sunday, it was the one topic with them everywhere: "To-day Taras
will be unfurling his banner.... Could there be a surer proof of our
misery? He, a Christ-like man, and yet driven to turn hajdamak!... But
it is well for us--Taras has ever been a good judge, and he will prove
a mighty avenger!"
This opinion had formed rapidly. A whole people stirred to its depth is
almost always a righteous judge, a true prophet. Every man and woman
understood that unheard-of things were passing. True, it was within the
experience of most of them that some one or other had taken to the
mountains; but such volunteers to the desperate trade had been young
fellows without home ties, or men of a turbulent character breaking
away from the restraints of the law. But how different with this
peace-loving peasant, who had everything to make his home attractive,
this man who once pointed a pistol at his own forehead to prevent
violence from being met with violence! That phrase of Mr. Broza's which
Taras himself had repeated reluctantly, and only because he was a
"dying man," had taken hold of the people's imagination--_a Christ-like
man_. And truly there was a breath of the Divine sweeping the senses of
the oppressed peasantry as they strove to understand his motives. It
could not be the love of revenge with him, for he had not been wronged
personally; it could not be that he sought to defend his own property,
for it had not been touched. He must be doing it, then, simply because
"in this unhappy country justice was not to be found," and "because the
people had sore need of one to avenge them." And if there is anything
that will move the heart of man to its inmost depth, filling it with
holy reverence, it is the unselfish deed done for love of a cause which
is sacred to all and believed in by each.
With similar enthusiasm Taras was greeted in the mountains. The rude
men who dwell there had been gained so thoroughly during his former
sojourn, that one and all they welcomed the news of his returning to be
among them for good. Was he not a victim of the oppression they hated?
its sworn enemy, who henceforth would live to oppose it? Every glen on
either side of the Black Water was alive with sympathy, and Taras had a
staunch ally in every man far and wide in the forest.
In his own village, too, opinion had rallied round him entirely, though
it would have been difficult to say whether this was due chiefly to the
impression he had made upon his hearers on that Sunday, or to the
selfish vanity of the people. The hearts of some had certainly been
touched, and a natural pity for his forsaken wife roused others; while
others, again, were merely glad that Taras had come to see the folly of
trusting in the law, and it flattered their pride that from among
themselves an avenger should rise who would make the country ring with
his valour. A man of Zulawce in those days was welcome wherever he
went, because he could tell of the hero of the hour. The people round
about seemed to be insatiable of news concerning this Taras, and were
ready to stand any amount of drink to him who could gratify them, for
which reason the men of Zulawce, nothing loth, invented story upon
story to glorify the pure-hearted man whose life they had embittered
all along. Yes, the outlaw once more had risen to be the great
favourite of his adopted village.
Yet there were few, even in his own village, who felt for him truly or
mourned his loss, and the one man whose sorrow was most deeply sincere
carefully avoided the very mention of his name. The good pope had not
breathed a word concerning Taras since that saddest of partings beneath
the linden. His wife only guessed how he suffered, but even she was
mistaken in believing that his heart ached for the loss of his friend
alone. He was battling with another sorrow, a deeper trouble
overshadowing his pious mind. And the moment came when the popadja
understood it.
It was on the evening of Good Friday. Not till nine o'clock, and weary
with the many services of the day, had the priest returned home, eating
a mouthful of supper, and retiring to his study. Thither his wife
followed him presently, establishing herself with her needlework in
silence. He was pacing the room, murmuring to himself, as was his wont
in preparing his sermon, and she refrained from speaking, but gave a
furtive glance at him now and then. She had often thus watched him
occupied in holy meditation, and the inward peace radiating from his
countenance at such times would sink into her own heart with a loving
content. Not so now, for an unspeakable grief was reflected in the face
she gazed upon, and the bitterness seemed overflowing till she trembled
and took courage to interrupt him.
"Husband," she said, with a beating heart, "are you now busy with the
sermon for Easter Day?"
He started, looking before him gloomily. "I am utterly unfit!" he
whispered hoarsely, as though speaking to himself ... "utterly unfit!"
He groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands.
The good wife was by his side in a moment. "Leo," she sobbed, "what is
it? ... Ah, yes, I know; but you must not thus give way to your grief.
You could not prevent it!"
He shook his head, and then caught her hand like a drowning man. "No,
wife," he groaned, "it is not merely grief for his loss! But since
that man has gone to ruin, I seem a hypocrite whenever I turn to my
prayers ..."
"Good God!" she cried, aghast.
"I seem such, indeed," he continued, hastily; "it is more than I can
bear, and I cannot help it! Have I not been teaching and preaching the
justice of God? And now to see this man gone to ruin--this man!"
