Читать книгу For the Right - Karl Emil Franzos - Страница 6

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Let the reader's imagination carry him eastward. Let him suppose he were travelling at railway speed between Lemberg and Czernowitz, in a south-easterly direction, towards the sedgy shores of the river Pruth and the beech forests of the Bukowina, and the scenery to his left will appear changeless. His eye for miles will rest on a boundless plain, of which the seasons can influence the colouring only, but never a feature of the landscape. White and dazzling in the winter, it rises to something of a yellow brightness in the summer, wearing a neutral tint both in the autumn and spring. But on his right-hand each turn of the wheel will disclose a new picture to his eyes. He is fast approaching the towering heights of the Carpathians. Mere phantoms at first, they assume shape and substance like gathering clouds on the horizon, the mountain chain with deepening contours advancing through the violet and purple vapours of distance. And if the traveller now were able to fix his gaze a while on the monotonous plain, with its grey cottages, its poverty-stricken fields, and dreary heathlands, his would be a grand surprise in turning once more to the right. The heights have closed in--giants they, proud and solemn in fir-clad majesty. The wind, sweeping along the mountain-sides, is laden with the odours of pinewood; the air is filled with the roar of cataracts dashing through the gullies and foaming along the rocky channel by the side of the railway cutting; and athwart the narrow bands of azure, which seem the bluer for the deep-rent glens beneath, may be seen wheeling the bloodthirsty kite of the Carpathians. The very heart of the mountain chain, silent and beautiful, lies open to view. A moment only, and it will have vanished. The railroad, starting off in a sharp curve to the east, leaves nothing to the beholder but to the right and to the left the self-same monotonous plain. A sudden bend of the lawless Pruth had rendered it necessary for the line to cut the landscape at the very point where mountain and plain stand facing each other--abrupt and unblending--like hatred and love in the heart of man.

The spot in question--half-way between Colomea, the hill-crowned capital of the district, and Zablotow, a poor Jewish townlet of the plain--is within the parish boundary of Zulawce, a village not, however, visible from the railway, its cottages, a couple of miles beyond, covering an eastern slope of the magnificent mountain range. The thatched dwellings are as poor as anywhere in that part of Galicia, not even the church or the manor house commanding any attention. But all the more charming is the neighbourhood. Approaching the village from the Pruth, you reach its first outlying cottages without the effort of climbing, but by the time you have ascended to the farthermost dwellings you have a splendid lowland landscape at your feet--spreading fields of gold, verdant woods and heath-covered tracts, skirted by the Pruth as with a broad silver ribbon, the glittering rivulet of the Czerniawa winding between. And your eye will carry you farther still, to the natural horizon, northward. But the eastern view is altogether different, and incomparably bewitching, the gloriously wooded hill-country of the Bukowina rising gradually, terrace upon terrace, from the deep-sunk valley of the Czeremosz. Indeed, this prospect, as seen from the village, is wondrously grand, a succession of gigantic steps, as it were, leading from earth toward heaven, the highest mountain-tops melting away in the ethereal blue. To the west and south the view is bounded by the "Welyki Lys," a gigantic mountain forest which separates Galicia from Hungary--dark and dreary, and unutterably monotonous. Nowhere in the lower Carpathians is there a spot to equal Zulawce for Nature's variety, looking upon the village as a centre.

But this is not all for which the place is noteworthy. Life there, on the whole, is regulated after the ways of the lowlands; but the people themselves approach the Huzul type--a peculiar race, inhabiting the mountains, and which, on account of the common language, is generally classed with the Ruthens, but being of a different origin and of different conditions of life is distinct from them, as in appearance so in habit and in character. The Huzul is a hybrid, uniting the Slavonic blood of the Ruthen with the Mongolian blood of the Uzen, his speech betraying the former while his name testifies to the latter; so also does the defiant dauntlessness of his bearing, hidden beneath an appearance of proud restraint, but apt to burst out suddenly, like a hot spring through the covering snow. The Ruthens of the lowlands, on the contrary, are purely Slavonic; industrious therefore, enduring and very patient, not easily roused, but once the fire is kindled it will go on burning with a steady glow. These virtues, however, have sad vices for a reverse--a bluntness which is both dull and coarse, and an abject humility, bending the neck of the conquered man even lower than need be. An unfair load of hardships may be pleaded in their excuse. The Ruthen for centuries bore the chains of serfdom, and these broken he continued the subject of some Polish nobleman, no law protecting his body, still less his goods, no mental culture reaching him whose soul received the barest crumbs of spiritual teaching. In this respect things, to be sure, went as ill with the Huzuls, but for the rest theirs was a life of liberty on the mountains, acknowledging no nobleman and no officer of the crown. Poorly enough they lived in the forest wilds, their sheep yielding milk and cheese, the barren soil a few oats for scarcely eatable bread, while meat was within reach of him only who would stake his own life in killing a bear. To this day there are glens where no money has ever been seen; for which reason it has never been thought worth while to levy taxes, the great lords remaining in the lowlands where the soil was fruitful and he who tilled it a slave. "Within those mountains there are but bears to be found and a wild people called Uzels," thus wrote a German explorer in the seventeenth century. He might have written it yesterday, for with the bear only does the Huzul share the sovereignty of the mountains, and his very freedom is no better than the liberty of the bear--yet liberty it is! Thus the difference between the Ruthens of the uplands and the Ruthens of the plain is immense, and scarcely to be bridged over--free huntsmen up yonder, yoke-bearing bondmen below.

