THE PEASANTS
WINTER
THE
PEASANTS
A TALE OF
OUR OWN TIMES
IN
FOUR VOLUMES
AUTUMN
WINTER
SPRING[1]
SUMMER[2]
-----
Footnote 1:
_To be published April, 1925_
Footnote 2:
_To be published July, 1925_
THE PEASANTS
WINTER
FROM THE POLISH OF
LADISLAS REYMONT
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
ALFRED · A · KNOPF
NEW YORK MCMXXV
COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY ALFRED A. KNOPF, INC. PUBLISHED, JANUARY, 1925 · SET
UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON,
N. Y. · ESPARTO PAPER MANUFACTURED IN SCOTLAND AND FURNISHED BY W. F.
ETHERINGTON & CO., NEW YORK. · BOUND BY H. WOLFF ESTATE, NEW YORK. ·
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
_The Peasants_ has been translated from the original Polish by Michael
H. Dziewicki, Professor of English Literature at the University of
Cracow. I wish to make special acknowledgment to Dr. A. M. Nawench of
Columbia University for his invaluable assistance in seeing the work
through the press.
A. A. K.
THE PEASANTS
WINTER
CHAPTER I
Winter had come.
In the first days, it was but trying its strength—wrestling with the
autumn, and howling far away in the livid distance, like some ravenous
monster.
Now dawned those chilly glacial days, days of dismal and mournful
dejection, lit with a dribbling feeble light; corpse-like days, when the
birds flew away to the woods with cries of dread, and the waters babbled
fearsomely, rolling sluggishly on, as if palsied by the terror of the
cold; and the very country-side seemed to shudder, and all that was
therein to look in awe towards the north and its unfathomable depths of
clouds.
As yet the nights were as those in autumn, full of dreary sighs and
soughs; sounds as of struggling, and sudden hushes; the howl of dogs;
the cracking snaps of freezing timber; the sad voices of shelter-seeking
birds; horrible calls from weird woodlands and crossways, invisible in
the dark; and the beating of eerie wings, and shadows lurking beneath
the walls of the stupefied cottagers.
At evening, from time to time, the huge crimson bulk of the setting sun
would still peer out of the west, going down ponderously—a globe of
molten iron, whence blood-red floods would gush forth, with smoke-like
pitch-black vapours rising round them, looking like a grand and gloomy
conflagration.
They said: “The winter is growing harder, and ill winds will be rising
soon.”
And indeed the winter did grow harder—every day, every hour, every
minute.
Directly after the fourth of December (the day of St. Barbara, patroness
of a holy death), the first of the winter gales began blowing in short
whiffling puffs. They skimmed along the ground, with a baying like that
of hounds hot on a trail. They bit into the ploughed fields, snarled
about the bushes, worried the snow-drifts, tore at the orchard boughs,
swept along the highways, sniffed in the streams; and here and there,
with but little ado, they ruined every thatch and fence that was in poor
condition. After which they fled, still baying, away to the forest
lands; and after them out of the dusk came the great winds on the very
same evening, their long sharp tongues lolling out of their wheezy jaws.
All night they blew, howling across the fields like packs of famished
wolves. They did their work well, too. Ere morning the stark hardened
earth had been quite stripped of its tattered and scattered covering of
snow; only in places, in hollows and ditches, could a few white rags be
seen on the fences. The fields too had some shiny white spots left; but
the roads lay frozen deep—as it were, petrified—and the frost had bitten
profoundly into the soil with its keen fangs, so that it resounded with
a metallic ring like iron. But with the morning, the gales fled to hide
in the woods, where they lurked, tremulous and shuddering.
The sky, too, was now overcast, ever with darker clouds, which came
creeping up out of every cavern, raising heads of monstrous size,
stretching forth long lean flanks, throwing their grey manes to the
winds, baring gigantic discoloured teeth, and coming on in mighty
battalions.—From the north: black, huge, all shredded and tattered,
piled in tiers, branching out like a score of overthrown forests, one
upon the other, separated by deep chasms, and with—so it seemed—great
streaks scattered over them of greenish ice, as it were: these rushed
forward with wild might and a dull murmuring sound. From the west: those
advanced slowly—livid, enormously swollen bulks, which in places shone
bright as fire; and they rolled one after another, more and more
persistent in their long advance, not unlike flocks of great birds. From
the east came sailing flattened, rusty-hued masses of vapour,
monotonously the same, and forbidding to the eye as mouldering carcasses
that drip with tainted gore. From the south, too, were wafted
ancient-looking clouds, reddish dark in hue, recalling clods of peat,
striped and motley to see, though dingy and dull, as if vermin burrowed
within them. There were also clouds floating on high, seeming to descend
from the pale quenched orb of the sun, and forming dingy wisps, or
spreading out in manifold tints, as embers that are dying. And they all
came forward, built up mountains of prodigious height, and concealed all
the sky under a black seething flood of squalor and grime.
The whole land had suddenly turned to darkness; a dull silence prevailed
on every side; all the lights had grown dim; the bright eyes of the
waters were glazing over; all beings felt petrified and stood in
amazement with bated breath. Up out of the earth surged the fear of what
was to come; the frost penetrated even to the marrow of the bones, and
every living thing trembled with the terror of it. They saw the hare
running through the village, with shaggy fur standing fluffy on end;
they saw the ravens alighting with hoarse croaks upon the granaries, and
even entering the houses. Dogs howled wildly outside in the yard; men
sped in fear to take shelter in their huts: while along the pond the
priest’s blind mare went to and fro with the ruins of the cart, and
struck against the fences, and with a weird cry sought her way back to
the stable.
The darkness began to be continual, murky and exceedingly depressing;
daily the clouds sailed lower; they came creeping down from the forests,
like thick volumes of dust, and rolled along the fields like floods of
turbid water: then, coming to the village, plunged all things in a dingy
ice-cold fog. And suddenly there would come a rent through the midst of
the sky that shone dark-blue like the azure mirror of a well: a wild
wind whistled through the dim space, the fogs at once were driven
together on either side, and by the shattered gateway thus made came a
first loud blast, soon followed by another, a score, and hundreds.