"But, husband, dear," she cried, anxiously, "have you not often tried
to make us see that the true recompense is in the life to come? Will
you doubt it yourself now?"
"In the life to come; yes, yes," he repeated in the same husky voice;
"it is the one thing to hold by.... But why should it all go wrong in
this world? I mean, so terribly wrong? This man!... his wife gone out
of her mind, his children orphaned, and he himself making straight for
the gallows, just because, in a wicked, self-seeking world, he has
within him the heart of a child that will trust his God and believe in
justice ... oh, it is awful ... awful!"
She clung to him, but he freed himself from her embrace, and once more
walked to and fro excitedly. The faithful wife could but retire to her
corner, sharing his trouble apart.
Some minutes passed.
And presently he stood still before her, lifting her tearful face, and
stroking her hair gently. "Fruzia," he said, with quivering voice, "I
promise you to try and bear it. I shall battle it out; but it is a sore
thing, and needs time.... Go to bed now and be comforted.... I shall
battle it out."
The wife obeyed, but found little sleep, and her soul kept crying
through the darkness of that night: "Oh, God, pity my husband--he, the
priest, to lose faith in Thee!" Many a wiser prayer may rise to the ear
of the Giver of all things; yet none, perhaps, ever was more touching.
When daylight returned she felt comforted, and drew courage from her
husband's quiet face on his bidding her good-bye for early service.
She, too, left the house, but not to go to church, for a duty no less
sacred directed her steps to Anusia's house.
Poor Anusia, indeed! It was not without reason that her friends
sorrowed for her, for she was doubly stricken. The last articulate
sound that had crossed her lips had been her husband's name--that cry
of despair wrung from her as he departed. Her grief since then had
found vent in wild ravings only, night and day, day and night. Not a
prayer, not a complaint had she uttered, and her eyes were tearless;
but she would give a shriek and continue moaning with parched lips.
Those that watched her believed her out of her mind, and no hope seemed
left, save with Father Leo, who clung to it. "It will pass away," he
said, well-nigh despairing himself; "hers is a more passionate nature
than ours, and her grief is the wilder." Her ravings, indeed, appeared
to lessen, the feverish agony grew calmer, and she began to take food;
but to her friends the supervening apathy seemed worse than what had
gone before. There she lay in a kind of living death, uttering not a
sound, large-eyed and white-faced, wearing the expression of a helpless
agony. But when her friends or the children attempted to rouse her, she
waved them off, or cried huskily: "Leave me alone, I must think it
over." And Father Leo would say: "No one can help her, she must battle
through it; but the children must be seen to, having lost both father
and mother." And he arranged with his wife that twice a day she should
go over to the farm to see to the needs of the household; while outdoor
matters found a willing helper in Hritzko Pomenko, the eldest of
Simeon's lads. "If I work for Taras I shall perhaps bear it that he
left me behind," said the honest youth.
That had been on the Thursday. Anusia appeared to take no notice that
things were seen to by friends and neighbours, and she continued the
whole of Good Friday in the same dull stupor. But when the popadja
entered the sick-chamber early on the Saturday a happy change,
evidently, had taken place. The bed was vacated, and a servant-girl
came running in explaining: "The mistress is looking after the dairy,
she is scolding poor Hritzko grievously because he brought over his
father's new churn."
And, indeed, the startled popadja even now could hear the so-called
scolding. "I know you meant kindly, Hritzko," Anusia was saying, in a
voice both firm and clear; "but just take your things home with you, I
can manage my own business." And the priest's lady herself presently
received a similar greeting. "It is most kind of you"--Anusia made
haste to address her friend as soon as she beheld her--"I am pleased to
see you any time; but leave me now. And this kerchief must be yours, I
think; I found my Tereska wearing it. But my children are no poor
orphans, thank God, requiring friends to clothe them."
The good lady was only too willing to be reproved. "Say what you like,"
she cried, "I am happy to find you up again!"
"Yes," said Anusia, with perfect composure, "I know you all thought I
had gone mad. But my mind was right enough; only, you see, I had to
satisfy my own judgment that my husband had done well. I had always
looked upon him as the most perfect man on earth, so that the need was
great to find an answer to my questioning, and everything besides had
to give way."
"Then you arrived at the conclusion that nothing else was left for
him?" broke in Hritzko, vehemently.
