"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, Wa.s.silj, 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. G.o.d 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.

CHAPTER IX.

THE Pa.s.sION OF JUSTICE.

The pope, meanwhile, made what haste he could to Taras's house; it was barely a ten minutes' walk, but it appeared to him fearfully long.

Having reached the farm, he rushed into the house--it was silent as a churchyard; after much looking and shouting he discovered only little Tereska near the hen-roost. The child had a tear-stained face, but seemed to have recovered her spirits, taking evident pleasure in chasing a hen. "Where is your father?" inquired Leo, anxiously.

"Gone!" said the child, and began to cry again.

"Gone?"--Father Leo crossed himself--"where to?"

"Don't know--he and mother----"

"To the meeting?"

"Don't know," repeated the little one, sobbing more violently. "Mother was crying, and father was crying!" But the hen appeared to make its escape, and the child was after it.

"They can only have gone to the meeting," said the pope to himself, retracing his steps speedily.

The inn with the linden in front of it was a little way beyond the church. The village seemed deserted; only a tottering old man in front of a cottage sat basking in the sun. "I wish you would send my grand-daughter back," he called out, querulously, "Taras will have plenty of listeners without her."

Father Leo, indeed, found the place crowded; the very oldest and youngest excepted, none of the village were missing. For the "general meeting" is an event, and duly appreciated. The faces of the people reflected its importance as they thronged in a circle about the linden, where a table had been placed by way of a platform for the speaker.

Taras was just mounting it when Father Leo arrived; a murmur of expectation ran through the people, of pity, too, with most, and of spite with some. But surely this latter sensation was smitten with shame at the sight of the unhappy man about to address them. His hair had become grey, his face was worn, and his eyes burned with a piteous fire deep in their sockets.

"Ye men of the village," he began, with trembling, yet far-sounding voice, "and all of you who are members of this parish, I thank you for coming here, and I thank the judge for having called this meeting. For although it is but a duty on your part, and on his, to hear me, yet a man who has lived to see what I have seen, is grateful even for that much!

"Jewgeni will have told you why you are here: I want to render an account--yet not concerning the past, as he seems to think, but concerning that which is at hand. Listen, then, to what a man has to tell you who has been happy and has become unhappy, because justice is what he has loved and striven for most. Some of you love me, others hate me, and I daresay I have grown indifferent to many. But I pray you listen to me without love or hatred, as you would listen to a stranger whom death overtakes in your village, and who is anxious to unburden his soul before he goes hence. You would have no personal sympathy with such a one, but you would believe him because he is a dying man. Well then, believe me likewise, for I am a dying for your sakes!"

A shrill cry interrupted him, and a wave of excitement pa.s.sed over the closely-pressed people. In vain the pope endeavoured to force his way; this wall of human beings stood firm as a rock. But on the other side of the linden, towards the inn, some of the men were seen moving. "They are taking away his wife!" was whispered from mouth to mouth. "She has fainted!"

Taras had not stirred from his place. An agony of grief quivered in his features, but he stood motionless. They saw him lift his hand, the commotion subsided, and in silence they hung on his lips.

"Men and women," he resumed, "you have just witnessed that which is enough to move any heart! Give her your tenderest pity! She needs it doubly, not understanding that what I am about to do I _must_ do. Love to me and to the children makes it impossible for her to follow my meaning. But you will see more clearly; you will perceive it is not wantonness and wickedness that forces me to separate from those that dwell in peace. The guilt of it will not fall on my head, and I need not fear the wrath of G.o.d. When the day of His reckoning comes I shall be able to answer. But I also shall have a question to ask of Him in that day, and I shall look for _His_ answer. Let me hope it will not differ from what meanwhile I have said to myself in His name!

"Listen, then, to my confession. There is both good and bad to be said of me, in accordance with the truth. For a man should not be unjust to himself, any more than to others. And if in most cases it is but a false shame that would conceal one's vices or one's virtues, it were a crime in mine. My heart, therefore, of which I have not yet been able entirely to root out pity for myself, shall not influence my speaking.

