THE PASSING OF SERFDOM

The background of this long narrative poem lies in the conditions which immediately preceded the abolition of serfdom and feudal dues in the Austrian Empire in 1848. In Galicia the landowning nobility was Polish and the peasantry Ukrainian. The poem tells the story of the struggle between lord and peasant in a single village, but that village is representative of the whole. The narrative is put into the mouth of an aged peasant who is telling the story to his grandchildren. Opposed to the lord of the manor, Migucki, who compels his peasants to purchase the whiskey he makes and to patronize the tavern he rents to a Jew in order to keep the people debauched, the village priest stands out as the leader of his flock. He opens a school for the children and persuades the older ones to refrain from drinking and to take a pledge against the use of intoxicants. In revenge, Migucki orders the priest to do forced labor with the serfs. This is illegal, but the priest yields under compulsion and dies as a result of exposure to a bitter tempest and the strenuous work. Before dying, however, he prophesies the death of Migucki within a year's time and the end of his family's ownership of the estate. The peasants have a friend in the imperial commissar, an Austrian, who hates the Polish aristocracy. As a result of Migucki's refiAI to obey the imperial mandate abolishing serfdom and feudal dues, and the brutal trick he plays on the commissar, he is arrested and taken to prison. From there he is released by the intercession of his own forgiving former serfs, but comes home a broken man. He goes abroad in search of health but dies inforeign parts. Having mortgaged the estate in order to get funds to go abroad, his wife is compelled to sell the estate to the Jewish tavernkeeper. She goes away, no one knows where, and thus the dying priest's prophecy is fulfilled and so the poem ends. Two extracts are given here: one which describes the character and activity of the priest, and the other which records the decisive events of the final struggle.

               From THE PASSING OF SERFDOM

                                   Canto VI

    Our priest was old, a timid sort
Of man, one of the older school
Who learned his Mass by rote and rule,
And with the peasants lived and wrought
As they did, and with equal fear
The nobles' insolence did bear:
Saluted them with hand on breast,
And felt that from their haughty air,
He was no better than the rest.

   The master, though he made no claim
To be of different faith, ne'er came
To church and took no part therein.
If anything occurred wherein
Both priest and master should agree,
Migucki said: "Come up and see
Me at the Hall, but not within."

   The village priests had naught to do
But take care of their priestly task.
They owed no single feudal due
That landowners had right to ask.
They got their living from the soil,
By church fees and their own hard toil.

He surely never thought, did our
Old priest, not e'en in wildest dream,
That there could ever come the hour
In which to nobles' eyes he'd seem
To be a dread conspirator—
But wait!

A childless widower,
He'd lived amongst us many years
Until he set us by the ears
By taking up the teaching trade.
Though he but progress small had made
In learning, yet when now too old
For field work, he became so bold,
He said, that he a school would hold.

   Without delay, our good old sage
Began to work upon his course.
In summer he taught out of doors,
In winter in his parsonage.
At first he did not even set
His pupils at the alphabet;
Whether because he was not sure
Of the extent of his own lore,
Or planned to work on his own line—
He knew that interest never fails
With stories and with fairy tales.
But chiefly to that shrine divine

Of Nature, where we all sojourn,
He sought the children's minds to turn.
At every step along the way
Of life he always seemed to find
Something of interest to say.
He knew just how to all to bind
A moral lesson that would be
A help to life and piety.
He knew how in each girl or boy
To stir the little soul; he brought
To wakefulness its slumbering thought,
Showed how its powers to employ—
The ragged urchins ran to greet
A teacher so benign and meek;
To him they came like lambs who seek
A watering place in summer's heat
But there was something more than this
Which drew them to the parsonage.
'Twas not so much the lessons sage,
But rather that unwonted bliss
They felt the afternoons they spent
At table with much merriment,
When priest and they together sat
Like family in friendly chat
In which the smallest took a part.
The priest, like father to them all,
Would now and then a word let fall
About some task or household art.
The children laid these things to heart.
Accustomed as they were at home
To bear with hunger, filth, and cold,
To hear the "waker" knock and scold
Each morning at the door: "Now come!

