Autumn had come; again the season was cold and gloomy. Taras had waited patiently, but he had not the courage to face the long, dull twilight of winter if he must pass it nursing the one desperate thought. So he went to the pope and begged him to indite an inquiry to the lawyer.
Father Leo looked him in the face anxiously. The man appeared calm. "You are thinking too much of the law-suit!" he said, nevertheless.
"Not more than need be," replied Taras. "I have long settled in my mind all concerning that question."
The pope wrote the desired letter. The reply came at the end of a week. He had done what he could, said the lawyer, to urge the case forward, praying especially for a re-examination of the witnesses; but he had received no answer so far.
Taras heaved a sigh when the pope had communicated this letter to him. "It will go hard with me in the winter," he said sadly.
But the pope could not know the full import of these words. "You have done your duty," he said, "and that will comfort you."
"There is no comfort in that," said Taras, "though it may help one to be strong. A man who has laid his hand on the plough of any duty must go on till the work is done."
The winter proved hard, indeed, for the waiting man, but the heavier the burden weighed on his soul the more anxious he seemed to hide it.
"He has ceased groaning as he used to do," Anusia said to her friend, the warm-hearted, fat little popadja; "and he seems to take pleasure in a pastime, rather unusual with him; he has become a hunter for hunting's sake."
Taras, in that winter, would be absent for weeks at a time, pursuing the bear. But his three companions, who were devotedly attached to him--Hritzko and Giorgi Pomenko, the two sons of his friend Simeon, and the young man, Wassilj Soklewicz, whose brother had been shot on the contested field--could tell little of the judge's cheer. "He is even more silent in the forest than at home," they said; "and if he takes any delight in the hunt it is only because he is such a good shot. He cares nothing for the happy freedom of life up yonder, nothing for the excitement of driving the bear; but his face will always light up when he has well-lodged his bullet."
The winter was not yet over, and Taras was again absent hunting, when one day--it was in March, 1838--the pope received a large letter from the district town. The lawyer had addressed the decision of the upper court to him, giving as his reason that he had understood from Father Leo's inquiry in the autumn, that he also sympathised with the judge, Barabola. "I pray you, reverend sir," wrote the lawyer, "to make known to him the enclosed verdict as best you can; for I am afraid the poor man will be crushed and not easily lift up his head again. The legal means are exhausted, the lawyer can do nothing more; let the pastor, then, come in and heal the wound."
The good pope was troubled, his apprehension nowise lessening on hearing how the first verdict had overpowered his friend. "Poor man," he said; "poor dear child! how will he take it?"
With not a little trepidation, therefore, he went to see Taras upon his return from the mountains, endeavouring to prepare him for the bad news by a rather lengthy and well-considered speech. Taras however, behaved otherwise than the pope had anticipated. He grew white, and the deep furrow between his brows appeared more threatening, but his voice was firm as he asked, "Then the upper court has upheld the first verdict?"
"Yes," said Father Leo, gently. "But you must not take it too much to heart, you have tried honestly."
"Let me know what they say," interrupted Taras, as calm as before, but it might have been noticed that he leant heavily on the table beside which he was standing.
The pope produced the writ, reading and explaining. The court dismissed the appeal, seeing no reason why the trial should be repeated, it being fully evident that the former examination had satisfied the demands of justice. The lower court's verdict, therefore, must be upheld.
Taras had listened to the end with the same rigid mien. "Thank you," he said, when Father Leo had done. "But now leave me alone. You too, Anusia; I must think it over."
"What use in farther troubling?" demurred the pope. "Dr. Starkowski says especially that the legal means are exhausted; which means that there is nothing further to be done. You must submit to the will of God."
"We will come back to that presently," said Taras, with a ghastly smile, which quite frightened the pope. "You shall not be cheated out of your sermon, but not now ... not now!" He repeated the words almost passionately.
Father Leo still hesitated; but Anusia interfered. She had been sitting in a corner, weeping; but now she rose. "Stay, pope," she entreated, taking hold of Taras's hand. "Husband," she cried, shrilly, "fly into whatever rage you like, thrash the rascal at the manor house till he cannot move a limb, if it will ease you; but do not hide your wrath within yourself. Do not look so stony; it kills me, husband. I am maddened with fear! I know why you would have us leave you--you are going to lay hands on yourself!"
"No!" cried Taras, solemnly. "God knows, I have no such thought." But again the smile played about his mouth. "Be at peace, wife," he added; "I have never stood in more grievous need of health and life than now. Leave me."
They saw they must obey, but they remained standing outside the closed door, listening anxiously. They hoped the terrible tension of his heart might be lessened now by the pouring forth of his sorrow, but they heard nothing save his measured step. It ceased at length, and all was still.
"Come!" said the poor wife, dragging the pope to a small window which gave them a peep into the room. They saw Taras, sitting still, resting his elbows on his knees, and his face buried in his hands. He sat motionless.
"We had better leave him to fight it out," said Father Leo, "his is a strong heart, and he will get over it."
But Anusia could not conquer her fears. "I must watch him," she moaned, the hot tears trickling down her face. "It is more than you think! Why, he is like a child at other times, never hiding the thoughts that move him; and now he cannot even speak to me or you!"
The pope endeavoured to comfort her, but it was ill trying when he was anxious enough himself. He left her presently to visit a sick parishioner who was waiting for him, returning in about an hour.
Anusia had not stirred from the little window. "He only moved once," she whispered, hoarsely, "and it was awful to behold. I watched him, hardly daring to breathe, and saw him rise slowly and lift the fingers of his right hand to heaven. His face was stony, never a muscle he moved, but his eyes could not hold back the tears, and they ran heavily down his death-like cheeks--ah, Father Leo, it must have been an awful oath he swore to himself--and now he sits rigid as before, staring hopelessly."
"That won't do," murmured the pope, opening the door rather noisily and entering. He was resolved not to leave the room again, even if Taras should dismiss him peremptorily. But there was no fear of that.
The judge rose, and met him quietly, almost serenely. "You are right, Father Leo," he said, "it is no use to keep on troubling! I have well-nigh worn out my brains, and am not a bit further than before!... There is just one thing though I want to know: you told me the lawyer had written that all the legal means were now exhausted--are you sure? are these his very words?"
"Yes; it is quite plain."
"But I am not certain. For I remember that our own judge, at Ridowa, when I was a boy, had a protracted law-suit with a cousin of his about some will that was questioned. The district court decided in his favour; but the cousin appealed, and the court at Lemberg was on his side. The judge thereupon took the case to a supreme court at Vienna, and there he obtained his right. So you see there must be judges at Vienna, who are over the court at Lemberg."
"Taras," cried Anusia, "surely you are not thinking of going to law at Vienna? Whoever could pay the costs?"
"Wife," he said solemnly, "if you knew what is at stake, you would ask me on your knees to plead the cause at Vienna if we were beggars ever after. However, I must first find out about it. Not that I doubt Dr. Starkowski, for he is honest, and will have written nothing but the truth; but I must have it from his own lips."
He was not able to set out for Colomea on the spot, having to arrange with the mandatar first concerning the spring labour due by the peasantry. And matters were not so easily settled as in the autumn, for Mr. Hajek was relieved of his fears as to a possible re-examination of witnesses, and showed his true colours. He would no longer heed Father Leo's suggestions, but set him aside as a meddling priest who had better not poke into mundane concerns. It was, therefore, not without much yielding to unfair demands that Taras could come to an understanding with the rapacious steward, after which he was free to depart on his journey, carrying with him in a leather belt all the ready money in his possession--the silver thalers and golden ducats he had inherited of old Iwan, or gained by his own industry.