They howled on in troops, they poured forwards in torrents that nothing
could restrain; they rushed along as if coming out of broken fetters, in
raging bellowing multitudes, striking at the gloom, dispelling it
utterly, swallowing it up or sweeping it away like rotten chaff.
And out and far over the fields, in screaming turmoil, was driven the
fog as froth before the wind.
The clouds, trampled down by the feet of the pitiless storm, fled and
rolled off, to skulk in the woodlands and forests. The sky was swept
clean; once more, though with dull and sullen mien, the day peered
forth, and every creature drew a breath of relief.
For nearly the whole of Sunday the gales blew on without any surcease or
abatement. In the day-time, they were not yet quite intolerable; but the
nights became beyond bearing. These fell, bright and starlit, and it was
then that the gales played their most furious pranks. Folks did not say
(as they do when the wind is high): “Sure someone has hung himself,”
but: “Fivescore men must be hanging now!” What with the howling, the
banging, and the creaking as of a thousand empty wagons dashing at a
gallop over hard-frozen ice, no one could sleep a wink.
The huts creaked likewise. Often and again did the storm come driving at
the corners, heaving up the thatches, butting at the doors: sometimes
even breaking in the panes so that they had to get up at night and stop
them with pillows: for it then rushed in with a sound like the squealing
of noisy swine—bringing along with it such fierce cold as benumbed the
inmates under their eiderdown quilts.
None can say what the villagers suffered, in the course of those days,
of those nights.
Nor what harm was done abroad. The blasts bore down the fences, plucked
off the thatched roofs, and—at the Voyt’s—blew down a shed that was all
but new. They tore the roof from Bartek Koziol’s granary, and carried it
away more than a furlong’s distance into the fields; they threw down the
chimney at the Vincioreks’; they wrenched a good bit of boarding from
the mill-roof: and as to the multitudes of minor losses, and the many
trees uprooted in the orchards and woods, who can tell them? Why, upon
the highway alone, they tore up and cast across the road about a score
of poplars, that lay like as many murdered and pitilessly mutilated
corpses!
The oldest inhabitant could not remember when the winds had been so
hostile and done so much injury.
Folk therefore kept at home, wrangling together beneath the smoky
rafters of their own cabins; for it was no light matter to show one’s
nose round the corner. Some of the women, however, being less patient,
would at times cautiously step outside their enclosures and visit their
gossip-loving neighbours: ostensibly to spin in company, but in reality
to whet their tongues and give vent to their ill humour. Meanwhile, the
men were threshing stubbornly on behind the closed granary-doors, and
from morning till late at night the flails smote upon the floor. The
frost had nipped the corn; and so the grain was more readily threshed
out.
These gales brought with them more and more biting frosts. With mighty
strokes they had frozen all the brooks and streamlets. The morasses were
now solid. Even the mill-pond was coated over with a sheet of bluish
transparent ice. Only close to the bridge, where the water grew deeper,
was it still in motion: all the rest of its banks were fettered by the
ice, and openings had to be cut for drawing water.
No change of weather came till St. Lucia’s day.
Then the frost slackened somewhat; the winds paused to take breath: they
swept the plain more seldom and with less boisterous fury; the grey sky
grew smooth as a well-harrowed field’s vast hempen-coloured surface, and
so low that it seemed resting on the poplar tree-tops along the road.
But presently, after the noonday Angelus, the frost increased a little
and the snow fell in large flakes.
Dusk then came earlier, and the snow still fell thicker and thicker,
though drier and more powdery, until the night closed in.
By morning the snow was three good spans deep; it covered the whole land
like a fleece, veiled it under its own white expanse, shaded with bluish
tints; and still it continued to fall without intermission.
And so great a stillness came over the land that no noise, no sound
pierced the masses of down, now floating to the ground. All had grown
silent, dumb: as though, by some miracle, all things had stopped in awe,
listening to the all but inaudible rustle of the falling flakes, so
quietly floating earthward—a dim flickering whiteness, unceasingly
descending!
The night was now a whitish obscurity, a glimmering, pearly, immaculate
dawn, like the finest bleached wool on earth; this glimmering from out
of the infinite abyss—as it were, the frozen shimmer of the light of all
stars, condensed and ground to dust in its downward flight from
heaven—now besprinkled the whole country; and soon the pine-woods were
shrouded, the meadows disappeared, the highways vanished, and all the
village was lost in the silvery haze and blinding dust, and nothing more
was to be seen but streams of sifted snow, wafted down as still and
smooth and soft as cherry-blossoms in a moonlit night!
At three paces’ distance, there was no making out either huts or trees
or fences, or any human face; human voices alone, like butterflies on
wearied wings, flitted about in the nebulous whiteness.
This went on for two whole days and nights. In the end, the cabins were
all snowed up, and rose, each like a snow-covered hill, with a long
tress of smoke waving from its top. Roads and fields had become one vast
plain: the orchards were all filled with snow, even above the tops of
the enclosures; the pond had become quite invisible beneath the
avalanche and, in place of the ground, there was but a pale, flat,
impassable, miraculous plain of down.
The snow fell still, though now more dry and scantier. At night the
stars would twinkle athwart its curtain: by day, at times, the blue sky
would show beyond the whirl of floating specks and flitters; voices
sounded more sonorous and came no longer muffled through the veil. The
village seemed to wake up a little, and folk began to stir themselves.
Some even attempted to drive out in sledges, but soon returned, finding
the ways impracticable. Here and there, they dug paths through the snow
from cabin to cabin; every heart rejoiced. Especially the children were
beside themselves with delight; and dogs rushed about everywhere,
barking, licking the snow, and scampering with the urchins, who swarmed
on to the roadways, clamoured in the enclosures, shouted, pelted one
another with snowballs, built horrible monsters, and dragged each other
about on toboggans; their joyful cries and merry sports filled all the
place with din. Roch had to give up teaching that day, for keeping them
in the house over their primers was impossible.
About the third day, the snow ceased as twilight fell; and though there
were still a few flakes, they were like the shakings out of an empty
sack of flour—nothing to speak of. But the sky was overcast, crows
flapped their wings about the houses and alighted on the roads; the
night came down starless and leaden, its obscurity diminished only by
the whiteness of the frosty snow—and as still as one shorn of strength
to the uttermost.