Get out, or else the stick!" And too,
Accustomed as they were to see
Their parent's endless misery,
To hear their sighs the whole day through—
Here in this home where there was song,
Where all was peaceful, calm, and bright,
Where harsh words never brought their blight,
Unconsciously their souls grew strong,
Their childish hearts became more light.
• Then up from table they would stand,
And, after play, the priest would lead
Them out and teach them how to read
From willow twigs ranged on the sand
So they would learn how letters look.
Then next he'd take a well-worn book;
The children, crowding round, would gaze
Upon the page and with amaze
The letters they would recognize
And into words soon organize.

   I do not know, but there are signs
That God for each a gift designs:
To one, a clear and vigorous mind,
Which rarely doth its equal find;
Some are with winged thoughts endowed,
Like eagle's flight, to pierce the cloud;
Some in that golden gift partake:
What eyes behold, the hand can make.
But what rare gift doth God impart
To those who thus can children teach?
There's but one answer I can reach;
'Tis love that plays the greater part.

   A lot of teachers I have met,
And many I've laid eyes upon.

But never have I seen the one
Who could so much from children get
As our lamented pastor could.
I never shall forget the flood
Of joy we felt, when our own boys
One Easter, made us to rejoice
By chanting in the church the psalm,
Intoned the Epistle like one voice,
And did it all with practised calm.
The folk like bees began to buzz,
The women wept: "Never before
Was heard the like of this with us!
Just see our boys! One can be sure
Their porridge didn't go for naught!
The priest, how well he has them taught!"
And after church, in glad tumult,
All came together to consult
How they for this could demonstrate
Their thanks. But while still in debate,
A lackey sped with furious pace
To tell the master what took place.

            Canto XV

Easter Eve, The Arrival of the Imperial Decree

    That cursed winter passed at last,

The last of years of suffering,

Then Eastertide drew near, and fast;
Ere Passion Week in that same spring,
Had we begun to work the land,
And Easter Eve was now at hand—
The eve of what I'll ne'er forget,
The greatest Easter we had known.
The smallest detail I can yet
Remember plain. To me it's grown
To be like yesterday.

                                Ere yet
That morn the early frost had gone,
We, in our yards, were getting set
For all the field work to be done.
Twas just about the time to eat
When we had got our stuff all straight.
"Get in and eat and don't be late!
Leave all your other work at home,
For all must to the common come!"
Thus came the order from our lord,
And none dare disobey that word.

   We hastened indoors as we were
And ate of what had been prepared.
Then to the place we ran half-scared,
And found the rest all gathered there.
We brought our plows and other aids,
The women and the girls brought spades.
The herdboys, too, were gathered in
And to the plows were harnessed in
To serve as oxen. Then, in haste,
The men in long rows all were placed
Like ranks of soldiers on parade.
The overseer inspection made,
Called out our names, and told us now
Where each should work, with whom, and how.

   When lo! a one-horse postchaise neat
Came dashing down the village street.
A constable dozed on the seat,
Quite undisturbed by jolt or jar.
Good Lord! Who's sitting in the car?
None other than the commissar!
A strange presentiment we felt
Which made our hearts within us melt,

As though we were about to hear
Some news, perhaps, which for us spelt
Good tidings, or more likely, fear!

   Like us, the overseer, though
No coward, apprehensive stood
And muttered: "Only God can know
What this forebodes! Sure, nothing good
Can come of it."

                            When from the car
He saw us there, the commissar
Gave to the constable a blow
Which made the fellow start up so
He nearly made a swift descent
Down from his seat. He woke up, though,
And scratched his head. Then down he bent
And fumbled in the straw to seize
A something there. He fumbled there
Till he pulled out what seemed a cheese
Wrapped in a cloth. In awe and fear
We stared at him. He gave a spring
Down off his seat, and, with a string
Passed round his neck, turned it around
In front of him. He then unbound
The cloth and lo! a drum. He whirred
And beat a tattoo till the sound
O'er all the village rolled and stirred
The folk. They came at various pace,
With shouts, from cottage, garden, field,
To find out what was taking place.
A surging crowd that would not yield
Soon thronged around the chaise.

