Sunday had come round: a bright September Sunday, with plenty of
gossamers and sunshine in the air.
All Boryna’s livestock was feeding in the stubble beyond the barn; and
Kuba, watching heedfully over them in the shadow of a tall and dome-like
cornstack, was at the same time teaching Vitek his prayers.
“Now attend to what I am telling you,” he said solemnly; “these are holy
words.”
“I’m attending, Kuba, I’m attending.”
“Then why are you looking at those orchards?”
“I see the Klembas have got some apples on their trees still.”
“Oh! and you’d like to eat them? Did you plant them?—Come, say the Creed
again.”
“You did not hatch the partridges, either; yet you have taken the whole
brood.”
“Silly lad! the apples are Klemba’s, but partridges belong to our Lord.
Do you see?”
“But the field where you took them belongs to the Squire.”
“And the field, too, is the Lord’s. You’re too clever by half.—Now say
the Creed.”
He did so, but in haste, for it hurt him to stay on his knees so long.
“I think that filly is going into Michael’s clover!” he exclaimed,
preparing to run after her.
“Don’t trouble about her, but say your prayers.”
He went through them at last, but had to rest on his heels, and turned
and twisted in every direction. A band of sparrows having settled on a
tree close by, he shied a clod of earth at them, and at once beat his
breast in contrition.
“Ah, what about the Offering at the end? Swallowed like an overripe
pear, I suppose?”
He said the Offering, and immediately started up to wake Lapa and play
with it.
“The calf-like witling! Always scampering about!”
“Are you going to take the birds to his Reverence?”
“Yes, I am.”
“They would be nice, if roasted here....”
“You have potatoes to roast. What would you more?”
“See, they are going to church already!” cried Vitek, glancing through
the hedge and the orchard-trees at the red aprons that went twinkling
along the road.
It was pretty warm, and all the doors and windows of the huts had been
thrown wide open. Here and there, in front of the huts, some were still
washing their faces, or combing or plaiting their hair, or beating their
Sunday garments, which had suffered from a week’s stay in the trunks;
but others had already started, in raiment of the hues of vermilion
poppies, or saffron-tinted dahlias, or nasturtium flowers. Women and
girls, in bright array, farm-hands, little children, grave husbandmen,
in long white capotes that reminded you of huge sheaves of rye, were all
slowly wending their way to church along the roads that led to the pond,
which reflected the sunbeams like a golden trencher.
And joyfully the big bells boomed, and told of Sunday, and rest, and
prayer.
Kuba had meant to wait till they rang no longer, but his patience gave
way, so, putting the partridges under his capote, he said:
“Vitek! as soon as they have done ringing, drive the cattle to the byre,
and then come to church.”
He then started off—as fast as he could, for he was very lame—along the
road, bordered with orchards, and so strewn with yellow linden leaves,
that he seemed to be walking over a carpet of motley fallow hue.
The priest’s dwelling stood over against the church, at the bottom of a
large garden, in which there were trees still laden with green pears or
ruddy apples. All over the porch there grew a wild vine, the leaves of
which were now of a rich crimson. Kuba stopped outside, embarrassed, and
looking timidly in at the window and the passage. He durst not go in,
and stayed by a large flower-bed, gay with roses, gilly-flowers, and
asters, whose fragrance was very sweet. From the roof, green with moss,
a flock of white doves flew down to settle on the porch.
The priest was walking in his garden, saying his Office; but time and
again he would shake an apple or a pear-tree. The fruit fell in a
sounding shower, and he gathered them up in the skirts of his soutane.
Kuba came up to him, and humbly embraced his knees.
“What is it you say?—Ah, Kuba, Boryna’s man.”
“Yes. I have brought your Reverence a few partridges.”
“Thanks for your gift. Come this way.”
Kuba accordingly entered the passage, but stopped at the threshold of
the room. He feared to go in, and would only look through the open door
at the various pictures that hung against the walls. He crossed himself,
and breathed a devout sigh, so dazzled by the splendour he saw, that the
tears started to his eyes, and he felt like saying prayers. Only he was
afraid to kneel down upon the polished slippery floor, lest he should
soil it.
Presently the priest came out of the room, saying, as he handed him a
_zloty_:
“God reward you, Kuba; you are a good man and a godly one, who never
miss church on Sundays.”
Kuba again embraced the priest’s knees, so overwhelmed with bliss that
he never knew how he got out and on to the road.
“What, so much money for so few birds! How I love his Reverence!” he
whispered, looking over the coins given him. He had more than once
brought him birds, or a leveret, or mushrooms; but never had he received
so much: at most, ten kopeks and a kind word. And now! O sweet Lord! a
whole _zloty_!—And he had called Kuba into his room besides, and said
such gentle words! Lord, Lord!