“Let but the slightest wind spring up, and we shall have a snowstorm,”
muttered old Bylitsa the next morning, as he peeped out at the window.
Hanka lit the fire on the hearth, and looked into the passage. It was
early yet: all over the hamlet, the cocks were crowing. The twilight was
still dusky, as if lime and soot had been mingled and spread over the
world; but in the east there glowed a heap, as it were, of ash-covered
embers.
The cold in the room was so keen, so damp and bitterly piercing, that
Hanka had to put on her clogs in the house over her bare feet. On the
hearth, there was scarce any fire at all; the green juniper brushwood
only crackled and smoked. Hanka hacked a few chips off a board, poked
some straw under them, and at last got the fire to blaze.
“Enough snow has fallen for a whole winter,” the old man said again,
blowing on the window, crusted over with a thick coating of greenish
ice.
The eldest boy, now entering on his fourth year, began crying in bed;
and from Staho’s lodgings on the other side of the hut, angry voices,
the weeping of children, and the slamming of doors were heard.
“Oh, Veronka is already at her morning prayers!” Antek remarked
satirically, as he wound round his legs the bands he had previously
warmed at the fire.
“Ah, well,” the old man mumbled, “she has learned to talk—and she talks.
A little too much perhaps, but she means no harm.”
“Means no harm! And does she mean no harm when she beats her children?
Does she mean no harm when she leads poor Staho a dog’s life, with never
a good word for him?” Thus Hanka made reply, as she knelt down by the
cradle to suckle her little baby, which was crying and kicking its legs
about.
“Since we came, three Sundays have gone by: not one day has passed
without a quarrel and fighting and curses. She a woman? No, she’s a
brute.... But Staho too is a mollycoddle, who lets her swinge and cuff
him at will. He works like a horse, and she treats him worse than a
dog.”
The old man cast a deprecating look at Hanka, and was about to say a
word in Veronka’s behalf, when the door opened and Staho himself, flail
on shoulder, peeped in.
“Antek, will you come and thresh? The organist told me to get someone
for his barley, which is dry and good, and comes splendidly out of the
husk.... Philip begged me to take him; but if you will, here’s work for
you.”
“Thanks kindly,” was Antek’s reply; “but I am not going to work at the
organist’s. Philip will do very well.”
“Please yourself. Good day.”
At her husband’s refusal, Hanka had started up; but she at once bent
down, her head over the cradle, to hide the tears that gushed forth.
“What! in this fearful winter, so poor that we have only a few potatoes
and salt, and having not a stiver to bless himself with ... he refuses
work offered! Sits all day long in the hut, smoking cigarettes and
brooding!... Or else roams and prowls about like one distraught, seeking
... what? The wind perhaps? O my God, my God!” she sobbed in her
distress.... “And now, even Yankel will trust us no more: and we shall
have to sell the cow.... True, it is not beseeming that he should work
on another peasant’s land.... But what—what can we do?—Lord! were I a
man, I would not spare myself nor shirk toil, but work till my arms
dropped.... Alas! poor thing that I am, what can I do?” And she set
about her household duties, now and then casting a furtive glance at
Antek, who sat close to the hearth, with his eldest son on his lap,
wrapped in his sheepskin, and chafed his little feet with a hand warmed
at the fire, but sighed and stared moodily into the blaze the while. The
old man was peeling potatoes at the window.
Silence had arisen between them, disquieting, pregnant with hidden
griefs, and heightened by the stifling sensation of misery. They would
not look into each other’s eyes, nor talk; their words trailed off into
plaints, their smiles faded and went out; in their looks flamed
suppressed reproaches; in their pallid emaciated faces harsh feelings
were to be read, and their minds burned with bitter resentment. Three
weeks had passed since they had been turned from Boryna’s door: so many
long days and nights, and they had every detail of the expulsion yet
distinct in their memories. The injury was as fresh as ever, the
stubborn sense of revolt as strong.
The fire was now burning merrily, and its warmth spread through the
room, till the frost melted on the window-panes, and the snow in the
chinks outside the hut trickled down in water, while a little moisture
oozed from the hard-beaten floor.
“Those Jews ... are they coming?” she asked at length.
“They said they would.”
And again not one word more. Indeed, who should speak first? Should
Hanka?... She, who durst not open her mouth, lest the gall that filled
her heart should flow forth in spite of her!—Or Antek? What had he to
say? That he was miserable? They both knew that. He never had been prone
to make friends; and as to pouring out his heart, even to his own wife,
he had no wish to do that! Besides, how could he speak, now that his
soul was eaten up with hatred, and every memory made him writhe and
clench his fists in such rage that he would willingly have vented it
upon the whole village!
He now treasured no longer the sweet recollection of Yagna, any more
than if he had never known her, than if he never had held in his arms
the girl whom he now could tear in pieces.
And yet what he felt was not hatred. “Some women” (thus he thought of
her) “are like stray dogs, always ready to follow anyone who offers a
bigger morsel, or shakes a stick to be obeyed.” Even these thoughts were
not very frequent: in presence of the avalanche of deadly wrongs done
him by his father, he forgot hers. The old man was guilty of all: yes,
it was his father—the villain, the tyrant, the thorn in his side that
ever rankled deeper and more cruelly!—it was through him—through
him!—that all had come to pass.
Every evil inflicted, every suffering that he had undergone in these
days, was garnered up in his bosom, and formed a horrible rosary of
pangs and tortures; but he incessantly told the beads in his mind, that
his memory of them might be fresh.
Of his poverty he made little account. He was a stalwart fellow: needed
but a roof over his head, and no more.
“Let my wife,” he thought, “see to the children.”—What stung him above
all the rest was the utter injustice shown to him. This he felt,
continually more inflamed, as the rubbed sting of a nettle. What! In but
three weeks, all the hamlet had come to look upon him as though he were
an unknown intruder. No one spoke to him, no one looked in at his door,
nobody had even a word of kind greeting for him. He felt himself an
outlaw.
