It was on the following day that the news of the marriage arranged
between Boryna and Yagna burst upon the village of Lipka.
The Voyt had gone over to her with the proposal. His wife, whom he had
severely forbidden to breathe a single word about the matter until he
had come back with the answer, waited till evening to visit an
acquaintance, on the pretext of borrowing some salt; and as she went
away, she took her good friend apart, and whispered:
“Do you know what? Boryna has just sent a proposal to Yagna, daughter of
Dominikova. But beware and tell no one, for my husband has forbidden me
to speak of it at all.”
“Can this be?” she gasped in amazement. “Should my tongue wag of such a
thing about the village?... So old a man, taking a third wife!... And
his children, what will they say?... Oh, what a world it is!”
No sooner had the Voyt’s wife withdrawn than, tying her apron over her
head, she hurried through the orchard to the Klembas’, “just to borrow a
bit of tow to scrub with.”
“Have you heard? Boryna is to marry Yagna, daughter of Dominikova! He
has but now sent messengers with his proposal.”
“Impossible! What do you say? Nay; he has full-grown children, and is
himself stricken in years.”
“True, he is not young. But they will not refuse him for that.... A
farmer so reputable, a man so rich!”
“Ah, but that Yagna! she that has had dalliance, and with more than one!
To be the wife of the first farmer here! Is there any justice in the
world, say? And meanwhile, so many a girl is remaining unwedded—my
younger sister, for example!”
“Or my brother’s widow.... Or the Kopzyva girls.... Or Nastka, and many
another.—No, it is not seemly, ’tis not meet, not right; what think
you?”
“She will be mightily puffed up, and strut about like a peacock, will
she not?”
“Great offence of God there must be: be sure that neither the smith nor
Boryna’s children will suffer her as a stepmother.”
“Alas, what can they do? The land is as much his own as his will is.”
“By law, yes; but in justice, it belongs to them as well.”
“My dear friend, justice is always for him who has the power to get it
on his side.”
They continued thus, complaining and inveighing against the world and
all its deeds, and went their way. And with them the news spread
throughout the hamlet.
The little work there was to do was not urgent; so the people were all
at home, the roads being as quaggy as so many sloughs; and the possible
marriage was discussed in every cabin. All were eagerly expectant of
what would take place. They well knew how headstrong Boryna was, and
that he would not be turned away from a course he had chosen for
himself, even were his Reverence to dissuade him. They knew, too, the
unyielding pride of Antek’s nature.
Even those men who had been drafted to mend the mill-side road where the
dam had burst, stopped in their work to talk of so momentous an
occurrence.
Various opinions were set forth; and at last, old Klemba, an intelligent
and respected farmer, gave the stern judgment:
“The whole village will be the worse for this!”
“Antek will not suffer it,” someone said. “What, another mouth to feed?”
“That would make no difference. But the inheritance! There’s the rub.”
“There will surely have to be a marriage settlement.”
“Yes; Dominikova is shrewd, and will manage that.”
“She is a mother,” Klemba put in, “and even a bitch will defend her own
puppies.”
Thus, all the afternoon, the people in the village were talking the
matter over. Which was no wonder, the Boryna family being of the very
best stock of husbandmen, and Matthias holding land which had from time
immemorial belonged to his people, being also endowed with hereditary
keenness of wit, as well as riches; so that everybody, willingly or not,
had to take him into account.
To none of his children, however, not even to the smith, durst anyone
tell the news: the rage it would cause might be so great as to result in
a sound thrashing for the teller.
All then was quiet at Boryna’s hut; more so, indeed, than usual. The
rain had ceased since morning, and the sky was clear. Antek, along with
Kuba and the womenfolk, had been sent to the forest at once after
breakfast, in order to get some dry fuel, and see whether they could not
rake together some supply of pine-needles.
Boryna himself had stayed at home. Since early morning, he had been
curiously ill-humoured and strangely irritable, always on the look-out
for someone who should bear the brunt of the impatience and nervousness
which had seized upon him. He had beaten Vitek for omitting to spread
straw beneath the cows, which consequently had spent the night with
their sides deep in dung; had quarrelled with Antek, and scolded Hanka,
because her little boy had dirtied himself while playing outside the
house; and had even spoken harshly to Yuzka.