“None but the priest has regard for poor people, no one else!—May God
and the Blessed Virgin of Chenstohova grant him health!—Yes, a good man
you are, and a kind one!—All the village, farm-hands and owners, only
give me nicknames—call me Cripple, Good-for-Nothing, and Hanger-on. No
one else speaks to me with the least kindness or compassion ... no one
cares for me, but the horses and the dogs. And yet I am of an honest
family: no foundling, but a farmer’s son.”
He raised his head higher at the thought, straightened himself, and
looked almost defiantly on those about him going to the churchyard, and
on the horses which stood harnessed to the carts outside the enclosure.
He donned his cap, and covered his head of tangled hair, and slowly,
with dignified mien, made for the church; thrusting his hands into his
girdle, as a farmer would have done, though the dust flew up as he
dragged his lame leg after him.
No. This day he would not, as his wont was, stay in the entrance. He
pushed boldly through the crowd, even close to the High Altar railings,
where only the husbandmen used to stand, where his master was standing,
and the Voyt himself, and the men who carried the canopy over his
Reverence in the procession, and those who, taper in hand, surrounded
the altar at the Elevation!
They regarded him with amazement and indignation. More than once he
heard taunts and words of upbraiding, and was scowled at, as one scowls
at a dog that goes where it is not wanted. But to-day he did not mind.
The money was tight in his clenched fist; his mind, full of sweet and
gentle feelings. He had a sensation as if he had but now been shriven;
nay, he felt even better.
Divine Service began. He knelt down close to the Communion Table, and
sang along with the others, his eyes piously fixed upon the altar,
whereon was seen the image of God the Father: a hoary magnate,
stern-looking—just like the Squire of Djazgova Vola. In the centre, Our
Lady of Chenstohova, in gilt raiment, looked down upon him.
On every side, gold shone bright, tapers gleamed, and nosegays of red
flowers were flaming. From the walls, from the stained-glass windows,
austere saintly visages, surrounded with aureoles, bent above him;
streams of gold, purple, and violet came down, flooding his face and
head with rainbow tints, and he felt as when he plunged into the pond at
sundown, when its waters reflected the sky. Dissolved into ecstasies
with the joy of the beauty before him, he was too much awed to move, and
knelt motionless, gazing at the sweet dark maternal face of the Virgin
of Chenstohova, and with parched lips said prayer after prayer, and sang
with such force and fervour, welling up from the inmost depths of his
enraptured heart, that his husky tuneless voice was heard high above the
others.
“Kuba! you are bleating like the Jew’s goat!” someone whispered at his
elbow.
“For the Lord Jesus and His Virgin Mother!” he replied.
The priest had now gone up to the pulpit. All present lifted their heads
to gaze on that white-surpliced figure, which, bending forward over the
people, read the Gospel of that Sunday to them. This ended, the sermon
began: long, but so powerful that many wept tears, and many heads were
bowed down in remorse. Kuba’s looks were fixed on him, as on some holy
image: he marvelled at the thought that this was the very man who had
just talked with him, and given him a _zloty_. For now he was
transfigured into an archangel in a chariot of fiery light. His face
turned pale and his eyes flashed, as he raised his voice to denounce the
sins of his people: greed and drunkenness, lust and spite, disrespect
for the aged, and ungodly behaviour. And his voice resounded, calling
upon them, and entreating and beseeching them to repent; until Kuba,
dismayed at the thought of all these sins, and the pity and the sorrow
of them, wept aloud, and all the congregation after him—not women only,
but burly husbandmen as well—and the whole place was filled with the
sounds of sobs. Then, when the priest, concluding with an Act of
Contrition, turned towards the altar, and went down on his knees, a cry
ran through the building; all the people fell prostrate on the pavement,
like a forest blown down by a whirlwind; and a cloud of dust rose over
the multitude that lay thus, tearful and lamenting, heart-broken and
contrite, imploring the mercy of God.
Then silence again prevailed—the silence of prayer and of heartfelt
communing with God: for now High Mass had begun. The organ poured forth
low muffled sounds of awe and adoration; and Kuba’s soul was full, even
to bursting, of love and ecstatic bliss.
Suddenly the accents of the priest were audible from the altar, floating
above the bowed heads of the multitude—strange thrilling sounds, and
holy, holy words; and then the bells thundered in a rapid volley, and
the incense rose in odoriferous pillars, wrapping the worshippers in a
sweet-smelling mist. Oh, then Kuba was seized with such blissful rapture
that he could only sigh, and stretch his arms wide, and beat his breast,
swooning almost with the joy of his own nothingness!
“O Jesus! Jesus whom I love!” he murmured, in dazed annihilation. But he
held the _zloty_ tight in his clenched fist: for now the Elevation was
over, and Ambrose was now coming round with the plate, clinking the
coins thereon to tell of the collection for the church tapers. Kuba
rose, threw his _zloty_ on to the plate, and slowly took back from it a
few kopeks—just as he had seen the farmers doing many a time. And with
infinite delight, he heard Ambrose say:
“May God reward you!”
