FOR THE RIGHT--IN THE WRONG.
It was a lovely morning, fair and still, with the glow of autumn upon
the mountains. More golden seemed the light and bluer the heavens than
summer had known them. Though but early as yet in September, the high
peaks of the Czernahora were white with the first sparkling snow; but
the air was mellow in the valley, and there being no foliage which by
its turning colour might have told of the waning year, but only firs
and pines of sombre green, there was nothing to remind one of nature's
gentle decay, save the peculiar clearness of the atmosphere, and at
times a whirring sound high overhead--the first flights of birds going
South. A deep silence lay brooding over the wild splendour of the
valley; not a sign of life anywhere. The Czeremosz even, ever restless
and rushing as described in song, had grown calm with the hot days of
summer, and was flowing quite steadily along.
A strange shrill call suddenly rent the air. Any one who had never
heard it would naturally have looked up to see whether a hawk or falcon
might be discerned in the shining blue; but the sound was followed by
others, falling on the ear more gently, now at intervals, now in
succession, a monotonous mournful melody, rising and sinking, and
ebbing away through the stilly landscape. And even the unaccustomed
listener would have found out by this time that it was some shepherd's
pipe sending its voice through the valley. But ere long, the sorrowful
strain was broken into by that same shrill call, only it now came from
a different direction, another pipe silencing the first one, as it
were, and carrying on its dolorous song; which again in its turn was
taken up by another, more distant, starting with that peculiar note,
and continuing the strain. Thus the plaintive melody went sobbing along
from pasture to pasture, and those that heard it crossed themselves,
murmuring a prayer, and then hastened to their homestead to put on
suitable attire, that they might assist in burying the dead. For such
is the way within the mountains: if a man dies in any of the valleys
the event is made known by a blast of the horn--the death-horn they
call it--and its voice is hollow and dismal, as befits the first
outburst of mourning; and later on the subdued dirge of the shepherd's
pipe invites the neighbours to render the last kindly tribute to him
who is gone.
It was from the largest settlement that the call had come, and the
far-off listeners had been seized with apprehension, lest the
death-horn should announce the passing away of the patriarch of the
valley, Hilarion the Just; but by the time the pipes were heard it was
known that it was for the burial of a stranger only, who in a sheltering
homestead of Clan Rosenko had breathed his last. Old Jemilian was gone.
For more than a week he had lain wrestling with death, fighting his
last battle bravely, with manly courage and resignation. Hilarion, not
merely the ruler and guide of his people, but their adviser in sickness
as well, had vainly endeavoured to succour the sinking life with
healing herbs, and to tend the wound with practised skill. In vain,
too, had been the almost passionate care of the maiden Tatiana, who
watched by the sick man day and night. The poor girl, feeling shy at
first, and disconsolate among strangers, had been glad of the
opportunity of showing her gratitude to the hetman by soothing the
sick-bed of his servant and friend.
Jemilian himself was almost impatient of so much solicitude. "I know
that I am going to die," he kept repeating; "and it is well. One duty
only I have yet to perform, and the good God will give me the needful
strength before I go."
What this one thing might be which yet bound him to life he was in no
hurry to disclose, not even to Taras, whose devotion and loving care
for the wounded man were only equalled by Tatiana's. Once only, when
the hetman had to leave him for a couple of days at the call of duty,
the well-kept secret seemed about to be told. For Taras had learned
that Green Giorgi, reinforced by several of his own late followers, had
dared to resume his predatory life, and he at once resolved to bring
those scoundrels to justice, Jemilian himself urging him not to delay.
And when the fearless band was mounted, and Taras once more returned to
the sick-bed to take leave of his friend, the wounded man suddenly grew
restless, looking doubtfully at the girl. Tatiana understood, and left
the two by themselves. "Dear master," said Jemilian; "you may be absent
for several days, and I may be gone when you return; yet I must not die
without telling you one thing!"
"I shall find you alive, and, please God, getting better," said Taras,
cheeringly. "But if it is any comfort to you----"
The old man shook his head. "No," he said, falteringly; "I think I will
wait till death tightens its hold; for if, after all, I should recover
by some miracle it were terrible ... terrible ... to have told you! No!
go your way, dear master, and God bless you.... I will wait!"
