They are no favourites with the clergy. They are Catholics to be sure, of the Greek Church, but a good deal of their ancestors' heathenism has survived, and their lowland neighbours say of them that a cat is as good a Christian as they when she crosses her paws. They take care to have their children christened in the name of some saint, and they know that there is a G.o.d Almighty living up yonder with the Virgin Mary and their Son, and that there are lots of angels and devils, and of saints no end. This is the extent of their catechism, except, perhaps, that some few can repeat the Lord's Prayer after a fashion. There is no helpful pastor to feed these poor sheep, showing them the comfort they require as much as any. For they also are part of the groaning creation struggling with the sore riddle of existence, and their sense of helplessness is the greater because their lot is cast amid supremest hardships, leaving them too often the prey of the blind forces of nature. As much, then, as any of the striving children of men they are in need of the a.s.surance that there is a Compa.s.sion more than human; but who is there to tell them the good news?

There are popes in the distant villages whose nominal parishioners they are. "Why do they not come to church, then?" Innocent question! The journey would take several days, even if they remembered they would be welcome. But since there is nothing to remind them of the far-off church and pope, how should they remember? And so Christianity to them has resolved itself into the legendary knowledge of the heavenly household, a poor, useless knowledge, although the Huzul does his best to grasp the idea of the G.o.dhead, clothing it in his own image. The Almighty to his perception is a just Huzulean patriarch, something like Hilarion Rosenko dwelling by the "Black Water;" the Virgin Mary a kindly housewife; and Christ, the Saviour, a great, n.o.ble hunter, whom the spiteful hajdamaks killed for entering their domain. They don't quite understand why the popes should keep talking about this Saviour as though He were alive still; for if He is, why does He not show Himself among the mountains? But besides this "Christian" belief, they keep up the inst.i.tution of those shining divinities worshipped by their ancestors of old--the sun, the moon, and the host of stars. These, happily, can be seen, and their blessings felt--the light and the warmth they shed upon the darksome wilds. But who shall save them from the powers of evil about them; from the stormy whirlwind rushing through the forests, uprooting the strongest trees and sweeping away the sheltering roof of their homestead? Who shall help them against the wicked sprites whose gambols produce snowdrifts, burying men and cattle? or who protect them from the evil witch stealing about in the gloaming with sickness in her train? For they are surrounded with uncanny beings of whom they know nothing save the ill-effects they feel, and they know but one means of pacifying them--as one pacifies an ill-natured neighbour, by occasional bribery.

These strangest of Christians and dwellers of the mountain wilds even manage to die without the pope's a.s.sistance. When some aged pilgrim lies at the point of death on the couch of bear and sheepskins they have spread for him, neither he nor his people give a thought to the ghostly shepherd of the nearest manse. What would be the use, indeed, if they did think of him, since it would take him at least nine days to come and return? so it is out of the question, and it is as well that neither the dying man nor his weeping relatives miss the spiritual comfort. One of them says the Lord's Prayer, adding some other mystic charm with which these poor people strive to pacify the divinities they believe in, the sufferer repeats the words with his dying breath and expires without anxiety on that score. When the corpse has stiffened, they bury it beneath some forest tree, cutting a great cross into the bole, not forgetting some mysterious signs to its right and left "for the other G.o.ds."

If, then, they manage even to die without the aid of a parish priest, it is scarcely to be wondered at if they do not need him to tie the nuptial knot. When any man and woman among them, generally of riper years, have agreed to spend their future days in common, this is a matter, they think, which concerns no one beyond themselves except the heads of their settlements, who never withhold their blessing unless the bridal pair should happen to be of different settlements at variance at the time about some bit of property or act of violence. If such is not the case the wedding is fixed upon forthwith, and word is sent over the mountains: "Come to the homestead of Marko, on such and such a day, when long-legged Sefko will take curly Magdusia to wife."

And everybody is sure to come, bringing little gifts of kindness, and taking their fill of the schnaps which the heads of the settlements have procured in exchange for some sheep in honour of the guests. And when the last drop has been consumed, Sefko and Magdusia are looked upon as married, which does not always imply a change in the place of abode of either of them.

