It was grey dawn when Vitek, tired out by the merry-making and driven
home by Yagustynka, hastened to Boryna’s hut.
A little watch-light was burning there, like a glow-worm. Vitek looked
in at the window, and beheld the old _Dziad_, Roch, sitting at the
table, where he was singing hymns.
The boy silently glided away to the stable, and was fumbling at the
door-catch, when he jumped back with a cry of astonishment. A dog had
leaped upon him, uttering a whine.
“What, Lapa, Lapa? ’tis you back again, poor wretch!” he cried, and sat
down on the door-step, overcome with joy.—“Hungry and starving: is it
not so?”
He had put by a bit of sausage, saved from the feast, which he now took
out of his bosom to offer the dog. But it did not care for food just
then: it barked, laid its head on the lad’s breast, and whined for sheer
delight.
“Did they starve you, poor thing? did they drive you away?” he
whispered, opening the cow-byre door, and at once throwing himself on
his straw bed. “But now I shall defend and take care of you.” With these
words he nestled deep in the straw; and the dog, lying down beside him,
growled gently and licked his face.
They were both asleep in an instant.
From the stable close by, Kuba called to him in a voice weakened by
illness. He called for a long time; but Vitek was sleeping like a
dormouse.
After a time, however, Lapa recognized his voice, and fell to barking
furiously and pulling the boy’s coat.
“What’s the matter?” Vitek asked sleepily.
“Water! The fever is pulling me to pieces.... Water!”
Vitek, peevish and drowsy though he was, brought him a pailful, and held
it to his lips.
“I am so ill, I can hardly breathe!... What’s growling round here?”
“Why, Lapa!”
“Lapa is it?” Kuba groped to touch the dog’s head in the dark; and Lapa
leaped about, frisked, and tried to get on to the bed.
“Vitek, give the horses their hay; they have been gnawing the empty
mangers a long time; and I cannot move.... Are they still dancing?” he
asked a little later, when the lad was filling the racks with hay.
“They are not like to have done till noon; and some are so drunk, they
are lying by the roadside.”
“Ah, they are enjoying themselves, the masters are!” And he sighed
deeply.
“Was the miller there?”
“Aye, but he left rather early.”
“Many people?”
“Beyond counting. Why, the cabin was overflowing with them.”
“Plenty for all?”
“Like manor guests! They brought them meat in such huge dishes! And
vodka and beer and mead were poured out in floods! Of sausages alone,
there were piles enough to fill three troughs.”
“When is the bride coming?”
“This afternoon.”
“They are rejoicing and feasting still. My God! I thought I’d gnaw a
bone at least, and eat my fill once in my life!... And here I am, lying,
sighing, and hearing about other people’s good cheer!”
Vitek returned to his bed.
“If I could but feast my eyes on those good things!”
He said no more, feeling weary, sad, and tormented by a sort of faint
timid querulousness that gnawed at his heart now. At last, however, he
spoke, patting the dog’s head.
“Well, well! may they all be the better for it! Let _them_ at least get
some pleasure out of this life!”
The fever, increasing, began to confuse his thoughts; to drive it away,
he applied himself to prayer, offering himself to the mercy of the Lord
Jesus; but he could not remember what he was saying; he was dazed with
sleep coming over him, and only a string of ejaculations that were
prayers mingled with tears, trickled from his consciousness—the told
beads of a crimson rosary!
Now and then he roused himself, but only to look around him blankly,
recognizing nothing, and fall back into deathly and corpse-like
unconsciousness.
Again he woke, now to groan so loud that the horses pulled at their
bonds and snorted to hear him.
“O God! that I may but hold out till day!” he moaned in terror; and his
eyes wandered through the window, staring out at the world and the
approaching dawn, seeking the sun in that sky yet grey and lifeless and
studded with paling stars.
But the day was a long distance away still.
In the stable, plunged in turbid mistiness, the horses’ outlines were
growing dimly visible; and the racks beneath the window slits showed
like ribs in the pale glimmer.
Fall asleep again he could not: the pains were torturing him anew; they
felt like sharp gnarled sticks thrust into his legs, piercing, boring,
stabbing in and in; and the agony became so unbearable that he started
up, screaming with all his might, till Vitek woke and came round.
“I am dying!... Oh, how it pains!... How the pain swells! how it crushes
me! Vitek, run for Ambrose.... O Lord!... Or else call Yagustynka....
Perhaps she can help.... I am not able—my last hour is here....” He
burst out weeping terribly.
Vitek, all sleepy as he was, ran to the wedding feast.
The dancing was yet at its height; but Ambrose, being completely tipsy
by now, had taken his station on the road opposite the cabin, where he
kept reeling and singing between the road and the edge of the pond.
Vitek implored him to come, and tugged him by the sleeve, but to no
purpose; the old man heard nothing, understood nothing around him,
singing the same song over again with obstinate repetition.
Vitek then applied to Yagustynka, who was not ignorant of healing. But
she was in the private room, sipping _krupnik_,[22] talking and
chattering with her good friends so intently that she would listen to no
one else. And as the boy was importunate, begging her with tears to come
at once, she in the end drove him from the room. So he went back crying
to the stable, having accomplished nothing.
-----
Footnote 22:
_Krupnik_—a drink made of vodka, hot water, honey and
spices.—_Translator’s Note._
When he returned, Kuba was asleep again; and he too, burrowing deep in
the straw and covering his head with a clout, went off to sleep.