On his entering the lawyer's office, the enlightened Stupka no longer took alarm; but all the more frightened was the kind-hearted attorney himself.
"Why, man!" he cried, aghast, "you look ten years older than when last I saw you. Is it the lawsuit which so worries you? You must not give way like that. Remember that you have a wife and children, and not only a parish, to live for."
"It was an evil year," said Taras; "but I have not come to make complaints to you, sir, but only to settle two points. Firstly, what is it I owe you?"
The lawyer brought down his ledger and named the sum--close upon two hundred and fifty florins. "We have to bear the costs, you see," he said in excuse.
"Never mind," said Taras, undoing his belt and counting out the money. "Now for the second point. You have written to our Father Leo that nothing more can be done. But are there not higher judges at Vienna?"
"Not for this matter," returned Starkowski; "there certainly is a high court of justice at Vienna, but cases can only be taken thither when the district court and the provincial court of appeal have differed in their verdicts!"
"That is bad," said Taras. "But you spoke to me of another way last year--a prosecution for perjury."
"Yes, but I did not advise it, and would not advise it now," cried the lawyer, eagerly. "Can you not see that none of these witnesses will own to being perjured, and you will hardly succeed in bringing the crime home to them--for where is your evidence? And even if you had evidence, in the case of some who may have betrayed themselves by their own foolish talk, and could get them convicted, you will hardly escape going to prison with them. For those whom you failed to convict would be all the more spiteful, and would have you up for libel. And for what good in the end?--the field would remain Count Borecki's after all!"
"It is not that I am thinking of now," replied Taras. "I do not seek restitution, but simply the right." It was evident that he strove hard to speak calmly. But when he opened his mouth again the words fell stammeringly from his lips: "You tell me, then--there is--no help left--none?"
"None whatever," said the lawyer, "unless the Emperor----"
"The Emperor!" interrupted the peasant, almost with a shriek. And exultation broke from his eyes; he stood erect, transformed in every feature as by magic. So sudden was the change, from dire despair to uplifting hope, that he staggered and reeled as under a blow. "The Emperor!" he repeated, exultingly.
"Well, yes--but in fact--you see, the Emperor----" said the lawyer, taken aback.
But Taras paid no attention. "Oh, sir," he cried, and was not ashamed of the tears that flowed down his face, "what a fool I have been! People looking to me, and calling me their judge, and I never thinking of this! And how I racked my poor brain, and suffered, and strove with the awful future, and all for nothing! Why, of course, there is the Emperor; but I only thought of him while there was happiness; and when trouble came and the clouds hid the light of heaven, I forgot that the sun is behind them. I was even angry not to see it shining, and was wroth with the Emperor, because the men of the law, who are but his servants, could not help me! But I know better now. I know the Emperor will make it all right, let him but hear of it--why, it is his very duty, laid upon him by God himself! His servants may go wrong, but he will see the truth; they may judge ill, but he will be righteous, being above them all.... Ah, sir, forgive my being thus beside myself and weeping like a child! But if you knew what thoughts went through me but a moment ago, when you told me there was no farther help!... But, thank God, you have remembered the Emperor, while yet it was time--while yet it was time! For even a week hence, if I had gone away in my hopelessness, it might have been too late!"
"Too late!" repeated the lawyer, astonished. "What do you mean?"
"Ah! do not ask me, sir," cried Taras, brushing the tears from his face. "I would rather forget all about it; it was a nightmare, an evil dream. How foolish of me! The very darkest plans I could think of, but never of this simple help, as simple as prayer itself. For who are our helpers in this life but God and the Emperor? God paramount and hearing our cry, but not reaching down with His own arm from heaven in every instance, because He has appointed the crowned one in His stead, who is to judge men and rule them in His name. But the Emperor is not omniscient, like God. One must go to him and tell him one's trouble, which I shall do now. And for his understanding me the better, I will ask you, sir, to put it into writing, that he may have it all down on paper what I have to tell him."
Thus sobbed and talked the peasant, running on, positively beside himself, as though heaven had opened with a great vision of help; and, fall of gratitude, he seized the lawyer's hand, bowing low to kiss it. But Starkowski drew back hastily, stepping to the window. He was startled, and almost dismayed. His mentioning the Emperor had been rather accidental, and he could never have dreamt of thus rousing the man. He felt morally certain that it would be quite useless to petition the Emperor, not thathedoubted that the peasants really had been wronged in the suit. But how was the Emperor to see this, in the face of two verdicts? Every groat the judge would spend on that errand, every effort and particle of time, would be just thrown away. "It must not be," he said to himself. "I must get him to see it." But then the thought would rise whether it were not a wicked thing to destroy the poor man's hope--his last hope, to which he clung so pitifully. He remembered the words Taras had spoken a year ago, and these were strange hints which had fallen from his lips just now. Yet the lawyer had not an idea what awful resolve had ripened in the despairing soul of this man; he only perceived that he would leave no means untried, no violence even, to get back the field the parish had been robbed of--and this was bad enough to be prevented, if possible.
He believed he saw a way out of the difficulty. "Well, then, Taras," he said, "we will try the Emperor. I will draw up a memorial for you, and we can send it to Vienna. You, meanwhile, go quietly back to your people. There is no need to leave your family and your farm and your public duties on that account. The Emperor will see what it is all about from the document; there is no need to plead in person." At any rate, we shall thus gain time, the good man was hoping; he will calm down meanwhile, and will be able to bear his disappointment when it does come, perhaps a year hence.
But in laying this pretty plan, he had not considered the man he had to do with.
"No," replied Taras, with his own inflexible firmness. "I will gladly take your advice, but not on this point. My whole future is at stake, and the welfare of my wife and children. How could I trust to a happy chance? I shall go to Vienna myself, to see the Emperor and present the petition."
"Do stop to consider!" urged the lawyer. "And what chance is it you are talking of? I shall forward the memorial by post safely, and shall get it presented by a trustworthy man--a friend of mine----"
"Why, this is a whole string of chances," interrupted Taras. "The letter may be lost, or tampered with--one has heard of postbags being robbed. And your friend may fall ill, or die, before he can do what you request. But even if he were able to do it, and had the best of intentions, how should he speak for me, as I would myself? He would say a pleasant word, perhaps, thinking of you, his friend, or because he is in the presence of the Emperor; but he cannot possibly be anxious aboutmycase. I must speak for myself!"
"But how should the Emperor understand you, not knowing a word of the Ruthenese?" inquired the lawyer, a little exasperated.
"Now, that can never be true!" cried Taras. "That is, I beg your pardon, some one must have told you a tale. It stands to reason that the Emperor can speak our language. Is he not the father of all his subjects, and are not we of them? And you would have me believe a father will not understand his children? No, no; that can never be! It is settled, then, that I shall go to Vienna, and I beg you to write out the petition for me; I will call for it this day week. I shall hardly get away before that, for I must set things in order before I leave."
There was no dissuading him. He returned to Zulawce, and neither his wife's entreaties nor the pope's remonstrance made the slightest impression on him. They both felt grateful on perceiving that a change had taken place in him; but both were equally set against his intention, though for different reasons. Anusia, for her part, did not doubt the likelihood of the Emperor's effective interference; but a journey to the far-off capital appeared to her as dangerous and venturesome as an expedition to the moon.
