HOW SCARLET-COMB THE COCK DEFENDED THE RIGHT
LL this happened long, long ago, in the days when birds and beasts could talk in human speech, and the Polish magnates went about in long 'kountoushi'[3]—coats embroidered with gold and silver, with sleeves slung on behind—and possessed serfs. Perhaps you do not know what a 'serf' was in the old times? Well, a serf was a person just like the rest of us, only he was bound to the land by law; he had not the right to go and live in any other place, and if the land was sold, he was sold with it; he tilled the land, though not for his own profit, but for the profit of the landowner. It was not only in Poland that there used to be these serfs and landlords who owned them, but in all countries—in ours as well as every other; and everywhere the serfs had a hard time of it. Those landlords who had any conscience and commonsense, and who were not in any great need of money, made their serfs work for them a certain part of their time, and bring them eggs, flax, etc.; the rest of their time and goods the serfs could dispose of as they thought fit. Others regarded their peasants as beasts of burden, belonging to them body and soul; they forced the peasants to work for them as much as was possible, and thought they had a right to all the peasants' property. But whether the serf-owner was personally good or bad, it was a loathsome thing in itself that one human being should own another.
One day a Polish 'Pan' (nobleman) of this kind was riding through a village on his land. The green sleeves of his bright-coloured koúntoush streamed back from his shoulders, fluttering in the breeze; his fine dappled horse stepped impatiently under its rider, tossing flakes of white foam from its mouth; and Pan Podliásski himself glanced haughtily to the right and left. The wretched, bare look of the peasants' huts and ruinous farmyards did not distress him at all; in Pan Podliásski's opinion a serf was a serf for nothing else but to be always ragged, dirty, and miserable. Suddenly, as he passed one of the huts, the landlord raised his eyebrows in angry surprise; in the bare and filthy yard stood a first-rate grindstone.
'Where did a rascally serf get such a capital grindstone?' he thought; and turning to his steward, who was riding behind with two or three noble retainers, he asked: 'Whose yard is this?'
'Stanislas Kogoútek's, most illustrious Pan,' respectfully answered the steward.
'Why is the grindstone here?'
'It does not belong to the manor; we have not such a good grindstone,' replied the steward, understanding the mistake of the magnate, who supposed the grindstone to be his, and to have come into the peasant's yard by chance.
'Here! Khlop!' (serf!), cried Pan Podliásski.
A middle-aged peasant, bareheaded, barefooted, and wearing nothing but a shirt and trousers of coarse sacking, ran out of the hut at this summons. He approached his master, bowing humbly, fell on his knees before him, bowed to the ground, and, rising, kissed his stirrup, after which he bowed again.
'Whose is the grindstone?' asked the landlord, frowning.
Kogoútek's terror increased, and his eyes glanced round in agitation; he realised how foolish he had been not to hide the grindstone from his master's eyes.
'Whose is the grindstone, psia krew?'[4] cried the magnate angrily.
'Mine, most illustrious Pan,' answered Kogoútek, trembling with fear.
'How dare you, you rascal, when I myself haven't such a grindstone, the steward says?'
'I earned it, please your honour,' stammered Kogoútek faintly.
'Earned it.... What next!' exclaimed Pan Podliásski, amazed at the peasant's insolence, and reddening with anger. 'How dare you say that, when you yourself are my property, not only all your work; do you hear, you dog? Take it up to the manor, and give this scoundrel a good lesson,' he added, turning to the steward.
The unfortunate peasant knew what a 'good lesson' meant, and flung himself, with a piteous cry, at the feet of his master's horse. But the magnate shook the reins and galloped off with his followers.
The next morning the grindstone was transferred to the manor yard, and the wretched Kogoútek was flogged in the manor stables.
Humiliated, crushed under the sense of injustice and lacerated with the whip, the unhappy peasant crept home and sank down on a bench with a groan.
'What is the matter with our master?' asked the young cock, Scarlet-Comb, of his mother, as they strolled about the yard with the white hen Top-knot and the old cock.
'Why, didn't you see that they took away the grindstone that he had worked so hard for, and then thrashed him for nothing besides?'
Scarlet-Comb was still a very young cock; his grand tail-feathers had not yet grown, so he did not know how cruel and unjust people can be. His mother's words showed him this for the first time. He spread his wings and craned his little neck as if he would shout out what he had just heard to all the world; but a spasm in the throat prevented him from uttering a sound. When, however, his first burst of grief and indignation had somewhat abated, he again appealed to his mother.
'Well, and what will happen now, mother?'
'What? Why, nothing. Pan Podliásski will have the grindstone, and our poor master will have his bruises—that's all.'
'What! And no one will stand up for the right?'
