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