And what were the use of complaints? Am I not like a man whose fields have been wasted, whose dwelling has been destroyed by the flood from the mountains? Shall such a one sit down by his ruined home crying: 'Why should G.o.d have sent this to me? why should the flood find its way just to my house?' Why, indeed! Surely it was not mere accident that the pent-up waters should have broken through just in this direction; and if he is wise he will not sit still, but will ascend the torrent till he find the cause of his trouble. And I will not have you stand about me lamenting, but you shall follow me up the stream to see why the roaring waters have burst on my happiness, singling me out for destruction.

"You are acquainted with my past, as though I had grown up among you.

You know I am a b.a.s.t.a.r.d, and that I had to suffer greatly on this account; but you also know that, thanks to my mother, the wrong I endured became a blessing. She had been brought to see that the heart is poisoned which ceases to believe in justice on earth; so she regarded not herself in order to teach me that faith. And when I had been able to overcome a terrible temptation, when I had gained for myself the goodwill of men, this faith of hers appeared to me also the very bulwark of life. Yes, my friends, I had learned to look upon this earth of ours as upon a well-ordered place where each man has his own share of labour, and is rewarded according to his work: for equity and justice seemed to be the foundation of things.

"He who has once admitted this belief into his heart and mind can never be really unhappy, even if misfortune should overtake him like a thunderstorm in summer. Trouble did come upon me. I bore it--first the illness and death of my mother, and then the return of my father. The first trial was the sorest, but my soul could rise from it with less effort than from the intercourse with the vagabond, just as the body will recover more easily from some painful gunshot wound than from a lingering fever. You all know how I strove to do what was right by my father, and you also praised me for it; but it was only a rendering of justice, the paying back of the debt I owed to my mother. He denied being my father, the memory of her that was gone was being sullied, and that made me willing for any sacrifice, ready to bear any burden without murmuring or sinking under the load. It made me serious, but not sad. For did I not suffer for the sake of justice, which grew all the dearer to my heart!

"The old man died. I did not rejoice; I felt like those men who all their life long carry salt in heavy loads from here to Hungary, bringing back packages of Hungarian tobacco instead. The poor slave wipes his forehead and is glad to have arrived at his destination with his burden of salt, but he is not therefore jubilant, for he knows that he will set out with his bundles of tobacco to-morrow, which are just as heavy, though otherwise different from the salt. Yes, my friends, young as I was, I had already learned the lesson that this life of ours is a mere changing of burdens, and I was content it should be so. For did not everything depend on how we carried our load! But mine hitherto had been heavy, and I longed for a change, longed for another burden elsewhere. I believed that at Ridowa I should never cease hearing the unkind and evil speeches of him for whom I had borne so much; the very air, I believed, must be full of them. You know that even the wild beasts can be driven forth from their haunts; destroy their home and they will repair it, but if you befoul it they go. So I looked for a place elsewhere, and chance brought me to Zulawce.

"Looking back on those days, how should I not be filled with the pity of it all? You know how I came to you--a man loving diligence and understanding his business, thoroughly capable of managing a farm, honest in all things, and trustworthy. Of the pleasures of life I knew nothing. I had never yielded to drink, had never conquered a man in fight, never kissed a girl for love. But I did not regret it, enjoying in those days what I believed to be the greatest satisfaction of all, a real content with myself. And why should I not? Was I not doing my duty? Was I not endeavouring to be just--yes, and had suffered for righteousness' sake! Added to this, I had complete power of self-control as far as that may be said of sinful man. I knew that this Taras, a self-made man, who from a despised b.a.s.t.a.r.d had risen to a position of respect among his fellows, would all his life long be noted for integrity, for helpfulness and justice; that he would never permit any wrong, nor ever intentionally repay evil with evil. Thus I believed myself strong and safe, come what might; for I could never be false to myself, and the world could not fail me, since, to the best of my knowledge, it was so firmly grounded on justice."

He drew a deep breath, a sad smile hovering on his lips. "Bear with me, my friends; did I not warn you there were some good things to be said of me? But be very sure there is cause for blame as well, nay, I must bring an accusation against myself concerning the very days I speak of.