It was long after breakfast-time when he was waked by the noise of the
hungry unmilked cows, and by the fierce scoldings of Yagustynka, who,
having overslept herself just like the others, now made up in clamour
against them for what she had neglected herself.
It was only after she had got the work somewhat in swing that she went
to see Kuba.
He said in a feeble voice: “Pray help me and do something.”
“Just you marry a young wench, and you’ll be well in a trice,” she began
cheerily; but, seeing his livid swollen face, grew serious at once. “You
need a priest more than a physician.... What on earth can I do for
you?... So far as I can see, you are sick unto death, aye, even unto
death!”
“Must I die?”
“All’s in God’s hand: but you’ll not escape Crossbones’ clutches, I’m
thinking.”
“I’m to die, say you?”
“Tell me: shall I send for his Reverence?”
“For his Reverence?” Kuba cried, in amazement. “His Reverence to come
here—to a stable—to me?”
“What of that? Think you he’s made of sugar, and would melt if he came
near horse-dung? It’s a priest’s business to go wherever they call him
to a sick man.”
“O Lord! how could I dare?”
“You are a silly sheep!” She shrugged her shoulders and left him.
“The woman knows not what she says,” he muttered, greatly scandalized.
And now he was quite alone, all the others seeming to have forgotten
him.
From time to time, Vitek looked in to give the horses provender and
water. He gave him water, too; but presently went back to the wedding.
At Dominikova’s they were preparing to bring the bride home.
Often Yuzka would rush in noisily, bring him a bit of cake, prattle of
many things, fill the stable with racket, and run out in a hurry.
Yes, and she had something to run for. Hard by, they were amusing
themselves fairly well: the band, the shouting, the singing were to be
heard through the walls.
Kuba lay motionless. A strange feeling of desolation had come over him.
He merely listened, and noted how well they enjoyed themselves, and
talked to Lapa, his never absent companion. They two ate Yuzka’s cake
together. Then the sick man called to the horses and talked to them
also. They neighed with pleasure, turning their heads round from their
mangers: the filly even managed to slip her halter and come to his
pallet, where she caressed him, putting her warm moist nose close to his
face.
“Poor dear, you have lost flesh, you have!” He patted her tenderly, and
kissed her dilated nostrils. “As soon as I am well, you will fill out,
even if I have to give you nothing but oats!”
Then he lapsed once more into silence, and stared at the blackened knots
in the timber walls, oozing with dark drops of resin—as it were, tears
of congealed blood.
Dumb, and with feeble sunbeams, the day peeped in through the chinks,
and a flood of shimmering motes appeared at the open doorway.
Hour after hour dragged by at a snail’s pace, like lame, blind, and dumb
beggars, crawling painfully through toilsome beds of deep sand.
Only, now and again, a few chirruping sparrows, swooping down on the
stable in a noisy band, would boldly make for the mangers.
“Ah, the clever little ones!” Kuba said. “And God gives those tiny birds
understanding, to find out where they can get food.—Be still, you, Lapa!
let the poor things feed and keep up their strength: winter will
presently be with them too.”
The pigs now began to squeal and poke their muddied noses in at the
door.
“Drive them off, Lapa! The beggars, they never have enough!”
After these, a lot of fowls came cackling to the threshold, and one
large red cock was so bold as to pass over it to the baskets of
provender. The others followed, but had no time to eat their fill, when
a flock of gaggling geese drew near, hissing on the threshold, flashing
their red bills, stretching and swaying to and fro their straight white
necks.
“Out with them, Lapa—out with them! All those fowls—as bad as women for
quarrelling!”
Suddenly there was an uproar—screaming, flapping, feathers flying as out
of a torn bed. Lapa had entered well into the spirit of the chase, and
came back breathless and its tongue lolling out, but uttering cries of
delight.
“Be quiet now!”
From the house there came a torrent of angry words, a sound of running,
and the dragging of furniture from one room to another.
“Ah, they are making ready for the bride’s coming!”
Someone, though rarely, passed along the road: this time it was a
lumbering creaking cart, and Kuba, listening, tried to guess whose it
was.
“That’s Klemba’s wagon. One horse—ladder framework; going to the woods
for litter, I dare say. Yes, the axle rubs against the nave, so it
creaks.”
Along the road there was a continual sound of footsteps, talk, and
noises scarcely to be heard at all; but he caught them, and made them
out on the spot.
“That’s old Pietras, going to the tavern.—Here comes Valentova,
scolding: someone’s geese have gone on to her field, belike.—Oh, she’s a
vixen, not a woman!... This, I think, is Kozlova, shouting as she
runs—yes, it is!... Here is Peter, son of Raphael ... when he talks, his
mouth always seems full.—This is the priest’s mare, going for water....
Now she stops ... cart-wheels blocked by stones.—One of these days she
will break a leg.”
And so he went on, guessing at every sound he heard, going about all the
village with quick thoughts and lively mental vision, and entering so
into the whole life and troubles and worries of the place, he scarce
noted that the day was declining, the wall darker in hue, the doorway
dimmer, and the stable quite obscure.
Ambrose arrived only when evening had set in. He was as yet only partly
sober; he staggered a little, and spoke so quickly it was hard to follow
him.
“Hurt your leg, eh?”
“Look and see what it is.”
Silently he undid the bloodstained rags; they had dried and stuck so
fast to the leg that Kuba could not help shrieking as he pulled them
off.
“A girl in childbed would not cry as you do!” Ambrose muttered
scornfully.
“But it hurts so! How you tear me! O God!”
And Kuba all but howled.