Presently they brought the tapers round, for the Blessed Sacrament was
exposed, and there was to be a procession round the church afterwards.
Kuba put forth his hand, having a great mind for a larger one: but his
eye met the cold reproving glance of Dominikova, who was standing near
him, along with Yagna: so he chose a small taper. This he lit
immediately; for the priest was holding the Monstrance in his hands, and
turning towards the people. Intoning the hymn, the Celebrant slowly
descended the altar-steps and into the lane at once formed for him—a
lane of singers, of flickering lights, and gaudy colours, and droning
voices. The procession began to move, the organ thundered mightily, the
bells joined in with clamorous uproar, and the congregation took up the
chant with voices raised in the grand unison of faith. In front of the
crowd, and of the twinkling sinuous lines of tapers moving on, there
gleamed a silver crucifix; following this came the holy images, dimly
seen through a haze of cambric, and surrounded with flowers and lace and
ornaments of tinsel. The procession arrived at the great church door,
through which the sun irradiated the clouds of incense that it pierced;
and as the banners stooped to pass, the breezes made them float and
flutter and flap, like the wings of some great green and purple birds.
Round the church the procession went, Kuba sheltering his taper well
with one hand, as he doggedly limped on, close to the priest, over whom
Boryna, the blacksmith, the Voyt, and Thomas Klemba bore a red canopy.
Under this, the golden-rayed Monstrance shot forth its beams, and was so
directly turned to the sun that you could see it shine through the
semi-transparency of the Sacred Host at the centre.
He was so absorbed that he more than once stumbled or trod upon
someone’s foot.
“Clumsy one, take heed!”
“You lame scarecrow, you!”
But he did not hear these invectives. Grandly the chants resounded,
rising like billows of melody that dashed and broke around that pale
white sun within the Monstrance. The throats of bronze overhead
unceasingly rolled out their sonorous notes into the air, till the
maples and the linden-trees shook their boughs, and now and then some
reddish leaf flew down from their tops, like a frightened bird. And
high, very high above them, over the church steeple and the drooping
trees, a flock of startled doves was wheeling.
* * * * *
The service was over, and they all poured into the cemetery round the
church, Kuba amongst the rest.
Though he knew there would be a feast that day at the farm-house, he was
in no hurry, but stayed to talk with his acquaintances, and gradually
drew near his masters, where Antek and his wife were standing in
conversation with others, as is the custom after High Mass.
Another group, that had met in the road outside the lich-gate, had for
leader the blacksmith: a stalwart fellow, dressed town-fashion from head
to foot, in a black capote (spotted with drops of wax on the back!), and
a dark-blue cap; he wore his trousers over his boots, and a silver chain
adorned his waistcoat. His face was ruddy, his hair curly, his moustache
red, his talk loud. And his laugh too: his was the smartest wit in all
the village, and when he made a butt of anyone—well, that man’s lot was
not happy. Boryna watched him and listened. He could make out that the
blacksmith spared not even his own people. Was he, then, likely to spare
a father-in-law, with whom he was at odds for his wife’s dowry? But
Boryna could not hear much: Dominikova, just leaving church with Yagna,
now passed in front of him. They did not get on fast, for they stopped
in the churchyard to greet or converse with many people. He heard a few
words about the priest, said by Dominikova in low and pious tones;
meanwhile Yagna looked about her at the people. Having the advantage of
a stature as tall as the tallest there, she was also looked at by many a
farm-hand, who smoked cigarettes and grinned at her from outside the
lich-gate. She was indeed a fine woman, and well dressed, and with such
a bearing that many a country gentleman’s daughter could scarce vie with
her.
The girls and married women who passed by all gazed on her, either in
envy or simply with the desire of feasting their eyes on her striped
skirt of rich stuff and ever-changing rainbow tints; her black highlows,
laced up with red shoestrings to where the dainty white stockings
appeared; her corset of cherry-coloured velvet, gold-embroidered,
flaming, dazzling; and the strings of amber and coral beads she wore
round her full white throat, whence a bunch of particoloured ribbons
streamed down her back.
But Yagna took no note of envious looks. Her deep-blue eyes strayed to
and fro, till they met Antek’s, fixed upon her; then she flushed
crimson, and plucked at her mother’s sleeve to go home.
“Wait a little, Yagna!” the latter called after her, greeting Boryna.
She could hardly get away, for the farm-hands were now crowding about
her, with salutations and jests—the latter addressed to Kuba, and not
without a sharp tang. For Kuba was following her, and staring as at some
fair picture. With a gesture of contempt, he turned to limp home; his
masters were going that way, and he had to see to the horses.
“Yes, she’s a picture!” he blurted out, when he had seated himself in
the porch.
Yuzka was just then bringing the dinner in. “Who’s a picture?” she
asked.
He cast his eyes down, abashed and afraid lest he should have betrayed
himself. But the dinner was long and abundant; so he soon forgot all
about that.