"No falcon can lived caged, no Huzul in bondage," says the proverb. The village of Zulawce appeared to give the lie to this saying, but only at first sight. The people there tilled the soil; they went to church, paid tithes, and yielded forced labour; but for the rest they were Huzuls, and cousins-german to the bear-hunters of the Welyki Lys. They never forgot that they were men; they chose to govern themselves, and did not hesitate to meet injustice with a bullet or a blow of the axe. The lord of the manor, old Count Henryk Borecki, knew this well enough, and though he might groan he never attempted to treat the peasants of Zulawce as he would treat the churls on his lowland property. Not that he was a gracious lord, but he was prudent; and being a passionate huntsman himself, he loved to spend the season on that borderland of the great forest, which led to many a scuffle, but open rupture there was none while he lived.

When he had departed, matters grew worse. His son, Count George, never troubled the people with his presence, for he lived in Paris. He was a famous cavalier, devoting himself to the rising generation, so far as it was of the feminine gender, and given to dancing at Mabille. His far-off estates he only bore in mind when his purse was low; for which reason, indeed, he thought of them as often and as anxiously as any pattern landlord, keeping up a lively correspondence with his stewards in Podolia--money they must send him, or dismissed his service they should be. These unfortunate "mandatars" had a hard time of it; but they did their best, fleecing the peasants to the utmost, and keeping their stewardships. Now, the mandatar of Zulawce also, Mr. Severin Gonta, for all that can be told to the contrary, might have wished to adopt this plan; but having lived for twenty years in the village, and knowing the people and their knock-down propensities, he preferred having recourse to the cutting of my lord's timber instead, sending the proceeds to Paris. Count George, however, in the pursuit of his noble passions, enlarged his friendships, admitting even usurers to the benefit of his private acquaintance.

Thus it came about that Mr. Severin one day received the youthful landlord's ultimatum: "Send me another thousand florins a year, or go to the devil." Mr. Severin was soon resolved. He knew he had cut the timber till never a tree remained, and he preferred his bodily safety to the stewardship he held. So he quitted his post, being succeeded by the young Count's private secretary, a certain Mr. Wenceslas Hajek.

Mr. Wenceslas at the time--it was in the year of Grace 1835--was a young man of eight-and-twenty, with an experience far beyond his years. A Bohemian by birth, he soon rose to the dignity of an imperial detective, and in recognition of his peculiar talents was sent to Italy as a spy. He had acquired a knowledge of French, and was known to have committed a daring robbery upon a privy councillor of Milan, for which achievement he was not, like an ordinary mortal, sent to prison as a thief, but to Paris on a secret mission for Prince Metternich. He duly reported to his government; but his was a sympathetic temperament, and, pitying the refugees, he failed not to report to them as well. For a while he flourished, receiving pay from both sides; but being found out he was dismissed ignominiously. Thereupon he took a distaste for politics, establishing a private agency for nondescript transactions, the least doubtful of which were the arrangements he brought about between spendthrift nobles and their friends who lent upon usury. In this capacity he came to be introduced to Count George, who found him simply invaluable, appointing him his private secretary before long. Now, Mr. Wenceslas might thus have lived happily ever after, had his natural disposition not again played him the fool. He loved money, and took of his master's what he could. Count George was helpless, since the rascal knew his every secret; it was plain he could not dismiss him, but he promoted him to the stewardship of Zulawce. "I don't care how much of a blackguard he is, so long as he forwards my revenues," this distinguished nobleman thought within himself, continuing his pursuits in Paris.

It was in the month of May, 1835, that Wenceslas Hajek made his entry at Zulawce. He had scarcely an eye for the vernal splendour of the grand scenery which surrounded him; but he certainly felt impressed on seeing the peasantry on horseback ready to receive him into their village. It was with a queer look of surprise that he gazed upon those giant figures with their piercing eagle eyes. They were clothed in their best, wearing brown woollen riding-coats, dark red breeches, black sandals, and high felt hats with waving plumes, sitting their small spirited steeds as though they had grown together with them. Among mountaineers the Huzuls are the only equestrian people, and none of their Slavonic neighbours go armed, as they do, with the gun slung behind them, the pistol in the belt, and the battle-axe to hand. Mr. Wenceslas knew he trembled when these well-accoutred peasants approached his vehicle. He had intended to treat them to his most gracious smile, and smile he did, but it cost him an effort ending in a grin.

Only one of the peasants bared his head--an old man, white-haired and of commanding stature, who lifted a proud face to the newcomer. He had pulled up by the carriage door, and his clear, undaunted eyes examined the features of the steward. That was Stephen Woronka, the village judge. "Newly-appointed mandatar," he said, "you are sent by our lord; therefore we greet you. You come from afar, and we are not known to you; therefore, I say, we men of Zulawce do our duty by the Count, expecting him to do the same by us. Neither more nor less! We greet you."