“Oho! you have caught it finely! Was it a dog that tore your leg like
that?” Ambrose cried, wondering. The leg was horribly mangled, and
swollen with matter to the size of a water-can.
“It was—but pray tell no one—the forest-keeper that shot me....”
“Yes I see.—And hit you from afar, eh? Well, well! your leg will never
again be of any use. I feel the splinters of bone rattling about.... Ah,
why did you not call me in at once?”
“I feared ... lest they should know I had been after a hare.... But I
was out of the forest, when the keeper shot at me.”
“Once, in the tavern, he complained; someone was doing mischief, he
said.”
“The foul carrion! Is a hare, then, the property of anyone?... He laid a
trap for me.... I was in the open field, and he let fly with both
barrels.—Oh, the hell-hound!—But say nothing; they would take me to the
law-court; the gun, too, is not mine, and they would seize it at
once.... I thought it might heal by itself.—Oh, help me! It pains so! it
is tearing me to bits!”
“Ah, you cunning trickster, you! with your sly games and your forbidden
quests, sharing the forest hares with the Squire!—But, you see, this
partnership will have cost you your leg!”
He examined it again, and looked sorely distressed.
“Too late, ever so much too late!”
Kuba was terrified. “Please do something for me,” he moaned.
Ambrose, without replying, turned up his sleeves, whipped out a very
keen clasp-knife, grasped the leg firmly, and set about extracting the
shots and expressing the matter.
Kuba roared like a beast at the slaughter-house, till the other gagged
his mouth with his sheepskin, and then he swooned with the agony of it.
After dressing the wound, and applying some ointment and fresh bandages,
Ambrose brought him to.
“You will have to go to the hospital,” he said in a low voice.
Kuba was still dazed. “To the hospital?” he asked, not knowing what was
said.
“They would cut off your leg, and you might get well.”
“My leg?”
“Of course. It is good for nothing: black—decayed—rotten.”
“Cut it off?” he asked, still unable to understand.
“Yes. At the knee. Fear nothing: mine was cut off almost at the thigh;
and I am alive yet.”
“Then I shall get well again, if the wounded limb is cut off?”
“Even as though one should take out the pain with the hand ... but you
must go to the hospital.”
“There ... there they cut and carve living men’s bodies!—Cut it off,
you: I’ll pay whatsoever you will, but cut it off!—To the hospital I
will not go: I prefer dying here!”
“Then here you will die. None but a doctor can cut it off for you. I am
off to the Voyt’s at once; he will send you to town in a cart
to-morrow.”
“No use: I will not go,” he replied, stubbornly.
“Fool! do you think they will ask your leave?”
The old man went out, and Kuba said to himself: “When it is cut off, I
shall be well.”
After the dressing, his leg had ceased to pain. But it was numb as far
up as the groin, and he felt a tingling all along his side: this he did
not notice, plunged in thought as he was.
“I should recover.—Yes, I surely should. Ambrose has nothing left him of
his leg: all he walks on is wooden. And he said: ‘As though one should
take the pain out with his hand....’—But then, Boryna would turn me
away.... Aye, a farm-hand with but one leg—such a one cannot plough, nor
do aught else.—what would become of me? I should have to tend cattle ...
or beg my bread! Wander about, or sit at some church-door.—O Lord,
merciful Lord!” And on a sudden his position flashed clearly upon him;
and under the horror that now assailed him, he even sat up. And then he
uttered a deep cry of impotent agony, his mind rolling in an abyss from
which he saw no issue. “O Jesus, Jesus!” he repeated in a fever of
excitement, quaking in every limb.
Long did he shriek and struggle thus in his anguish; but in the midst of
those tears and that despair, a certain resolve was slowly shaping
itself, and he brooded more and more deeply. Little by little, he grew
calmer, more at peace, thinking so profoundly that he heard nothing
around him, though surrounded by the din of instruments and songs and
clamour; just as if he had been in a deep sleep!
It was then that the bride and the wedding guests arrived at Boryna’s
house.
They had led away a goodly cow, and sent Yagna’s box and feather-bed,
and various articles that she had received as wedding presents, before
her in a cart.
And now, just a little after sundown, the procession left Dominikova’s
cabin, as darkness was falling and the mists rising up.
Playing lustily, the band marched in front; then Yagna went on, still in
her wedding dress, and conducted by her mother and friends: last of all,
and without any order, came the ruck of guests, each in the place he had
chosen.
Their way wound along by the pond, now darkened, its gleaming quenched
in the ever-thickening folds of the fog; the silence and obscurity
growing blacker and more dead, the tramping and music sounding muffled
and, as it were, from underneath the water.
From time to time one of the younger folk broke out into song, or a
matron took up a stave, or one of the peasant lads cried: “Da dana!” but
it was only a short outburst.
They were as yet in no merry mood, and, besides, they were chilled to
the marrow by the bleak damp air.
Only when they turned in to Boryna’s enclosure did the bridesmaids lift
their voices in a sad farewell:
Wending her way to her wedding,
The maiden wept.
Then lit they tapers four,
And played upon the organ.—
Didst fancy, maiden,
That they would play for ever?
—A little yesterday, to-day a little,
And after, thou shalt weep for all thy life!
Da dana!... All thy life!
Before the threshold, and under the porch, Boryna was waiting along with
Yuzka and the young men.
Dominikova came forward first of all, carrying in a bundle a piece of
bread, a pinch of salt, a little charcoal, some wax from a Candlemas
taper, and a handful of ears of corn, blessed on Assumption Day. As
Yagna passed the threshold, the matrons cast behind her threads plucked
from cloth seams, and the peels of hempstalks, that the Evil One might
find no entrance, but all things thrive with her!