They all ate leisurely, with grave miens and in silence, until the edge
of their appetite was blunted, and they could now talk and enjoy their
meal with more dainty zest.
Yuzka was that day on duty as housewife, and saw to it that the platters
should be always properly supplied, ever and anon bringing more food,
lest the bottom of any dish perchance be seen.
The porch where they were dining was obviously the best place in such
pleasant weather. Lapa ran to and fro, whining for food, and even rising
up to look into the dishes, till someone threw him a bone. He carried it
off, and barked for joy when his masters called him by name, and jumped
at the sparrows, perched upon the hedge in expectation of crumbs to eat.
Passers-by merrily wished them joy: to which good wishes they all would
answer with thanks in chorus.
“I hear you have been taking some birds to his Reverence,” Boryna said.
“Yes, I have.” And, setting down his spoon, Kuba told how the priest had
invited him into the room, and what a number of big books he had seen
there.
“When has he time to read them all?” Yuzka wondered.
“When? Why, of an evening. He walks about the room, and drinks tea, and
is continually reading.”
“Books of piety they must all be,” Kuba added.
“What else should they be? Not spelling-books, surely!”
“He reads the paper the village factor brings him daily,” Hanka added.
And her husband remarked:
“Yes, for by the papers we know what’s done all the world over.”
“The smith takes a paper in, and the miller too.”
“A paper fit for the smith, no doubt,” remarked Boryna, with a sneer.
“As it happens, the same paper that his Reverence takes in,” was Antek’s
hot retort.
“You know, then? Have you read it?”
“Yes, I have ... more than once.”
“You’ll get none the wiser for his counsels.”
“And whom do you hold wise? One with seventeen acres, or eight head of
cattle, perhaps?”
“Hold your tongue before I lose my temper! Always picking quarrels with
me!—You’re too full of bread—_my_ bread!”
“Aye, so full that like a fishbone it sticks in my throat!”
“Then seek better bread. Hanka’s three acres will give you rolls!”
“Potatoes only; but these none will grudge me.”
“I grudge you nothing.”
“No? I work like an ox, nor ever get a kind word.”
“Elsewhere life is easier, and food given free!”
“Elsewhere it is better, surely.”
“Then go and try it!”
“What, empty-handed? Not I!”
“I’ll give you a staff, to keep the dogs away.”
“Father!” Antek shouted, starting to his feet, but falling back at once,
for Hanka caught him round the waist. The old man glared at him
fiercely: then, crossing himself as if dinner were over, he went out and
into his room, saying in a hard voice:
“D’ye think I’ll let myself be pensioned off by you? Never!”
All rose at once and left the porch, except Antek, who stayed alone
there, pondering. Kuba took the horses to the clover beyond the barn,
and lay down to sleep beside a cornstack. But he could not; the full
meal lay heavy on his chest. Moreover, it now occurred to him that if he
had a gun he could kill birds enough—and, it might be, a leveret or two
into the bargain—to offer every Sunday to his Reverence.
The smith could forge him a gun. He had made one for the keeper; and
this, when let off in the woods, was plainly heard in the village!
“A first-rate workman!—But then he wants five roubles to make one!” He
fell into a brown study.
“Where am I to get them from? Winter is at hand: I must buy me a
sheepskin coat. My boots, too, will not last beyond Yule-tide—Well,
there are due me ten roubles, and two bits of clothing—trousers and a
shirt. A sheepskin coat, short though it may be, will come to five
roubles. Boots, three more. I must get a cap; and a rouble will have to
go besides, for his Reverence to say a mass for my departed. So then
nothing at all will be left!”—He was disappointed, fumbled in his
pockets for a little tobacco that might be left, and so came upon the
ready money he had previously forgotten.
“Ah! here I have some cash!”—He no longer cared to sleep. From the
tavern there came a far-off sound of music, an echo of shouts, softened
by the distance.
“There they are—dancing, and drinking vodka, and smoking too!” he
sighed; and, lying down again on his stomach, he glanced over at the
hobbled horses, that had gathered together and were nibbling at each
other’s necks. Then he decided that in the evening he too would go to
the tavern, purchase some tobacco, and just have a look at the dancers.
From time to time, he would glance at his money, then at the sun, which
was that day going down with exceeding sluggishness, as if it also
needed its Sunday rest. His longing for the tavern was now so great that
he could hardly bear it; but he refrained from going just then, and only
turned over on his side, and groaned within himself. Antek and Hanka had
come out from behind the barn, and were walking along the dividing
pathway between the fields.
Antek went foremost; Hanka, leading her little boy by the hand, came
after. At times, as they walked on slowly, they spoke a few words. Then
Antek would bend down, and stroke the blades that were sprouting forth.
“It is growing up.—As thick as the bristles of a brush,” he muttered,
casting his eyes over those acres, sown by himself and for himself: the
wages of work done for his father.