And as Taras rode along at the head of his followers he kept thinking
of these strange words; but explanation there seemed none, and his
attention presently was otherwise engaged. The enterprise was
successful as usual, if not fully, for Green Giorgi himself was not
among the hajdamaks he waylaid and caught, and Taras had to be
satisfied with punishing his accomplices. The two most guilty he
ordered to be shot, while the rest were disarmed and shorn of their
hair.
Returning to the settlement, he found his faithful old servant alive
still, but his last hour evidently at hand. But not yet did he refer to
his secret, and Taras cared not to inquire. Not till the last sands
were running through did the old man open his lips. It was near
midnight; he had been lying still with closed lids, but, suddenly
endeavouring to raise himself, he gazed anxiously at the pale,
beautiful girl who sat by his side. "Tatiana," he whispered; "for God's
sake, where is my master? Call him--I am going!"
She hastened away, and in another minute Taras was by the side of the
dying man, taking hold of his hand tenderly. And Jemilian having
satisfied himself that they were alone, began with laboured breath:--
"I have to make a confession to you, and to ask a promise. Hear me--a
dying man cannot use many words. Do you know what, after all, will be
your end?"
Taras kept silence, a stony look stealing over his face.
"The gallows!" whispered the old man, and shuddered. "It is an evil
death, Taras--a horror to yourself and a lasting disgrace for your
children! And therefore I have been resolved fully and firmly to save
you from such a death, my poor, dear, dear master! I have sworn to
myself, if ever we should fall into their hands, and there were no hope
of escape, to shoot you myself with these hands of mine."
"Jemilian!"
"Do not hate me; for never man loved you more truly than I did when
binding myself with that oath. You know what it would have cost me to
do the deed! But you are the noblest soul, the best and most lovable
man that ever lived, and such a one shall not be tortured to death on
the gallows...."
Taras, quite unable to speak, had fallen on his knees by the side of
the bed, and was hiding his face in the rough bearskin which covered
the limbs of the dying man.
Jemilian continued: "The Almighty is calling me hence, and I am not
able to show you that love! But I cannot die in peace without
endeavouring to save you from so horrible a death, for your own sake
and for the sake of your little ones whom I have helped you to rear.
Promise me, therefore, Taras--I entreat you promise me--that you will
do yourself what I had intended."
"I cannot," groaned the unhappy man.
"Why not? Poor, dear master! Ah! I know how you dread the
gallows!--not the dying, but the rope! The mere thought of it fills you
with horror and loathing unspeakable. I know it, for who knows you
better than I do? For this and no other reason you have granted the
bullet to even the blackest rascal we ever brought to his doom. And to
yourself you refuse it--why should you?"
"Because it were cowardly and a sin against God!"
"Nay, surely the Almighty will judge your soul with the same justice
and mercy whether you appear before His judgment-seat a month sooner or
later. I cannot doubt that!... And cowardly? I do not understand
you...."
"Yes, cowardly!" cried Taras, passionately, and rising to his feet. "It
is my appointed lot to be a guardian of the Right, and to strive to
carry out the will of God concerning it, as far as may be possible to
mortal man. I must not, I dare not renounce that sacred duty. If ever I
fall into their hands I shall hope and endeavour to make good my
escape, and continue fulfilling the duty which is laid upon me. Yes! in
the very sight of the gallows I shall cling to the hope that the Judge
above will set me free, though it be by a miracle, to carry on His
work."
The dying man was silent; he fell back on his bed and closed his eyes.
Taras bent over him. And once again those faithful eyes opened on him
fully, and the old servant whispered, scarcely audibly: "Farewell, dear
master, and may God in His mercy be with you in death." A deep breath,
and Jemilian was gone.
They laid him out in the morning after their way in the mountains, with
a crucifix at his head, but with a jug of water at his right hand,
bread and salt at his left, and the skin of a newly-killed kid at his
feet, "for the other gods." And after that they buried him beneath a
mighty fir-tree in the Dembronia Forest. No priest prayed over the
dead, the aged Hilarion only whispered his ancient spells handed down
from generation to generation, believed in by all, and understood by
none. They filled up the grave, discharging their muskets over it, and
finally cut a cross into the bark of the tree, not forgetting some
mysterious signs by the side of it "for the other gods."