As for the pope's blessing, it is not disregarded on principle, since even the other G.o.ds are remembered; only there is no hurry. Sefko has no idea that Magdusia, in order to be his really, must be given to him by the pope, and so he takes his time about it, presenting himself for the blessing when opportunity offers, maybe the christening of their first offspring. If the pope be at all zealous he will, of course, lecture them on their want of morality, the pair listening submissively, but never understanding what should have roused the good man's ire, or displeased the Almighty, as he tells them. As for the infant, it is considered to belong to its mother's settlement, growing up to the same rights as any other youth.

For the rest, the Huzul shares in all the virtues and vices of uncivilised humanity: he is free from envy, candid, brave, and hospitable, but also coa.r.s.e in his tastes and cruel. The Emperor's magistrates are nothing to him, he does not need their protection; and of his free-will he is not likely to pay any tax. Let his cousins of the lowlands do that, whom he pities and despises accordingly.

Of a similar kind are his feelings concerning the homeless hajdamaks; he, the native of the mountains, looking upon the outlaws much as the bear is supposed to look upon man; and, in consequence, actual enmity between them is rare. Not unless he were really starving with hunger or cold would a hajdamak ever think of attacking even a single herdsman up yonder, a last remnant of generosity preventing him from wronging those on whose soil he dwells, and who, as he but too well knows, could take grievous revenge any moment. Not in the memory of men, therefore--which is the only source of authentic history within the mountains--has it ever happened that a band of outlaws dared an attack upon any settlement.

But if the Huzul has little to fear from the hajdamaks, he may yet get into trouble on account of them, that is, by means of the Whitecoats who are after those ruffians. The Huzul considers it inc.u.mbent on him to hate the soldiers; for are they not the servants of a power he refuses to recognise? But that power will lay hold of him if it can.

There is no help for the Emperor--he must just put up with it--if the Huzul refuses to consider himself a taxpayer; some Imperial exciseman, however, may see his opportunity of paying the Huzuls a visit under cover of the military. "Hang the hajdamaks!" groans the Huzul, "but for them no confounded exciseman would have ventured up hither;" and, overpowered with the thought of his loss in lambs and sheep, he is sure to add: "Hang the Whitecoats! I wish the hajdamaks could teach them a lesson and make them keep clear of the mountains for ever." He is so wrathful, indeed, that he could scarcely tell which of the two he would like to see hanged first.

A strict neutrality, however, is the outcome. He would rather die than betray to the Whitecoats the hiding place of "Green Giorgi"; at the same time he has no idea of warning the outlaw of his enemy's approach, or of rendering him any a.s.sistance whatever. He just looks on; and nothing would please him better than that the belligerent parties, like the fighting lions of the fable, should devour each other bodily. And there are other considerations, besides, inviting him to neutrality. He knows that there are ruffians among the hajdamaks whom, even with his notions of honour and justice, he cannot possibly approve of; but they are a mixed lot, and there are others among them who have done nothing a Huzul would despise. And since it is not written in a man's face why he has become an outlaw, the Huzul behaves alike to them all, neither loving them nor hating them, but holding aloof strictly.

The Imperial authorities, then, cannot expect the Huzuls' help against the bandits, and need not fear their making common cause with them; but that is all, since no one ever lifts a finger to raise the poor dwellers of the mountains and teach them a higher standard of right and wrong. It were quite useless to expect any better; and if regiment upon regiment were let loose upon the Carpathians no lasting result could be looked for; for to give chase to any outlaw in the vast forests is as hopeless as to seek for a particular insect in a cornfield. The lawless trade will not die out till Civilisation takes up her abode in the mountain wilds, taming the dwellers therein; and, if unable to make better men of them, preparing the way at least for her n.o.bler sister, even Justice herself, in whose fair sight men are equals, and oppression shall not stand.