“Thick, yes: but Father’s corn is better still. It grows up like a
forest,” Hanka said, casting a look on the neighbouring cornfields.
“The land might be better manured, had we but three cows.”
“And a horse of our own....”
“Aye, then we might raise some fowls or things for market. As it is,
what can we do? Father counts every husk of chaff, and thinks a lot of a
potato-peeling.”
“And taunts us with every morsel he gives!”
They could speak no more. Their hearts were too full of gall and
bitterness, and the angry gnawing pain of revolt.
After a time: “Eight acres or thereabouts would be our share, if ...” he
observed, absently.
“No more. There’s Yuzka, and the smith’s wife, and Gregory and
ourselves,” she counted.
“If we paid money down to the smith, and kept the hut, and sixteen acres
with it?”
“But have you the money to pay?” she cried, overwhelmed with a sense of
helplessness; and the tears started to her eyes, as she gazed at her
father-in-law’s fields—that land, precious as pure gold, whereon, aye,
on every inch of it, wheat and rye and barley and beets might be grown.
“Don’t cry, you silly thing; at any rate, we shall have eight acres of
our own one day.”
“Oh, if we had but half as many, with the hut and the cabbagepatch!” She
pointed to the long stretch of ground, bluish-green with heads of
cabbages; and they both bent their steps that way. At its edge they sat
down under a bush; Hanka suckled the child, which had begun to cry for
food, while Antek rolled a cigarette, lit it, puffed, and scowled.
He said not a word to his wife of the pain that was devouring him, and
burned within his heart like coals of fire. For neither could he have
told her, nor she have understood him: as is usual with women, who have
no sort of initiative, who neither reflect nor catch the sense of
things, but who live—so to say—only as the shadows which men throw.
“But,” Hanka went on to say, “Father has ready money by him, has he
not?”
“That he has!”
“Why, he brought Yuzka a coral necklace worth as much as a cow; and he
is always sending money to Gregory through the Voyt.”
Antek assented, but his mind was wandering elsewhere.
“It is wronging us all!—And the clothes your mother left! he has them
locked up, nor so much as lets them see the light: skirts and kerchiefs,
caps and beads....” She went on thus a long time, telling of all these
things, and of wrongs done, and grievances, and hopes: but Antek
remained obstinately silent. At last, out of patience, she shook him by
the shoulder:
“Are you awake?”
“Aye, and listening. Talk away, it will do you good. And when you have
done, say so.”
Hanka, who was naturally inclined to weep, and had many a cause for
sadness besides, here burst into tears; he spoke to her, she cried, as
to a girl he scorned: he cared neither for her nor for her child.
At this, Antek rose to his feet, and replied contemptuously:
“Lift up your voice: these”—with a toss of his head towards some crows
flying past them—“these will hear and take pity on you!” and, settling
his cap on his head, he made for the village with great strides.
“Antek! Antek!” she called after him, in sorrow; but he did not even
turn his head.
With a very heavy heart, she wrapped up the baby, and made for home.—So
he would not let her talk to him about things, or complain of anything.
Oh, he was very friendly, Antek, he was indeed! It was always, Work,
work, work; and, See to this, and to that, and to the other thing; and,
Stay at home! Nothing else! No consideration, no compassion, no
fellowship at all!—Other women enjoyed themselves in the tavern, or went
to a wedding.—But Antek! She knew not what to make of him. Sometimes he
was so gentle, that gentler could not be; but again, and for weeks
together, he would scarce utter a word to her, or give her a glance: it
was think, think, think—all the time. True, he had cause enough.... Why
should not his father make over the land to him now?... It was high time
for the old man to retire and let them keep him.... If he did, she would
take as much care of him as she would of her own father....
She would willingly have talked to Kuba; but he leaned back against the
cornstack, pretending to sleep, though the sun was shining straight into
his eyes. And no sooner had she disappeared round the corner of the barn
than he got up, brushed the straw from his clothes, and slowly took his
way by the orchards to the tavern.
The tavern stood at the farther end of the village, beyond the priest’s
house, at the beginning of the poplar road.
There were not many people there yet. The music was heard at intervals,
but no one had begun to dance. The lads and lasses preferred to romp in
the orchard, or to stand about the house, or close to the walls, where
plenty of women and girls were sitting on piles of deal logs, still
fresh and yellow from the forest. The biggest room, with its dingy
smoke-tinged rafters, was all but empty; the tiny window-panes, grey
with dust, let so little pass of the red glow of the approaching
sundown, that scarcely any got through to fall on the worn uneven floor;
and in the nooks and corners the dusk was very deep.
Only Ambrose was there, with a member of the village Confraternity; they
stood, bottle in hand, chatting together close to the window, and
frequently drinking to each other’s health.
Yagustynka was at the tavern, too, making herself unpleasant to
everyone, and uncompromisingly angry with the whole world, because her
children had treated her ill, and she had in her old age to seek work
away from them. No one, however, answered her invectives; so she made
for the small dark chamber, where the smith was sitting together with
Antek and several other younger men.