Mr. Hajek understood the import, for a Slavonic dialect had been the language of his childhood, and on the long journey through Galicia he had had opportunity to pickup some of the country's speech. But, more than the words, it was the spirit which impressed him, and he framed his answer accordingly. "I shall be just," he said; "neither more nor less! I greet you."

The old judge waved his hat, and "Urrahah!" cried the peasants, the shrill; crisp sound rising from two hundred throats. They discharged their pistols, and once more an exultant "Urrahah!" filled the air. It sounded like a war cry; but peacefully they turned their horses' heads, and, together with the travelling carriage, proceeded to the village inn.

There, on an open space beneath a mighty linden tree, the rest of the people stood waiting--old folk and lads, women and children--all wearing their Sunday best. When the carriage had stopped, and Mr. Hajek, still smiling, had alighted, he was met by the village priest, or pope, with a bow. The Reverend Martin Sustenkowicz was loyally inclined, and anxious to express his feelings in a proper speech, but somehow his intention often was beyond him; and in the present instance, attempting his salutation with unsteady feet, he bowed lower than he meant to, and speech there was none. Hajek took the will for the deed, and turned to an aged woman who offered bread and salt. He affably swallowed a mouthful, and thereupon ordered the innkeeper, Avrumko, in a stage whisper, to tap two casks of his schnaps.

He fully believed thereby to please the people, and was not a little surprised at the judge's deprecating gesture. "With your leave, new mandatar, we decline it," said the latter. "It may be all very well in the lowlands, but not with us. We men of Zulawce do not object to schnaps, but only when we have paid for it ourselves!"

There was something akin to scorn in the mandatar's face, though he smiled again, saying: "But my good people, I am here to represent Count George, your gracious lord. Is not he your little father? and you are the children who may well receive his bounty."

The old judge shook his head. "It may be so in the lowlands," he repeated, "but we are no children, with your leave, and the Count is nowise our father. We are peasants, and he is lord of the manor; we expect justice, and will do our duty, that is all!"

"But my good judge, Mr. Stephen----"

"Begging your pardon," interrupted the latter yet again. "This also is of the lowlands, where they 'Mister' one another. I am plain Stephen^[1] up here. And how should you know that I am good? We would rather not be beholden to you. We will drink the Count's health, paying for it ourselves."

He beckoned to the innkeeper; great cans full of the beverage were brought speedily, and the people sitting or standing about were nowise loth to fall to. Hajek felt posed, but once more he recovered himself, and went about among the villagers, smiling right and left. But the more he smiled, the darker he grew within. He really began to feel afraid of these proud, gaunt creatures, with their undaunted eyes. And he did not like the look of their arms. Why, every one of these 'subjects,' as the Galician peasant in those days was styled in official language, carried a small arsenal on his body.

"Why do you go about with pistols?" he inquired of the judge.

"We like it, and may require it," was the curt reply.

"Require it!" said the mandatar, with the smile of innocence. "Why, what for?"

"You may find that out for yourself some day," said old Stephen, and turned away.

Hajek shivered, but overcame the feeling, passing a benevolent look over the assembly. They were engaged with their schnaps now and heeded him not. One of them only--a tall, lean fellow with shaggy red hair--stared at him with an expression of unmitigated dislike.

The mandatar went up to him, inquiring mildly, "Who are you, my friend?"

"The devil may be your friend," retorted the man grimly. "I am Schymko Trudak--'Red Schymko;' but what is that to you?"

"Well, am I not one of yourselves now?" returned Hajek still anxious to conciliate. But he began to see it was no easy matter, and he cast a disconcerted look about him.

His eye alighted on a man who carried no arms, and otherwise appeared of a different stamp. Tall and powerful like the rest of them, his expression was gentle; he was fair-haired, and his eyes were blue. He wore a white fur coat with gay-coloured broidered facings, a black fur cap, and high boots--the holiday garb of the Podolian peasant. Hajek went up to him. The man took off his cap and bowed.

"What is your name?"

"Taras Barabola."

"Do you live in this village?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not in service, surely?"

"No!" and as modestly as though he were but a farm labourer, the young peasant added: "I own the largest farm but one of the place."

"But you are from the lowlands?"

"Yes; I came from Ridowa."

"Then what made you settle here?"

"I--I--loved--I mean, I married into the farm," he said with a blush.

"Do you approve of these people?"

The young man reddened again, but replied: "They are different from those we are used to in the plain, but not therefore bad."

"I wish they were more like you!" said the mandatar fervently, and passed on. He would, indeed, have liked them to be different; more humble, and not carrying arms for possible requirements--more like this Taras in short!

And presently, looking from the window of his comfortable room in the manor house, he examined with a queer smile the thickness of its walls. "A stout building," he muttered; "who knows what it may be good for? Still, this were but poor comfort if things came to the worst. As for playing the hero, I have never done it; but the son of my mother is no fool! I must act warily, I see; but I'll teach these blockheads what a 'subject' is, and I shall take care of myself!"