They greeted, kissed, and pledged one another in cups of mead, with
wishes of luck, health, and all good gifts and blessings; then they
entered and filled the whole room, every bench and nook and corner.
The players tuned their instruments, and then strummed softly, so as not
to interfere with the feast that Boryna was now giving.
He simply went from matron to matron with a full goblet in hand,
offering, pressing them to partake, gathering them in his arms, and
drinking to each of them; the blacksmith took his place with the others.
Yuzka was bearing on platters pieces of a cake she had baked with curds
and honey on purpose to please her father.
All the same, the party was dull. True, they emptied their glasses as in
duty bound, nor did they turn away from the sausages. Nay, they even
drank plentifully and with due zest; only there was no mirth amongst
them.
The women too, who as a class are inclined to diversions and pastimes,
now only sat still on the benches, or here and there in corners, not
even talking much amongst themselves.
Yagna went into the private room, where she undressed. Returning in her
everyday costume, she would have done the honours of the cabin and
treated her guests herself, but that her mother would not let her touch
anything.
“Darling, enjoy your wedding-day now! You’ll yet have work enough and
enough toil!” And again and again did she weep over her most tenderly,
and clasp her to her bosom.
The company found matter for laughter in this maternal sentimentality of
hers: their jeers being all the sharper that now, on Yagna’s arrival as
mistress in her husband’s home, owner of so much land and property of
every sort, her new position was brought home to them. Many a mother,
with yet unmarried daughters, felt very bitter against her; many a girl
was choked with bile at the thought.
They went over to survey the other apartments, where Antek had formerly
lived with his family. There Eva and Yagustynka had prepared a grand
supper and made a roaring fire. Vitek had hardly been able to bring logs
enough and place them under the enormous pots.
They examined all the premises besides, and ran their envious eyes over
all that there was to be seen.
The house itself, to begin with, was the first in the whole village:
large, conspicuous, tall, with rooms (they fancied) as good as those in
a manor-house: whitewashed, and with boarded floors! Then how numerous
the household articles and utensils were! In the big room, too, there
were a score of holy images: and all of them glazed! And then, the byre,
the stable, the granary, the shed! Five cows were kept there, to say
nothing of the bull—no small source of profit. And the horses, and the
geese, and the swine—and, above all, the land!
Eaten up with envy, they sighed deeply; and one said to another:
“Lord! and to think that all this goes to one that is undeserving!”
“Oh! they knew well how to bring their pigs to market!”
“Yes; he that goes to meet luck always finds it.”
“Why should your Ulisia have missed this chance?”
“Because she fears God and leads an honest life.”
“And all the rest do the same!”
“Oh, were she other than she is, folk would not stand it of her. Let
them but meet her once at night in company with a lad, and all the world
will know!”
“What luck this one has!”
“’Tis the fruit of shamelessness.”
“Come along!” Andrew called out, interrupting their talk. “The music is
playing, and not one petticoat is in the room—nobody to dance with!”
“A mind to dance you have, but will your mother let you?”
“So eager?—Beware and let not your trousers fall, boy: ’twere no fair
sight!”
“Nor trip the dancers up with your legs!”
“Pair off with Valentova; you’ll make a fine couple ... of scarecrows!”
Andrew rapped out an oath, took hold of the first girl he came across,
and led her off, paying no heed to the wasps humming behind him.
There were but few couples in the room as yet, and these danced but
slowly and (it seemed) with little zeal. Nastka and Simon Paches were
the only exception, and frisked about very willingly. They had arranged
matters beforehand and, with the opening sounds of the music, had joined
in close union, and bounced about in scrupulous fulfilment of their
promise.
But no sooner had the Voyt come in (he was late, having had to go with
the recruits to the District Barracks) than he began to make things look
more lively; drinking deep, talking with all the farmers present, and
cracking jokes with the newly-wedded couple.
“Why, your bride is as red as her skirt, and you are as white as a
sheet!”
“You’ll not say that to-morrow.”
“Matthias, experienced as you are, you surely have not wasted a day.”
“Nay, with all eyes upon him? Fie! the man is no gander.”
“I would not bet half a quart that you say true. You know: throw but a
pebble into the bush: out flies the bird! ’Tis the Voyt tells you so!”
Yagna made her escape from the room; which occasioned a loud guffaw.
The women then proceeded to wag their tongues very much at their ease,
careless of what they said.
The hubbub swelled, and the guests grew more good-humoured in
proportion. Boryna, bottle in hand, went several times the round of the
company; the dancers, now more numerous, frisked with livelier steps,
and began to stamp and sing, and circle about the room in wider rounds.
Then did Ambrose make his appearance and, sitting down (nearly at the
threshold), follow the bottle with wistful eyes, as it went its way.
The Voyt cried to him: “You never turn your head, except towards the
clinking of glasses.”
“Because of that same clinking!” he answered. “And he has merit who
gives to drink to them that thirst.”
“You leather bottle! here’s water for you!”
“What’s good for cattle may be bad for man. They say: ‘Water to drink is
now and then not bad, but harm from vodka no one ever had!’”
“Here’s vodka for you, since you discourse so well.”
“You first, Voyt!—They say, too: ‘Water for a christening, vodka for a
wedding, and tears for a death!’”
“Well said: drink another.”
“I should not even shirk a third. For my first wife I always take one,
but two for my second!”
“Why so?”
“Because she died in time for me to seek a third.”
“What! Still dreaming about women, and his old eyes see no more as soon
as twilight comes!”
