For the Right Part 10

The man's manner, and still more his distorted face, staggered the lawyer. "Of course, I may be mistaken," he said; "but the examination of the witnesses, from which I hoped everything, has proved a bad business for us, and yet it appears the commissioner tried every conscientious means for arriving at----"

"Conscientious means!" cried Taras; but conquering his rising anger he described the scene which had taken place outside the village inn, Kap.r.o.nski not so much as putting up his horses; and how the peasants had their own shrewd guesses how much had been paid by the mandatar to every rascal who had forsworn himself. "Sir, I hope you will help me in this trouble!" he said, in conclusion.

These simple words, breathing their own truth and sadness, went further with the lawyer than the most urgent entreaty. He had followed the legal profession for many a year, but the sense of the utter sacredness of his calling had perhaps never been so strong with him, nor his desire to see justice done more earnest, than at this present moment when that peasant had told him his tale. He promised to forward an appeal to the higher court at once. "There is yet another way we could try," he said; "you could inform against the perjurers. But if we failed in bringing the charge home to them, you would be in danger of imprisonment for libel yourself. I do not like to risk that, so we had better try the appeal."

"Do what seems best to you," said Taras. "I trust you implicitly. But what a world is this if a man can be put into prison for making known the truth! Is not truth the foundation of justice? Can the world continue, if falsehood and wrong carry the day?"

The lawyer no doubt could have given an answer to this question--a sad, painful answer--but somehow he felt he had better be silent. He contented himself with a.s.suring this man, who seemed a very child in the ways of the world, that he would not fail in his most faithful endeavour, and set about the matter at once, moved by a feeling he scarcely could a.n.a.lyse. The appeal was on its way to the upper court at Lemberg before Taras and his servant had reached their upland home.

They were nearing the Pruth in the evening of the following day when the sound of bells came floating towards them, and a red glow appeared through the dusk where the ground sloped away in the direction of Prinkowce. "Something on fire!" cried the man, pulling up the horses.

Taras peered through the twilight, and, bowing his head, he crossed himself piously. "Drive on," he said; "it is the torches at the cemetery. They are burying the pope."

And it was so. Father Martin had died that morning, and they were laying him to his rest already, as they are wont in the mountains.

There was no great show of mourning, poor Praxenia's sorrow, perhaps, being the only honest sadness evoked. "Ah!" she kept sobbing, "if it were not for that sermon, he might be here to conduct his own funeral!

It is the sermon he died of, and not old age, as the apothecary said."

But the peasants had their own idea concerning the cause of his death.

"It is the wretched schnaps Avrumko has introduced," they said. "If the rascal gave us unwatered stuff, we might live a hundred years, like our fathers before us."

Slight as the feeling of mourning was, it ye sufficed to turn the people's thoughts into a different channel, the loss of the pope thus acting as a palliative to the loss of the law-suit; and the question who should be Father Martin's successor was discussed with real interest. It was not mere curiosity which stirred them, for in the person of the pope a good deal of a parish's fate is bound up in those parts, and the congregation has no voice in the matter. They can but wait and see. But the men of Zulawce were soon relieved of any anxiety, and had every reason to be satisfied.

Not a mouth had pa.s.sed when the desolate manse once more was inhabited, and it was a young pope who had come to pitch his pastoral tent in the upland parish, having till then been curate-in-charge of Borkowka, a village in the plain. Leo Woronczuk was his name, and it spoke well for him that his late paris.h.i.+oners accompanied him in procession as far as the wooden bridge over the Pruth, where Taras, at the head of the peasants, stood waiting to receive him. But what pleased his new flock more than anything was the fact that the stalwart young shepherd did not arrive singly, but with a blooming wife--the most good-natured of popadjas, to all appearance--and three round-cheeked, chubby little boys. For the Galician peasants are apt to be prejudiced against a pope who is either a bachelor or a widower, or, worse still, a monk of the Order of St. Basil, thinking it impossible for such a one to enter into the every-day joys and sorrows of his people, or to understand their more earthly needs.

Now, Father Leo had a heart for these things, and this not only because he himself was blessed with a wife and three jolly little boys! He was no brilliant star in the theological heavens, no paragon of superhuman virtues; he was a simple village priest--a man among men--with warm-hearted sympathies; and if his intellectual horizon did not extend immeasurably beyond that of his peasants, he at any rate had a clear-headed perception of all ordinary points and bearings within that sphere. It was not without diffidence that he accepted his new charge, influenced chiefly by the peremptory need of income, his late curacy having been sadly inadequate in this respect, considering the growing wants of his family; and, if the truth must be told, the bad reputation of that upland parish, which might have tempted a priestly soul of more enthusiastic ambition, only tended to discourage him; he, poor man, not feeling himself divinely commissioned to make up for the many years'

failings of his predecessor. He would far rather have been called to shepherd a people of a less demoralised kind than appeared to be the case here, where a number of men, on the very face of things, were guilty of wilful perjury. But once having accepted the charge devolved upon him by his superiors, he had made up his mind, like a brave man, to do his duty as best he could, be it pleasant or otherwise.