When he was at last alone with Yagustynka, engaged overnight to see to
the cattle the next day, he no longer knew what to do with himself.
Again and again did he call to mind what Ambrose had related of his
reception by Dominikova. Nevertheless he felt uneasy, and doubtful of
the old fellow, who was able to tell any lie to get a glass of vodka. So
he prowled about the hut, looking, now from the window, now from the
porch, in the direction of Yagna’s dwelling; and as a beggar waits for
alms, so he awaited the coming of the night.
Many and many a time did he long to be off to the Voyt’s and urge the
man to start sooner: notwithstanding, he remained at home, restrained by
the look in Yagustynka’s eyes, half closed and expressive of sarcastic
amusement, which were continually fixed upon him.
“That hag!” he said to himself; “her eyes are gimlets.”
She meanwhile went about the house and passage with her distaff under
her armpit, seeing to things here and there. She span till her spindle
whirred in the air as it turned; then she wound up the thread, and went
out to the geese, the swine, the byre, while Lapa, drowsily and heavily,
followed her steps. She spoke not a word to the old man, though she well
knew what it was that tormented him so, and even drove him to put up
stakes round the walls for the winter sheathing that was to keep the
house warm.
Now and then, however, she made halt in front of him; and at last she
said: “You seem not to be getting on with your work to-day.”
“Devil take it! no, I’m not.”
“Oh!” she thought, as she went away; “the place will be a hell ... a
hell!—But the old man is right to marry—quite right. If he did not, his
children would be sure to give him board and lodging—as mine have done
for me!... Yes, I made over a good ten acres of the very best land to
them. And here I am!” She spat angrily. “I must go out now to work, and
lodge in another’s dwelling!”
At last the old man, unable to stand it any longer, tossed his ax away
and shouted: “Curse this work!”
“There’s something that troubles your mind.”
“There is, there is!”
“And yet you have no reason in the world to be troubled.”
“Much you know of it!”
Yagustynka came and sat down close by the wall, pulled out a long
thread, wound it on the spindle, and said, slowly and not without
trepidation:
“Fear nothing. Dominikova has a good head, and Yagna is no fool.”
“What have you said!” he cried out delighted, and sat down by her side.
“I have eyes to see.”
There was a long pause, each awaiting what the other would say.
“Just invite me to your wedding; and I’ll sing you such a Hop-song[18]
as will bring about a christening in the house in nine months....” So
she began; but, seeing the old man scowl, she changed her tone.
-----
Footnote 18:
_Hop-song_—a very primitive sort of nuptial song.—_Translator’s Note._
“Matthias, you are doing just what you should do. Had I but sought out
another husband when mine died, I should not now have to lodge in a
house that is not my own. Oh, no!... But I was a simpleton, I trusted to
my children: they were to board me. I made over all I had to them: and
now?”
“But I,” he answered in a hard voice, “will give up not one single bit
of ground.”
“Right.—I had to drag my cause from court to court: the few _zloty_ that
I had went all that way, yet they got me no justice. And here I am in my
old age, degraded to a woman of all work!—Last Sunday I went to them,
only just to see my old place once more, and the orchard I had planted
myself; and my daughter-in-law beshrewed me, saying I had come to spy on
her! To spy, good heavens!... I thought I should fall down dead.—I went
to his Reverence, that he might rebuke them from the pulpit for those
words; but he told me that our Lord would make me amends for the wrong
they had done. Aye, aye! of course. For him that has nothing in the
world, even God’s grace is worth having; but I would far rather have
property here on earth, and sleep my fill in a warm room and a
feather-bed, and eat much butter and fat, and divert myself!”
She continued holding forth against everything in the world, and with
such violence that Boryna left her, and sallied out to the Voyt’s: for
twilight was at hand.
“Well, are you starting yet?”
“This very minute: Simon will be here at once.”
Simon appeared and all three went to the tavern, to toss off a dram and
get a flask of rum for the proposal-offering.... Ambrose, who was there
before them, joined them directly; but they could not drink long, for
Matthias was urging them to make haste.
