scampered out of the pen, and ran. But the bridegroom caught up with one of them and with his stake bashed him on the head, smashing it in. These villains, wishing to avenge their injury, went straight to their father and told him that they had been walking around the village when they had met the bride and joked with her; and that when her bridegroom saw this he attacked them, aided by his father. As proof they showed him one of the brothers’ smashed-in head. Enraged to the innermost part of his heart by the injury to his own born, the father boiled over with the wrath of fury. At once he ordered that the three villains, as he called the groom, bride, and groom’s father, be brought before him. When the three were in his presence, his first question was as to who had smashed open his son’s head. The groom did not deny what he had done and gave an account of the entire incident. ‘How did you dare,’ said the old assessor, ‘to lift a hand against your master? Even if he had spent the night before your wedding with your bride you should have been grateful for this to him. You shall not marry her. She will remain in my home and you will be punished.’ The decision made, he ordered that the groom, having given him over to his sons to do as they please, be whipped mercilessly with a cat-o’-nine-tails. Bravely did he withstand their beating, and his spirit was unflinching as he watched them begin to torture his father in the same way. But he was unable to bear it when he saw the master’s servants make to remove his bride into the house. The punishment was being delivered in the courtyard. In a split second he wrested her from the hands of her captors; freed, the pair of them fled the yard. Seeing this, the master’s sons stopped whipping the father and gave chase. Sensing they were catching up with him, the groom grabbed a plank and fought back. Meanwhile, the noise attracted other peasants to the courtyard of the manor house. Sympathizing as they did with the plight of the young peasant, and their hearts filled with rancor against their masters, they took his side. Seeing this, the assessor rushed there, began to chew them out, and with his walking stick landed such a blow on the first person he saw that he fell to the ground senseless. This was the signal for a general assault. All four of the masters were surrounded and, to put it succinctly, beaten to death on the very spot. They were all so reviled that not a single person wished to be denied the chance to participate in this killing, as they admitted themselves later. It was just at that moment that the chief of police of this district was passing through with his squad. He was an eyewitness to some of what occurred. He arrested the guilty men—and half the village was guilty; the investigation he conducted eventually went to the criminal court. The case was laid out very clearly and the guilty confessed to everything. In their defense, they cited only the excruciating deeds of their owners about which the entire province already knew. Such was the case on which, by virtue of my position, I was obliged to establish a final verdict: to condemn the guilty to a death sentence, commuted to a public beating and the life sentence of hard labor.
“In reviewing the case, I did not find sufficient or convincing grounds for conviction of the criminals. The peasants who killed their master committed murder. But was this murder not coerced? Was not its cause the dead assessor himself? Just as a third number obviously follows two numbers arithmetically, in this case, too, the consequence was necessary. The innocence of the killers was, at least to me, a mathematical certainty. If while I am walking a villain attacks me and, raising a knife above my head, wants to stab me, would I be considered a murderer if I prevent the crime and knock him down lifeless at my own feet? If some present-day fop should want to get even with me for well-deserved disdain and, on meeting me in an isolated place, draws his sword to attack me either to deprive me of my life or at the very least to wound me, would I be guilty if, having pulled out my sword for my own defense, I were to relieve society of a member causing a disturbance to the peace? Can we consider that such a deed violates the safety of a member of society if I commit it for my own salvation, if I do it to preempt my demise, if without it my own welfare would be irretrievably pitiable?
“Imbued with these thoughts, I felt, as you can imagine, a torment in my soul when considering the case. With my customary frankness, I disclosed my thoughts to my fellow justices. They raised their voices unanimously against me. They considered clemency and philanthropy a culpable defense of criminal deeds. They called me a fomenter of murder; they called me an accessory to the murderers. Their opinion was that all domestic security would vanish if my opinions were to spread. ‘Would any nobleman,’ they said, ‘henceforth be able to live securely on his estate? Would he see his commands fulfilled? If those who defied the will of their master, not to mention his murderers, were declared not guilty, then obedience would be disrupted, the domestic contract would be destroyed, the chaos inherent in primordial societies would recur. Agriculture would die out, its tools would be destroyed, cultivated fields would be barren and be overgrown with unproductive weed; villagers, unencumbered by any authority above them, would rove about indolent and slothful and would disperse. Cities would experience the omnipotent hand of destruction. Craft would become alien to city dwellers, manufacture would
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