'Oh, my child, how recklessly you talk!' hurriedly whispered the old hen. 'Supposing any one should overhear you, what then? Why, they would think you a rebel!... What is the use of talking about "right" and "standing up" when Pan Podliásski is a great lord, with fifty horses in his stables, and hundreds of servants at his bidding, while our master is a poor peasant, wearing himself out with work!'
'Well, then, I will take our master's part! I will get justice done!' cried Scarlet-Comb.
'Hush, you silly child!' answered his mother more anxiously than ever, and gently seizing his comb with her bill. 'What else do you imagine you can do? You would like to set the whole world to rights, no doubt!'
'The thing is impossible!' cried Scarlet-Comb, and turning to the old cock, he added: 'Am I not right, father?'
The old cock majestically raised his head, stood on tiptoe, flapped his wings, and shouted at the top of his voice: 'Cock-a-doodle-doo-oo!...' then stooped down, and betook himself, with a hurried business walk, to the other end of the yard, where he stopped beside a squashed worm. Every one could interpret his expression of opinion according to their personal taste: the mother was convinced that he was setting their son an example of thrift and good sense; the son, that the patriarch's martial air and cry were intended to spur him on to prowess. Without any further question Scarlet-Comb flew across the fence, and made straight for the castle of Pan Podliásski.
Pan Podliásski was not alone. As he had to send to several very distinguished neighbours invitations for the next day's banquet, and as, like most of his peers in those days, he could not read or write, and considered it humiliating to do anything for himself, he had sent for his chaplain, and commissioned him to write the invitations. The chaplain had finished writing the letters, and it only remained to stamp upon them, instead of a signature, the crest of the house of Podliásski. The magnate took off his signet-ring, which he wore hung round his neck by a gold chain, and handed it to the chaplain to be pressed upon the wax. At that moment there appeared in the open window, from which the magnate and his chaplain were divided by a large table, an ugly little cock.
'Pan, give back the grindstone!' he cried.
Reddening with anger, the magnate raised his eyes to the insolent fowl, and seizing a heavy silver candlestick, flung it violently at him. All happened so quickly, that before Scarlet-Comb had time to understand anything, his wings had carried him from the window and his quick little legs from the garden.
When he came to his senses, Scarlet-Comb was quite ashamed. 'Can it be that I was frightened?... it is impossible!' he thought. But the fact was plain; he had lost his head and run away from the landlord.
'Well, and what of that?' said the cock, consoling himself; 'the important thing is not to stand like a log while things are thrown at you that may smash your head, but to get justice done!'
And Scarlet-Comb once more made his way to the castle.
Pan Podliásski was standing on the front terrace among his retainers and domestics, giving orders for to-morrow's banquet, when he suddenly heard the already familiar words:
'Pan, give back the grindstone!'
Scarlet-Comb was standing perched upon the nearest post, to which several horses were tied.
The magnate became positively frantic, clenched his fists, and shouted to his servants to set all the hounds upon the insolent bird. The cock, terrified, rushed with all his might out of the garden. On he ran, helping himself along with his wings, and hearing how one dog was gaining on him.... Now it was quite near ... snap! and tore the very best feathers out of the cock's tail. In his desperation Scarlet-Comb made one last effort, flew up as high as he could, and perched on a tree by the wayside. The dog stood underneath, barking and whining, but, fortunately, the hunting-horn blew, calling back the scattered dogs, and his persecutor was obliged to go to kennel.
Meanwhile a discussion was going on in the yard between the servants and noble retainers.
'What a plucky little cock!' said some; 'wasn't afraid to tell the Pan himself the truth to his beard!'
'If I had him, I'd show him what truth is—with white sauce,' said the under-cook, laughing.
'Just think,' remarked another; 'if a silly little chicken like that can see that a Pan shouldn't take away a poor man's things, it must be a bad business after all.'
'Yes, it's a mean trick,' muttered one of the nobles, frowning.
Early next morning Pan Podliásski's guests began to arrive. Dear me, how gorgeous they all were! Satin, velvet, brocade, in the most brilliant colours, simply dazzled your eyes on their kountoushi, zhoupány (doublets), and trunk hose. Their elegant caps were bordered with valuable furs; both lords and ladies were adorned with ostrich feathers, pearls, gold, silver, and precious stones. Magnificent horses of all colours pranced under their graceful riders, who surrounded the clumsy but richly-decorated coaches in which the fair ladies sat. Often, on the way, the gallants would bend towards them and exchange merry jests. The innumerable apartments of the castle were thrown open for the crowd of guests.
For dinner all the visitors put on other still more gorgeous dresses. A gallant was placed at the right hand of each lady. At the head of the table sat the host, beaming with pleasure and satisfaction.