                            "Don't shout!
Be still!" the commissar cried out;
Then rose and from his pocket took
A paper with official look.
"It is my duty here to read
This proclamation, so give heed,
For this is from His Majesty."
And then in booming tones did he
Read it all through—in German, though.
The poor folk gaped, they did not know
A single word of what was read;
Yet here and there one bowed his head,
Or crossed himself, or lifted eye
To heaven above with heavy sigh.
The commissar the paper read
Unto the end, and then he said:
"You understand what you have heard?"

         "Your worship, not a single word."

                "Oh, stupid blockheads, don't you see?
I've just proclaimed your liberty!
From May the third, this year of grace,
This act all serfdom doth erase.
It means that from this very day
All feudal dues are done away.
No tithes nor corvees need you pay.
You understand?"

                        Still no reply.

"Now, blockheads, don't you understand?
You take this like a reprimand.
Why don't you 'Vivat Tsisar!' cry?"

Still silence. Then from out the folk
Our headman stepped, and bowing low
Before the commissar, thus spoke:
"Oh, sir, apologies we owe
For this reception cool. You know,
We scarce can credit it. Our lord
Told us we ne'er should see this hour,
That e'en the Tsisar had no power
To set us free, so he assured,
That only he could give the word."

"Oh, stupid peasants, don't you see,
He's talking for himself in this?
The Tsisar takes naught that is his,
And 'tis the Tsisar's policy
All proper damages to pay.
A Tsisar's servant dare not say
In his name that which is not true.
What means this seal I show to you?"

   "We wish the Tsisar many years,
And may his glory never wane!
But we poor folk so much in vain
Have suffered and wept bitter tears,
That we much fear lest this time too,
We may deluded be. So you,
Kind sir, we humbly ask to go
"With us up to the Hall, and show
That paper with the Tsisar's seal
Unto our lord. Read it all through -
To him, and when he sees it's true,
We then will full assurance feel.
Then, for his generosity,
We'll give thanks to His Majesty,
And pledge ourselves with heart and hand
To serve him for the fatherland."

    'That's good, old man, what you have said!
Let's go, so your late feudal head
May learn it too. Move on, ahead!"

Canto XVI

Imperial Decree

    The master and his wife were out
Upon the terrace when we came
Into the courtyard, all aflame,
And filled the air with clamorous shout.
The commissar stalked on ahead,
The constable with hands outspread
Beat on the drum with all his might.
The mistress rose, her face turned white;
She stared around upon the crowd,
With hands clasped, frightened at the sight,
Then looked upon her husband proud,
Her manner full of sad reproof,
Who stood there facing us. In truth,
'Twas plain he was but little pleased
With this inrush. His wrath increased
Until he ground his teeth with rage
When he saw who led this outrage:
The commissar! So then the brute
Was still at large? What new astute
And crafty game was now afoot?

    But to allay his lady's dread,
Our lord, with slow and measured tread,
Came from the terrace. Then he spoke
In threatening tones unto the folk:
"What do you here?" The words he spoke

With back turned to the commissar,
Pretending not to be aware
Of him. Whereon the drummer broke
Into a loud peal on his drum.
The ignored commissar flushed red
As fire. But ere our lord could come
To speech, he burst out first and said:
"By order of His Majesty!"
That he was irked, 'twas plain to see.
The master turned: "Ah, commissar!
Your visits have become quite rare.
Do you bring news for us today?
What docs our gracious Tsisar say?"

"I hold the Tsisar's mandate here,
Decreed upon the seventeenth day
Of April in this self-same year.
In it, he doth hereby declare:
Tomorrow all serfs shall be free
From vassalage and dues. His land
Shall each one hold in simple fee;
And for the loss of serfs set free,
The nobles may the cost demand
From the Imperial Treasury.
This is His Majesty's command!"

    "The deuce he does! And by what right?"
The master shouted as though stung.
"His Majesty! His gracious tongue
Hath spoken it! In our despite,
He grants our serfs their liberty?
This valiant breed to recompense
For their worth and fidelity,
He wills to do at our expense?
He takes from us that which all deem
Is ours by Heaven's will! A scheme,

Forsooth, a kindly scheme! 'Twould seem
He hopes in peasants' thanks to bask.
Shall we like fools meekly agree?
Like weaklings, shall we bow the knee ?
One question only would I ask:
Is there one word in that mandate
About those peasants without shame,
Who tried our rights to violate?
About their deeds with torch and flame,
Their murders, ravishings, and brawls,
Their plunderings of nobles' halls?"