It would be a mistake, however, to imagine that all hajdamaks are criminals and cut-throats; a distinction must be made. There is no exact rendering for the word itself in any of the western tongues, and, fortunately, the thing also lies beyond the experience of happier nations. The Bulgarians only have a similar word, denoting a similar existence, the "hajdamak" of the Carpathians and the "hajduk" of the Balkan being akin, both revealing in strangest blending some of the best and some of the very worst impulses of a suffering people. It is not easy, therefore, to judge fairly.

There are three distinct types among these outlaws, or "free men" as they call themselves. Firstly, there are those who have escaped from the arm of justice, having committed some crime, and who are not only guilty in the sight of the law, but of ill repute even among their kind. These men never unite in great numbers, their own wickedness rendering them distrustful of one another. Singly, or at most by twos and threes, they will pursue their villainous trade of waylaying travellers, or perpetrating what robbery they can. They avoid open fight, being best protected by their cunning.

Secondly, and far more numerous, are those who are criminals indeed in the eye of the law, but are looked upon by the people as martyrs to their cause. Some may have fought the tax-gatherers in bitter despair when they were about to be sold up; they may have been good and peaceful men, who thus suddenly took up the evil life. But, terrible as existence may be in the forest wilds, it is better than prison, and the unhappy man flies thither from the wrong he has committed almost in spite of himself. "He is gone after the sun," say his neighbours, glad to know him safe when the constables seek him--gone westward, that is, from lowland Podolia into the Carpathians. And others there are, martyrs to the sad relation between the Polish landlord and the Ruthen peasant; the landlord oppressing, till at some dark moment of wrath or drunkenness the peasant s.n.a.t.c.hes up his gun or hatchet. There are deserters, too, from the Emperor's colours, sympathised with cordially; for what right should the Emperor have, argue these people, to levy the life-tax among them!

"Come join us, ye men, for life here is sweet!" are the words of a hajdamak song. But in truth it is an awful existence, although the miserable fellows do their best to make it bearable to one another.

They will gather in bands of a score or more, plighting their troth, each sharing with the other the good things which are of the fewest and the ill things that abound. The Huzul will leave them alone, and the Whitecoats they need scarcely fear. But it is nowise easy to be an "honest hajdamak" when hunger and cold pursue them--for they have notions of honesty of their own, as old Jemilian suggested in his report to Father Leo. It is "honest" in an outlaw not to commit mere vulgar robbery, or take life save in self-defence or for revenge. He may rob a Polish landlord or the men of the law, but he would be disgraced by robbing a peasant or a village pope. It is quite "honest"

to stop a stage-coach, empty the postbags, and rob any Polish or Austrian pa.s.senger; but it would be disgraceful to inquire what money a pope might carry with him, travelling by the same coach. There was a time when no stage-coach in those parts could be safe from an attack of hajdamaks, unless accompanied by a strong escort of soldiers. "Great deeds," however, grew more and more impossible, and indeed they were never easy. It was always a miserable life in the dreary wilds, without shelter in the rigorous winter-time, and often without food. And it would entirely depend on what manner of man the 'hetman' (captain) was, as to how a band would bear up through such a season of distress; whether "dishonesty" would be had recourse to, when for the gaining of a mere livelihood they would sink to the level of the despised criminal, or whether their spirit would rise to some "great deed" of despair, even if it must bring them to close quarters with the Whitecoats. But this second alternative, as a rule, might only be looked for if the 'hetman' was a hajdamak by deliberate choice, driven to the life for an idea rather than as the outcome of some crime.

Men of this kind form the third cla.s.s; they have always been rare, and the history of one adopting the awful trade of his own free will has ever made a stir. Mere love of pillage could never be an adequate reason; for a man of this description is aware that he can rob his neighbours with less trouble in the plain. No, there are n.o.bler motives--a wild pa.s.sionate manliness rising against oppression, or a yearning indignation and pitiful sympathy with the helpless despair of the people, will urge some few to "go after the sun." These few are the last representatives of the true hajdamak, who is fast becoming a legend of the past. The Ruthens, now the most peaceful and the most oppressed of Slavonic tribes, at one time were the boldest and most belligerent of the race, the terror of their neighbours, Poles, Russians, and Roumanians. But to-day one could only wonder why these people in song and story should always be designated as "falcon-faced,"