My self-reliance was far stronger than could be justified by any virtue or success of mine. I not only believed myself to be a good man--which no doubt I was--but the very best man of my age and condition. This ugly delusion, like my virtues, was the natural outcome of my history, of my every experience. If a man has to climb a very steep mountain, he must believe in himself, considering himself stronger and more capable than perchance he is, else he would never set out on his journey, at any rate he would fail by the way. And how much more so if he is all alone! 'The thumb thinks more of itself than all the four fingers put together,' our much-lamented Father Martin used to say--one of the few sensible sayings he could boast of.

"You may wonder that I should accuse myself just of _this_ vice! If I were to put the question to you to bring home to me any proud saying or act of conceit, I dare say none of you could do it. Have I, then, deceived you--shown myself different from what I am? Do I stand here a hypocrite, self-convicted? Nay, G.o.d knows it is not so, and this will not explain the apparent discrepance. It was no trouble to me to be gentle and good and kind to every one, first at Ridowa and then at Zulawce--helpful to all, and ready to serve them. I did but follow my own inmost nature, and to be different would have cost me trouble.

Indeed, that pride of mine which possessed me was of a peculiar kind.

I, at least, never knew a man who was lorded over by a similar taskmaster. The consciousness was ever present with me--'This Taras Barabola is a good man, and righteous and just. I am glad I am he!' But it were a mistake on your part to suppose that for this reason I was happy, wrapped up in my own esteem. No, indeed--that pride of mine, again and again, was the cause of shame to me, when I examined my deeds and those of others. 'No man is a church-door,' says the proverb with us. And I, too, was of flesh and blood; I, too, must fail and sin where I would not. Little sins mostly, at which another might have laughed without therefore being counted wicked or specially hardened. But to me, they were grievous beyond words. And no effort, no honest will of mine was a defence against them; for man is but human, and walking along the dusty road of this life he can scarcely keep his skirt entirely pure. The careless man will not be troubled by a little more or less of dust on his garment; but he who, so to speak, has a habit of frequently looking at himself in the gla.s.s, cannot but feel the smallest speck a burden. And thus, just because of my pride, my little sins have weighed on me far more than many a man can say of his grievous ill-doings, and to atone for them seemed almost impossible.

"But more than this, even the ill habits of others would be a burden to me in the same way. For instance, to exemplify it by the most frequent occurrence, it was a real pain to me to see any neighbour of mine yield to drink, carrying not only his earthly gains but his very manhood into the public house, there to lose them. Others would find it best to mind their own business, but that pride of mine left me no peace. 'What is the use of your being so good, Taras,' it would say, 'unless you strive to help and save? What is the use of your being so sensible, so sober and self-denying, except that you should be an example to these besotted fools?' I was just driven to do what I could to rescue the man; my pride would have torn me to pieces had I forborne; and if I failed in my endeavour, as in most cases I could not but fail, it made me sad at heart, and I believed myself bad and useless because of it.

It was the same regarding the laziness or unfitness of any in their daily work. I would try to get hold of such men gently, teaching them without hurting their vanity. In these things I mostly succeeded, for a man will more readily take your advice concerning the ploughing of his field or the management of his cattle, than he will take it in matters of drink or ill-usage to some poor girl. Moreover, I could always fall back on myself--I mean, if some idle or besotted neighbour would let his farm go to ruin I could come to his a.s.sistance; for the diligent man is never short of time, and my own farm need not suffer because of my helping another. Indeed, I have often thus helped a neighbour, sometimes because compa.s.sion was strong in me, but more often it was just that same pride that made me do it."

"You should not say so!" broke in a voice, quivering with emotion. "You should not, indeed! How dare you call it pride--how dare you make a vice of what is the rarest of virtues?"