Then they returned to the settlement to partake of the funeral meal.
But as they entered the enclosure Taras perceived a youth standing by
the hedge, at the sight of whom he gave a stifled cry.
It was young Halko, the farm-servant, who, with glistening eyes, now
burst upon his master and kissed his hand. "Thanks be to God," he
cried, struggling with tears, "we shall all be happy again! The
mistress and the children have been set free! They are waiting to see
you at the hamlet of Magura, at the lower end of the valley."
"My horse!" cried Taras, turning to his men. "And why have they not
come all the way?"
"Because of the two gentlemen. It was they who refused to come further,
lest you might think they wished to discover your encampment--our
little Father Leo, I mean, and that old lawyer of Colomea who was your
counsel in the suit."
"And what have they come for?"
"To bring you good news, master--really. The men of Zulawce are to have
their field back, and the wrong is to be righted."
Taras grew white and then crimson, and again the glow yielded to a
deadly pallor. But he asked no farther question, and, mounting his
horse, he raced down the valley at a pace which left Halko fax behind
him.
The meeting between husband and wife was deeply affecting. Taras flew
towards her without giving a glance at the men, and Anusia, with a wild
cry, buried her face on his shoulder. And they stood clasping each
other speechless, only their tears kept flowing. At length Taras freed
himself from her arms, and turned to his children, little Tereska
beginning to cry with fear when that strange-looking grey-haired man
caught her up, kissing her wildly; the little girl did not recognise
her father, nor did the younger boy. Wassilj only clung to him sobbing,
"Oh, father dear, you look so ill--so ill!"
Taras made no answer, he took the boy on his knee, fondling him and
closing his month with kisses when he would have spoken. It was as
though he feared human words might destroy the blessedness of this
meeting. And almost anxiously he avoided the eye of either the pope or
the lawyer; still less could he have offered them greeting. He kept
lifting, now this child to his knee, now that, pressing them to his
heart closely; and drawing his wife down beside him, he passed his hand
tenderly over her grief-worn face. "Do not speak," he whispered, and
she nodded, hiding her head in his bosom, to weep her sorrows away.
Father Leo and Dr. Starkowski had withdrawn modestly, watching that
most touching scene from a distance only. "There is every hope of his
yielding," whispered the lawyer. "God grant that it be so," returned
the priest, less confident, evidently.
Half-an-hour might have passed, when Taras roused himself, once more
clasping his wife and kissing the children with a passionate fervour,
as though separation once more were at hand. And now he went up to the
men, expressing his pleasure at seeing them, but his voice trembled as
with apprehension, "What is it you have to tell me?" he inquired.
"We are sent hither by order of the Government," said Starkowski,
producing a written document and explaining its contents. It was a
paper drawn up by the district governor, instructing the present
bearers, and containing, in full, the resolutions come to in Vienna.
"To-morrow," concluded the lawyer, "the governor himself will repair to
Zulawce to re-examine the witnesses in person. And, since he is fully
determined to get at the bottom of the matter, there is no doubt but
that the contested field will be adjudged to the parish, and that the
perjured witnesses, together with the scoundrel who led them on, will
meet with their fullest deserts. And this is resolved upon, as you
understand from this communication, for the sake of justice itself, and
quite irrespective of what decision you may arrive at concerning
yourself. But we ask you, whether there be any just reason left why you
should refuse submission to the Emperor, the guardian of justice in
this realm."
Taras drew one deep breath after another, but answer there was none.
"Husband!" cried Anusia, wildly, "tell them you are satisfied."
"Do not press him," interposed Father Leo. "Let us consider the matter
calmly.... Taras," he continued, "I do not want to urge upon you the
claims of ordinary wisdom, which might well prevail with you, in order
to preserve your life, not only from ignominious death, but for your
children's sake and their future welfare; for I know that no such
consideration has influenced your actions hitherto and that you follow
the voice of your conscience only; but this I will ask of you--does
your conscience permit you to continue striving in your own might, and
with fearful means, to bring about a result which will be attained
peaceably by the faithful endeavour of those who are called to this
duty?"