Well, if they did not come, he was not the man to beg them. But neither
would he hide in a corner—far less yield an inch of the way to any. If
they cared to have a fight, why, then, let them have it!... But now, why
was all this? Because he had fought his father?—Aha! was that unheard of
in Lipka? Did not Joseph Vahnik fight his father every other day? Had
not Staho Ploshka broken his father’s leg? And yet no one had a word of
blame for either! No, it was only he they were shocked at. Of course:
“Whom God favours, His saints favour too”; and Boryna was as a god in
Lipka!
All that time, breathing only revenge and the thought of it, he had
lived on in a fever of excitement. He did not take to work, lost thought
of his poverty, forgot all about the morrow: broken down after the agony
gone through, he merely crawled hither and thither—a self-tormentor
everywhere. Now and again he would rise in the night, to go about and
roam along the roads or crouch hidden in dark corners, dreaming of
vengeance, and swearing that he would never forgive.
They took breakfast together without one word; and he sat with eyes of
bewilderment, ruminating the past—thorny bitter provender, hard to chew!
By now the day was getting on, and the fire had gone out. A cold whitish
light from the snows outside shone through the partly thawed panes: the
chilly dismal glare lit up every nook and showed the room in all its
wretched nakedness.
Heavens! By the side of such a hut, Boryna’s cabin was a mansion. Nay,
any of his father’s outhouses, even the cow-byre, was fitter for human
abode. It was a foul sty, not a dwelling-place; a heap of rotted logs,
dried dung, worthless rubbish! Not a single board to cover the bare
ground, whose clay was honeycombed with holes filled up with frozen mud
and sweepings, whence an odour worse than a manure-heap exhaled whenever
the fire-place warmed the room. Above this quag of a floor rose the
walls, warped and mouldy down which the damp trickled, and in whose dark
corners the Frost shook his hoary beard: walls with numberless holes,
stopped with clay—or even, in some places, straw and cow-dung. The low
ceiling hung down like a torn old sieve; there were fewer boards in it
than holes, stopped with bundles of straw. Only the furniture and
household utensils, together with the holy images on the walls, to some
extent concealed this state of dire destitution; whilst the great press,
and the horizontal pole across the room on which the clothes were hung,
hid the wickerwork partition that separated the room from the byre....
Hanka soon got through her work, though she had not to hurry: one cow, a
heifer, a young pig and a few geese and fowls forming all her live
stock, and indeed all her wealth. She dressed the boys, who presently
went out into the passage to play with Veronka’s children; the sound of
their frolics was soon heard. Then she tidied herself up a little, as
she expected the dealers, and would have to go to the village
afterwards.
She particularly wished to talk the matter of the sale over with Antek
beforehand; but she could not venture to speak first. He, still sitting
by the fire that burned no more, was staring into the distance with a
mien so sombre that it made her afraid.
What could it be that ailed him?
She took off her clogs, lest their clatter might annoy him, and cast in
his direction more and more frequent glances full of affectionate
disquietude.
“Ah,” she thought, “it is harder, far harder for him than for other
men!” and a great desire came over her to question him, to try and guess
his sorrows, and mourn over them with him. Already she was standing by
his side, ready with words of kindness, welling up from her loving
heart. But then, how could she speak to him, if he paid no more heed to
her than if she were not there? She heaved a sigh, for her heart was
very heavy. Good God! how much better off so many another woman was—even
though without a roof she could call her own! Should he raise his
voice—nay, even his hand—against her, well, she would at least know she
had a living man by her side, and not a log of wood. “But he!... Not a
word! Now and then he growls, as an angry dog would—or looks at me so
that my blood runs cold. I cannot talk with him, nor open my heart in
converse with him at all. A wife—what is that to him? A pair of hands to
tidy the cabin—to cook his food—to nurse his children! Does he care for
me in any wise? ever caress me, pet me, treat me tenderly, or even chat
with me? All that has no interest for him: he keeps his mind aloof from
all around him, makes himself as a stranger, and succeeds so well that
he sees nothing that goes on. Yes, let the poor wife bear every burden
on her own shoulders: suffer alone—come and go—trouble about all things:
he will never pay her with one gracious word!”
She could no longer keep back her tears, the bitter overflow of her
grief, and went out to the byre beyond the partition wall, where,
leaning against the manger, she wept in silence; but when the cow
Krasula, with a deep breath, set to licking her head and shoulders, she
burst out into loud lamentations.
“And I shall lose you too, my poor beast!... They will come.... They are
coming.... They will bargain for you ... and then throw a rope round
your horns ... and lead you off, you that give us our food!” she
murmured low, putting her arm round its neck, and turning with all the
affection of her wounded heart towards this creature that felt for
her.—No, this could go on no longer.—The cow was to be sold; then there
would be nothing for them to eat!... And he refused to seek work! Had
they not asked him to thresh? and he would not go. He might have earned
one _zloty_ ten kopeks daily.... That would have at least bought salt,
and a little lard to make up for the milk that was to fail them now.
She returned to the dwelling-room, ready to speak her mind.
“Antek!” she cried, in a hard, determined voice.
Silently he raised his bloodshot eyes to hers, with a gaze of such
immense anguish and sorrow that she was overwhelmed with dread, while
her heart thrilled with compassion.
“Did you say they had come for the cow?”
“They are surely on the way; dogs are barking down there.”
“No, that is in Sikora’s enclosure,” she said after having gone out to
look.
“They promised to come in the forenoon, and we have only to wait.”
“Oh, _must_ we sell?”
“Alas! we want money, and our pasture-land is not enough for Krasula and
the heifer too.—Yes, we must, Hanka; what’s to be done? I am sorry to
lose the cow,” he went on in a low voice, and with such sweetness of
tone that Hanka felt spellbound, while her heart went pit-a-pat with
great joy and hope: at that moment, she cared neither for the loss of
the cow, nor any of their other misfortunes. And she gazed earnestly
into his beloved face, listening to that voice of his which entered into
her like a flame, and kindled such delightful feelings within her.
“Ah, yes, we must. Well, the heifer remains to us. She will calve about
Mid-Lent, and so we shall have a little milk then,” she chimed in,
wishing only to hear him speak further.
“And if we should lack provender, we’ll buy some.”
“Oat-straw perhaps: our rye will last till spring.—Father, pray open our
potato-pit: we must see if the potatoes we have are not frost-nipped.”
“Father, stay where you are, the work is too hard for you: I’ll do it.”