The long dinner was almost ended. The guests had feasted upon a wild boar, which Pan Podliásski had killed in the chase, and which the cook had roasted whole and cunningly arranged standing erect upon a silver dish. The dessert was already finished; the noble retainers in their gala dress had carried round to the guests old mead of the finest quality, and German and Hungarian wines. The company was lively and merry. A handsome young nobleman stood up at the foot of the table. He had lately returned from France, where, at the king's court, he had grown accustomed to refined manners and courtly ways. Raising a golden goblet of wine in his right hand, and glancing round, he addressed the company:
'It is not the gratitude of a guest which persuades me to lift this goblet, nor even the courtesy of a Pole. No; I lift it in honour of our well-beloved host, because by his virtues Pan Joseph Podliásski is an ornament to the ranks of the Polish nobility. Courageous in war, generous and hospitable in time of peace, he is incapable of any action unworthy of his noble standing.'
Every one listened to the orator with evident pleasure. Pausing a moment for breath he would have continued, when suddenly an ugly little cock appeared at one of the open windows of the banqueting-hall, and cried aloud:
'Pan, give back the peasant's grindstone!'
The guests, startled and confused, sat whispering to one another. The young orator hesitated whether to continue his speech or not. The host grew first white, then red, and turned to his servants.
'Why do you stand staring?' he cried. 'Do you suppose that is what I maintain you for, that village fowls or cattle should disturb the pleasure of my guests?'
Then, turning back, Pan Podliásski tried to put on an airy manner.
'Excuse us, dear guests,' he said; 'the country is the country after all. We are not in Cracow, where fowls appear at noble banquets only on silver dishes or in the soup. Still, one can be as merry in the country as in Cracow, and I hope we shall prove it to be so.'
For all that, the magnate did not really feel at all so merry as he tried to appear; the guests, too, were no longer quite at ease.
'What's that about a grindstone?' many of them asked their neighbours; and those who had already heard from their servants about the persistent fowl related the history of the grindstone in a few words. A contemptuous expression appeared on many of the faces; and those magnates who disliked Podliásski went so far as to remark that it was unworthy of a great lord to soil his hands for a miserable grindstone.
All this did not escape the eyes of Pan Podliásski, and his blood boiled. Seizing a favourable moment, he beckoned to his most trustworthy servant, and, in a whisper, ordered him to find the cock, alive or dead. For that matter the servants had already been hunting the whole court and garden, but nothing came of it; the cock had long ago made his escape; and, hiding in the foliage of the highest tree in the neighbouring forest, waited till the danger was over.
The guests left earlier than they had intended. Pan Podliásski, standing on the great terrace to take leave of them, tried to conceal his annoyance under an affable manner. As soon, however, as the last rider disappeared from sight, his face grew dark, and he turned to the crowd of servants.
'Where is Doubinétzki?' he asked.
'Here I am, most illustrious Pan,' replied a warrior with gray moustaches, stepping forward.
'Look here, my faithful Ignatius; you have served me long and well; do me one more good service. Shoot that tiresome cock that gives me no peace.'
The honest face of the old nobleman, seamed with the scars of war, lighted up with an ironical smile, and his daring eyes flashed.
'Probably the Pan Voevoda has had too much to drink at dinner that he gives me such commands,' said he. 'How am I, Ignatius Doubinétzki, who have fought in fifty battles against Tartars, Turks, and Swedes; who last year, without assistance, drove away a whole marauding band of Tartars, and who in honourable combat have cut off the head of Akhmet Khan himself,—how I am now to go to war against barn-door fowls? No; I am a poor nobleman, and the Pan is a great magnate; but our honour is the same. Indeed, since it has come to speaking truth, perhaps I have more in the way of honour than the Pan; with all my poverty I would have been ashamed to covet a peasant's grindstone. And if you want a word of honest advice from old Doubinétzki, here it is: Leave that sort of thing alone, Pan Voevoda; it's not an honourable business.'
For some minutes Pan Podliásski could not believe his ears. But at the close of the old man's speech he turned white with rage, drew his sword from its sheath, and made a dash forward at Doubinétzki.
'Seize him! bind him! cut the rebel down!' he shrieked in frenzy. But it had all happened so suddenly that for a moment no one obeyed the magnate, or could decide what to do; all the more so as every one loved old Doubinétzki, and knew what a glorious fire-eater he was.
Old Ignatius, meanwhile, in his turn unsheathed his sword, sprang on to his horse, which stood ready saddled beside the gate, and galloped away unharmed. He was a free gentleman and a first-rate warrior, and any magnate would be glad to take him into his service.