"Who can tell what might not happen on the road?" she said to the popadja, into whose sympathetic ear she poured her fears. "He may fall among thieves; or he may starve in some wilderness; or sorcerers may catch him with their wicked spells, and I shall never see him again. And even if he were likely to get through all these dangers, how is a man to find his way onsucha journey and not be lost?"
Father Leo's apprehensions were not quite so desperate, although even he considered the journey a venture; but his chief fear was this--that it would be useless.
"The Emperor cannot possibly come back with you in person," he argued with his friend; "and how is he to know, without personal inspection, where the black cross stood these years ago? He can only inquire of the local authorities, our friends at Colomea; and how should they tell him anything different from what they have already decided? They must stick to the verdict to escape censure, if for no other reason."
But Taras had an answer to every objection. To his wife he said, "It is not the sorcerers you fear, but the sorceresses." And to Father Leo he said, "You know most things better than we do, no doubt; but even you have had no experience with emperors." It was plain he was bent on going.
The following Sunday he called a meeting of the men. "My own farm," he said, "I have entrusted to the care of my friend Simeon. He has offered to act as my representative also in parish affairs. But I cannot accept that; the parish must not be without a judge for so many weeks, perhaps months. I therefore resign my office, but I advise you to choose him in my place."
His friends opposed him, none more eagerly than Simeon himself. But Taras was not to be moved, and since his enemies failed not to second him, the resolution was carried, Simeon being chosen by a majority of votes. He accepted the office, declaring that he would hold it until his friend returned.
A few days later Taras again stood in Starkowski's chambers. The lawyer gave him the memorial to the Emperor, and a private letter addressed to a friend of his. "Go by this man's advice in everything," he said; "he is a man of high standing at Vienna, and will counsel you well, being himself of this country."
"Very well," said Taras; "I will do as you wish me; otherwise I should have gone straight to the Emperor's. No doubt every child at Vienna could show me his house."
"But you don't expect the children at Vienna to understand your Ruthenese!" cried the lawyer; adding, with a sigh, "God knows what will become of you!"
"I have no fear," said Taras, solemnly. "How should a man fail to gain his end who tries to do what is right?"
This had happened early in April. Taras had taken leave of his wife with the promise of letting her hear as often as possible, and he kept his word faithfully during the first stages of his absence. As early as the third week a letter arrived, dated from Lemberg, and written for Taras by a fellow-villager, a certain Constantino Turenko, who, as a soldier, had had the rare luck, in the estimation of the Zulawce folk, of rising to the dignity of a corporal. "Since my friend Taras is unable to send you a letter of his own contriving," this military genius wrote, "and since I am as clever at it as the colonel of the regiment himself, I send you word that he hopes you are well, as this leaves him at present. I have shown him all over the place; he never saw such a town in his life. You had better tell my people and Kasia, who used to be sweet on me, that they may expect me home in the summer on furlough. I shall bring my regimentals--won't they just be proud of me! Everybody says I am a fine soldier." Poor Anusia was thankful for even that much of news of her husband. In May another letter arrived from Cracow, indited by a musical hero of some church choir, also stating that Taras was well, but adding he was running short of money, and that he desired a remittance under his, the singer's, address. Father Leo, however, knew better than to carry out this injunction. It was the last news of the absent traveller which reached the village.
They waited, but the summer came and not a word of Taras. "It is a long day's journey to Vienna," the pope would say to Anusia, "and he might not easily come across a man there who understands the Ruthenese, and is not too grand to write a letter for him, so we must not be anxious."
But when even the harvest was over without bringing a sign of life, Father Leo himself grew uneasy, and was less confident in calming Anusia. And the poor thing, besides her waking fears, was harassed by nightly dreams of the most vivid apprehension, the least appalling of her visions being those in which she beheld her Taras captivated by some pretty Hungarian, but alive at least; but more often she would see him dragging along the weary roads utterly starving, and sometimes her dreams showed him dead in a ditch. With these tales of woe she came to the manse almost daily, and Father Leo did his best to console her. The pretty Hungarian he found it easiest to dispose of, assuring the distracted wife that Taras's way did not lead him through Hungary at all; and, as for the starving, he believed it unlikely, considering the two hundred florins the traveller had taken with him, but death certainly was a contingency against which no hapless mortal was proof. And when this latter vision mournfully overbore the previous ones, the poor woman lost all her youthful energy, fading away with her grief, and Father Leo, for very pity of her, wrote to Dr. Starkowski, imploring him to procure some news. The good-natured man readily promised to make inquiries at Vienna, but week after week passed and nothing was heard, nor did the lost one himself return.
It was autumn, the first frost was felt, and it was Saint Simon and Saint Jude's. Everywhere within sight of the stern mountains the people look upon this day as the herald of winter; the women see to their larders, and the men assemble to fix each household's share of firewood from the common forest. This being done, Simeon, the new judge, had gone to the manse to arrange with Father Leo concerning the pope's due. That was soon settled, but the two men continued in mournful conversation, and Father Leo scarcely had the heart to dissent from the judge's doleful remark that the miserable field had cost the village not only one of its stalwart youths, but another and more precious life as well, inasmuch as it seemed beyond a doubt that poor Taras had perished. Sympathy with his fate thus kept them talking, the dusk of evening descending with its own stillness, broken at times by the wailings of Anusia, who once again had come with her troubles to the kind-hearted popadja.
There was a knock at the outer door, and almost simultaneously they heard the poor wife's shriek--: "Taras!" They flew from the room.
It was a mystery how Anusia had recognised her husband without seeing him or hearing his voice, or even his footfall; but it was himself. "Are you quite well?" he cried, as he caught her to his heart. "I have seen the children already!"
The friends fell back reverently to leave the husband and wife to each other; but then they also pressed round him to shake hands joyfully, and the popadja hastened to light her lamp. But when Taras entered the lighted apartment a heartrending shriek broke from Anusia, and the friends also stood horrified. Poor Taras looked sadly worn--old and grey, and life's hope, as it were, crashed out of him. His powerful frame was emaciated; the sunny hair showed colourless streaks; the furrow between the brows had grown deeper still, and the eyes looked hollow in the haggard face.
"You bring ill news, brother!" cried Simeon, aghast.
"Ill news!" repeated Taras. He endeavoured to smile, but failed sadly; and when the tears sprang to every eye about him, he, too, sat down and let his own trouble flow unhindered.
"My poor, dear darling!" sobbed Anusia, covering his head with her kisses and her tears--"come back to us a grey-haired man!"
But her grief helped Taras to recover himself, and now he did smile. He drew down his wife beside him, stroking her own brown hair gently. "Is not that like a woman," he said, striving to appear light-hearted, "to make a fuss because the man she wedded must turn grey in his time! The glory of youth is treacherous, my dear!... But tell me about yourselves now, and about the village."
"Tell us aboutyourself," they cried. "We have died with anxiety these months past. Where have you been all this time?"
"It was not possible to come back sooner," said he. "It is a long journey to Vienna, and I had to wait many a day before I could see him----"
"The Emperor! Did you actually speak to him?"
"Well--yes--after a fashion! They call it having an audience," said he, with a strangely gloomy smile. "And I would not come away without an answer...."
"Have you got it then? The Emperor's own answer?"
"No; but I know what it is going to be.... However, let us wait and see. I want to know how you have been getting on--and what about friend Hajek?"