A lamp swung from the murky beams, shedding a dim yellowish light on
heads shaggy with luxuriant blond hair. The men sat in a circle, with
their elbows on the table. All eyes were fixed on the blacksmith, who,
flushed and bending forward, now stretched out his arms, now banged the
table with his fists; but he spoke, nevertheless, in subdued tones.
Outside, the bass-viols were grumbling, like the humming flight of a
bumble-bee that has got into a room. The violin would suddenly shed
forth strong loud notes, as of a bird calling its mate; or the cymbal
set up a drumming quavering din: and then all would again be quiet.
Kuba had made straight for the bar, behind which Yankel, the Jewish
tavern-keeper, was sitting, in his skullcap and shirt-sleeves (for the
weather was warm), stroking his grey beard, swaying to and fro, and
reading out of a book he held close to his eyes.
Kuba, taking thought, came forward step by step, counted his money over,
scratched his head, and then stood still, till Yankel noticed him, and
without interruption in his prayers and swaying motions, jingled the
glasses once or twice.
“One-eighth of a litre—but no water in it!” was his order at last.
Yankel silently held his left hand out for the money, and throwing the
verdigris-eaten coins into a tray, inquired:
“In a glass?”
“Not in a boot, I suppose!” Kuba returned. Withdrawing to the very end
of the bar, he drank off the first glass, spat on the ground, and looked
round the room; the second dispatched, he held the flask up to the
light, saw it empty, and pounded on the bar with it.
“Another!—And a packet of tobacco!” he ordered; more boldly now, for the
vodka was filling him with pleasant warmth, and a peculiar sense of
confidence.
“Got your wages to-day, Kuba?”
“Not likely. Is it New Year’s Day?”
“Have a little rum?”
“No. I don’t care.” He counted his money, and sorrowfully glanced at the
rum-bottle.
“But I’ll trust you; don’t I know Kuba?”
“I dare not.—‘Who purchases on trust will soon not have a crust,’” he
answered, dryly.
Nevertheless, Yankel left the rum-bottle close at his elbow. He wanted
not to take it, and meant to go out; but the rum had such a scent that
he at last gave way, and took a long draught on the impulse of the
moment.
“This money, did you earn it in the forest?” Yankel inquired, with
patient importunity.
“Caught birds in a net; gave six to his Reverence. He gave me a
_zloty_.”
“A _zloty_ for six, did he? Why, I would have given you five kopeks for
each of them.”
“But—but——” cried Kuba, astounded, “are partridges kosher?”
“Never mind about that; only bring me lots of them, and for every one
you bring, you will get five kopeks of ready money. And the rum you have
drunk will be thrown into the bargain. Is it well?”
“What, Yankel! Five kopeks for each?”
“My word is no idle wind. For those six partridges, Kuba, you would have
got, not two-eighths of a litre of vodka, but four! together with rum,
and a herring, and a roll, and a packet of tobacco. Do you understand?”
“I do. Half a litre, and a herring, and ... I am not a fool, I can make
it all out.—Quite true—Half a litre, and rum, and tobacco, and rolls,
and one entire herring....” He was by this time somewhat fuddled by the
fumes of the vodka.
“Will you bring the birds to me, Kuba?”
“Half a litre, and a herring, and.... Yes, I will.—You see, had I but a
gun,” he continued, his brain now a little clearer; but then he fell to
counting again. “A sheepskin, now, will come to five roubles ... and
boots, too, I need ... three roubles. No, I can’t manage it: the smith
wants five for a gun—as much from me as from Rafal.—No!” He was thinking
out loud.
Yankel make a swift calculation with a bit of chalk, and then whispered
low in his ear:
“Could you shoot a doe?”
“With my fists—how? With a gun I could.”
“Can you shoot then—properly?”
“You’re a Jew, Yankel, so you don’t know this: but everybody here knows
I went along with the masters in the last insurrection; that’s how I got
shot in the leg. Oh, yes, yes, I can shoot!”
“I’ll get you a gun and powder, and whatever you may want. Only, what
you shoot you are to bring to me, Kuba! For a doe, you shall have a
whole rouble. You hear me? a whole rouble! For the powder, you will pay
fifteen kopeks, that I shall deduct for every doe shot. Then, for the
wear and tear of the gun, I shall want half a bushel of oats.”
“A rouble for a doe? and fifteen kopeks for the powder?... A whole
rouble? How do you make that out?”
Yankel again went over every particular. Kuba only understood one point.
“Take oats out of the horses’ mouths?” he said. “That I’m not going to
do.”
“Why should you? Boryna has oats ... not only in the mangers.”
“But—but that would be like....” He stared at Yankel, and tried to make
things out.
“They all do that! Did you never wonder where the farm-hands got all
their money from? How else are they to have their tobacco, and their nip
of vodka, and their dance of Sundays?”