"This is the very point," said Taras, slowly. "I do not know that these
endeavours are faithful! Look back on all this sad experience. Grievous
crimes have been perpetrated at Zolawce--robbery and perjury. I
appealed to the law, considering no personal sacrifice too great to
obtain relief; but every effort proved vain. The robber was left to
enjoy the benefit of his deed, and the perjurers could mock honest men!
Three years nearly have passed since this happened, and the matter was
not likely ever to be taken up again. Now you tell me that the men of
the law nave suddenly remembered their duty. Why so? What is the reason
that, all of a sudden, they feel called upon to try the case over
again?--why are they willing to do so? Because these months past they
have stood in terror of me, and I have left them no peace!... I ask
you, doctor, as an honest man--would the case ever have come to be
tried over again if I had followed your advice, and lived down my
disappointment as a peaceable subject on my farm?"
"Yes, possibly," returned the lawyer. "I mean it is just as likely that
some other chance had made it advisable----"
"That will do!" interrupted Taras. "By your own showing, then, it was a
mere matter of chance, and you were brought to seek for the right in
the present instance only because of my forcing you on to it through
dire warfare. But for this, I repeat, you would not have lifted a
finger to right the wrong! This is an evil state of things, and must
not continue, for it opposes the beautiful will of God. The case does
but lend force, then, to my belief that a judge and avenger is
grievously needed in this country. This, however, is not the only, not
even the chief, thing I must strive to rectify. I found greater wrongs
left unpunished elsewhere; and, knowing that the men of Zulawce would
not miss their opportunity of getting back their field for themselves,
there was no need for me to see to it. I soon perceived there were
other evil-doers in the land, not greater scoundrels, perhaps, than
Hajek, but with greater scope for wrong; and therefore I judged well to
punish and remove them first, and to bring him to his doom when I can
do so without too great an effort or loss of life. But to come to those
other cases, or to take one only as an example--who, I ask you, would
ever have thought of ridding the people of Kossowince from that vilest
of oppressors if I had not done it? And how, then, can I be sure that
such things shall not happen again--not once, but in scores of cases?
Can you pledge yourselves that such wrongs shall never again be
possible? Will you yourselves be the surety that in future no man shall
be oppressed in this country, or his cry for redress die away unheard?"
"This is more than we can promise," said the lawyer; "but----"
"It needs no further word! I maintain that a judge and avenger
was required in this country, and will still be required; and
therefore----"
"Taras!" cried Anusia, with a shriek of despair, and clutching his arm,
"forbear! Speak not lightly; it concerns our deepest welfare--it is a
question of life or death!"
Once more the pope interfered. "Hear me, Taras," he said, speaking with
a forced calm; "I do not condemn your answer so far, for it is no more
than must be expected from your nature and your way of thinking, such
as I have known them these years. And as a tree could not change the
colour of its leaves at any man's bidding, you also could not have
spoken differently, for your words are the outcome of your very being.
But I should have to condemn you if you were to disregard that which I
will point out to you now, and which no doubt has escaped you hitherto.
Listen to me! You are grievously mistaken if you imagine that the law
in itself is to blame, or that the Emperor wishes his judges to close
an eye when poor peasants are ill-used by rich and powerful oppressors.
The law is all right, and those that are appointed to dispense it are
required to take a solemn oath that in all cases they will be just and
impartial. And again, you are mistaken if you think that our
magistrates sometimes pass an unjust verdict wilfully." Taras broke in
with a passionate exclamation, but the pope stopped him. "I know what
you are going to say," he cried; "you want to remind me that your wife
and your children were arrested. I shall come to that presently. Let me
urge upon you that, taking all in all, the intentions of the
magistrates are good, and the laws are good. Just call to mind your
experience as a whole, and tell me, speaking honestly, as before the
face of Almighty God, Is it the just or the unjust verdicts which are
the exception?"