“I shall be waiting here for you. If they drink back, then bring them
hither.—And speedily!” he added, calling after them as they went out.
They walked along the middle of the road, splashing through the mud. The
twilight deepened, covering the land with its gossamer web of sober
grey; and soon the village was no more, save for the cabin lights that
began twinkling through the dusk, and the barking of the watchdogs in
the farm-yards.
“My fellow-messenger!” said the Voyt, after a time.
“Well?”
“Boryna’s wedding will, I fancy, be a grand one.”
“That’s as it may be,” the other returned, in surly fashion; he was a
taciturn man.
“It will, I tell you—I, the Voyt, a man whom you may believe. We shall
make such a match of it that.... Ha! ha!”
“The mare may prove restive, if so be the stallion prove not to her
liking.”
“That does not concern us in any wise.”
“But his children—they will curse us, sure.”
“All shall be well: I the Voyt tell you so.”
And they walked into Dominikova’s hut.
The room was lighted, and carefully swept; they were expected.
The messengers “praised God”; then, greeting in turn everyone present,
took seats close to the fire-place, and opened the conversation.
“The weather is cold; there seems to be a frost at hand.”
“Very likely; it is not springtime, nor near it!”
“Have you gathered in all the cabbages?”
“All but a few that we cannot get in just now,” the old dame replied
indifferently, casting her eyes on Yagna, who was near the window,
making up skeins of spun flax, and who looked so comely that the Voyt, a
man still in the golden time of life, cast an eager glance at her,
before he said:
“As the ways are foul and miry, and the night-air is dank, I and Simon
the Soltys here thought we would enter your dwelling on our way. And
seeing that you have received us with a kind and friendly welcome,
perchance, Mother, we may even drive a bargain with you.”
“A bargain may be driven only when there is something about which to
drive it.”
“Spoken truly, Mother, but that we have found already in your house:
livestock, and of the best.”
“Well,” she cried, in good humour, “let us bargain, then.”
“We would fain, for instance, bargain for a heifer of yours.”
“Oho! that will be no small thing, and ye shall not lead her away with
the first rope at hand!”
“As to that, we have for her a hallowed silver cord, and such that none
can break it, he be strong as ten.—Well, how much, Mother?” And he
pulled the flask of rum out of his pocket.
“How much?—Hard to say! She is young, will be nineteen in spring: good
and hard-working. She might yet remain a year or two with her dam.”
“Years without offspring, Mother; barren years!”
“Ah,” Simon whispered, “were she other than she is, she might have
offspring, even should she stay with her dam!”
The Voyt gave vent to a loud laugh. The old woman’s eyes flashed
angrily, and she made answer on the spot:
“Seek another, then! Mine can wait.”
“She can; but we can find nowhere another so beautiful, or of so good a
breed.”
“Then what do you say?”
“I who speak am the Voyt: so believe what I tell you.”—He took out a
glass, wiped it on the skirt of his capote, filled it with rum, and said
gravely: “Pay good heed, Dominikova, to what I say now. I am in office.
A bird on the bough may chirp and twitter, and is gone: my word is not
thus.—Simon too: all here know who he is; no man of straw, but a
husbandman, the father of a family, and our Soltys! Mark well, then, who
we are that come to you, and with what intention; mark this well.”
“I do so, Peter, and most carefully.”
“Now you, being a wise woman, must therefore know that, sooner or later,
Yagna will surely leave your house for her own, as the Lord hath
ordained. Parents breed up their children, not for themselves, but for
the public weal.”
“Ah, Mother, ’tis true, ’tis true!
“‘You may pet her and guard and caress,
But give her you must none the less;
Aye, and him that shall take her you’ll bless!’”
“The world is made so, and there is no changing it.—Now, Mother, shall
we drink together?”
“How can I say? I will not force her.—Will you drink, Yagna?”
“I ... I don’t know,” she stammered in a thin voice, turning her burning
face to the window.
“The lass is docile,” Simon put in, with gravity. “‘A docile calf,
beyond all doubt, thrives, sucks much milk, and waxes stout.’”
“Well, shall I pass it on to you, Mother?”