“It is not always necessary to see.”
At this, they laughed uproariously, and the women cried out:
“For the love of vodka and of talk, they are both well matched.”
“There’s a saying: ‘A wife good in talk, and a man strong in deed, have
every chance in the world to succeed.’”
The Voyt had now sat down by Ambrose, the others crowding round, as many
as could find seats, or, if they could not, standing about with little
heed to the dancers’ convenience.
And then began such a running fire of witty sayings, jests, comic tales,
and joyous banter, that they all shook with laughter. In this field,
Ambrose was the recognized leader, and chaffed his hearers to their very
faces with so much humour and fun that they were like to split their
sides. Amongst the women, Vachnikova yielded to none for drollery; she
played first fiddle in that respect, with the Voyt for bass-viol, so far
as his official dignity permitted.
The musicians sawed away as hard as they could, and scraped out the
liveliest tunes they had; and the dancers were shuffling along as fast,
and shouting, and screaming, and tapping with nimble heels. Blithe and
delighted, they had forgotten the rest of the world, when one of them
chanced to notice Yankel standing outside in the passage. At once they
pulled him into the room. The Jew took off his cap, with amicable bows
and salutations to all present, and taking no notice of the nicknames
showered upon him.
“Yellow one!—Unchristened one!—Son of a mare!”
“You be quiet there!” cried the Voyt. “Let us treat him! Here, a glass
of the best vodka!”
“I was passing along the road, and wanted to see how you husbandmen
divert yourselves.—God reward you, Mr. Voyt.—I’ll take a drop of
vodka—why should I not?—to the health of the newly-wedded pair!”
Boryna raised the bottle and invited Yankel, who, after wiping the glass
with the skirt of his capote, covered his head, and tossed off one
glass, followed by a second.
“Stay a bit, Yankel: it will not make you unclean,” they cried out in a
merry vein. “Here, musicians, play us the Jewish dance, and Yankel will
caper to it.”
“Yes, I may dance; why not? ’Tis no sin.”
But ere the players had understood what was wanted of them, Yankel
slipped quietly into the passage, and vanished in the yard. He had come
to get back his gun.
They scarce noticed his exit. Ambrose had all the time gone on with his
entertainment, to which Vachnikova contributed a violoncello
accompaniment, so to speak. And he continued until supper-time, when the
music ceased, the tables were pushed forward, and the clatter of dishes
was heard: yet they still listened and he still held forth.
Boryna invited them to sup, but without effect. Yagna asked them again
and again. The Voyt only got her into the circle, made her sit down by
him, and held her by the hand.
It was Yasyek (nicknamed Topsy-turvy) who bellowed out: “Come, good
folk, and set to: the dishes are cooling.”
“Hold your tongue, blockhead, or lick the dishes with it.”
“Old Ambrose! You are lying like a gipsy, and fancy we don’t know it!”
“Yasyek, take what folk put into your mouth: you’re good at that. But
leave me alone, you are no match for me!”
“No match! Just you try, then!” the foolish lad shouted. He thought
Ambrose meant fighting.
“An ox could do all you can ... or more!”
“Because you bear his Reverence’s night-vase, Ambrose, you think none
has wit but you.”
Ambrose was offended, and growled: “Let a calf into church, he’ll come
out just as he was.—Idiot!”
Yasyek’s mother attempted to stand up for her son. He went off to table
first of all, and soon the others took their places in a hurry; for the
cooks had brought in the smoking dishes, and the odour filled the room.
They seated themselves in order of precedence, as was fitting for the
bride’s installation ceremony: Dominikova and her sons in the middle,
bridesmen and bridesmaids together; Boryna and Yagna remained standing
to serve the guests, and see that all was done properly.
A quiet interval succeeded, save that the brats outside made a noise at
the window, fighting with one another, and Lapa barked in great
excitement about the house and passages. The company were quiet and
decorous, while they worked hard to put the eatables away: only their
spoons tinkled about the rims of the dishes, and the glasses jingled
going round.
Yagna was continually busy, setting some particular dainty before each
guest: here it was meat, there some other very good thing. And she
begged them all so courteously not to stint themselves, and behaved with
such natural grace, conquering all hearts with her beauty and the
pleasant words she said, that many of the men present could not but gaze
on her in adoration, and her mother even laid down her spoon to look and
rejoice in her daughter.
Boryna, too, noticed this, and when she happened to go to the kitchen,
followed, caught up with her in the passage, gave her a mighty hug, and
kissed her enthusiastically.
“Dear, what a housewife you make!—Like a manor-house lady—so dignified
and so pleasing in everything!”
“Am I not, eh?—Now run away to the room: Gulbas and Simon are sitting
apart, grumpy and eating little. Get them to drink with you!”
He obeyed, and did all she wanted. And Yagna felt now strangely blithe
of heart, and full of affection. She knew herself the mistress of the
house, knew that power had somehow got into her hands: and therewith she
was aware of an accession of authority and serenity and strength. She
walked about the place at ease, eyed all she saw with keen
understanding, and managed things as though she had been married ever so
long.
“What she is, the old man will find out soon enough, and that’s his
business; but to my mind there are in her the makings of a housewife—and
a fine one, too!” was Eva’s muttered remark to Yagustynka.
“A fool that’s in favour will always be clever,” the latter returned
bitterly. “Things will go on as they are till she has had too much of
the old man, and begins again running after young fellows.”
“Aye, Matthew is lying in wait: he has not given her up.”
“But give her up he will! Somebody else will make him!”