"I have," she assented. "I saw it was his heart that laid it upon him
to act as he has done, and he is a man that cannot go against the
behest of his own heart. I know that, and it must be enough for me. As
to whether he is otherwise in the right or not, I, a woman, am unable
to decide. My mind says 'Yes,' but the heart keeps crying 'No.' I can
but wait and see. If he is in the right the Almighty will own him and
let him be a helper to many. But if he is on the path of wrong, God
will turn from him, and his end will be the gallows. Be that as it may;
he is lost to us, my children are fatherless, and henceforth I must be
to them father and mother in one."
"And we all will help you!" cried the popadja, warmly.
"As far as I may need your help," returned Anusia, "I shall accept it
gratefully." And therewith she resumed issuing orders to the servants
about the place.
Father Leo did not learn the good news till about noon, when he
returned from the parish, and, not waiting to eat his dinner, he
hastened to the farm to see with his own eyes that Anusia indeed had
recovered. He found her very quiet and self-possessed, and there was
nothing to make him doubt the soundness of her mind, save the
occupation he found her engaged upon. She had had the great barn
cleared and the floor was being spread with straw. "What for?" he
inquired, wonderingly.
"To sleep the soldiers," she replied, with a bitter smile.
"The soldiers! What soldiers?"
"I am surprised your reverence should require me to explain," she said.
"Is it unknown to you that he who but lately was master here has
declared war against his Emperor, and that the wife and children of
that man are here unprotected? Will it not be the most natural thing to
take possession of this farm in order to make it impossible for him to
visit his family secretly? And, moreover, it might be supposed that his
wife could be so questioned that from her his whereabouts could be
learned; at any rate, it might be useful to make sure of her and her
children as hostages, in case ..."
"No, no!" cried Leo, "this latter, most certainly not. The Emperor will
never wage war upon women and children."
"Well, we shall see," she continued; "thus much is certain, that we
shall have the Whitecoats quartered here before long; that coward of a
mandatar will take care we shall, if no one else will. Did not Taras
inform him plainly that with him the beginning should be made? I am
only sorry for the village. It is hard that the neighbours should
suffer, and it will turn them against us. It will be but natural if
they do, and I cannot help it."
"They shall not, if I can prevent it," cried the pope, eagerly. "Now I
know what to preach about to-morrow!"
"Well, I shall be grateful to you, whether you succeed or not, but one
thing you must promise me"--she held out her hand, drawing herself up
proudly. "You shall not ask them to pity me or my children. We do not
need it, please God, while I have health and am able to keep house and
home together."
He gave her his word, and kept it as far as his own compassion would
let him. But his wife, in her own heart, was proudly happy, for never
had she heard him preach with a fervour more tender and soul-stirring;
not noticing in her wifely gladness that this sermon of his differed
somewhat from his usual discourses, inasmuch as he never mentioned
either the wisdom or the justice of the Almighty, being taken up
entirely with the one message to his hearers, the one exhortation of
"loving our neighbour as ourselves!" And as he strove in his simple,
yet impressive way to make it plain that an act of true love to one's
neighbours, mistaken, even, though it might be, was none the less
worthy of grateful acknowledgment, and that at all events it could
never deserve the ill-will of those for whose sake it had been done,
even though they might have to suffer in consequence--they all knew
whom and what he meant, and felt moved accordingly. And emotion
deepened when he spoke of the common sorrow making all men as brethren,
since none was fully happy here below, and that there was no surer
salvation from our own misery than being loving and good to other
sufferers, especially to the weak and forsaken, the widows and orphans
about us. And taking up an example to hand, he spoke of the sad lot of
a poor woman, named Josephka, whose husband they had lately buried. "Do
not let us imagine," he cried, "that we are doing more than our bounden
duty if we remember her trouble, aiding her with our alms, which she
hath need of sorely. Yet, poor as Josephka is, it is not she that is
the most sorrow-stricken widow among us; there being a balm to her
grief in the blessed thought that the husband she mourns has gained
that rest to which we ourselves are journeying, that he has attained
beyond the sorrow which remains with us still. There is another one
among us, widowed, I say, and more grief-bowed than she, to whom this
consolation is denied, and our most sacred duty is to her! Our alms
then to Josephka, for she has need of them, but give ye your tenderest
love, your most helpful sympathy, to that other most sorrowful widow in
this village, whose children in their father's lifetime are as orphans
in our midst!"
There was a great sobbing among the women, and a stirring among the
men. One only in all that congregation sat unmoved, even shaking her
head in disapproval--Anusia herself; and when the service was ended she
quitted the building composedly. They all made room, and none dared
address her, the popadja only joined her in silence and saw her home.