"He is not over-anxious to show himself," said Simeon, making haste to add: "I am sure you will see that your farm meanwhile has done well. Your live stock is in the best condition, and the harvest was most plentiful. Your granaries are well filled, and I have eighty florins to give you for corn sold, and thirty for oats. But do tell us; did not the Emperor promise to see to the matter?"
"Promise!" said Taras bitterly, "to be sure he did!... But excuse me," he added, turning to the popadja, "I am quite faint with hunger. I was so anxious to reach home, that I put up nowhere today."
The little woman blushed, and ran to produce an enormous ham, with no end of excuses for her negligence; and, trotting to and fro, she set on the table whatever of hidden treasures her larder contained. But her hospitable intent was ill-requited; Taras swallowed a few mouthfuls, drank a glass of the pope's Moldavian, and then pushed from him the plate which the kind hostess had filled for him in her zeal.
"Why, you have not eaten enough for a sparrow," expostulated the popadja. "Do eat, judge--" correcting herself--"Taras!" But, again blushing, she added: "Why should I not call you 'judge,' for I daresay you will resume office pretty soon."
"No!" he said sharply. "I shall not, and never will"
"Of course you will," interrupted Simeon, eagerly. "You know I only accepted during your absence. I could never be to the village what you have been, and no one else could!"
"I shallnot!" repeated Taras solemnly, lifting his right hand; "God knows I cannot!"
They looked at him surprised; there was something in his tone which startled his friends. But Anusia cried joyfully: "I am glad of it, husband. We will live for ourselves now, and be happy again. You must make haste to get back your own bright looks. You shall go hunting this winter as often as you like, it will do you good!"
"Yes," he said; "it will be well," adding, after a while, "and most necessary--most necessary!"
"How so?" inquired the pope; "there cannot be many bears this winter, considering how you hunted them down last season."
Taras had opened his lips, but closed them again sharply, as though he must keep in the word that might have escaped him. And there was one of those sudden pauses of silence, burdened with unspoken thought.
The popadja broke it. "Now tell us all about the journey," she said. "I am sure we are all curious as to your adventures. Tell us about the Emperor--does he really live in a house made of gold?"
"I am afraid I shall have to disappoint you," replied Taras, with a smile. "His house is of brick and stone, and he himself a poor, sickly creature. And, indeed, I had no very wonderful adventures--I did not even fall in with a single sorceress, Anusia, but that may have been because I did not look for any, having eyes and ears for nothing beyond the one aim of my journey. I had no peace or rest anywhere, and would have liked to take post-horses, but could not afford it. So I looked out for coaches and waggons going that way, and took to my own feet when opportunity was wanting. It is slow travelling, either way, but I fell in with other travellers, who told me their troubles, as I told them mine. It is passing strange: the earth seems fair enough, but I have not met a single being who told me he was happy. Men seem to carry their burden everywhere, some more of it, some less, but there is none without sorrow; one finds that out if one goes a-travelling, folks talking to you as to a brother. And I must say, most of those I fell in with approved of my journey, one man only endeavouring to dissuade me. I had better go home again, he said. He was a Jewish wine trader from Czernowitz, who gave me a lift as far as Lemberg. He was most friendly, and would not hear of my paying him; he listened to my story, full of sympathy, but he thought going to Vienna was quite useless. 'There might be some hope,' he said, 'if these were the days of the good Emperor Joseph.' I, however, was not to be frightened from my purpose. 'It is not as though I wanted to petition for a favour,' I said; 'if I did I could understand that much depended on the kind of emperor we have. But I am not going to plead for anything save our right, and that he surely will grant, because it is his duty. A man must see his own duty, be he emperor or peasant.' He was silent after that, and we reached Lemberg."
"There, anyhow, you fell in with a happy individual," said the pope, interrupting him. "You met Constantino Turenko! I, at least, never knew a man to equal him in self-satisfaction."
Taras could not help laughing. "And yet he was not quite happy," he said, "since I found him sorely distressed for money. I had to lend him a florin. Is he here?"
"To be sure!" cried Anusia; "what a braggart he is! Why, he assured me how handsomely he stood treat for you at all the best inns of Lemberg. Of course I did not believe him, but the villagers somehow take his every word for gospel truth. He is quite a hero here, basking in his own glory. You should hear him--'I, a corporal of the Imperial army! Bassama!'"--she endeavoured to imitate the man. "He is a braggart!"
"Yes, his tongue wagged plentifully in my hearing also," said Taras, "especially after he had borrowed my florin! But I was glad, nevertheless, to come across him. It was the first large town I had seen, and I felt lost. You have no idea of such a town, and yet Lemberg is nothing compared to Vienna! He would have liked to detain me; but having rested a day, I proceeded towards Cracow. It was cheerless travelling now, for I could not understand the people any longer--at least not freely; the folk there have a queer way of talking, a kind of lisping it seemed to me, which does not come from the heart at all. I was silent and grew sad, feeling doubly pleased, therefore, in coming across a fellow-countryman, a 'diak'[3]from somewhere near Czortkow, who had run away from his wife because she boxed his ears rather too freely. That is what he told me. He was a mite of a fellow, and informed me he would like to seek his fortune in Russia, if only he could get a little money; but I found presently he was telling me stories, and would do no more than frank him as far as Cracow. That city is not Austrian at all, the Poles there having a little free state of their own. It was a marvel to me how a number of men could live together owning no emperor as the head of all justice; but I have come to see now----" He interrupted himself, again pressing together his lips to keep in the word he would have spoken, and continuing after a pause:--"I was going to say, it is sad to be in a strange country; and hungering for a companion I could understand, I took the little story-teller with me as far as Cracow where I dismissed him."
"How clever of you to see through him," cried Anusia, proud of her husband's penetration. And she told him of the man's letter.
"The little rascal!" said Taras. "But, indeed, my two hundred florins were not such a fortune as you would have believed. Things grew enormously expensive, and there was other trouble besides. I was thankful at seeing again the black and yellow posts by the road--the Austrian colours. It was a poor enough country, on the Polish frontier; but if the people there were to work their hands as they work their talkative jaws, I have no doubt it might be better. I got to richer districts presently; but matters did not therefore improve. I was among the Moravians now, and to hear them speak sounded like a continuous quarrelling, till I perceived that their language still had some words like our own, especially such as bread, meat, and wine, things referring to eating, and the figures also--which was well. It was when I came among the Germans that my heart failed me. A fine people, no doubt, with villages more flourishing than our towns, and fields and farms to rejoice a man's soul; but what a language! Understanding was hopeless. I was driven to signs, moving my jaws when I was hungry and lapping with my tongue when I wanted to drink. But when I would have liked bread they brought me salad, and when I longed for a glass of water they offered me wine. However, I bore it all, anxious only to get along. Towards the end of my journey I fell in with a good-natured waggoner, who was carrying woollen cloths to Vienna, and he gave me a seat. He was a most kindly old man, to judge from his pleasant face; and I think he took a fancy to me, for he kept smiling and nodding as he walked by the side of his horses, I nodding back to him from my seat between the bales. By and by he climbed up beside me; but then we thought it a poor business to be nodding only, and began to talk, he in his language and I in mine, exchanging some of our tobacco between whiles in token of mutual regard. I wished sorely I could understand what he was saying. It seems hard that God should have made men with different tongues, to add to their troubles, when their life on earth is sad enough without it!"
"Why, it is the Tower of Babel which brought it on, don't you know?" broke in the popadja, blushing violently at her presumption.