“Boryna?”
“Boryna?” She smiled a crafty smile. “No, someone yet mightier. I
mean—no: time will show, and you will see.—Vitek! Drive that dog away:
it barks and barks till my ears are aching. And drive those boys away
too: they will be breaking the panes, or doing some mischief.”
Vitek rushed out with a stick. The dog barked no more. But there were
cries without, and the noisy footfalls of a crowd of flying urchins. He
drove them into the road, and ran back, bent double to escape a shower
of missiles that assailed him.
Roch showed himself in the shade at the corner of the yard. “Vitek, wait
a little. Call thou Ambrose; say I want him very urgently indeed, and am
awaiting him in the porch.”
It was only after some time that Ambrose appeared, and in a detestable
humour. His supper had been interrupted, and at the very best dish of
all—sucking-pig with peas.
“What? what? Is the church on fire?”
“Do not raise your voice so. Come to Kuba: I fear he is dying.”
“Oh, let him die, then, and not prevent folk from eating their supper! I
was with him only this very evening, and told him he would have to go to
the hospital, and get his leg cut off, and he would be well in a trice.”
“You told him that?—Oh, then I understand.... I—I think he has cut off
his own leg!”
“Jesu Maria!—His—his own leg?”
“Come instantly and look. I was going to sleep in the cow-byre, and had
just entered the yard, when Lapa came barking to me, and jumping, and
pulling me by my capote. I could not make out what it wanted; but it ran
forward, sat down on the stable threshold, and howled. Thither I went
and saw Kuba lying in the doorway, half in, half out. I thought at first
he had gone to get some air, and fainted on the way: so I carried him
back to his pallet, and lit the lantern to get him some water; and it
was then I saw he was bloodstained all over—deathly pale, and with blood
pouring from his leg.”
They went in, and Ambrose did his very best to bring Kuba to; but the
poor fellow was extremely weak. He scarce drew breath, and a rattling
sound came through his teeth, clenched so fast that, to give him a
little water, they had to prize them open with a knife.
The leg, which had been hewn off at the knee, and still dangled by a
shred of skin, bled profusely.
A great pool of gore lay on the threshold, close to a bloodstained ax
and the grindstone, usually placed under the eaves, now fallen near the
doorway.
“Aye, he has cut it off himself. Afraid of the hospital.—A fool to think
it would avail him: but dauntless and resolute all the same.—Good God!
... his own leg! ... it is simply incredible.... And the blood he has
lost!”
At this juncture, Kuba opened his eyes, and looked round him with
returning consciousness.
“Is it off?... I struck twice, but swooned——” he said feebly.
“Any pain?”
“None at all.... Weak as water ... but not ailing.”
Ambrose dressed, washed and bound the leg with moist rags, Kuba lay
still meanwhile, uttering not the least sound.
Roch, on his knees, held the lantern, praying fervently the while; but
the patient smiled—a faint tearful smile, as when an orphan babe,
abandoned afield, knows only that his mother is not there, not that she
has forsaken him, and enjoys the grass waving over his head, and the
sunbeams, and stretches out his hands to the birds that fly past,
conversing with all around him after his fashion: even so did he feel
now. He was at ease, without pain and in comfort; so cheerful that he
thought no whit of his ill, but felt secretly rather proud of himself.
How sharp he had ground the ax! how well he had placed the limb on the
threshold, and—one blow not sufficing—struck a second with all his
might! And now the pain was all gone; so of course he had succeeded.—Oh,
if he were but a trifle stronger, he would not lie rotting on that
pallet any more, but be up, and go to the wedding ... dance even—and eat
a morsel, for he would fain eat!
“Lie you still, and do not budge. I will tell Yuzka, and you shall have
something to eat presently.” So said Roch, patting his cheeks; and he
went out into the yard with Ambrose.
“He will drop off ere morning—fall asleep like a little bird: there’s no
more blood in him.”
“Then, while he is conscious, the priest must be sent for.”
“His Reverence has gone to spend the evening at the manor-house at
Vola.”
“I’ll go and tell him: there must be no delay.”
“Five miles on foot and through the forest! You would never be in
time.—No: the carts of those guests here who leave after supper are
ready; take one and go.”
They got a cart on to the road, and Roch seated himself.
“Do not forget Kuba!” he called out as he started: “Have a care of him!”
“Yes, yes, I shall remember, and not leave him by himself.”
Nevertheless, he did forget him almost directly. After telling Yuzka
about the eatables, he went back to supper, and applied himself so close
to the bottle that he very soon remembered nothing at all....
Yuzka, being a kind-hearted little girl, at once brought him all she
could get, piling it up on a dish, with half a quart of vodka.
“Here, Kuba, is something for you, that ye may eat and enjoy yourself.”
“God bless you!—Sausage it is, I fancy;—a delightful smell!”
“I fried it for you, that you might find it more savoury.” She put the
dish into his hands, for the stable was dark. “But drink of the vodka
first.”
He drained the glass to the last drop.
“Will you sit with me a little? I feel lonely here.”
He broke the food, bit and chewed it—but could swallow nothing.
“Are they in good spirits over there?”
“Oh, yes! and so many people! I never saw more company in all my life.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, proudly; “is it not Boryna’s wedding?”
“Yes; and Father is so pleased ... and always going after Yagna!”
“Indeed, for she is so beautiful—as fair to see as a Manor-house lady
any day.”
“Do you know, Simon, Dominikova’s son, is taken with Nastka!”
“His mother will forbid him. There are only three acres of land at
Nastka’s, and ten mouths to feed.”