He rose, took his sheepskin down from the pole, and went outside.
The snow was almost as high as the roof, for the cabin stood in an open
place, almost out of the village, a field’s length from the road, and
with neither hedgerow nor orchard to keep the snow away. Several wild
gnarled cherry-trees grew in front of the windows, but they were so
buried in the drift that their branches alone stood protruding like
human fingers twisted and bent by some disease.—Earlier in the day, the
old man had already cleared away the snow in front of the cabin, but he
had at the same time covered the mound[3] so deep that it was impossible
to distinguish it in the snow.—Antek set vigorously to work: the snow
stood as high as a man, and—though lately fallen—it had caked together
and hardened so much that it had to be cut out in lumps; and he sweated
enough ere the potato-pit was dug open. But he worked willingly, now and
then throwing a few flitters at the children, who were playing outside
the threshold. At times, however, he would pause in his work to lean
back against the cabin-wall and look around. Then he would heave a
profound sigh, and his soul would once more go astray like a sheep lost
in the shadows of the night. The sky was all covered with a whitish
cloud, which hung at no great height. The snows lay extended like a huge
soft fleece, forming, as far as the eye could reach, an immense plain,
white with a tinge of blue; the air, misty with suspended crystals of
frost, seemed to wrap the whole world in a delicate pellucid tissue. As
Bylitsa’s hut was on rising ground, one saw thence the whole village
spread out in a bird’s-eye view: those lines of snow-clad mounds, like
huge molehills, straggling away in long strings round the pond, none
completely bare, but all hid by the white sheet spread over them. Here
and there a granary wall stood out, darkly prominent; ruddy-brown coils
of curling peat-smoke went up; or a few trees peered out, grey beneath
the dazzling mantle in which they were enveloped; and athwart this world
all of silver tinges, voices travelled swift and sharp, heard together
with the flails’ monotonous _rutta-rutta-rutta_, drumming underground,
as it were. The ways were all snowed up; no one fared along them, nor
did any living thing darken the silvery expanse of the fields. The hazy
distances melted into one another, so that sky and earth were
undistinguishable, save where the forest made a faint blue stain on the
white, as if some cloud were hanging at the horizon.
-----
Footnote 3:
Over the potato-pits, dug deep as a protection from the cold, mounds
are raised to protect them still more effectively.—_Translator’s
Note._
Antek’s gaze wandered but for a little while over those snowy wastes; it
presently returned and sought his father’s cabin; and in the search his
attention was diverted by a cry from Hanka, who had gone down into the
potato-pit.
“Ha! they are not frozen! Vahnik’s store has been so frost-bitten that
half must be given to the swine to eat; and ours—ours is quite
untouched!”
“That is good news.—Pray go out and see, for if I mistake not, the Jews
are coming at last, and we must take the cow out of the byre.”
“You are right: it is the Jews—who but they? Yes, it is.—Poisonous
creatures!” she exclaimed with abhorrence.
Along a pathway just visible by the marks of Staho’s boots, made when he
went out in the morning, there came two Jews from the tavern, heavily
plodding along, followed by half the dogs in the village (that greatly
enjoyed this opportunity to bark at them) until Antek arrived and drove
them away.
“Oh, how do you do?—We come late, on account of the snow.—Such
drifts!—No driving through them, no getting through on foot even, I tell
you. They have had to employ forced labour to make the road passable
through the forest.”
To these attempts at conversation he replied nothing, but made them
enter his hut to warm themselves a little.
Hanka, having cleaned the cow’s soiled flanks and milked away what had
gathered since the morning, brought her through the room into the yard.
The cow made resistance, unwilling to go out; on passing the threshold,
she sniffed, stretched her head forth into the air, licked the snow, and
on a sudden burst into long plaintive lowing, pulling so hard at the
rope that old Bylica could scarcely hold her.
Hanka broke down. Seized with an unbearable pang, she burst out crying,
as did the children too, holding to their mother’s skirt.
Nor was Antek in much better mood. He ground his teeth, leaned back
against the cabin wall, and stared doggedly at a lot of crows that had
assembled on the snow dug from the pit. The dealers meanwhile jabbered
in Yiddish to each other, and proceeded to feel the cow and examine her
critically.
The whole family, sick at heart, turned away in deep dejection from the
beast tugging at her halter and vainly looking to her masters with great
frightened eyes, and lowing in vain.
“O Lord!—Was it for this, Krasula, that I fed you so well, and cared for
all your wants, that these men should now take you to the
slaughter-house, and destroy you!” And in agony she struck the cabin
wall with her head.
Alas! Wailing and lamenting were of no avail; for “What needs must be—no
man can flee,” as the saying is.
“How much?” the elder of the couple, a grey-bearded Jew, asked at last.
“Three hundred _zloty_.”[4]
-----
Footnote 4:
In view of the bargaining that ensues, this must be counted as 45
roubles.—_Translator’s Note._
“What! for that scraggy brute—three hundred?—Anthony, is aught the
matter with you?”
“Scraggy? Say ye no such word, or ye shall rue it! Scraggy! Look but at
her—so young—scarce in her fifth year—and in such goodly condition!” So
spoke Hanka, enraged.
“Pshaw! Pshaw! Who doth business, a word shall not anger him.—Say thirty
roubles!”
“I have spoken.”
“And I shall speak. Thirty-one?... Well, thirty-one and a
half.—Thirty-two?—Then let it be thirty-two and a half.... It’s a
bargain?”
“I have said.”
“My last word: three and thirty!”—“Take it or leave it,” added the
younger Jew phlegmatically, looking round for his staff, while the elder
buttoned up his gaberdine.
Thereupon Bylitsa said, patting the cow’s neck: “For such a beast as
this!—O men, fear ye not God? A cow as large as a byre!—Why, her hide
alone will be worth half a score of roubles—O ye swindlers! ye murderers
of Christ!”
But now the Jews began to chaffer eagerly, violently. Antek stood
stubbornly to his price; and though he gave way a little, it was but
little. Indeed, the cow Krasula was very valuable; and had he been
selling it in spring and to another peasant, he would have got fifty
roubles at least. But “Necessity drives to the mart, with Poverty
drawing the cart.” This the Jews were perfectly aware of; and though
they shouted louder and louder, and struck their hands in Antek’s with
greater zeal to conclude the bargain, their offers rose by at most half
a rouble each time.