   "Sir noble!" said the commissar,
"Compose" yourself, you go too far!
Our Tsisar seeks what's fair and true,
And as to bygone politics,
This document has naught to do."

        "With not a word of 'forty-six' ?"

    "Sir noble, you with your high words
Too ready seem. 'Twere best today
No more of 'forty-six' to say.
'Twas you yourselves, you Polish lords,
Who first shot down the serfs, poor folk!
Yourselves brought down the storm which broke
Upon your heads, as your just due.
Yes, noble sir! Had lords like you
But looked upon your serfs as men,
They never would have tried to do
You harm, but would have helped you then.
You never think of that at all.
You make their lives a constant hell,
Yet you as constantly rebel,
When your own selfish interests call.

But let the Tsisar justly try
To treat both lord and serf, the cry
Of confiscated rights you raise,
And swear the people him mislead.
Sir noble, you are wrong indeed!
The people know! They can appraise
The good and sound from what decays.
The people, sir, at heart are sound!
Your violence will be hurled back,
And when the wolves come prowling round
Our byres and sheepfolds to attack,
They'll faithful watchdogs find on guard,
Who'll teach them such a lesson hard
They'll ne'cr forget it, I'll be bound!"

   "By God! What times we live to see,
When you begin to praise the dogs!
But that's just like you demagogues.
Yet, sir, it rather seems to me
That you err mightily if you
Esteem them to be good and true.
A good hound knows his lord, indeed,
And truly serves him in his need,
And will defend him to the end.
These are not dogs, but just plain swine!
You don't believe? By God! I'll send
You to my kennels—you can read
That to my dogs! Then you'll divine
How much of that mandate they heed."

"Sir noble!" in alarm cried out
The commissar. To vindicate
Himself by force 'twas now too late!
Our lord's rage uncontrolled burst out.
He stamped and raved with furious cries,
His face enpurpled, while his eyes

Shot sparks of hate ad purpose fell.
"To hell with him! Does he dare tell
Me what I'm not to do! I'll show
The filthy Schwab! Here, men, you take
And pack him off and headlong throw
Him in the kennels! Let him make
His blackguard speeches to my hounds!
(To us) To keep you within bounds,
The whip shall your bold spirits break!
Hey! Run and close the courtyard gate!
Bring out the whips! I'll castigate
These guests who love so much to prate!"

    We stood there stunned. Ere we were 'ware,
The lackeys seized the commissar.
And then, to our astonishment,
Although he fought, they soon had won.
They dragged him off upon the run,
His coat-tails flapping as he went.

Canto XVII

of the Commissar

   The master's kennels were well known,
For our lord was a sportsman keen,
And always at the hunts was seen.
Great sums of money had he thrown
Away on hounds. Out in the yard
The kennels for the dogs were hard
Beside the cattle sheds and round
There was a fence of wattles bound
With withes. A Bedlam it confined
Of hounds who barked and yelped and whined,
A hundred dogs of various strains,
Of different color, size, and choice,

Retrievers, bloodhounds, and borzois.
Some writhed and tugged upon their chains,
While others in their kennels slept.
Some played and growled, and others leaped
High up the fence and yelped and whined.
The keepers fed them every one
But thrice a day to keep them 'fined,'
More swiftly in the chase to run.
No one e'er dared them to caress,
Nor go inside the fence unless
Accompanied by old Yakum,
The whipper-in. Should any come
Near to the fence, that hungry rout
In dreadful clamor would burst out.
Small wonder then that when we heard
That insensate command to cast
Our friend among the dogs—that herd
Of savage beasts—we stood aghast.

   But, grimly scowling, our lord gazed;
A clamor rose from out the pen
Where all the kennels were. And then
From thence a furious din was raised,
Sign that our lord's ferocious will
Had been obeyed! Would he then kill
The commissar by savage hounds?
The lackeys still stood all about
With stupid smirks. When lo! there sounds
A sudden, fearsome, anguished shout
That thrilled in every listening ear
And made our blood run cold with fear.
"For God's sake, help!" the cry arose,
And then ceased in a dreadful close.
But, swift as falls a shooting star,
"Save him!" we cried out like a shot.