“Drink ye, by all means; but we do not yet know who it is proposes,”
Dominikova remarked, attentive to the rules of etiquette that required
her not to seem to know until told by the messenger.
“Who?” he exclaimed. “Why, who but Boryna himself!” and he lifted his
glass.
“What, an aged man! A widower!” she objected, as in duty bound.
“Aged? ’Tis a sin to say so! Aged? and but now he was accused.”
“I know: only the child was not his.”
“How could it be? A man of such repute, was he to put up with any but
the very best?—Come, here’s to you, Mother!”
“Fain would I drink; but he is a widower.—Old, he may soon be in
Abraham’s bosom: and what then? Her stepchildren would thrust her out.”
Here Simon interposed. “Matthias,” he growled, “said there must needs be
a settlement.”
“Of course before the wedding.”
The Voyt, having filled another glass, turned with it to Yagna.
“Come, drink, Yagna, drink to us! The swain we propose you is strong as
an oak: you’ll be his lady, the keeper of his household, the first of
all in the village! See, I drink to you, Yagna: do not be shamefaced!”
She flushed scarlet, and turned away; but finally, throwing her apron
over her face, she tasted a little, and threw the rest on to the floor.
The glass then passed round to all. The old dame produced bread and
salt, and lastly some dried and smoked sausages as a relish.
Several times in succession did they drink, and in a little their
tongues were loosened. But Yagna had fled into the inner chamber, where,
she knew not why, her tears burst forth, her sobs becoming audible
through the partition. Her mother would have followed, but the Voyt kept
her back.
“Even calves, when weaned from their dams, shed tears: ’tis common. She
is not to go away, no, not to the next village even: and you will still
enjoy each other’s company. It is I, the Voyt, who say it: she shall
come to no harm: believe me.”
“Aye, but I always thought to have grandchildren for my consolation.”
“Let not that trouble you. The first of them will be here before the
harvest!”
“The future is known to the Lord alone, not to us sinners. We have drunk
to her betrothal, and yet my heart is heavy, as if ’twere a burial.”
“Nothing strange. An only daughter, she ought to be duly mourned
over.... Yet a little more, to drive your grief away.—Ah, do you know,
let us all go to the tavern. There Yagna’s future husband awaits us,
boiling over with fierce impatience.”
“Shall we celebrate such an occasion in a tavern?”
“As our fathers of yore. I, the Voyt, have spoken.”
Yagna and Dominikova put on their best dresses, and all started off. But
the Voyt remarked how disappointed her brothers were looking. “Are the
lads to remain, then?” he said. “It is their sister’s engagement-day:
some pleasure is due to them.”
“Can we leave the house to the care of Providence?”
“Then take Agatha from the Klembas; she will see to the place.”
“She has gone begging. We shall get someone on our way. Well, Simon and
Andrew, come; but put your capotes on. Would you come in your shabby
everyday clothes?—And if either of you gets tipsy ... he will never
forget it!—The kine have not yet been cared for, and ye must mash
potatoes for the swine.—See ye to it.”
“We will, Mother, we will!” they both exclaimed, trembling with fear,
though they were both big lads, as high as a small pear-tree, such as
are planted along the fields.
And so presently they went to the tavern.
The night was murky and as dark as pitch, as is usual enough during the
autumn rains. The wind roared overhead, swaying the tree-tops till they
nearly lashed the neighbouring hedges.
When they arrived, the tavern had a gloomy look. A pane had been broken
in the window, and the gusts that entered made the tiny lamp which hung
above the bar by a cord swing there to and fro like a golden flower.
Boryna rushed to welcome and embrace and hug them warmly, knowing that
Yagna was already as good as his own.
“Our Lord hath said: ‘Thou worm, take unto thee a wife, that thou, poor
wretch, shouldst not suffer loneliness!’” So Ambrose said, or bleated
rather: he had been drinking for more than an hour, and was good for
little, either in the talking or the walking line.
The Jew instantly set before them rum, sweetened vodka, and “essence”;
also salt herrings, saffron-seasoned cakes, and others (very dainty)
made with poppy-seed.