if indeed such a face were not met with among them occasionally even now--bold and clear-cut, full of energy and pa.s.sion, with dark daring eyes. And as the type is found still, so are the old dauntless courage, and the ardent love of liberty. But he who preserves the true nature is lonely among his kind, and the misery about him will fill his soul with a bitter yearning for the times that are gone, the times surviving only in their songs--wild pa.s.sionate outbursts, full of bravery and fort.i.tude, sounding strangely enough on the lips of the humbled, labouring peasants. And such a one by his own inward necessity is driven forth from the plain; he takes to the mountains, and henceforth it is his one desire to make war upon the Polish oppressors, the murderers of his race. It is his one idea, his one resolve; and being a man of energy and power, he will naturally rise to the leadership of a band. He is an "honest hajdamak" at first, but does not always end so; for it is an evil trade, hurtful to body and soul. And whether they remain "honest," or fall away from the higher aspiration, they are sure to end ill--they and their followers.

Truly an evil trade, and few taking to it ever reach old age; the pitiless cold, or hunger and hardships of grimmest kind decimating the band, while the more hardy ones fall a prey to the wild beasts, if not brought to the gallows instead. And whatever their end may be, their people are anxious that their memory should be wiped out--anxious it should be forgotten that one of theirs took to the mountains. A hajdamak while he lives is held in some respect, inasmuch as he has gained the liberty sighed for by others--the dead man is nowhere.

But among the numbers living and dying thus sadly, there are three whose names are not forgotten, whose memory lives in song and tale, though dimmed with the haze of receding years; three who are famous, moreover, as being the only "hetmen" who moved the Huzuls to take part for or against them.

The first of these was one Alexander Dobosch, called the Black, or the Iron-framed, a Ruthen from the Bukowina who arose towards the end of the eighteenth century, and for several years was far more powerful throughout Pokutia than the Emperor. He had been a well-to-do peasant, and a boundless ambition only appears to have led him to his strange and fearful adventures. The Huzuls adored him, and he behaved like a king of the mountains, issuing manifestos to the "fellow at Vienna,"

making laws and levying taxes. But this was his ruin; the Huzuls were not going to condone in the iron-framed hajdamak what they had never approved of in the "fellow at Vienna." Their devotion gave way to wrath, but the man was so powerful that they dared not oppose him openly. He was poisoned by some of his followers at a drinking bout.

Of a different type was "Wild Wa.s.silj," or, as song has it, the "great hajdamak," a Podolian peasant youth, lithe as a sapling pine, strong as a bear, and daring as a falcon. He had been in the personal service of a young n.o.ble, the brother-in-law of the lord of the manor, both of whom were the terror and detestation of every father and husband in the neighbourhood. But Wa.s.silj suddenly set his face against the lawless life, growing strangely silent and anxious to be good; the fact was he loved an honest maiden of the village. But, unhappily, his master himself had set eyes upon the girl, and, finding her proof against his advances, he carried her off with the help of some menials. Wa.s.silj thereupon waylaid and shot him, forming a band there and then, and becoming the scourge of the n.o.bility for miles around, his thirst for revenge being unappeasable. It was found in those days how little it availed to send out soldiers with a hope of crushing the bandits in their mountains. The "great hajdamak" was not vanquished by anything the authorities could devise against him; but the innate spark of goodness in his wild and wayward heart overcame him in the end. For he was not a bad man by nature, and the remorse that would seize upon him was as poignant as it was true; but he quieted his conscience with the delusion that he was doing these terrible things for the sake of the suffering people. One day, however, when he had overpowered some n.o.bles in the castle of his native village, and had called upon the judge to a.s.sist him in bringing them to their just doom, the latter refused, saying he was an honest man, and could not join in the evil work of a cut-throat. That word struck Wa.s.silj to the heart, and the same night, with a bullet from his own gun, he stilled that misguided heart for ever.

But the third one, whom the Huzuls a.s.sisted--he whom in song they called "the good judge" and "the great avenger"--was Taras Barabola.