Utterly beside himself with fury, Pan Podliásski went into the castle, and shut himself up in his bedchamber. He paced up and down with long strides, brooding over all that had passed. The thought that a good-for-nothing little fowl could embitter his life made him frantic. He was ready to instantly call up all his retainers, and give them strict commands to secure the cock, alive or dead. But then he remembered the whispering of his guests at dinner, the furtive glances of his servants, and the open rebellion of Doubinétzki. What was the use of commanding? Would he not be exposing himself to new failures, to new humiliations? And all this was the work of that cock!
Pan Podliásski felt as if he were stifled in the room, and went out into the garden. The barrels of pitch which had illuminated it during the banquet were almost burnt out; the pathways and arbours were deserted. Pan Joseph walked along several avenues, and then lay down upon a bench.
'Pan, give back the grindstone!' suddenly resounded over his head the hated voice of Scarlet-Comb.
Pan Podliásski started up as if he had been stung, drew the pistol from his belt, and fired upwards at random in the direction of the voice. Directly afterwards he heard a piteous shriek from the cock, and a warm drop of blood fell on to his hand.
'Ah! ah!' cried the magnate in angry delight; 'now you will leave off embittering my life, you loathsome little brute!'
Satisfied and triumphant, he peered about in the dark to find the cock; but seeing nothing, lay down again upon the bench, and soon fell asleep. Before half an hour had passed, however, the magnate sprang to his feet with a fearful cry, clasping his hands over his left eye. He was conscious of an intolerable pain, and something wet and warm and sticky was trickling down his face and hands. Dazed and blind, the Voevoda rushed headlong to the castle. Suddenly behind him there rang out the well-known cry:
'Pan, give back the grindstone! give back the peasant's grindstone!'
'Holy Virgin! The creature has pecked out my eye,' thought the landowner in horror, and it was only then he vaguely understood that he had not killed, but merely wounded, his persecutor.
Pan Podliásski did not confide to any one the manner in which he had lost his eye. He said that he had struck against a branch in the dark. He further declared that during his illness every noise disturbed him, and on this pretext he commanded all the windows in the castle to be tightly fastened, and placed sentinels at all the outer doors, with orders not only to admit no one, but even to let no one and nothing approach, neither dog, cat, nor bird. In reality the magnate was terribly afraid that Scarlet-Comb would peck out his right eye too.
The autumn set in. The stone castle was damp, cold, empty, and dreary. Its master, with a bandage over his left eye, sat in the huge dining hall, with its richly-carved oak walls, and warmed himself at the great open hearth where the embers lay smouldering and the fire still flickered in the remains of two logs. Suddenly, from somewhere in the distance, he heard a muffled but familiar cry:
'Pan, give back the grindstone!'
In an instant the Voevoda started up as though he had been scalded, and shrieked frantically for his servants.
'Search the castle and everywhere round it instantly,' he ordered. 'There's a cock somewhere that sets my teeth on edge with his crowing.'
Fifty Cossack retainers of the magnate, led by three nobles and about forty servants under the leadership of the steward, rushed to fulfil the Pan's commands. But though they ransacked all the rooms, corridors, and doorways,—though they carefully searched the garden and the courtyard, they came back and reported to their illustrious master that not the slightest sign of any bird at all was anywhere to be found. This was not surprising; it did not occur to anybody to climb up on to the roof; and there, beside the chimney, sat Scarlet-Comb.
'It must have been my fancy,' thought Pan Podliásski, and sat down again before the fire. But just at the moment when he was half falling asleep, there suddenly tumbled down the chimney into the fireplace something small and black, which instantly hopped out on to the floor with singed feathers, and cried:
'Pan, give back the grindstone!'
The Voevoda shrank away from the fowl in horror. Scarlet-Comb, taking advantage of his stupefaction, ran through the rooms, and succeeded in slipping past the sentinels and making his way right to the village.
The magnate stood breathless. 'One's not safe from him anywhere,' he thought; and a sense of dread fell upon him. He clapped his trembling hands, and ordered the servant who came in to fetch the steward instantly.
'Give the peasant Kogoútek his grindstone back again at once,' said Pan Podliásski, avoiding the steward's eyes; 'and give him ten ducats for compensation.'
The steward would have replied, but the Voevoda looked at him with such an expression that the words died on his lips.
That very day the grindstone was returned to Stanislas Kogoútek's yard. Thereupon the little cock, Scarlet-Comb, although badly scorched, with blisters on both claws, with his tail-feathers gone and his wing shot through, jumped up on to the gate and, proudly raising his little head, shouted to all the world:
'Cock-a-doodle-doo! the Pan has given back the peasant's grindstone!'