“Eat ye, drink ye, dearly beloved brethren, true Christians!” cried
Ambrose, taking upon himself to invite the guests. “I had a wife
once—but cannot at all remember now where—In France, I think—no, in
Italy! No, not there—but now I am bereft and a widower.... I tell you:
our ancients used to cry thus: ‘Attention!’”
Here Boryna interrupted him. “Drink deep, friends!... And you, Peter,
give the example!” And then he brought Yagna a whole _zloty’s_ worth of
caramels, and put them into her hand. “Here you are, Yagna, they are
very sweet: here you are!”
She made as if she were disinclined to take them. “They cost so much
money,” she said.
“Fear not, I can well afford it.... You will see later.—Oh, if pigeon’s
milk were to be bought for any money, I would buy some for you, dear!
Oh, how happy you will be with me!” And, taking her round the waist, he
pressed her to partake of all that was there. And she did: accepting
all, however, as coolly and indifferently as if it were someone else’s
engagement-day. She only thought: “Will the old man give it me before
the wedding, that coral necklace he told me of at the fair?”
And now they began to drink in earnest—rum and sweetened vodka
alternately, and all talked at the same time. Even Dominikova was not a
little flustered, and she chattered and held forth about many a matter,
so that the Voyt wondered at the wisdom she displayed.
Her sons were likewise in their cups, for again and again either Ambrose
or the Voyt urged them to take some more. “Toss off your glasses, boys,
’tis Yagna’s engagement-day!”
“Yes, yes, we know,” they answered, and wanted to kiss the old sexton’s
hand.
It was then that Dominikova took Boryna apart to have a straight talk
with the man.
“Yagna is yours—yes, yours, Matthias!”
“Thanks, Mother, for your gift of her.” He put his arm round her neck
and embraced her.
“You promised to make her a settlement, I understand.”
“Why need there be any? All I have is hers.”
“In order that she may look her stepchildren in the face and laugh at
their curses.”
“Woe betide them, if they interfere! All is mine, all is Yagna’s.”
“Kindly said. Only note this: you are somewhat elderly. Besides, we all
are mortal. And, you know:
“‘Death none can refuse:
He takes all he can,
Now a lamb, now a man,
Not caring to choose!’”
“Oh, but I am hale—good for a score of years yet. Never you fear!”
“‘Never-Fear was eaten by the wolves.’”
“Well, I am glad you speak out! Would you have me settle on her the
three acres I have, close to Luke’s field?”
“‘A hungry dog will try even to catch a fly,’ as they say; but we are
not hungry. Yagusia is to inherit five acres, besides one of
forest-land, from her father. Settle six acres on her, you: those six
where you grew potatoes last summer—close to the road.”
“My very best fields!”
“Yagna too is the pick of the village.”
“She is, indeed: therefore I sent you my proposers. But, mercy on us!
six acres! It is a whole farm!” He scratched his head in perplexity; for
his heart was sore at the thought of giving up so much of his best land.
“My good friend, consider, like the intelligent man you are, and you
will see that the settlement is only a protection for my daughter. No
one can take the land from you, so long as you live: while all that
Yagna has inherited from her father will be yours at once. I will send
for a land-surveyor when spring comes round, and you will even be able
to sow it then. And, seeing that such an arrangement cannot harm you,
you will readily settle those six acres upon her.”
“Good: I will.”
“And when?”
“To-morrow, if you like!—No, on Saturday, when we have put up the banns;
we shall then go straight to town. After all: ‘A goat dies once, and
then—Never again!’”
“Come hither, Yagna, daughter dear!” She called to the girl, whom the
Voyt was pushing towards the bar, while telling her something that made
her laugh loud.
“Yagna, Matthias here will settle on you those six roadside acres of
his.”
“Many thanks,” she murmured, and offered him her hand.
“Drink ye all to Yagna, most sweet Yagna!”
They drank, and Matthias put his arm round her waist to lead her to the
other guests assembled; but she slipped away, and ran to her brothers,
who were talking and drinking with Ambrose.
In the tavern, the din was ever growing louder and louder, as more
people dropped in. Many, hearing voices, had come in to know what was
going forward: some, too, to get a drink for nothing. Even the blind old
man, led by his dog, was there in a good place, where all could see him;
and he now listened and now said prayers aloud; so loud that Dominikova,
hearing him, gave him some vodka, a morsel to eat, and a few kopeks
besides.