Finally it came to this pass, that they started home in high dudgeon,
and Hanka was leading the cow back to her shed, while Antek himself was
angered and ready to renounce selling the beast at all—when lo! back
they came again, and shrieked and swore that they could not possibly
offer a higher price, and struck their hands in Antek’s again ... till
at last the man agreed to forty roubles, plus two _zloty_ for old
Bylica, as the holder of the rope.
They paid on the nail; the old man led the cow after them to the tavern
where their sledge was waiting. Accompanied by the children, Hanka went
with Krasula as far as the road, stroking her muzzle every now and then,
affectionately bending over her, and quite unable to conceal her grief
and affliction....
She stood long upon the road, looking at Krasula as she was led away,
and pouring out execrations on those unchristened “Yellow Ones.”
To lose such a cow as Krasula was!—No wonder if the poor woman felt her
bosom overflow with gall!
When she came back, she said: “It is as if one of us had been borne to
the churchyard”; and she still continued to peep into the empty stall,
or to gaze through the window at the pathway marked by the hoofs which
had but now passed there; and often and often did she give way to her
distress, and shed tears again and again.
“Now then, will you have done?” Antek cried out, seating himself at the
table where the money lay. “Why, the woman is for all the world like a
calf; doth naught but weep and blubber.”
“‘He that suffereth naught will for nothing have thought,’” was Hanka’s
reply. “You suffered nothing, when you gave poor Krasula up to those
Jews to be butchered.”
“Aye, you’d rather have me open my own bowels to get you money!”
“And now we remain like the very last of hired servants—like
_Dziads_—without one drop of milk, without one crumb of comfort!
This—this is what my share of my own house and home have earned for
me.—Merciful heavens! Other men work as hard as oxen, and bring
something home; and this man sells the very last thing—the cow, my
marriage portion, all I had from my family!” she went on in
uncontrollable excitement.
“Being a fool and without understanding, you may bellow at your
ease.—Here’s money for you. Pay what you owe, buy what you need, keep
the rest.” He pushed the roubles over to her, but, taking five from the
heap, put them into his pocket-book.
“And why take so much money with you?”
“Why? I am not going to start off with nothing but my staff.”
“Start off? and whither?”
“Anywhither, if it be but away from here. I will seek work, and not rot
here in Lipka.”
“_Away?_ A dog is barefoot everywhere—‘Where’er the poor man goes, the
wind against him blows.’—Ah! and I am to stay here alone, say? Am I?”
And, raising her voice, she approached him with a threatening mien, not
knowing what she did; he meanwhile took no notice of her, occupied as he
was in taking down his sheepskin, putting his girdle on, and looking for
his cap.
“Work for the peasants here? That I will not,” he declared. “No: though
I should starve; I will not!”
“The organist is in want of a thresher.”
“That great man!—A calf who bleats in the choir, and is good for naught
else; whose eyes are always on the farmers’ money-bags, and who lives on
what he gets out of them by begging or by lying!”
“‘Who has no goodwill shirks his duty still!’”
“Enough! You’re saucy!” he cried out in anger.
“When do I say a word to oppose you? You always do as you please, and I
am nowhere!”
“I shall apply at the manors,” he said presently, in a gentler tone. “I
mean to inquire about service to be had, and perhaps may get something
by Christmas. But I would rather be a common ploughman elsewhere than
rot here, where the wrong done me stares me in the face at every step.
That I cannot bear. I have enough of it—enough of being pitied by some,
and looked upon by others as a mangy dog!” As he spoke, he waxed angrier
and more highly wrought and Hanka, seized with terror, stood petrified
and motionless: she had never yet seen him in such a state.
“Farewell. I shall return in a few days.”
“Antek!”—The word was a despairing scream.
“What would you?” He turned upon the threshold.
“Do you grudge me even a friendly parting word?”
“Is it caresses you mean? Oh, I am in no mood for them just now.” And he
went out, slamming the door.
Uttering a hissing sound between his shut teeth, he walked on quickly
through the snow with his staff. The crisp surface crunched underfoot.
He looked round at the cabin. Hanka stood against the wall, dissolved in
tears; through the other window, Veronka was watching them.
“Good for nothing in the world but weep, weep, weep again!—Now, forwards
and away!” he said, with a glance that swept the snowy wilderness round
him. Seized with a strange longing, he felt himself urged on, rejoicing
in the thought of unknown hamlets and a new life in a fresh world. The
feeling came upon him unexpectedly, and bore him away, as a suddenly
swollen torrent carries with it a weakly-rotted shrub, that can neither
make head against it nor remain motionless.
An hour before, so far from making up his mind to go, he had never so
much as entertained the thought. Ah! but now he would fly—fly away
like a bird, go anywhither—to the forests, aye, and to the undreamed
regions beyond them. Truly, why should he stay here to waste his life?
what had he to expect here? The memories of the past had eaten him up,
dried his heart: for what reason, then, should he cleave to them?—The
priest was a good man, and had pointed out clearly to him that he
stood no chance in an action against his father, which would besides
be costly.—Vengeance?—That might wait till the right time: no man had
ever yet wronged him with impunity. So now ... let him go on—straight
before him, no matter whither, if far enough from Lipka!
But whither first of all?
He now stood at a bend of the poplar road, gazing, not without some
hesitation, over the fields which faded in the misty remoteness. “I
shall go through the village and along the road beyond the mill.” And he
at once started that way.
Half a field’s length before striking off the road, he had to turn
aside; for under the poplars and down the middle of the way a sledge was
rushing straight in his direction, with a cloud of snow-dust and a sharp
jingling of bells.
It was Boryna, driving with Yagna. The horses tore along with lusty
hoofs, the body of the sledge tossed like a feather behind them. The old
man whipped them besides to make them go faster, and urged them on. He
was speaking some words, too, and laughing! Yagna was talking in a loud
voice, when she suddenly beheld Antek. Each for an instant looked into
the other’s eyes—and then had gone past. The sledge flashed by, and was
engulfed in the snowstorm it had made; Antek stood in the same spot,
looking round at them, and motionless. Now and again they appeared out
of the cloud of snow-dust; Yagna’s dress fluttered red in the wind; now
the bells would tinkle louder, and again fainter, inaudible, lost
somewhere on that vast white plain, beneath the arch of frosted boughs
and between the colonnade of dark trunks that sustained them.... These
stood, as it were, drooping in a row, in their long and weary uphill
procession towards the forest. But Antek was always aware of her eyes.