"I have considered this point often," said Taras, quietly; "it is true
that I have heard of far more just than unjust sentences. But what of
it, what _can_ it prove?"
"Just this," rejoined Father Leo, warmly, "that an occasional
miscarriage of justice is not to be explained by imputing it to the
ill-will of magistrates. What else, then, is to blame? you inquire. I
remind you that for one thing there is that unfortunate survival of
feudal times, whereby the lord of the manor is vested with judicial
authority over the peasantry on his lands; this is fully acknowledged
to be an evil, not only by you and me, but by Government as well. But
it cannot be done away with all of a sudden, nor by violent means, for
the landlords exercise their jurisdiction in virtue of Imperial grants
acquired by purchase in times long gone by. It is this deplorable state
of things which is to blame chiefly, if oppression and injustice go
more easily unpunished in this country than elsewhere. But do not
imagine, Taras, that we are the only people who ever suffer wrong; nay,
that beautiful ladder which has appeared to you in happy vision is not
anywhere on earth so firmly planted, so utterly to be relied on, as you
dreamed. For the guardianship of Justice in this world is not given to
God's angels, but to poor sinful men like you and me. God alone is
all-knowing, all-wise, and all-just, and it is man's inheritance to
judge of things not as they are, but rather as they appear. I do not
deny that there may be unjust judges here and there; yet it is not this
fact which is to blame for the continuance of wrong upon earth, but the
imperfection of human nature. For everything human falls short of its
highest aim, and perfect justice is with God alone; if, therefore, you
are bent on continuing your warfare, it will not be against the Emperor
and his magistrates, nor against the wrong upon earth, but against
human nature and human failings."
Taras had bent his eyes on the ground thoughtfully; but after a pause
of silence he shook his head. "I have followed you," he said, "and I
grant the truth of your points. But of one thing, the most important of
all, you cannot convince me. I will never believe that a man endowed
with good sense, provided he is honest, could pass an unjust sentence
as it were against himself. And therefore I must continue in my sacred
undertaking, for it is nothing to the point _why_ any wrong goes
unpunished--whether the human weakness, or stupidity, or the ill-will
of the magistrates be at fault. It is enough for me that the wrong is
there and requires to be rooted out."
"This is sheer infatuation!" cried Father Leo. "And have you ever
considered which is the greater wrong, either as regards your fellows
or the will of God--whether some peasant is taxed with more labour than
he owes, or whether you fill all the land with horror and bloodshed?
Nay, has not a harvest of wrong sprung from your very work? Have we not
heard of villages rising against their lords, refusing their just
claims, and threatening their lives? Have you forgotten what happened
at Hankowce? and what at Zulawce? Does not the blood of many a
soldier--nay, of your own men--cry for vengeance unto God?"
"I am not afraid to be answerable for this," responded Taras, "for the
Right is more to be valued than any man's life. Both my conscience and
my reason tell me that, for the world itself is founded on justice."
"The world founded on justice!" reiterated the pope, hotly. "And how do
you know, then, that your judgment is always just? Are not you a man
like others, and liable to err?"
"I follow conscience, and rely on the grace of God, which will be with
him who seeks what is right. You know my deeds; do you accuse me of any
injustice?"
"What of that poor man Hohenau!"
"He was one of those magistrates who used the power entrusted to them
for a deed of violence, for fear of earthly punishment."
"Taras," cried the pope, with a vain attempt to speak calmly, "there is
no excuse for you, or rather your only excuse is this, that you did not
know the true state of things----"
"I knew all about it," rejoined Taras. "I was aware that the Board of
Colomea had prayed to be dismissed the service rather than be obliged
to do this deed. But what of it? You will tell me that their request
was refused by their superiors, and that their oath required them to
stay at their post and obey the higher authority. But I tell you no
oath binds a man to iniquity--and therefore the judgment I carried out
was a just one!"
Starkowski interposed: "It is quite useless to reason with you on these
points, or to expect you to retract anything of the past. But tell me,
what of the future? Do you really consider yourself infallible? Do you
imagine that you alone will never be in danger of passing sentence
unjustly? This is awful presumption!"