Taras continued: "I was taken along by this good man for two days--slow travelling, for the waggon was heavily loaded. On the third morning he resumed his smiling and nodding more vigorously than ever, pointing with his whip in front of him, and saying, 'Vienna, Vienna!' I understood, of course, and my heart leapt within me! but I could see nothing as yet except a thick grey haze in the distance, and behind it a ridge of clouds, with domes and peaks sharply defined. I thought it strange, for the air was clear and cool, there having been a thunder-storm in the night. But as we went on, hour after hour, and the cloudy picture continued unaltered, I perceived my error. It was not clouds, but a range of mountains on the horizon. And that haze, as I discovered by and by, was nothing but the dust and vapour for ever rising heavenward from a gigantic city, like the hot breath of a monstrous dragon."
The women gasped and crossed themselves.
"The waggoner hurried on his horses a bit, and kept repeating 'Vienna! Vienna!' getting me to understand by all sorts of dumb show that he had his wife and children there--happy man! I thought of you all, and my heart sank within me at the sight of the great city where no one would understand me. But I repressed these feelings and began to look about. We were crossing a splendid stone bridge, long and wide, beneath which the river was rolling its yellow waves--that was the Danube. Beyond the bridge rose the first houses. They were cheerful to look at, not larger than what we can see at Colomea, with pleasant gardens round about; but I knew we were in the suburbs only. 'I shall soon see the real town,' I thought, 'with the market place: and on it, I daresay, the Emperor's house.' But minutes passed, and an hour had gone, and we were still driving along an interminable street with little gardens on either side, one like the other, though getting fewer, I observed, as we proceeded, while the number of human beings and of vehicles increased steadily. It was a crowd as at Lemberg on market days, and there was a roar in the distance which rather puzzled me, growing louder and louder as we advanced. There were no more gardens now, and the houses were larger, some towering three, even four storeys high, with windows innumerable. I was utterly bewildered to think of all the human beings that must dwell there; and the street appeared endless, men and women jostling each other between the vehicles. And I saw that other streets opened out of this main thoroughfare, with horses and men and conveyances past counting. I clutched the bales between which I was sitting, utterly overpowered with the sight...."
"Ah," said Anusia, sympathetically.
"That street must be miles long; but we were through it at last, and there the city seemed at an end, and, not a little surprised, I saw large tracts of grass all around. At some distance I beheld a rampart, and behind it another city of houses, shining steeples, and a gigantic cupola. The crowd about us increased astonishingly, heaving in and out of the gates. It was a riddle to me, for had we not been driving through the city all along? I looked at my companion and he pointed ahead, saying 'Vienna!' 'Dear me,' I thought, 'then I have only come through a suburb as yet; what, then, will the town be like?' By that rampart they levy custom, and even victuals are taxed! I could not think what those green-coats were after in diving into my wallet, but they found only a loaf of bread and a piece of cheese, which they put back, laughing.
"I felt more and more bewildered, and do not know how to describe to you my sensation on entering that city; it was like venturing into a bee-hive. Yet this will scarcely give you an idea. Imagine how it would be if all the needles in the fir-wood up yonder were suddenly changed into human beings, whirling about madly like flakes in a snowstorm! Fancy if all the trees and shrubs were towering houses, closely packed, so that a ray of sunlight could scarcely get through! or how it would be if a thunder-storm were fixed for ever in the heavens above us, the booming commotion never ceasing, day and night!... But I am a fool for trying to show you by word of mouth what Vienna is like; how should you conceive it who have never been there! And I cannot tell you how utterly forlorn I felt. It must have been written on my face, for the honest waggoner took hold of my hand, asking me a question. From his kindly look I seemed to understand that he inquired whether I felt ill, so I shook my head and smiled. But evidently this was not the answer he wanted; he kept repeating his question, and pointed to the houses, and at last he rested his head on my shoulder, closing his eyes and drawing his breath slowly. Then I perceived that he wanted to find out where I intended to put up for the night. The thought had actually escaped me in my great bewilderment. Before I knew what Vienna was, I had believed the matter to be quite simple, intending to look for that Mr. Broza, Dr. Starkowski's friend, to whom I had an introduction, and no doubt he would take charge of me. But somehow I understood now that I could not well be carried all over the city in a great waggon full of bales; and as for setting out to seek the gentleman on foot by myself, I did not think that I should ever have the courage. So I shrugged my shoulders, making eyes of entreaty at my companion. He appeared to understand that I was friendless, and, having recourse to a dumb show of working his jaws, he brought home the question to me whether I desired to be taken to an eating-house. I assented, and, turning from the main thoroughfare, he drove up some quieter streets, stopping at last before an unpretentious building, which had a signboard, and on it a tree with bright green leaves. He cracked his whip, and a man appeared--a servant by the look of him, to whom my good friend explained my need. The man grinned, and, turning to me, inquired in Polish whether I wished for a room. Now, as for the Poles, no one could love them or their language either, but I could have cried for joy on hearing the man, although he spoke but brokenly. He had been to Galicia as a soldier, being himself a Czech."
"A fellow-countryman of our respected mandatar!" cried Simeon.
"Yes; but with this difference, that Frantisek proved himself to be honest. And when I had explained to him who I was and why I had come to Vienna, he assisted me as much as he could, his first good office consisting in this, that he prevailed with his master to board and lodge me for a florin daily. Why, Anusia, there is no occasion to make such eyes, for it was cheap, considering I was in Vienna. And he offered to show me the way to Mr. Broza's the following morning. 'It is too late to-day,' he said, having looked at the letter, 'for the gentleman, I see, lives in the city, and that is a long way off.' 'In the city!' I cried, aghast; 'why, what is this?' 'This is Leopoldstadt, one of the suburbs,' he explained, calmly; and then I learned that the place with the interminable street we had passed before was Floridsdorf. Would you believe it, there are six such places forming the outer precincts of Vienna, and nine regular suburbs--that is fifteen cities enclosing a city! And their inhabitants are almost beyond counting--as many, they told me, as in all the Bukowina and Pokutia together."
"That, no doubt, was a story," interposed Simeon, who was not going to be taken in. But the pope confirmed the remarkable tale. "I have read it in books," he said.