They floated before him; they appeared, in the midst of the
snow—everywhere—with that look of terror and of sadness; dreamy and
pleased at once; keen of glance and laden with the hot fire of life!
He felt his soul extinguished, so to speak, veiled in a mist, frosted
over and chilled to the core: but the deep-blue eyes were shining bright
within him. Hanging his head, he dragged himself on with slow steps.
More than once he glanced round, but nothing was visible beneath the
poplar colonnade, save the blur of a snowy whirlwind fleeing away with a
tinkling of far-off bells.
Oblivion of all things came over him, as though he had lost his memory
by some strange happening. He stared helplessly, not knowing what to do
... or where to go ... or what had come to pass. He was as one in a
dream—a waking dream, which he cannot shake off.
Almost unconsciously, he got to the tavern, passing several sledges full
of folk, amongst whom he recognized no one, though he looked carefully.
“Where is that crowd of people bound for?” he asked Yankel, who was
standing in the doorway.
“For the court. There’s a lawsuit with the Manor about a cow, and
herdsmen assaulted: you know the affair. Those are the witnesses; Boryna
started before.”
“Will they win?”
“Why should anyone lose? The complaint is against the Squire of Vola,
and the Squire of Rudka is to be judge. Why should a Squire
lose?—Besides, the folk will have an excursion, will improve the roads,
will enjoy themselves; and the townsmen too need to do some business. So
everybody will gain a little.”
Antek was not listening to Yankel’s mockery. He ordered some strong
vodka and, leaning against the bar, stood musing there for a full hour,
without even tasting the liquor.
“Is anything ailing you?”
“What should ail me?—Let me into the private bar.”
“Impossible. Dealers are there—great merchants, who have purchased
another clearing from the Squire; that in Vilche Doly. They must have
rest; nay, it may be they are sleeping now.”
“I’ll pull the scurvy rascals out by their beards!” Antek cried, and
rushed madly to the private bar; but ere he got there, he changed his
mind, and took his bottle to the darkest nook in the room.
The tavern was empty and still, save for the Jews talking together in
their jargon, Yankel running to serve them, or someone coming in to
order a glass, toss it off, and withdraw.
It was now past noon, and the frost no doubt increasing; for the
sledge-runners creaked in the snow, and the tavern grew colder. But
Antek remained in a brown study, unable to make out what was going on
within him and around.
He took a dram, then another; but those eyes! They were always with
him—dark-blue, turquoise-blue!—and so very near that his eyelids all but
touched them.—A third dram, and they grew brighter still, and seemed to
whirl about, as lights borne from one part of the room to another!—A
cold shudder went through him; terrified, he started to his feet.
“Pay up, you!” shouted Yankel, blocking the way out. “Pay up! I give you
naught on trust.”
“Out of my way, you dog’s-blood Jew, or I kill you!” Antek shrieked,
with such furious violence that Yankel changed colour and shrank away to
let him pass.
He banged the door and rushed out.
CHAPTER II
Towards noon it had cleared up a little, but only as if a rushlight had
been kindled and whisked about among the shadows; what brightness there
was vanished soon, and it grew dark again, and looked as if the snow
were gathering and about to fall once more.
In Antek’s hut it was extremely murky and cold and cheerless. The
children played upon the bed, and prattled in whispers to each other.
Hanka was so uneasy, she knew not what to do. She went fidgeting about
the place, or stood outside with burning eyes, gazing over the snow. But
neither on the road nor in the fields did any living creature meet her
sight; only a few sledges were just visible, crawling away from the
tavern to vanish both from the eye and the ear, lost in the abyss of
limitless white.
She sighed. If there were but a beggar passing by, that she might have
someone to speak to!
She set to calling together the fowls that had dispersed, seeking to
roost on the cherry-trees, and made them return to their usual
roosting-place; but, on going in, had some words with Veronka. What did
it mean? The woman had set down in the passage a pail of hog-wash for
her swine, which the dirty beasts had splashed about, and there was a
large pool right in front of Hanka’s door!
Without going in, she cried through the closed door: “You who hold
yourself such a good housewife, see to your pigs, or tell your children
to do so. I will not dirty myself with mud for your sake!”
“Oh, she has sold her cow, and so she is going to raise her voice here,
is she? She cannot bear mud now, the grand lady! Yet her dwelling is a
pigsty!”
“Never you mind about my lodgings or my cow!”
“Then never you mind about my pigs; do you hear?”
Hanka slammed the door: what could she reply to such a fury? One word
said to her was sure to bring more than twenty in return.—She bolted the
door, took out the money, and began to make up her accounts with
infinite trouble, blundering again and again. She was still upset; full
of resentment against Veronka, of disquietude about Antek. Often, too,
she fancied she could hear Krasula lowing; and then at times memories of
her girlhood at home came back to her.
“True it is, though, too true, that our dwelling is like a pigsty!” she
muttered, looking about the room.—But _there_!... There they had a
floor, and the walls were whitewashed, and all was warm and clean, and
everything was in abundance.... And the work there, was it much?...
Yuzka washed the things after dinner; Yagna spun, or looked out of the
bright frostless windows.... What did she need, that she had not?... All
the corals of Boryna’s deceased wives were hers now; and petticoats, and
kerchiefs, and linen in plenty. She had not to trouble, not to earn
anything, and could eat her fill of fat things! And Staho had said,
moreover, that Yagustynka did all the work for her; that she lay in bed
till broad daylight, and had tea for breakfast, because, forsooth,
“potatoes did not agree with her!” ... And the old man did nothing but
make love and fondle that woman as if she were a little child....
The thought roused a storm of rage in her; she started up from the chest
she sat on and shook her fist.
“Oh, the spoiler, the harpy, the wanton, the trull!” She screamed so
loud that old Bylica, dozing close to the fire-place, started up in
alarm.