And he made it his first aim to look into the apparent want of integrity among the people; to discover, if possible, who might be trusted and who not. He set about it quietly, without thrusting himself into people's confidence; nor did he think it necessary to frighten them into a higher state of morality by firing their imagination with grievous accounts of the punishment to come. His sermons were peculiarly simple, suitable in every way to the hearers' daily life--"a peasant almost could preach like that," said the people when he had dismissed them without once thumping the pulpit. But they discovered by degrees that, if his eloquence did not come down upon them thunderously, there was that in his words which might cling to them like good and sensible advice; while, on the other hand, he, not a little to his joy, could see that these people, after all, were not so black as they had been painted. Leaving the one vice out of the question, which in that country is as common as air and water--the wretched tendency to drunkenness--the worst these highlanders could be accused of was their defiant spirit so apt to break out into violence.

The pope soon found that they were not without a conscience, and that they had a true feeling of right and wrong, though it might be somewhat dulled by the unpruned egotistical instincts of human nature left to its own luxuriance. Not many weeks had pa.s.sed before Father Leo was sure in his own mind which had been the perjured party on that fatal day in September, but he avoided individual accusation. Nor was it more than a moral certainty with him, as though he could take his oath that the black cross had not always stood in the centre of the contested field. But however strongly he felt in his honest mind that a vile wrong had been committed--robbing a poor, untaught, and easily misguided people not only of their property but, what was worse, of their good conscience--he yet repressed his wrath, and never by word or look showed the mandatar how entirely he abhorred him. Nor was this reserve the outcome of mere selfish prudence, but rather of a wise perception that he could do more for the furthering of right and justice and the peace of his people in thus forcing the miscreant at the manor house to observe a show of good will.

Hajek, indeed, was deceived. He thought he had taken the measure of the new pope in believing him to be an honest but rather blockheaded parson, whom he treated accordingly with a certain amount of flattery, and even of deference. The mandatar would graciously yield a point whenever Father Leo, on behalf of the people, pet.i.tioned for a respite, or even for the lessening of an irksome tribute, a.s.suring him that he was quite as anxious as himself to maintain the peace of the parish.

The fact was, that while the suit yet hung in the balance, and a further examining of witnesses was a prospect to be dreaded, it was important that the village priest should think of him as an honourable man, not p.r.o.ne to harsh dealings, far less to open violence, or such a thing as an instigation to perjury.

Thus Taras by degrees found an unexpected ally in the pope, nay more, a true-hearted friend. The saddened man would not have looked for such happiness, and when the unsought gift had come to him he met it almost timorously. It was a good honest friends.h.i.+p which sprang up between these two equally honourable, yet entirely different natures; but a friends.h.i.+p which, for all its truth, left the last word unspoken, because neither of them, whatever their mutual sympathy, was able to enter into, the inmost depth of the other's being.

But the more the pope saw of the judge, the greater was his joy at having met such a man upon earth, a man so guileless and spotless, in whom selfishness was not, who seemed guided only by his own sense of justice and duty, and whose strength was the outcome of his great faith in the moral equity upholding this structure of a world. "A true, G.o.dly man," the pope would say to himself; but somehow the heretical thought would follow, "Why, this man does not even need the Christian's belief in a future life in order to be what he is." This feeling could not but breed certain doubts, but it did not lessen his hearty admiration of his friend's purity of nature, nor his longing to help him. He did what he could to ease the heavy burden of his dealings with the mandatar, coming forward as a mediator whenever it was possible; and he never lost an opportunity of proving to the villagers that their judge had acted righteously throughout. Taras was Father Leo's senior, but there was something of a parent's tenderness for his child in the pope's constant readiness to stand by his friend. Indeed, Taras would often appear to him in the light of a grown boy whom no evil thing had come nigh to corrupt.

"I could understand him," the pope would say, "if he were fourteen instead of nearly forty." And greater than his delight in the man was his surprise sometimes that he should understand so little of human nature and the way of the world. He took this for granted, but he was mistaken. Taras was not wanting in the power of seeing things as they are, but only in the capability of turning such perception to any use.

He was one of those rare beings who must ever follow their own inward prompting, who cannot be bent in this or that direction by any outward compulsion; but who, for this very reason, are so easily broken and bowed to the dust. There is much sadness in life, though little of real tragedy; but what of it the world has known has ever had for its heroes such natures.

But neither did Taras fully understand his friend. He would have blessed the day which brought Father Leo to the village, even if the latter had remained a comparative stranger to him; for the late pope's unworthy conduct had touched him far more deeply than any one else in the village, because his instincts for everything good and holy were so much keener. He knew well enough that many a village pope was no better than Father Martin had been; but he had felt to the depth of his true soul that it was a terrible perversion of what ought to be, if a village judge out of reverence for the sanct.i.ty of the oath sees it laid upon him to oppose an exhortation of the people by their own priest. It was an unspeakable relief to him that things had changed in this respect, and that the man who had come to represent the spiritual interests in the parish was of good report and fit to be an example; his grat.i.tude rising to boundless devotion on perceiving that in word and deed the honest pope was bent on sharing his burden--yet he could not always understand his friend.