"Well, I leave you to conjecture what the real town was like to which Frantisek took me the following morning. It is worse there at all times than on a market day at Colomea or the most crowded fair; and what seemed to me most horrible, men and beasts--I mean vehicles--go jostling one another in a gloomy twilight, for the streets are so narrow and the houses so high that you have need almost to lie flat on the ground, face upward, before you can see a bit of sky or the dear light of the sun; but no one could lie down, or stand still suddenly, without being run over. Even as it was, I was knocked hither and thither constantly, till Frantisek took me by the arm and helped me along as though I had been a child. Through numberless streets, and past St. Stephen's--a church about twenty times as large as our own--he brought me to a place called the Jew's Square; for what reason I could not make out, for not a single caftan or curl did I see. Mr. Victor Broza lived there in a stately house; but, dear me, the stairs I had to climb till I reached his flat! No beggar with us would thank you for rooms so toilsome of access! Mr. Broza's servant at first treated me superciliously; but when I had sent in my letter I was admitted at once. The man I had come to see was a fine-looking old gentleman, with silvery hair, and wearing gold spectacles. Very noble he looked, but he was not at all proud. And what a comfort to me to speak in my own tongue again without being stared at as a curiosity! But when he began, though all he said was kind and reasonable and well-meaning, my joy was gone. He warned me not to rest too great hopes on the Emperor. 'He is a good man, to be sure,' he said, 'and if your object were to obtain some money-help for your parish, either to build you a church or to alleviate some special distress, he no doubt would listen to you graciously. But he cannot enter into legal questions with his infirmity, poor man. His crown is a heavy burden to him as it is!' 'I do not understand that,' said I; 'if he can be gracious, how should he refuse to be just?' 'Well,' said Mr. Broza, 'matters of law are seen to by his lawyers. That is what they are for.' 'But if they pervert the right?' 'Then it is not his fault.' 'But, surely he will interfere!' 'The Emperor?' 'Yes; who else?' 'Indeed, who else? you may well ask!' he said. 'Your tale is a sad one, I grant, and if ever a case should be looked into I should say it is yours! Ah, if his uncle Joseph were reigning still, or even his father Francis ... the more you tell me, the more I fancy yours is a case for imperial interference; but----' He stopped embarrassed. 'Tell me,' I said; 'is he not able to do it?' I could hardly frame the words, and the blood ran cold at my heart. But Mr. Broza appeared to consider his answer, looking from the window, and saying presently: 'He is troubled with headaches; he is fond of working at his lathe, and he makes little boxes of cardboard.' I stared, open-mouthed, Mr. Broza adding: 'Why should he not, poor man; it is an innocent pastime, and helps him to get through his days....' After that I could not well disbelieve it."
"But he is the Emperor! how is it possible?" cried Simeon and the women.
Taras smiled bitterly. "How is it possible?" he repeated. "I also asked this question, and many another besides, till good Mr. Broza looked aghast at me, and spoke soothingly. 'I understand your feelings,' he said, passing his hand over my hair as though he were trying to calm an excited child. 'You are a fine fellow, Taras, but I daresay the world looks different to you at Zulawce from what it really is.' 'May be, much honoured sir,' I said; 'but I am sure of this, that human beings should act differently to one another than the wild beasts of the Welyki Lys, of which the stronger will always devour the weaker. Every man must see this, be he a poor peasant of Zulawce only, or the Emperor at Vienna.' 'He does see it, no doubt,' cried Mr. Broza, 'and he is always kind. But he can hardly know about every case of individual trouble, can he?' 'No, but that is the very reason why I want to tell him my own sorrow myself.' 'But he would not understand you, you only speak the Ruthenese!' That was a blow! I had refused to believe Dr. Starkowski, and here was Mr. Broza telling me the same thing! 'A father unable to understand his children,' I said; 'it does seem strange; but I daresay he knows Polish?' 'I am sorry to say he does not; he was weakly from a child, and his studies had to be curtailed.' 'Then, does he understand Czechish?' 'Yes, that he knows.' 'That will do, then,' I said joyfully, 'I managed to get along with Frantisek, so I daresay I shall with the Emperor.' But that was not by any means the end of difficulties. 'I must warn you,' said Mr. Broza, 'he gives audience but rarely, the petitions mostly are received by one of his cousins or generals.' That was another blow, but I recovered it quickly, saying: 'Well, then, I shall just keep calling at his house till Icansee him.' Mr. Broza at this broke into a smile. 'Do you think you can go to the Castle as you would to the house of your parish priest? There is a time set apart for audience once a week, though they are not very regular about it, and in order to be received at all you must first apply for admission in writing!' 'And I could come every week then, till I saw the Emperor in person?' 'Dear me, what obstinacy! What is the use of your spending your time and money here on such a chance? Give me your memorial, and I will take care to have it presented.' 'Sir,' I cried, 'I thank you; I see you mean well by me, but you cannot possibly know how much there is at stake. I must see the Emperor myself.' And this I maintained in spite of all his reasoning. But he, good man, took no offence; on the contrary, he promised to obtain admission for me at the very next audience. He wanted to know my address, but I did not even know it myself, so Frantisek had to be called to give the name of the inn. Mr. Broza wrote it in a little book, promising I should hear. But I wanted to have some idea how soon I might hope to see the Emperor. 'I cannot tell,' he said; 'it may be some days, it may be weeks hence.' I left him sadly...."
"Well, I should not have waited like that," cried Anusia, hotly; "surely the Emperor goes for an airing once a day like any other Christian! I should have waited outside his house till I caught sight of him, and, going up to him, I should have asked his leave politely to walk beside him a bit, and then I would have told him the whole story. That would have been my plan!"
"And a very stupid one," said Taras, smiling grimly, "though you are my wife. Nor should I blame you, since that same stupidity was mine till I knew better. My heart quaked at the long prospect of waiting, and I knew from sad experience that it was no use to look for much in answer to writing. I said to Frantisek, therefore, 'Do show me the house of the Emperor,' and he went out with me the following afternoon. Once more we went far into the town, past the great church, and through endless noisy streets, till at last we stood before a large building. 'This is it,' he said. 'Nonsense!' I cried; 'why there is not a bit of gold about it anywhere that I can see!' He, however, insisted it was the Emperor's house. When I saw he was in earnest, I looked at the place closely; it was large, but not otherwise imposing, and quite blackened with smoke. 'I'd go in for some house-painting, at any rate, if I were the Emperor; surely he can afford it,' I said to myself, adding aloud to Frantisek, 'Well, then, show me where the Emperor lives!' Whereupon he took me round a square surrounded with tall buildings, and through a gateway into another square, also overlooked by high houses, with sentries on duty at every corner. 'All this is the Emperor's,' he said; 'here he lives with his relations and a great many attendants.' Imagine my surprise. But then I said, 'I cannot but think that he sleeps in one room and feeds in another--so please point out to me wherehelives.' Frantisek now appeared to understand, and took me to an open place, in the centre of which rose an equestrian statue in cast-iron; and he showed me a row of windows. 'Very well,' I said; 'now let us take our stand by that entrance door.' 'What for?' said he. 'To watch for the Emperor when he goes abroad.' 'You innocent!' he cried, laughing; 'don't you know that the Emperor never walks out? You may see his carriage, if you are lucky, bursting from the inner court, and dashing through the town as far as a copse on the banks of the river, returning thence at the same quick pace.' He had hardly done speaking when there was a deafening roar, quite startling me. It was the sentry calling out the guard frantically. 'Look! look!' cried Frantisek, 'they are presenting--it's the Emperor returning from his drive!' And while he yet spoke a closed carriage with six horses swept past us and disappeared in the inner court. But for all their fast driving I could see who sat inside--two officers, the elder of them in a plain grey coat, and the younger wearing a whole array of stars and ribands on his breast. 'That will be him!' I thought, but I heard Frantisek say: 'Poor Emperor, to think of his wrapping up in his cloak at this season like an old man in the depth of winter--they say he is always shivering with cold!'"
"I could not doubt that he knew, having lived at Vienna these five years, and I went home sadder still; for he who was wrapt in his cloak looked weary and worn."
"And was that really the Emperor?" inquired the popadja.
"It was; but it was long before I could see him close. For a whole week I waited for a message from Mr. Broza, but nothing reached me. Ah, friends, those were grievous days! I sat for hours in the dull little damp room they had assigned to me, staring at the wall. I had composed such a beautiful speech on my journey, and had learnt it by heart, to address the Emperor, but all that was useless now since he knew not the Ruthenese; so I put together a few words which might serve my purpose. But perhaps he could not even understand that much, and all would be useless and things must go as they would!... Frantisek, I saw, pitied me, for he would give me every spare moment of his time, hoping to cheer me; but how should he have succeeded? although he did his best, taking me all about the great city to divert my thoughts. It was but little pleasure to me, for the noise and bustle was dreadful, and the people stared because of my dress; there was quite a crowd sometimes following me, full of laughter and ill-disguised wonder, as though I were some monstrosity of a bullock. I soon grew tired of sight-seeing, and preferred my own little room, where at least I was unmolested."