“That’s why she keeps strict watch and drives them apart when she finds
them together.”
“Is the Voyt here?”
“He is.—Talking a great deal, and—together with Ambrose—making the
company laugh.”
“And why not, being at so great a wedding, and with so great a man?—Do
you know anything of Antek’s doings?”
“Ah, I ran over to him at dusk, with cake and meat and bread for the
little ones. But he turned me out, and threw the things after me. He is
very resolute; and fierce. Oh, so fierce! And there is wailing and
misery in their hovel. Hanka is always quarrelling with her sister, and
they have well-nigh come to blows.”
He made no reply, but breathed somewhat harder.
“Yuzka,” he said after a while, “the mare!—I hear her moaning. Since
evening she has been lying down: she must be near foaling-time, and
ought to be looked after. Prepare a mash for her.—Hark how she moans!
And I cannot help at all, so weak I feel—quite helpless!”
He was worn out, and said no more for a while, seeming to be asleep.
Yuzka rose and went out in a hurry.
“Ces, Ces, Ces!” he called to the mare, as he woke suddenly.
The mare uttered a low whinny, and tugged at her halter till the chain
clanked again.
“So then, once in my life at least, I shall eat and be filled! Aye, and
you too, good dog, shall get your share: no need to whine.”
He attempted once more to swallow some sausage, but quite in vain: it
stuck in his throat.
“Lord, Lord, such heaps of food ... and I cannot so much as eat one
mouthful!”
Yes, it was utterly useless: he could not. His hand fell powerless, and,
still grasping the meat, he put it underneath the straw of his bed.
“So much! Never so much yet! And all for nothing!”—He felt rather sore.
“But let me rest a little now; and later, when I can eat, the feast
shall begin.”
He was just as unable afterwards, and slipped off into a coma, still
holding the sausage, and unaware that Lapa was stealthily gnawing at it.
Suddenly his senses returned.—The supper was over, and such a blast of
music burst on his ears from over the yard, that the stable-walls
vibrated, and the frightened fowls fell a-cackling on their roosts.
The dance was in full and boisterous swing—and the laughter and the
frolic and the fun. Again and again the trampling of feet resounded, and
the shrill cries of the lasses pierced the night.
At first, Kuba gave ear; but presently he became oblivious of all
things. A drowsiness seized upon him, and carried him off into, as it
were, a clangorous darkness, as though beneath swift swirling murmurous
waters. But when the dance grew noisier, and the tumult and hubbub of
the stamping heels seemed about to beat all to shivers, he stirred
slightly: his soul peered up out of the dungeon where it lay; roused
from oblivion, coming back from infinite distances, it listened.
At such times, Kuba would endeavour to eat a little, or whispered low,
but from the heart:
“Ceska, Ces, Ces!”
And now at last his soul was slowly withdrawing—winging its way through
the universal frame of things. A new-fledged bird divine, it fluttered
around uncertainly at first, unable to soar, and at times with a revival
of attachment to that sacred earth, its body, where it fain would rest
from the weariness of flight, and craved to soothe the pangs of
bereavement in the haunts of men. Back it went on earth amongst his own,
its loved ones, calling sorrowfully to its brethren, and imploring their
aid: but after a time, strengthened by the Divine power and mercy, it
was enabled to soar on high, even unto those mysterious fields of
endless spring, those infinite unbounded fallows which God has made
beautiful with everlasting sunbeams and eternal joy.
And higher yet it flew, and higher, yet higher, higher—yea, till it set
its feet——
Where man can hear no longer the voice of lamentation, nor the mournful
discords of all things that breathe——
Where only fragrant lilies exhale balmy odours, where fields of flowers
in bloom waft honey-sweet scents athwart the air; where starry rivers
roll over beds of a million hues; where night comes never at all——
Where silent prayers go up for ever, like smoke of incense, in
odoriferous clouds; and the bells tinkle, and the organ plays softly;
and the ransomed people—Angels and Saints together—sing the Lord’s
praises in the Holy Church, the divine and lasting City!
Yes, worn out and longing to be at rest, thither did the soul of Kuba
fly away!
* * * * *
But in the house they all were dancing—enjoying themselves with the
heartiest mirth and the best goodwill. Better still than the evening
before, the good cheer being dealt out more generously, and the hosts
more pressing. And so they danced till they could dance no more.
The place was in commotion, like a cauldron set upon a great fire. Did
the enjoyment show any signs of flagging, at once the band set to with
renewed zeal; and the guests, like a field stirred by the wind and
waving, sprang up and began to dance anew with fresh fire and song and
din and tumult.
Now were their souls quite melted within them by the volcanic enthusiasm
of their host; their blood seethed hot, reason was almost giving way,
their hearts were beating with the wildest frenzy. For them, every
movement now seemed a dance, every cry a song, and every look a glance
of ecstasy!
And so it went on all night long, and even till morning. But the day
rose, dull and still: the rays of dawn appeared together with dense
dreary masses of clouds. Ere the sun had risen, the world grew very dark
and dismal. And then the snow came down: at first whirling, fluttering,
scanty—as when the needles fall from pine-trees on a windy day; until it
set to falling in earnest.
Then, as though coming through a sieve, the snow descended in
perpendicular flakes, straight down, equally dealt out, monotonous,
noiseless, covering roofs, trees, and hedges, and all the land, as with
an enormous covering of white feathers.
The wedding was really at an end at last. True, they were to meet again
at the tavern in the evening, “to wind up”; but for the present they
decided to return home.