CHAPTER XI.

OUTLAWED.

THE "good judge!" ... the "great avenger!" ...

It was not only after his death, not in commemorating song only, that Taras was first so designated. These appellations dated from the spring-time of 1839. When Palm Sunday had come and gone they were echoed from mouth to mouth, while the strange declaration of war that had been uttered beneath the linden of Zulawce was fresh in the minds of all. His mission was believed in, though as yet unaccredited by deed. As on the wings of a mighty wind the news sped from village to village, from district to district. Not a week pa.s.sed before all the people had heard it--in Pokutia, in the Marmaros, in Podolia, and in the Bukowina; and gathering in groups after the morning service on Easter Sunday, it was the one topic with them everywhere: "To-day Taras will be unfurling his banner.... Could there be a surer proof of our misery? He, a Christ-like man, and yet driven to turn hajdamak!... But it is well for us--Taras has ever been a good judge, and he will prove a mighty avenger!"

This opinion had formed rapidly. A whole people stirred to its depth is almost always a righteous judge, a true prophet. Every man and woman understood that unheard-of things were pa.s.sing. True, it was within the experience of most of them that some one or other had taken to the mountains; but such volunteers to the desperate trade had been young fellows without home ties, or men of a turbulent character breaking away from the restraints of the law. But how different with this peace-loving peasant, who had everything to make his home attractive, this man who once pointed a pistol at his own forehead to prevent violence from being met with violence! That phrase of Mr. Broza's which Taras himself had repeated reluctantly, and only because he was a "dying man," had taken hold of the people's imagination--_a Christ-like man_. And truly there was a breath of the Divine sweeping the senses of the oppressed peasantry as they strove to understand his motives. It could not be the love of revenge with him, for he had not been wronged personally; it could not be that he sought to defend his own property, for it had not been touched. He must be doing it, then, simply because "in this unhappy country justice was not to be found," and "because the people had sore need of one to avenge them." And if there is anything that will move the heart of man to its inmost depth, filling it with holy reverence, it is the unselfish deed done for love of a cause which is sacred to all and believed in by each.

With similar enthusiasm Taras was greeted in the mountains. The rude men who dwell there had been gained so thoroughly during his former sojourn, that one and all they welcomed the news of his returning to be among them for good. Was he not a victim of the oppression they hated?

its sworn enemy, who henceforth would live to oppose it? Every glen on either side of the Black Water was alive with sympathy, and Taras had a staunch ally in every man far and wide in the forest.

In his own village, too, opinion had rallied round him entirely, though it would have been difficult to say whether this was due chiefly to the impression he had made upon his hearers on that Sunday, or to the selfish vanity of the people. The hearts of some had certainly been touched, and a natural pity for his forsaken wife roused others; while others, again, were merely glad that Taras had come to see the folly of trusting in the law, and it flattered their pride that from among themselves an avenger should rise who would make the country ring with his valour. A man of Zulawce in those days was welcome wherever he went, because he could tell of the hero of the hour. The people round about seemed to be insatiable of news concerning this Taras, and were ready to stand any amount of drink to him who could gratify them, for which reason the men of Zulawce, nothing loth, invented story upon story to glorify the pure-hearted man whose life they had embittered all along. Yes, the outlaw once more had risen to be the great favourite of his adopted village.

Yet there were few, even in his own village, who felt for him truly or mourned his loss, and the one man whose sorrow was most deeply sincere carefully avoided the very mention of his name. The good pope had not breathed a word concerning Taras since that saddest of partings beneath the linden. His wife only guessed how he suffered, but even she was mistaken in believing that his heart ached for the loss of his friend alone. He was battling with another sorrow, a deeper trouble overshadowing his pious mind. And the moment came when the popadja understood it.