"Did Mr. Broza forget his promise?" cried Simeon.
"By no means; he was doing his very best. He told me so when, at the end of a week, I ventured to call again, and I am sure he spoke the truth. 'Your name is down,' he said, 'you will be admitted to the next audience, but the day is not yet fixed. Next week, let us hope!' I continued waiting, growing more heavy-hearted day after day. And then I had even money cares to face! A hundred florins I had spent on my journey, and there was a florin a day of present expenses; how, then, should I return home if I must use up my little hoard waiting and waiting? I began to blame myself for not having followed your advice, and Dr. Starkowski's; and yet, God knows, I had not come to Vienna to please myself. I could not have acted differently. Was it not for the sake of all that is most sacred--my honour, and the good of my soul? Was it not----"
He stopped short, having caught a look from the pope's eye, searching his face intently.
"Well then," he continued, "I went on waiting ten weary days, when at last Mr. Broza sent his servant, announcing that the next audience stood fixed for the following Tuesday week; that was yet twelve days, but I breathed more freely, knowing the day now when the uncertainty must end. Thus humble a man becomes who is being taught by disappointment. I counted the days and hours, and on the Sunday previous to the longed-for audience I went to Mr. Broza, begging him to tell me how I was to behave. 'You mean in the Emperor's presence?' said he. 'Why, yes,' said I. 'But did I not tell you that although there be an audience you must not count on seeing the Emperor himself? The petitions, most likely, will be received in his name by one of the princes.' I had to sit down, for the room went round with me, and it was some time before I could answer. 'You did tell me, sir,' I said, when I was able to speak; 'but I fully trusted the Emperor would be receiving in person this once at any rate; why but for this should I have been kept waiting so long?' But Mr. Broza shrugged his shoulders. 'Let us hope so,' he said; 'but if you do not see him, be sure and hand your petition to the Archduke--he probably will hold the audience. Your conscience may be at ease, for you have done your duty to the utmost--better, I daresay, than any other village judge in Austria.' 'Thank you,' I said; 'but I can do no such thing. I shall give my petition into no hand but the Emperor's own. And if he does not appear this Tuesday, I must wait for another audience, and another, till I see him.' 'But, man, will you not listen to reason? Who is to procure you a standing admission? Such a thing was never heard of!' 'If it is really impossible,' I replied--'and of course I believe you, for you have acted honestly by me--if it is impossible, I shall know what to do.' 'And what may that be?' 'I shall throw myself into the way of his carriage when he drives out. If his coachman is able to pull up in time, I shall then present my petition; if the horses go over me, then it will have been my fate.' He looked at me aghast. 'And you would do that?' 'Certainly.' 'Well,' he said, 'there is no saying what one of you peasants is capable of in fighting for his right.' Presently he added, 'I shall have you conveyed to the Castle on Tuesday, and fetched away again. You must come to me directly after the audience, directly--do you hear?' I promised; but my mind was made up."
"Taras," cried Anusia, "how could you have such thoughts!"
His eyes burned darkly, and he shook the grief-streaked hair from off his forehead. "I may have had worse thoughts," he murmured; but the others hardly understood him. He paused, and went on quietly: "Well, then, the audience. I dressed for it quite early, as a bridegroom on his wedding day, putting on my top boots, and the long brown tunic with the leather belt, and over it my best sheepskin--all white, the one with the broidered facings, you know, Anusia. It was rather hot for fur, suggested Frantisek, who had made my boots shine like a mirror, anxious to do his part; but I knew what was due to the Emperor, and took my fur cap of lambskin as well. The people stared worse than ever when, thus arrayed, I walked from the house to the open carriage kind Mr. Broza had sent for me, and as I drove along folk everywhere stood open-mouthed. I did not much care, for I knew by this time that the Viennese, whatever they may be besides, are the most curious people under the sun. We reached the Castle, and stopped by the entrance opposite the iron statue. A lackey helped me to dismount, bowing to the ground. I knew that the rascal meant it for mockery, and took no notice. At the top of the stair two red-coated halberdiers pretended to start at the sight of me; but I showed my order for admittance, whereupon they directed me to a door opposite. I opened it, and came upon some more lackeys, who affected the same amazement. One of them tried to take from me my stick of carved oak; but I did not part with it. They laughed and pointed me to another door.
"I had reached the audience chamber at last: a long, spacious hall, all white and gold, and full of looking-glasses as tall as a man. I should never have believed such splendour possible--it was dazzling. Some fifty petitioners were assembled there already--old and young, men and women, soldiers and civilians, priests and laymen--some looking anxious and some hopeful. One thing we had in common--we all carried memorials in our hands; but for the rest of it every age was represented, every station of life, and, perhaps, every people of this great Austria. There was a poor tattered gipsy, and beside him a comfortable-looking lady in a silk dress; an old gentleman in threadbare garments, and a young handsome officer wearing the Emperor's uniform; a Jew in his black caftan, a sleek Catholic priest, and many others. They moved about whispering, and behind them stood motionless some of the red-coated halberdiers. I could not but groan at the sight of so many seeking redress. 'Alas!' I sighed, 'it would take the Emperor half-a-day to listen to them all; and of course he cannot do that, weak and sickly as he is,' Yet there was some comfort, too, in there being so many. Some of these people, no doubt, had come a long way, as I had, spending their money for the hope that brought them; and surely, I thought, they would not do it if the Emperor were not known to help readily. And it comforted my weary heart that rich and poor stood there side by side, all waiting for redress. 'We are all alike in the sight of God,' I thought, 'and so we are in the Emperor's, who is His viceroy upon earth--how, then, should he not uphold the right?' This cheered me; I looked up boldly, gazing at the people as they gazed at me.
"We were directed to stand in a half-circle, a man in a green dress-coat assigning to each his place; and I perceived that there were degrees of dignity. I stood at the lower end, furthest from the entrance we were facing, together with two other peasants, by the look of them, also wearing their national costume. The one was rather stout, his dress consisting of light blue breeches, a tight-fitting jerkin, and a cloth cap with a plume; the other, tall and gaunt, wore baggy red trousers, and a long yellowish jacket, holding in his hands a felt hat with a high pointed crown. We had to wait a long time, and I did as the others did, endeavouring to draw my neighbours into conversation. They answered civilly, each in his own tongue, neither of us understanding the other. That was disappointing; but I thought I would at least find out their nationality, and that by the only means I could think of. You know that our soldiers, if they bring home nothing else, return to us with a sad habit of swearing, picking up the country's oaths wherever they go. 'Psie sobaczy!' I said; but there was no response. So my friends could not be of the Slavonic race. 'Kreuzelement Donnerwetter!' they never moved; so they were not German. 'Bassama teremtete!' upon this my stout neighbour in the tight breeches gave a jump, jabbering away at me delightedly; that settled it, he was a Hungarian! But now for the other one in the yellow jacket. 'Merge le Dracul!' no response; he could not be a Roumanian then. I was nearly exhausted, but luckily remembered one more chance. 'Corpo di bacco!' I cried, at which he also flew at me, embracing me wildly--an Italian! But I wished I had been less curious; for they went on talking at me eagerly, to the great amusement of all the company, and I could only nod my head, keeping on with 'Corpo di bacco!' and 'Bassama teremtete!' But why tell you all this nonsense?--There was a hush of silence suddenly, for the great entrance door had opened."