The carouse went on; and soon, as is customary on such occasions,
everybody was dear friend and own brother to everybody else.
The only silent one was the Jew. To and fro he glided, ever setting more
and more spirits and bottles of beer before his guests, and scoring up
everything with chalk behind the door.
Boryna, beside himself with joy, took dram after dram, urged his guests
to drink, talked as he had seldom in his life been heard to talk, and
was incessantly coming round to Yagna, offering her dainties, stroking
her beautiful face, and taking her into some dusky corner, with his arm
round her.
Very soon Dominikova saw it was high time to go home, and called her
sons to set out with her.
Simon was quite fuddled now; so when she spoke, he set his girdle
straight, smote the table with his fist, and cried out:
“Out upon it! I am a farmer, I! Who cares to go, let him go. If I choose
to stay and drink, I will.—More vodka, you Jew!”
“Be silent, Simon! Oh, be silent: else she will trounce you!” So Andrew
moaned, with maudlin tears in his eyes, pulling his brother by the coat.
He, too, was very far gone.
“Boys!” she hissed, threateningly, “home! come home!”
“I am a farmer. I! If I choose to stay, Lo, I stay, and drink.... I have
enough of Mother’s rule.... Thwart me, and I turn you out! Down with it
all!”
But the old woman then struck him such a blow in the chest that he
staggered and was sobered forthwith. Andrew took him out into the road,
after placing his cap on his head. But the cold air overcame Simon once
more: he only took a few steps forwards, then tottered, caught at the
hedge, and fell down, shrieking and groaning.
“’Sdeath! I am a farmer. The property is mine, and I drink, if I choose;
and if I choose, I work!—Jew! more rum!—Thwart me, and I turn you out!”
“Simon! Simon! For God’s sake!” whimpered Andrew, weeping abundantly;
“come home, Mother is after you!”
Indeed, she was there directly, together with Yagna; and they both got
the lads from beneath the hedge, where they were making some feeble
attempts to fight.
After their departure, other people also went out, and the tavern grew
somewhat less noisy. At last no one remained there but Boryna and his
messengers, with Ambrose and the blind beggar, all now drinking at one
table.
Ambrose was very mellow indeed. He stood up in their midst, now singing,
now shouting very loud.
“He was quite black—black as that pot! He aimed ... but where did he hit
me? where?... And I—I thrust my bayonet into him, and twisted it: I
heard his inside gurgle!—So we halt—halt! And the commander himself
arrives with more men.—Ah! the commander! ‘Boys,’ he says, ‘boys!’”
“‘Attention!’” the old man cried, in a voice of thunder. And he stood
stiffly erect, and stepped slowly backwards, his wooden leg stumping
along the floor: “Drink to me, Peter! to me who am an orphan!” he
bleated out; but when close to the wall, suddenly he whipped out of the
place. But they could still hear the braying of his voice, raised in
song outside.
Just then the miller entered the tavern: a big burly fellow, red-faced,
dressed town-fashion, and with small keen eyes.
“Drink, lads, drink together!—Ho, ho! the Voyt, the Soltys, and
Boryna!—Is it a wedding?”
“No, it is not.—Sir miller, take a drink with us,” Boryna said.
And once more the vodka went round.
“Well, now to you all three thus together, I shall tell some news that
will sober you in no time.”
All stared at him vacantly.
“Not an hour since, the Squire sold the clearing of Vilche Doly!”
“The hound! the miscreant! What, sell a clearing that belongs to our
village!” Boryna shouted, smashing a bottle on the floor in a fit of
rage. “Sold it, has he? But there is law—law both for the Squire and for
all of us!” Simon stammered; he was completely intoxicated.
“It’s false! I, your Voyt, have spoken: believe me, it’s false!”
“Sold it! Ha!—But we won’t let anyone take it: as there’s a God in
heaven, we won’t!” Boryna growled, and he brought his fist down upon the
table.
The miller left them, and they stayed there far into the night, taking
counsel together, and breathing threats against the manor-folk.