"Come on, break down the fence! If not,
Those dogs will kill the commissar!"

   How it was done, God only knows—
Like thunderbolt we rushed apace
With one accord straight to the place.
The earth vibrated 'neath the blows
Of thudding feet. A moment's stay,
And then the fence was torn away,
And, after but a brief delay,
We, in a furious battle hot,
Killed every hound upon the spot—
Loud shouts and curses, blows and growls,
The splintering wood, and piercing howls,
All mingling in a deafening roar
That smote the sky. Oh, nevermore,
May I see such a scene of gore!

   And soon the tidings sped away
Through all Podolia and Pidhir
About the terrible affair,
When dogs were slain the very day
That news of freedom came; how we
Had christened our new liberty
With canine blood. Some mirthful folk
Looked on the matter as a joke.
Somewhere a scholar told the tale
About a dungeon-keep in France,
The Bastille called. Whom evil chance
Once brought in there, naught could avail
To set him free to see the light.
The folk rebelled and in a fight,
They took the place, razed it to earth.
For them, it marked the end of night,
The dawn of hope, and freedom's birth.

Some jesters seized upon this thing:
"We'll call it not Bastille," they said,
"But Battle of the Dogs, instead."
And then they'd make the rafters ring.
But we could see no merriment
At that grim time. We were intent
On but one thing: "The commissar!
Where is he? Where's that document
He brought to us from our Tsisar?"

   The commissar no one could find,
Although we madly searched the place.
Had he been eaten, so no trace
Of our good friend was left behind?
At last, beneath a pile of straw,
Before a kennel, someone saw
A stir! We tore the stuff away
And lo! face downwards, there he lay—
His legs, at least. By then we saw
He'd managed just to crawl halfway
Into the kennel 'neath the straw.
But still he'd firmly held throughout
The paper which declared us free.
He trembled pitcously, and we
Had much ado to get him out.
Sore shaken, he with pain got back
Upon his feet. The savage pack
Had torn his clothing into rags.
His body, too, was torn. Deep jags
And bloody scratches could be seen
In many a place. He sure had been
A dead man now, had he not tried
To find this place in which to hide,
And had not we ourselves brought aid,
And to the jest swift ending made

So wantonly by our lord played.

"Ach! Lead me to your master," said
The commissar with many a groan.
"He'll pay for this! He shall atone
For every scratch I bear today.
I'll show him how he'll have to pay!"

   With painful steps he limped along
Supported by our young men strong;
At times he needs must halt for pain.
Ha, ha! This time our lord could see
That he'd been with his pranks too free,
That this would not blow o'er, that we
Would not go meekly home again.
He called his lackeys from the yard
Into the house and all doors barred;
Then, with a musket in his hand,
At open window, took his stand.
The commissar felt satisfied
Our lord would really nothing do,
So he drew near, and pointing to
His wounds on legs and arms, he cried:
"Old Polish hospitality,

Do you call this? Barbarity,
I call it, and for this your jest
Today, I hereby you arrest!
Give up! Obey the law's behest!"

   Our master's answer was to line
His gun on him as he drew near.
He yelled: "You see this musket here?
Get off my land, you  swine,
Or else a bullet swift shall tell
You how to find the road to hell!"

The commissar, seeing the gun,
Forgot his wounds and jumped aside
To find a place where he could hide
From direct fire. When he had won
A place of vantage, then once more
He challenged our lord as before:
"You utter threats, Sir noble? So!
We'll add this to the crimes which grow
From your misdeed. I now proclaim
Once more that in the Tsisar's name,
I you arrest! Give up, be wise,
And thus your sentence minimize!"

   "Ha, ha! Come here and take me then!"
The master cried in scorn and swore.
Then from the windows all his men
Stuck out their muskets. So, 'twas war!
A gust of fear through our hearts flew,
The commissar turned pale and drew
Back farther. What should he now do ?
But now, thrust forward by the folk,
And in their name, our headman spoke:
"We ask permission, sir, to serve
Our Tsisar who's declared us free.
And as our lord has done amiss,
We offer herewith all our aid
To see his orders are obeyed—
Is that your will, my friends?"