And when the men had gathered in groups without, the one topic was
Taras, as, indeed, was the case all over the country that morning. Some
had heard that already more than a hundred men had joined his banner;
others had been told that his native parish of Ridowa had sent him word
how, one and all, they were ready to rise in rebellion at his command;
others again had certain information that the district governor at
Colomea had fainted right away on hearing of Taras's now famous
declaration of war ... all of which tidings were believed in as
faithfully as though the pope himself had announced them as gospel
truth from the pulpit. And not a soul present doubted but that Taras
would swoop down on the arch-villain in their midst to judge him.
What difference of opinion there was concerned the time only when the
avenger might be expected.
"I say he will come to-night," said Wassilj, the butcher; "for to-day
he unfurls his banner, and he told us it would be his first deed."
But others opposed this opinion. "Taras is a God-fearing man," said the
sexton, "I'll never believe he will thus spend the blessed Easter."
"Nor should I think he would act foolishly," added Red Schymko; "why
the mandatar is safe away at Zablotow, hiding with the military. I know
it for certain."
"You know it for a falsehood then," retorted Giorgi Pomenko, "the
coward is hiding in the iron closet he has had built for himself at the
manor house. I rather think, therefore, we shall hear of Taras this
very night."
"So do I," chimed in Marko the smith, the giant with the infant voice;
"what should he be waiting for? Has he not men enough with the hundred
about him, being sure also of every honest, brave one among us?"
"Ho! ho!" rejoined Wassilj, the butcher, "am I not honest, or as brave
as any? yet, would I lend a hand to the deed? I doubt if many will
assist him!"
"Do you?" snarled the corporal. "Can it be a matter of doubt, indeed,
when it is a question of aiding your own great hero?"
"Hold your wicked tongue," burst in the sons of Pomenko. "The time is
gone when Taras could be insulted with impunity. Whoever would do so is
a scoundrel--and a scoundrel is every one that will not stand by him
against the mandatar!"
At which Jewgeni, the judge, grew alarmed. "Hear me," he cried.
"A scoundrel?" interrupted the butcher. "You had better hold your
tongues, youngsters; this axe of mine has silenced many a bullock!"
"Hear me," pleaded Jewgeni "A hajdamak----" and there he stopped.
"Nay, hear _me_," broke in Red Schymko; "I know what is best to do. I
make no promises either way, but shall just wait and see! If the
mandatar offers resistance, to the shedding of blood even, I were a
fool to risk life in opposing him. Is it my quarrel? Have I prevented
the parish from getting back the field by force? It was Taras's doing.
Have I lost the law suit? No, but Taras has. Have I turned outlaw,
calling myself an avenger, and having my praises sung by all the land?
No, not I; but Taras. Then, I say, let him bear the brunt. But when the
mandatar and his men are worsted, and there is a chance of repaying
ourselves, let us not be such fools as to stand by and look on. As he
robbed us, so let us rob him--that is what I think..."
"For shame!" cried Giorgi Pomenko; and Wassilj, the butcher, added:
"Yes, for shame! Are you addressing a parcel of thieves?"
"Well, hear me then--a hajdamak--and I your judge----" But Jewgeni
again stopped short, the butcher being bent on a further hearing.
"Listen to me, you men, and I will show you that I am no scoundrel," he
cried, lifting up his powerful voice, "I am all for Taras, and whoever
speaks ill of him shall answer for it to me. He is a grand hero, and
far from being a hajdamak. He has undertaken the sacred duty of being
an avenger, of righting the wrong. But in this great work we may not
help him, because we have wife and child to consider. If he has risen
above any such consideration it is in virtue of his own magnanimity.
For my part, I am unable to equal it. Whoever joins Taras openly has to
choose between going to prison or taking refuge in the mountains. I
shall keep the peace, therefore, and so will every conscientious man
here, for the sake of his family."
"Yes! yes!" cried the men, one after another, "Wassilj has said well,
Taras has our best wishes. More is the pity that we cannot openly join
him."
"Pity!" sneered the corporal; "but you may look on, at a safe
distance!"
"Yes, indeed, and we will," was the unanimous retort. "It is you and
Schymko that disgrace the village. No honest man will go to sleep
to-night."
And therewith the consultation ended.
Not long after, Halko, the servant lad of Anusia's farm, rushed into
his mistress's presence. "Is it true"--he cried, "it is being spoken of
all over the village--that Taras, with a hundred men, will attack the
manor to-night? The people mean to watch for it, but will not join him
for fear of the law. Is it true?"
Anusia stood trembling violently, a burning glow and a death-like
pallor succeeding one another rapidly in her face.
"How should I know?" she said presently, with a stony look. "I and my
family belong to the village, and have nothing to do with the
'avenger.' And just because he has been the master of this house there
is henceforth no communion between him and us! Let the others watch for
him; we shall retire as usual. Let no one dare to disregard my orders!"