Taras paused, evidently not in order to impress his hearers, but because he was himself overcome with the recollection of that moment.
"The Emperor!" cried Anusia, with a gasp.
He shook his head. "There appeared in the doorway," he continued quietly, but with a tremor in his voice, "a man in the uniform of a general, rather short and white-haired, and some officers of different regiments behind him. My heart all but stood still and sight failed me--I think I should have fallen but for the steadying arm of the Hungarian. It wasnotthe Emperor; for although I had had but a passing glimpse of him, I knew his features from a portrait of his at the inn where I was lodging. That little white-haired general with the pouting under-lip--though he looked right pleasant otherwise--was a relation of his no doubt, being like him in feature; but it was not the Emperor! Ah, beloved! I cannot tell you what disappointment surged up within me, I could not put it in words if I tried for ever! I looked on, half stunned, watching him as he received the memorials. With most of the petitioners he could speak in their own tongue, and if there was one he was unable to understand, one or other of the officers acted as interpreter; but with no individual case was he occupied longer than about a minute, passing on with a gracious word. Some looked relieved, some rather woebegone, as they made their exit, a lackey directing them to a side door. I watched it all through a haze as it were, and perceived that at that rate my turn would be in about an hour's time, counting from his beginning at the other end of the half-circle. I tried to collect my thoughts, but think as I would nothing could alter the resolution with which I had come--to plead with the Emperor and not with his representative. And with a beating heart, but firm of purpose, I watched the prince's approach."
"Ye saints!" gasped the popadja, and Anusia crossed herself.
"At last he stood before me! I bowed low, he nodded and put out his hand for my petition. But I bowed lower still, saying: 'All powerful and gracious Mr. Prince! I know who you are, and that you are here for the Emperor; but to him only can I make my request.' He looked at me surprised, and turned for an interpreter. One of the officers, a captain, with ash-coloured facings, being of the Duke of Parma's regiment, which I knew was drawn from Podolia, stepped up, translating what I said. 'Peasant,' added the officer thereupon, turning to me with a kindly face, 'the Emperor is not to be seen, but it will be all right if you hand your petition to this gentleman, who is the Emperor's uncle, His Most Serene Highness the Archduke Ludwig.' Again I bowed, saying, 'Have the goodness to translate this to the prince. He who stands before you is Taras Barabola, peasant and landowner, lately judge of Zulawce, sometime a happy man, but now despairing. He may be nobody in the eyes of the great ones, but he is a human being in the sight of God, and therefore of His viceroy, the Emperor. He is here praying for his right, thirsting for it as the hart panteth after the waterbrooks. You, sir, are a fellow-countryman of ours, have pity on me and tell him this, word for word.' And the officer turned to the prince, interpreting my speech; whereupon the latter looked at me searchingly, putting a question. 'What is your trouble?' translated the officer. 'Robbery of the parish field,' I replied, adding, 'Tell him it is not merely a question of earthly justice, but that the future welfare of a soul is at stake. He is an old man I see, and will soon himself stand at the judgment bar of God; beg him, as he would desire the Almighty to be merciful to him, to obtain for me an audience with the Emperor.' 'My good man,' replied the captain, 'I am a Podolian myself and have grown up among peasants, being the son of a village priest, so you may believe that I wish you well; but I am not going to translate this speech of yours literally, or this is not the way to address a prince!' 'But you must!' I urged. 'It were taking an awful responsibility on your soul if you refused me; and see, the prince appears to expect it!' So he had to translate it, and never a feature changed in the Archduke's face, but his eyes were fixed on me piercingly. I did not quake--why should I?--but gazed at him fearlessly, my conscience not reproaching me any way. Turning to the captain presently, he spoke a single word. 'Wait!' translated the officer. And the Archduke went on, taking the rest of the petitions and passing from the hall; whereupon the captain came up to me, saying, 'Follow me; the Archduke wishes to hear your story.'"
"What rare good fortune!" cried Father Leo.
"Yes; I suppose so," assented Taras. "We went along a corridor, and up and down some stairs, till we reached the Archduke's room. It was a simple apartment, full of books, and not in any way more princely than Mr. Broza's. He was sitting at a table covered with papers. We were ushered into his presence, I telling my tale and the captain translating. The Archduke's countenance remained as immovable as before; no matter what I was saying his eyes only showed his interest. He put a question or two: how we lived in the village, whether we reared cattle and such like. By and by he addressed a few words to the officer, who then led me away. 'Well?' I said, trembling with hope and fear, when the door had closed behind us. 'Your wish is granted,' replied he. 'Be by the iron statue yonder at four to-morrow afternoon, where I shall join you to act as your interpreter with the Emperor. "Why the man is of another planet," the Archduke said to me, "his confidence must not be shamed!" And he thinks the Emperor will like to see you, and that your Podolian garb will amuse him. He wishes you, therefore, to come in these same clothes to-morrow, and if you have anything in the way of weapons belonging to your dress to add it likewise.' 'For God's sake, captain,' I cried; 'I am coming to plead for the right, and not to show my clothes!' 'Yes, yes,' he said; 'but do as you are told,' adding kindly, 'you may thank your stars for this chance; and even if to-morrow's audience will avail you nothing, you may find it useful to have obtained the Archduke's interest.' 'I cannot understand that!' I cried. 'Well, and I could scarcely explain it to you,' said he, with a smile; 'but itisso.' And so said Mr. Broza, to whom I now went as I had promised; so also said the innkeeper, to whom, with the aid of Frantisek, I had to give a minute account. They all agreed that I was fortunate."
"Why, a child could understand that," interposed Simeon. "The Emperor, no doubt, values his old uncle's opinion."
"May be," said Taras, with a painful smile; "but they did not take it in that way, as I came to understand the following afternoon. You may imagine that I arrived by the iron statue a good while before the appointed time--it is a figure of the good Emperor Joseph. The officer walked up to me by the stroke of four, conducting me through the inner court to a splendid marble staircase, and through many passages to a door blazing with gold and guarded by some of the redcoated halberdiers. We passed a large ante-room, and entered a smaller one, where we were told to wait. The chamberlain in attendance, who looked vastly stupid, kept watching me with furtive sneers, but I did not care; my heart felt more solemnly uplifted than if I had been in a church. There was the sound of a little bell presently; the chamberlain glided in, and returning, he beckoned us to enter." Taras paused and drew a breath. "I think," he continued, slowly, "the look of that room, and of the two gentlemen in it, will be present with me to my dying hour: it was a large, splendid apartment, darkened with curtains, which left a half-light only, shutting out the sun; and at the table sat two officers--generals by their uniform. The one was that same old Ludwig, and in the other I recognised, when he rose, the Emperor! A feeble-bodied man of middle height, slightly stooping, with a good-natured face and blue eyes. He motioned me to come nearer, but I took a few steps only, and fell on my knees, holding up my petition. Oh! I did not kneel merely because it might be the custom, but urged by my own deepest need. For at that moment all the trouble I had battled with for months past surged up within me, and, do what I would, the tears rose from my heart...."
"And he?" cried Anusia.