                                                "It is,
It is!" we all in answer cried.
"The recent years examples gave
How such beasts can be brought outside.
Bring wood and straw! They will not brave
The fire and smoke. They'll come out nice
And peaceful if we them entice."

The commissar at this turned white,
And trembling, fell upon his knees:
"Oh, friends!" he cried in anguished fright,
"Don't do this thing! For my sake, please!
For my sake! "Tis your friend implores
You not to fire the house. Agree
To give up this fell plan of yours!
Leave him alone! You'll ruin me,
Unless from fire his house you save,
Else every squire will rant and rave:
The commissar the order gave!'
But this thing do: keep watch to see
That he escapes not from his nest,
While I fetch troops him to arrest.
Don't ruin me! Go peacefully!
We'll overcome him legally."

We thought it o'er. All right, so be
It then. Such is the nobles' state,
E'en foes must save them from their fate!
"Now, sir, about our liberty?"

            "You can't believe it yet?"

                                            "God knows,
We've had so much, sir, to endure
From news that came too premature,
From disappointment's heavy blows,
That we must needs make doubly sure."

   "O wretched land and wretched folk!"
The commissar sighed as he spoke:
"So many evils to have known
That blessings meet with unbelief!
Well, send direct some of your own
Head men down to the district chief

And see if I've not told you true.
But from now on, no feudal due
Your lord will ever ask of you."

    "So be it then! Today we'll send
Our elders to him right away,"
We said, "and thus all doubts allay."
We washed and bandaged up our friend,
The commissar, and then set him
Back in his chaise, escorted him,
A happy, noisy multitude,
A little way. Then we renewed
Our promise to the commissar.
In silence we passed by the Hall,
But we set guards, who from afar
Could watch whatever might befall.

Canto XVIII

Easter Sunday, 1848

    That Easter Day! Great God; so long
As we had lived on earth, had not
Such Easter fallen to our lot!
From dawn 'twas naught but laughter, song.
The village like an anthill swarmed
With folk. With gratitude all warmed
We thronged into the church. But when
We raised the Easter hymn, both men
And women burst out into tears
Until their sobbing shook the roof.
It seemed as though uncounted years
We had endured, put to the proof,
Till Christ should rise on our behoof.
Yet somehow, too, there came to birth
In all our souls a calm, bright peace,
So that we all, without surcease,

Felt ready to all heaven and earth
To shout and sing: "Hard times are gone!"
Old enmities were swept away,
And former foes embraced that day,
While still the bells pealed on and on.
The young folks ran about like mad
And cried aloud in accents glad."
"No more corvees! No master bad!
We're free, we're free, all of us free!"
And e'en the tiny tots in glee,
Like all the rest began to shout
And run like chickens all about.

   And when the holy service ceased,
Out of the church the people poured—
There were some hundreds there at least—
Upon their knees, with one accord,
They all fell down, and then they raise
That grand, majestic hymn of praise:
'Laudamus Te.' At first the old,
Familiar strains like organ rolled,
The solemn words on high ascend,
But ere the anthem reached its end
'Twas lost in weeping uncontrolled.
My children! 'tis in vain for me
To try, e'en faintly, to portray
All that it was my lot to see
And hear on that most glorious day.
The people were insane with joy.
One old man skipped just like a boy.
There stood one fondling his lean team
And talking to them, it would seem,
As if he knew they'd understand.
And there some village maidens stand:
Each takes the kerchief from her head

And bowing, they with reverence spread
Them all before the ikonstead.
Each man greets other with a shout:
"Yes, Christ is risen! there's no doubt
That serfdom's gone to hell." And there
An old, old man with scant gray hair,
Upon an old grave, sunk and bare,
Lies prone as though he would comprise
The dust that lies beneath, and cries
With all his force: "O father, hear!
We're free! O father, hear, we're free!
For you a hundred years did lie
Beneath the yoke and would not die,
But vainly hoped for liberty!
We're free! Poor man, you could not stay
To see the light that's dawned today.
No lord my grandsons e'er will take
Like me, and of them lackeys make.
O father, call me if you can,
For now your son dies a free man!"