“How? what? you scurvy fellow! Am I a thief, say?” he suddenly thundered
out, striking on the table with his fist, so that the glasses rang.
“Ah! Kuba, you’ll fly out at me, will you? Then pay your score and go to
the devil!”
But he neither paid nor left. He was penniless, and in debt to the Jews
besides. So he only drooped heavily over the bar, in an attempt to make
out the reckoning. And Yankel, growing kind, poured him out some more
rum—pure this time—and said not a word.
More and more people had by now thronged into the tavern, for the
twilight had deepened, and the lamps were lit. The music sounded to a
quicker measure; the noise waxed loud; the folk formed groups around the
bar, or along the walls, or in the centre of the room. They talked,
gossiped, grumbled; and some drank one to another. But as a rule this
was at rare intervals. For how could they do otherwise? They had not
come to carouse, but only—well, so: to meet in a neighbourly way, and
confabulate, and learn what there was to be learned. It was Sunday, and
there was surely no sin in indulging one’s curiosity a little, and
drinking a few glasses here and there with one’s acquaintances: provided
always it was done seemingly, without offending God. His Reverence
himself did not forbid that. Why, even beasts of burden, for example,
were glad and required to rest after labour! So the elderly husbandmen
sat at the table, and certain of the women, too, in red petticoats and
red kerchiefs, each looking like a hollyhock in bloom. And as all talked
at once, the murmur of voices filled the whole place, like the rustling
of a great wood; and the trampling of feet was as the strokes of flails
beating the wheat upon the threshing-floor: while the fiddle sang out
with a merry tune:
“_Who will—who will after me?_” they cried, and the bass-viols growled
the reply:
“_All must follow—follow thee!_” Meanwhile the cymbal, fluttering about
with a sound as of laughter, made a joyful noise with its jingling
little bells.
There were not many dancers; but these stamped with such lusty goodwill
that the floor creaked, the table rocked, the bottles clinked one
against the other now and then, or even a glass would be knocked over.
But it was no grand affair after all: the day was one of no special
solemnity, such as a wedding or a betrothal in church. They merely
danced to have a little fun and make their backs and their legs
straighter from the week’s work. Only, there were the lads who were to
be taken into the army towards the end of autumn: those drank deep for
very grief. And no wonder, having so soon to go amongst strangers, and
into a foreign land.
Of these, the Voyt’s young brother was the noisiest; and after him,
Martin Byalek, Thomas Sikora, Paul Boryna (a first cousin of Antek who
had also come at twilight to the tavern: only that day he did not dance,
but sat in the smaller room with the smith and his companions), and
lastly Franek from the mill, a short, thickset, curly-headed young man:
the greatest talker of them all, a rakish youngster much given to
joking, and so excessively fond of girls that his face was seldom
without a bruise or a scratch. This evening he was quite tipsy to start
with, and stood near the bar now, along with fat Magda (from the
organist’s house), who was six months gone with child.
The priest had given him public reproof from the pulpit, and urged him
to marry her. But Franek would not obey, because he had to go to the
army in autumn, and what should he do with a wife there?
Magda now drew him into a corner, and was saying something in a tearful
voice; but he answered as ever:
“You’re a fool. Did I entice you, say? I’ll pay for the christening, and
give you a rouble or so—as much as I choose to give.” He was stupefied
with drink, and pushed her away so roughly that she sank down on the
ground near Kuba, who was sleeping close to the stove, his head in the
ashes. Then Franek went off to drink again with Ambrose and the farmers,
who were all willing to pay for him, to get their corn ground sooner.
“Have a drink, Franek, and pray get my stuff ground quick: my wife is
worrying me—says she hasn’t enough flour to make any more dumplings.”
“Ah! and mine is continually grumbling, because we have no groats.”
“And mine must have oatmeal for the pig we are fattening.”
Franek drank, promised everything, and bragged very loud about what he
could do. It was by his orders, he said, that everything was done at the
mill. The miller had to do his will ... and if not! well, he, Franek,
knew of means to cause vermin to breed in the flour-bins—to make the
stream run dry—to kill the fishes till the pond should stink—and rot the
flour, so that it would be good for nothing in the world....
“And I, if you did that to me, would pluck the wool off your curly ram’s
head!” cried a voice: it was Yagustynka’s. She was always present where
she found most company, being there most likely to find also some gossip
or kinsman to offer her a drop of vodka, fearing her acrimonious tongue.
Franek too, drunk as he was, felt apprehensive, and answered her not a
word. She knew, indeed, too much about him and his management of the
mill. Triumphant, and also rather flustered with drink, she set her arms
akimbo, and danced and stamped and shouted in time with the music.