"No," said Taras, solemnly; "it is an assurance resting on the grace of
God. He sees and probes my heart. He knows that I have undertaken this
warfare for His sake alone, and He will not let me fall so grievously.
But even apart from this, I do think that an honest, right-minded, and
judicious man will always be able to distinguish right from wrong."
"Then you really believe that an unjust sentence on your part is
utterly impossible? Well, let this pass; but supposing the hour ever
came that would convince you that you also, in striving after justice,
had done wrong--what then?"
"It were the most fearful hour of my life," said Taras, hoarsely; "and
I do not speak lightly!... I have never considered what in that case I
should have to do, but it is quite plain. If God ever suffers me to
commit the wrong, then I shall acknowledge that He never was with me,
that the blessed ladder joining earth to heaven is a dream, and I shall
no longer call myself an avenger, but an evildoer who has deserved
every punishment he has ever inflicted on others. If ever such terrible
conviction does come to me, be very sure I shall give myself up to you
on the spot. Till then, I have nothing to do with you. Take back this
message to those that sent you."
Deep silence followed.
"Is this your final decision?" These words fell on the stillness
with stifled sobs. It was Anusia--white as death, bending forward,
hollow-eyed and shaking in every limb--who now faced her husband.
The two men were dismayed, and even Taras staggered. "Anusia," he
began, "you know----"
"Nothing else; just this one answer!" She looked straight into his
eyes, and continued with that same ghastly voice: "But let me tell you
first what is at stake.... Hitherto I have clung to this one
conviction, that all your deeds were done in obedience to the dictates
of your conscience; and because I have known you as a man more noble
and more just than your neighbours, I would not permit myself to doubt
for one moment that you continued noble and acted justly even where I
could not see it. I took it upon myself to be both father and mother to
our children, to rule the farm in your absence--the loss to my heart I
could not make good. But in my sorest hours I strove to encourage
myself. 'Hold up thy head proudly,' a voice within me kept crying, 'for
thou art wife to one who is not like common men! Thou hast loved him
for it, and prided thyself on it, bear thou the deep sorrow which comes
because of it. He never was like other men; he cannot be now. He has
set his great heart on winning back that field for his people, for it
is theirs by right, and since he was foiled when he sought to gain his
end by lawful means he is now trying what force will do. Since justice
is on his side, he will succeed in the end, and will come back to you,
and happiness once more will return.' This was my one hope through it
all, and I believed in its fulfilment and fed upon the longed-for
blessing. When the governor came to tell me what message had been
received from Vienna, ah! then indeed, my heart beat with the rapture
of its gratitude! I learned at the same time, however, that they could
not let you go unpunished, and that you might very likely have to atone
for your deeds with a long imprisonment; but even this my love and
pride were ready to bear. 'He will not be a whit less great and noble,'
I said to myself, 'and prison cannot degrade him! And far better to
know him in prison, and making up for these months, than to think of
him continuing this fearful life.' For, Taras, no human tongue can tell
what it means to be the avenger's wife! God knows, and I do!... And
will you now crown it all--will you heap up a burden of grief and shame
beneath which I and the children must break down entirely?"
"Anusia!"
"Be silent, and listen! I have borne the utmost; now let me speak. I
say this, that unless you return, now that the wrong is about to be
made good, and the field given back to its rightful owners, you will
cease to be believed in as noble and good, not only by me, but by all
upright and sensible men; you will no longer be a champion of the
oppressed and an avenger for conscience' sake, but a mere common
assassin, a bloodthirsty----"
"Anusia, wife, for God's sake----"
"Do not call me wife! I will not acknowledge an assassin as my husband,
nor let the children call him father. Now tell me--are you willing to
follow these gentlemen or not?"
"I cannot!"
"Then go your ways ... but in your dying hour you shall call me in
vain ... I will not----"
She could not finish the terrible sentence, breaking down, not in
unconsciousness, but overpowered with the boundless passion of her
resentment....
The unhappy man hid his face in his hands, and then slowly, with a
faltering step, but not again lifting his eye to her he was leaving, he
returned to his horse, and, mounting it with evident effort, he rode
swiftly away towards the Black Water, nor once looked behind him.