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magistrate who squandered public money, the council that followed the magistrate like a calf with a rope around its neck. He had all the dark forces obstructing progress and enlightenment. He had suffered greatly in his pursuit, but he stood his ground and did not retreat a single step. He was like a lonely oak tree rising from a barren mountain slope which rain and deluge wore away, wasting the natural power of the earth. And although thunder crashed and storms raged around the oak, in summer, lo and behold, new oaklets grew up in the shade of its branches, and the slope became verdant, giving refuge to flowers and birds and promising to be of benefit to people. Thus, before Mikola Mikolishin’s eyes there grew up a younger generation which rebuilt the village that had once been ignorant and poor, but now was literate and prosperous. His last effort was the convocation of the common council to fight for new suffrage. Although old and weak, he drove around all the villages in the county and gathered ten thousand people for the council, ten thousand conscious heads demanding extensive civil rights. This action brought troops to the village. For two weeks, Romanian dragoons galloped around the quiet village streets, frightening children and especially the women who were afraid to visit their neighbors. For two weeks, bugles resounded in the nocturnal silence over the village-as in a military camp, followed by quite a few curses and quite a few other sins! The troops were recalled and the village returned to its former life. With the arrival of spring, the fields turned green, the orchards became white, and new hopes burst into bloom. Today he was going to vote in the first universal, direct, secret, though still unequal suffrage — he was going there with a sense of happiness for having contributed his bit to achieve this end. The sun was climbing higher but it did not burn — it rather warmed up the air. Truth was, clouds were charging the sun now and then to enshroud its bright rays. However, a westward wind scattered them in all directions of the world, swiping the sky clean like a housewife her front room before a holiday. “There’ll be good weather, children,” the old man said. “We’ll see spring.” “May God grant it, because the people haven’t finished their field work yet,” the sons replied. “Lean on me, Father; the ride is difficult for you,” the eldest son said. “Don’t worry. I’ll get there and back for sure,” the old man responded, although he knew that his son wished him well. With his strength spent, he had only a firm resolve to reach his destination. They were driving through fields sown with winter and spring wheat. The narrow strips of the peasants’ plots sparkled in the sun like bleached cloth. Flowers peeped out in between the strips, over which birds were flying, and an old cross was dozing by a ridge between two fields. “Under that cross the landlord’s footmen killed my father, your grandfather,” the old man said, taking off his cap. “You, children, will be beaten perhaps only by your own blunders and sins. Remember my words! And over there, a little further on near the ridge, my mother bore me into this world and brought me home in the hem of her skirt. Those were difficult times. God forbid they ever return.” He would have said more, but could not. Every word brought pain to his chest, as if the words he uttered were made of steel. He fell silent, only his eyes scanning the scenery. He wanted to take in as much of those fields, meadows and forests as he could for a journey to a place where he would not see them anymore perhaps. His faded eyes drifted from field to field as if parting with every single furrow and every single clod of earth. Far ahead near a forest they saw what looked like a camp — those were the voters who had come at dawn and were now resting by the forest. When some of the peasants overtook the wagon, they exchanged greetings and walked abreast. Though exhausted and aware that they were losing a workday, they walked happily along with raised heads. The younger men took up a song, some cracked jokes. Mikola Mikolishin regretted that he could not get down the wagon and walk beside them. He would have walked with them for years toward a better and happier future.
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