It was on the evening of Good Friday. Not till nine o'clock, and weary with the many services of the day, had the priest returned home, eating a mouthful of supper, and retiring to his study. Thither his wife followed him presently, establishing herself with her needlework in silence. He was pacing the room, murmuring to himself, as was his wont in preparing his sermon, and she refrained from speaking, but gave a furtive glance at him now and then. She had often thus watched him occupied in holy meditation, and the inward peace radiating from his countenance at such times would sink into her own heart with a loving content. Not so now, for an unspeakable grief was reflected in the face she gazed upon, and the bitterness seemed overflowing till she trembled and took courage to interrupt him.

"Husband," she said, with a beating heart, "are you now busy with the sermon for Easter Day?"

He started, looking before him gloomily. "I am utterly unfit!" he whispered hoa.r.s.ely, as though speaking to himself ... "utterly unfit!"

He groaned aloud, covering his face with his hands.

The good wife was by his side in a moment. "Leo," she sobbed, "what is it? ... Ah, yes, I know; but you must not thus give way to your grief.

You could not prevent it!"

He shook his head, and then caught her hand like a drowning man. "No, wife," he groaned, "it is not merely grief for his loss! But since that man has gone to ruin, I seem a hypocrite whenever I turn to my prayers ..."

"Good G.o.d!" she cried, aghast.

"I seem such, indeed," he continued, hastily; "it is more than I can bear, and I cannot help it! Have I not been teaching and preaching the justice of G.o.d? And now to see this man gone to ruin--this man!"

"But, husband, dear," she cried, anxiously, "have you not often tried to make us see that the true recompense is in the life to come? Will you doubt it yourself now?"

"In the life to come; yes, yes," he repeated in the same husky voice; "it is the one thing to hold by.... But why should it all go wrong in this world? I mean, so terribly wrong? This man!... his wife gone out of her mind, his children orphaned, and he himself making straight for the gallows, just because, in a wicked, self-seeking world, he has within him the heart of a child that will trust his G.o.d and believe in justice ... oh, it is awful ... awful!"

She clung to him, but he freed himself from her embrace, and once more walked to and fro excitedly. The faithful wife could but retire to her corner, sharing his trouble apart.

Some minutes pa.s.sed.

And presently he stood still before her, lifting her tearful face, and stroking her hair gently. "Fruzia," he said, with quivering voice, "I promise you to try and bear it. I shall battle it out; but it is a sore thing, and needs time.... Go to bed now and be comforted.... I shall battle it out."

The wife obeyed, but found little sleep, and her soul kept crying through the darkness of that night: "Oh, G.o.d, pity my husband--he, the priest, to lose faith in Thee!" Many a wiser prayer may rise to the ear of the Giver of all things; yet none, perhaps, ever was more touching.

When daylight returned she felt comforted, and drew courage from her husband's quiet face on his bidding her good-bye for early service.

She, too, left the house, but not to go to church, for a duty no less sacred directed her steps to a.n.u.sia's house.

Poor a.n.u.sia, indeed! It was not without reason that her friends sorrowed for her, for she was doubly stricken. The last articulate sound that had crossed her lips had been her husband's name--that cry of despair wrung from her as he departed. Her grief since then had found vent in wild ravings only, night and day, day and night. Not a prayer, not a complaint had she uttered, and her eyes were tearless; but she would give a shriek and continue moaning with parched lips.

Those that watched her believed her out of her mind, and no hope seemed left, save with Father Leo, who clung to it. "It will pa.s.s away," he said, well-nigh despairing himself; "hers is a more pa.s.sionate nature than ours, and her grief is the wilder." Her ravings, indeed, appeared to lessen, the feverish agony grew calmer, and she began to take food; but to her friends the supervening apathy seemed worse than what had gone before. There she lay in a kind of living death, uttering not a sound, large-eyed and white-faced, wearing the expression of a helpless agony. But when her friends or the children attempted to rouse her, she waved them off, or cried huskily: "Leave me alone, I must think it over." And Father Leo would say: "No one can help her, she must battle through it; but the children must be seen to, having lost both father and mother." And he arranged with his wife that twice a day she should go over to the farm to see to the needs of the household; while outdoor matters found a willing helper in Hritzko Pomenko, the eldest of Simeon's lads. "If I work for Taras I shall perhaps bear it that he left me behind," said the honest youth.