Only the bridesmen and bridesmaids, with the band to lead them, drew up
in the porch and sang in unison a short song, in which, declaring
themselves the devoted servants of the wedded couple, they wished them
good night—in the morning!
It was then that Kuba laid his soul at the sacred feet of the Lord
Jesus....
END OF PART I
_Some recent American novels_
BALISAND _by Joseph Hergesheimer_
_author of_ THE THREE BLACK PENNYS, JAVA HEAD, _etc._
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THE TATTOOED COUNTESS _by Carl Van Vechten_
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SOUND AND FURY _by James Henle_
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THE ETERNAL HUNTRESS _by Rayner Seelig_
Woman, the eternal huntress, in her search for the father of those
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THE FIRE IN THE FLINT _by Walter F. White_
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WINGS _by Ethel M. Kelley_
Does genius, brilliancy confer upon a man the right to use the lives of
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he built his ladder to eminence. Miss Kelley gives us a remarkably vivid
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THE TIDE _by Mildred Cram_
A novel of our materialistic young people. Mildred Cram has a true
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THE PROWLER _by Hugh Wiley_
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THREE PILGRIMS AND A TINKER _by Mary Borden_
_author of_ JANE—OUR STRANGER, _etc._
The success of Jane—Our Stranger in England and America has won for Mary
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Transcriber’s Notes
1. Italic text in the original is delimited by underscores.
2. Bold text in the original is delimited by equals signs.
3. Footnotes originally appearing at the bottom of a given page have
been moved to directly below the paragraph in which they appear.
4. Footnote 7 is missing “—_Translator’s Note_”, unlike the rest of
the footnotes in the main text.
5. Hyphenated words were silently joined across lines and pages when
the intended word was clear.
6. The following table notes the other material changes made to the
printed text, in order to correct apparent printing errors
(punctuation, spelling, quotation marks, repeated words), and to
standardize spelling and hyphenation for identical words to the
more common usage across all four volumes. Changes are denoted in
[brackets].
=Page= =Text= =Operation=
4 with out[-]stretched beaks Removed
7 his shock of tou[z/s]led hair Replaced
12 the church[-]roof and steeple Added
16 to him, Yu[s/z]ka. He has Replaced
16 Oh, dear! Oh[,] dear! Added
17 on the thresh[h]old, bewildered Removed
18 of a grind[-]stone that Removed
24 “Well[./,]” he said Replaced
30 there is [W/V]eronka Replaced
31 young whipper[-]snapper who Removed
32 like silver dew[-]drops, and Removed
32 instead of cho[o]sing a Added
36 was hoar[ ]frost on Removed
36 orchard with the hoar[-]frost still Removed
37 like a sow![”] Removed
38 sun was up,[ up,] making the Removed
hoar[-]frost a dust
38 on the cow[-]byre threshold Added
42 and water[-]drops dripped Removed
47 like corn[-]stalks in a sheaf. Removed
50 and having goose[-]flesh, mended my Removed
54 my dearest![’] Added
63 [“]Are you going Added
65 Squire of Dja[s/z]gova Vola Replaced
69 red shoe[-]strings to Removed
69 outside the lich[-]gate. She was indeed Added
72 beyond Yule[-]tide—Well Added
76 his skull[-]cap and Removed
77 kopeks for each of them.[”] Added
80 a short, thick[-]set, curly-headed Removed
81 ashes. Then [K/F]ranek went off Replaced
86 cold of the hoar[-]frosts Removed
86 distance. Or mighty horn[è/e]d heads Replaced
88 rattling panes[./,] and Replaced
88 previous to Yule[-]tide, Added
89 and brush[-]wood for Removed
92 every high[-]way and Removed
95 at Yule[-]tide, or with Added
95 his snuff[-]box to Boryna. Added
97 lanes and court[-]yards were Added
97 laugh. Thence[-]forward Boryna Removed
103 room in the court[-]yard Added
107 the biggest pea.[ “/” ]This he said Replaced
110 [“]Say a prayer Added
111 Ambrose; [“]I say Added
115 the melancholy cross[-]ways, Removed
117 [”/“]Yes, we have. Time Replaced
123 [“]Yagna blushed scarlet Removed
129 woman in child[-]bed at the farther Removed
135 soon as [b/h]e began Replaced
136 you were a cow[-]herd Removed
146 with me, Burek![’] Added
148 and blooming[,/.] Replaced
148 the dire[s/c]tion of Replaced
151 take place[,/.] They Replaced
153 sooner: not[h]withstanding, he Removed
155 grand one.[’/”] Replaced
155 watchdogs in the farm[-]yards. Added
156 his capote[,] Added
158 Her step[-]children would Removed
160 not suffer loneliness!’[ ”] So Ambrose Added
161 straight talk with the man[,/.] Replaced
167 at the church[-]door now and then Added
192 sleep in the cow[-]house or the stable Added
194 side of the court[-]yard Added
200 whose white[-]washed walls now Removed
208 used as a store[-]room Added
211 the noon[-]day meal Removed
216 coming out of the sacris[t]y. Added
227 me!...[)] They Added
227 should grim Cross[-B/b]ones stare Replaced
232 wife and Va[c]hnikova made a Added
232 your corn[-]stacks piled Removed
234 of the hey[-]day in the Added
235 their slumb[e]rous frost-crowned Added
240 deathly and corpse[-]like Added
unconsciousness
241 you’ll not escape Cross[-]bones’ Removed
245 take me to the law[-]court; Added
250 matters before[-]hand and, Removed
256 to a blood[-]stained ax and Removed