It was Father Leo. With a troubled heart, shaken to its depth with pity and with grief, he had listened to his friend. He alone had understood what Taras meant in saying he must "separate from those that dwell in peace," and he knew that the terrible forebodings which had come to him during the interview with Jemilian were about to be fulfilled. But how to prevent it--ah, how, indeed? Every fibre of his honest soul trembled with the apprehension of it; every faculty of his brain was bent on finding a means of averting the great sorrow at hand. "I am unable to hold back ruin," he murmured, pressing closer to the table, longing to be nearer his friend when the terrible word would be spoken. And standing there with a beating heart, the whole history of the strangest of men once more pa.s.sed before his soul--all the shaping of so dread a fate--since first he beheld Taras, the leader of the community gathered by the Pruth to receive him on making his entry into the parish; all he had known of him since, until the interview by the window in the past night, until that cry of despair still ringing in his ears but far distant already, for G.o.d only could tell how much of the terrible history had been woven even since that cry....

"It is all as it must be," sighed he, bowing his head; "there is no help for it!" But his impa.s.sioned heart could not surrender without a struggle. If he could do nothing else for his friend, he at least would not allow that best of men to accuse himself unjustly before this crowd of listeners, of whom few indeed were fit to look upon so n.o.ble a soul thus laid bare to their gaze. It was for this reason he had interrupted him at the risk of a sharp rebuke from the highly-wrought speaker.

But Taras was calm, smiling even as he made answer: "Nay, your reverence, I must distinctly contradict you--I know it was pride. But I will own to you that the only man to whom I ever opened my heart before this hour, speaking to him about this vice, shared your error. The man I mean was that honest compatriot of ours at Vienna, Mr. Broza, and he spoke words to me which I should not repeat if I were not a dying man.

'This is sheer blasphemy,' he said, 'do you not see whom you accuse of sin, if you call that kind of disposition pride? None other, let me say it reverently, than the Saviour Himself--Christ Jesus, the Lord! In this sense He also was proud--ay, a thousand times prouder than you--the very proudest man that ever lived.... But happily,' he added, 'happily we call it by another name--the beneficence of him who being a law to himself is filled with tenderest love to his neighbours.... I do not mean thereby to compare you with our Lord, Taras,' he concluded, 'but you are a rare man nevertheless--a Christ-like man.' Bear with me, men and women, for let me say it over again, it is a dying man that dares repeat such words to you. And surely I know my own heart better than another can know it. It was pride that moved me; it was sin.

"But having now laid bare my inmost heart to you, showing you the good and the bad within me, you may judge for yourselves how I must have felt when first I came among you. It was as though I had entered a strange world, it was all so different from the lowlands--different and, as I was ready to say, worse. But my pride did not permit me to look down upon you on that account, or to rejoice in finding you wanting; on the contrary, it urged me at all hazards to correct your ill habits. It was no easy matter for me to understand you, and find a reason for your doings; but I set about it and perceived where to make a beginning, and to what length I could go. My task grew plain. There was need to improve your agriculture, giving you for your low-lying fields the ploughshare of the plain. There was need to show you how to benefit your live stock by increasing the number of herdsmen and providing the cattle with shelter. There was need to accustom you to a garb more suitable to your labour, need to teach you the advantage of adding rye-bread and beef to your staple food. There was need, above all things, to break you from that wildest of your habits, so full of danger to yourselves, the constant wearing of arms...."

He stood erect, stretching forth his hand, as he scanned the people proudly. His eyes shone, and his voice increased in fervour.

"For twelve years I have lived in this village. As a poor serving man I came hither, and for years I bore the scorn of many. I have never boasted of what you owe me; no word or look of mine ever called your attention to what I have done for you. Nor would I do so now. What, indeed, were the gain of your thanks to a man in my position? But I will have you know the _truth_ about me, and justly you shall judge me; it is therefore I ask you--Have I done these things, and were they for your good? Have I benefited you, and is it my doing--mine alone?"

His voice swelled like thunder: "Speak the truth, men of Zulawce--yes or no!"

There was a breathless silence, broken after a minute or two, as the forest silence is broken by a gust of wind when the branches whistle, the stems bend and creak, and every creature starts up affrighted, the many voices blending in one mighty sound; and thus to the pale, proud man but a single answer was given, bursting simultaneously from these hundreds of men.

"Yes, Taras, yes--it was all your doing!"

And then only the excited answers of individuals were heard.