The pope, to give an instance, might endeavour to correct some black sheep by saying: "You are not a bad man on the whole, it's just the drink which is ruining you; it were a great thing if you could overcome that failing!" At which Taras would think that this was an untruth, because the man was bad in other respects besides the drink; that the pope was quite aware of this, and how could it be right to depart from the full truth, even with a good object in view? Or, if Father Leo endeavoured to arbitrate between two quarrelling paris.h.i.+oners, he would tell them: "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of G.o.d!" endeavouring to bring about a compromise even if the one, whether erroneously or feloniously, had been coveting the other's property; but can it be right, thought Taras, to connive even in part at a wrongful intention for the love of peace? And if the pope was anxious to obtain some benefit for the people, he would not only listen patiently to the richest self-praise of the miserable mandatar, but might even enhance it by some word of his own; yet, shall a man fawn on an evildoer for the sake of mercy? These questions occupied the judge seriously, and one day, when they had been at the mandatar's together, he could not but unburden his heart to his friend.

The pope smiled, saying: "It is written, Be ye therefore wise as serpents."

"Yes," cried Taras, "and harmless as doves!"

"Certainly," returned the pope. "It would be wrong to meet any one with the serpent's wisdom in order to overreach him. I never do that, and to the best of my knowledge I strive to advance the good and to fight what is evil. But since I have to do with sinful men and not with angels, I must be content very often to fight with human weapons."

Taras shook his head. "How could deception ever be right in order to further a good cause?" he exclaimed.

"Nor is it," returned the pope. "But if I can keep back the wicked man from further wickedness by speaking civilly to him, and not contemptuously, I am not wronging nor deceiving him, but on the contrary doing well by him."

The judge walked on in silence, saying at last, gently but firmly, "I cannot see this; deception can never be right. I do not understand you."

At which the pope might look up at the towering figure by his side, saying tenderly within himself, "He is simple as a child!" But what shadows even then were overlying Taras's soul not even Leo could know, though a strange fear at times stole over him that this soul, so childlike and so pure, was undergoing a conflict with the powers of evil, and was being worsted. There were outward signs of such battling: Taras hardly ever now smiled; he would sit for hours in moody silence, with a stony look in his eyes, and his healthy countenance was being marred by the furrows of anxious care. a.n.u.sia, too, would come to the manse with her trouble, saying sorrowfully, "He hardly sleeps now, for day and night this worry is upon him, making an old man of him before his time."

"But what is it?" said the pope; "I am at a loss to know."

"Why, what should it be but this cursed lawsuit," sobbed the pa.s.sionate woman, clenching her fists. "Would I could strangle the mandatar and all the tribe of lawyers along with him!"

The pope rebuked her, nor did her explanation satisfy him. "It cannot be the lawsuit that so weighs on him," he said; "for he speaks about it calmly, hoping for a favourable verdict from the court of appeal. I do not see what can thus oppress him, unless it be his troubled relations both with the mandatar and with the people, which are improving daily though, for I am doing my best to heal the breach," he added, with some complacency.

The honest man had not the faintest idea that, however successful he might be, he was only lessening his friend's outward burden, that which lay on his shoulders so to speak, and which he had strength enough to bear, whereas there was a burden crus.h.i.+ng his heart and leaving him utterly helpless in his silent despair; for Taras kept his deep trouble hidden even from the eyes of the priest, his spiritual guide, feeling, perhaps, that the fundamental difference of their natures must keep them apart on the soul's deepest issues. "I should only sadden him," he said, "and make him angry; but I could never convince him, nor could he talk me out of it. No one could, for the matter of that, not the Almighty Himself, I fear; for if He can look on quietly when wrong is being done here below, I do not see that even He could do away with the consequences!"

Matters had come to an ill pa.s.s with Taras even then. He had grown calm outwardly, but the fearful thought which had overpowered him so utterly on his first learning that the court's decision had gone against the parish had not left him. If it was not added to in these months of weary waiting, while the verdict was being reconsidered, neither did it lessen. And as he went on with his duties day after day, waiting for an answer from the court of appeal, he was like some traveller traversing an endless desert beneath an angry sky. The air is heavy, and the thunderous clouds sink lower, he hastening onward through the friendless waste; onward, though the storm will break and the flashes of heaven are charged with death. No shelter for him anywhere; on, on, he hastens, though his doom await him--no hope, unless a strong wind from the healthy east be sent to drive the dark clouds asunder ... But how should he hope for such kindly blast while the hot air is heavy about him, and cloud draws cloud athwart the heavens? He can but bear up and continue, a weary traveller, utterly hopeless, and conscious of great trouble ahead!

CHAPTER VI.

APPEALING UNTO CaeSAR.

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 pa.s.s 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," a.n.u.sia 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, Wa.s.silj 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."