   But, lo!, scarce had the priest got through
The blessing of the Easter cakes—
We hear a thudding noise that shakes
The earth. We see some men in blue
With shining buttons. In the air
Are gleaming bayonets, sharp and bare.
With measured thud their steps all fall
Obedient to the sergeant's call.
The troops! We hear the rattling drums
Like peas that spatter 'gainst a wall.
And then, great God! who's this that comes,
There in the midst, a prisoner ?
Our lord, with fettered hands, his head
Sunk on his breast, dispirited,

Although he vainly strove to sneer.
We stood abashed. A rope behind
Was fastened to his hands confined
By handcuffs, while the other end
A soldier held as if to tend
Him like a steer to market place.
The commissar drove in his chaise
The last. He smiled as he drew near
The church. The peasants, half in fear,
And with amazement in their eyes,
Gazed at this staggering surprise,
Such an unwonted sight.

                                    Then when
The little troop of armed men
Drew up with us, the commissar
Cried: "Sergeant, stop!" With sudden jar
The measured movement came to rest.
The commissar, with triumph crowned,
Saluted us who crowded round:
"Now can you yet believe you're free?
Now are you sure? Then God be blessed!
Well, here's your lord! I thought, maybe,
You'd like to say to him farewell
Before he goes away, and tell
Him how you wish to thank him for
His kindness. 'Twill be long before
You'll see him here again. He goes
Into a lodging safe where he
May drink the bitter cup of woes
He brewed for you as well as me."

   As though struck dumb, we stood amazed,
Yet, mingling with the joy that dwelt
In all our hearts, a grief we felt

Come stealing in. We stood and gazed
In silence at our fettered lord,
All sunk in gloom as though he knew
He now with God's wrath had to do.
But not a single hostile word,
Or mocking word, or well-earned curse,
Came from the crowd. What use to jeer,
Or make the grievous fate still worse
Of him who stood defeated there ?

   We uttered not a word. Not so
The commissar. His wounds still pained,
His bandages were still blood-stained.
'Twas plain he meant to deal a blow
To make our lord pay for his jest.
'Twas clear it was at his behest,
That our lord thus was led on foot
Down through the street, with one man put
To hold the rope behind. So now
He turned and spoke with mocking bow:
"Mein Herr, these peasants, you'll allow,
Whom you esteemed as naught but swine,
Have shown to you a better face
Than you would do. In your disgrace,
With scoffs and jeers they do not join.
Against you they will not arise.
I read compassion in their eyes.
O people with a heart of gold!
But I, sir, do not with them hold.
Who treats me evil, I him worse.
A fool is he who will disburse
More than he has, or will appear
Much better than he is. I swear
That any man had best beware
How he wrongs me! Should he so do,

And fall into my hands, like you,
There'11 be a bitter price to pay!"
Here our lord, like a beast at bay,
Lifted his head, looked round, and spat;
Then at the commissar he glared
With eyes in which such hatred flared
That he before it paled.

                                        "You rat!
You cursed Schwabian carrion!
Is your foul tongue not withered yet?
Is there one torture you forget?
My wife's despair, prayers woe-begone,
Her last heart-broken cry when she
Was parted from me—can it be
These things don't satisfy your lust?
You sent her reeling in the dust—
Yet you're not worth one generous
True-hearted tear she shed. You swine!
You, who incite these other swine
To burn our homes and slaughter us!
My wife lies sick, and I . . . in bond.
Yet, gracious God, I'll not despond!
This trial will pass soon or late,
The prefect will me liberate.
God stronger is than Schwabian hate!"

   The commissar let out a shout
Of laughter loud. "A pious mask
You've put on, Herr. Since when, I ask?
'Tis not long since that you shut out
These very peasants from the house
Of God. So much for pious vows!
Come on, we'll march! You shall have time
To see the prefect. There's no haste.

But first you're going to have a taste
Of common prison for your crime."
He turned and to the sergeant spoke,
Then into step the soldiers broke
And off they went.

                            "Good-bye to you,"
The commissar cried from his seat.
And to the thud of marching feet
And drums, our lord soon passed from view.

January-February, 1887.