“What I say is true,” the smith in the adjoining room remarked; “for
there it stands, in print in the papers—letters as big as an ox. There
is no nation on earth that lives as we do. Not one!—Why, every big
landowner domineers over us; so does every priest; so does every
official. And all we have to do is work, and starve, and bow low to all
men, lest they strike us in the face!—We have so little land of our own,
that—for many of us—there presently will not be the least little patch
left.... Meanwhile, the Squire has more land to himself than two
villages put together!—Yesterday they were saying in court that there is
to be a redistribution of land.”
“Whose land?”
“The gentlemen’s, of course.”
Yagustynka, who had come in, leaned over the table and laughed.
“Did you give it them, that you take it away! You are marvellous free
with other people’s property!”
“Folk have self-government there,” the smith continued, without heeding
the old woman’s interruption. “There, everybody goes to school; they all
live in gentlemen’s houses, and are gentlemen.”
“Where may that be?” Yagustynka asked of Antek, who sat at the farther
end of the table.
“In warm countries.”
“Then,” she screamed out angrily, “why does the smith not go there
himself? The dirty dog! he is throwing dust in your eyes, lying to you
... and you blockheads believe him!”
“Yagustynka, pray be so good as to go peacefully whence you came.”
“No, I will not! The tavern is for us all; and I, poor as I am, have as
much right here as you. You play the teacher here! you, who serve the
Jews, who cringe to the officials, who pull off your cap to the Squire
from a mile away! You loud-mouthed ranter, you! Oh, I know of....” She
said no more. The smith had taken her under the ribs, pushed the door
open with his foot, and pitched her into the big room, where she lay
sprawling on the floor.
Without a word of reviling, she picked herself up, and called out
cheerily:
“As strong as a horse, you are! I’d fain have such a husband!”
The folk burst into a guffaw, and she went out to curse in silence and
alone.
By this time the tavern had begun to empty; the music had ceased, and
the people were going home. The night was warm and the moon shone
bright: no one stayed but the recruits, who shouted and drank their
fill, and Ambrose, who, being exceeding mellow, had rushed into the
middle of the road, singing and reeling, from one side to the other.
The knot of men who had the blacksmith for leader had also left the
place.
The recruits too, a little later, when Yankel was putting out the
lights, staggered forth, all arm in arm, and went down the road, bawling
songs and howling and bellowing so that the dogs bayed at them.
Kuba alone remained, so fast asleep in the ashes, that Yankel had to
awaken him. He would not rise, though, but kicked out, and aimed blows
in the air.
“Off, Jew!” he stammered. “I will sleep as I choose. A tiller of the
land am I; and you—you are a scurvy rascal and a villain!”
A pail of water sobered him so much that he rose, and with astonishment
and dismay, learned that, having drunk a whole rouble’s worth, he was in
Yankel’s debt for that amount.
“What! a quarter of a litre, rum, one herring, tobacco, and another
quarter besides: can they make up a rouble? How’s that?” His brain was
swimming.
Yankel, however, at last convinced him, and they came to an
understanding about the gun which the Jew was to supply; although Kuba
was firm in refusing to give him the oats demanded.
“My father was not a thief; neither am I.”
“Now go away, Kuba; it is time, and I have still some prayers to say.”
“Hear the old hypocrite! Asking a man to steal, and saying his prayers
on the top of that!” he muttered, as he walked homewards, trying to
remember things and sift them clear: for somehow he could not believe he
had drunk a whole rouble’s worth. But he was not yet sober, and the cold
night air made him dizzy; so he reeled and staggered along, now falling
against the hedges, now against the logs of timber piled up outside the
huts. He swore.
“May the devil wring your necks for cumbering the road so, rascals! You
must have been tipsy when you did it. Yes, drunken wretches! and his
Reverence’s warnings have been all for naught.... His Reverence....”
Here reflection came to him; he realized the condition he was in, and
felt overwhelmed with contrition. He stopped short, looking about him
for some hard thing that might be handy. Then he forgot about that, and
clutched at his shaggy mane, and beat his face with his fists.
“You drunken wretch, you plague-stricken swine! I will drag you before
his Reverence, and he will rebuke you in presence of the whole
congregation, and say you are a dog, and a miserable drunkard; you have
drunk half a litre of vodka—a whole rouble’s worth—and are a beast,
worse than a beast!”—A sudden wave of self-compassion then came over
him; he sat down in the road and burst into tears.
The moon, large and splendid, was floating through the dark space; like
silver nails in the firmament, a few stars shone, sparsely scattered
about; a thin grey tissue of mist hung over the pond like a veil, and
waved its folds above the village. The world had entered into that
unfathomable quiet of the autumn night, save that the few who were going
home sang as they went, and dogs were heard to bark now and then.
Also, upon the road in front of the tavern, Ambrose, still reeling from
one side to the other, quavered forth his song:
“Tell, Marysia mine,
Tell, O best and truest,
Tell whose ale thou brewest,
Tell, Marysia mine!”
which he repeated with interminable reiteration, until such time as the
effects of his potations should cease.