She was calm in an instant. “Father, pray cover the potatoes with straw,
and then heap the mound with snow: there is going to be a hard frost,”
she said, and returned to her accounts.
But somehow the old man’s work did not get on. There was much snow, and
he had little strength—And then, he felt uneasy: he had held the rope,
and two _zloty_ were for him: should he have them? They had been lying
there on the table, glittering and almost new, as he well remembered.
“Perhaps they will give them to me,” he thought. “To whom else do they
belong? My arms are stiff with holding the rope, Krasula pulled so hard;
I held on nevertheless.... And how I praised her to the cattle-dealers!
Oh, I made them hear me!... Peter, the eldest boy—I should buy him a
mouth-organ at the very first local feast.... And the younger one too
should get something.... And Veronka’s little ones too, naughty
troublesome brats though they are.... And for myself, some
snuff—strong—such as stirs one’s inwards! Staho’s snuff is good for
little, does not even make me sneeze.”
But these musings affected his work so much that when Hanka came round
in an hour’s time, the straw was only just covered with snow.
“Why, you eat enough for a man, and work less than a child!” she said.
“Ah, Hanka, I am working hard, but I just stopped a moment to breathe: I
shall finish instantly—instantly!” he stammered, greatly abashed.
“The twilight is coming down from the forest, the frost is growing
harder, and the pit looks as if swine had been rooting there. Go ye into
the hut and tend the babes.”
She herself set to work, and with such energy that the pit was very soon
covered up and splendidly heaped over with snow.
But when she had done, it was already dusk; the dwelling had become
colder; the damp clay floor, stiff with the frost, clattered beneath her
clogs; and once more the frost painted its patterns on the panes. The
children, too, whimpered low; but she did nothing to quiet them, for she
was in haste. She had to cut straw for the heifer, and feed the pigs,
that came squealing and nuzzling against the door, and give water to the
geese. Besides, she must go over the accounts again—find how much she
was to pay, and to whom. At last all was done, and she prepared to go
out.
“Father, you will light the fire, and take care of the babes.—Should
Antek come back, there is cabbage for him in the saucepan on the hob.”
“Yes, yes, Hanka, I shall see to everything.—The cabbage is on the hob;
yes, I shall see, I shall see to it.”
“Ah!—About the rope-money, I have taken it. You do not want it, surely?
You have food to eat; you have clothing.... What more do you need?”
“Yes, Hanka, yes; I have everything—everything,” he replied in a low
voice, turning quickly round to the children, lest she should see his
tears fall.
As she went out, the cold gripped her. A bluish darkness was spreading
on every side, dry and peculiarly transparent. The sky was clear as
crystal, with unclouded horizon, and a few stars already twinkling on
high.
On her way, Hanka mused. She thought she would try to find some sort of
work that Antek could do, and not let him go away.—But now his last
utterance came back to her, and made her faint with alarm. For never in
her life could she leave her village to live elsewhere; no, never could
she abide among strange folk!
She gazed on the road, the houses scattered along it, the orchards
scarce seen above the snow, and the immense fields all around, now
growing grey in the twilight. The silent ice-cold evening fell faster
and faster: star after star came out, as if someone up there was sowing
them by handfuls; and upon the glimmering earth, glimmering in
snowy-white expanses, the cabin lights began to shine, smoke shed its
scent through the air, men went slowly about the ways, and voices seemed
skimming very low along the ground.
“All this has grown into me, is part of me; and I will not stray about
the world like a wandering wind. Oh, no!” she said with energy to
herself, walking now somewhat slower; for from time to time she met with
caked snow that broke and let her in up to the knees.
“This is the world which our Lord has given me—mine! Here will I live
and here will I die.—If we can but hold out till the spring!... Say that
Antek refuses to do any work. Well, I shall not be forced to beg. I will
take up spinning—or weaving—or anything I can turn my hand to, and not
let misery conquer me. Veronka, I know, earns enough by her weaving to
put money by.”
* * * * *
Such were her thoughts as she entered the tavern, where Yankel was as
usual nodding over a book. He paid no attention to her till she set the
money before him; then he smiled in friendly wise, helped her to reckon
the sum right, and even offered her some vodka. But he said no word to
her either of Antek’s debt to him or of the man himself, until she was
about to depart; when he asked her what her husband was doing.
She replied that he was seeking work.
“He would be useful in the village. They are putting up a sawmill here,
and I need someone experienced in carting timber.”
“My husband would never go into tavern service.”
“Is he such a great man as that? Then let him slumber and sleep!—But ye
have some geese: if ye will, fatten them a little, and I will purchase
them when yule-tide comes.”
“I cannot sell any; I have but enough for breeding.”
“Then buy some goslings for the spring; as soon as they are well fed up,
I’ll take them. And if you care, you may have all on credit here, and
you will pay me in geese.—A running account....”
“No, I shall not sell any geese.”
“Oh, but you will, when the money from your cow is gone ... and sell
them cheap, too!”
“Scurvy one! you’ll not live to see the day!” was her mental comment as
she went out.
The air was so frosty now, it made the nostrils tingle. The heavens were
scintillating, and a bleak piercing blast blew from the woods.
Nevertheless, she kept her course right in the middle of the road,
gazing with interest at all the cabins. Vahnik’s, next the church, had
all the candles lit; from Ploshka’s enclosure came a hum of voices and
the squealing of swine; at the priest’s, the windows shone bright, and
several horses pawed the ground impatiently in front of his veranda; at
the Klembas’, too, opposite the priest’s, lights were gleaming, and you
could tell, by the crackling of the crunched snow, that someone was
going to the byre. Further, in front of the church, where the village
forked out and seemed stretching forth two arms that clasped the pond in
their embrace, but little met the eye beyond a few lights on a dusky
white background, in which dogs were heard to bark.
Heaving a sigh as she glanced over at her father-in-law’s cabin, she
turned off from before the church to pass between two long fences that
separated Klemba’s orchard from the priest’s garden, and together formed
a road leading to the organist’s. This was little trodden and so much
overshadowed with underwood on either side, that ever and anon showers
of snow fell on her from the trees she brushed against.
The dwelling was situated in the background of the priest’s court-yard,
and had no other separate cartway.
Hanka was presently aware of an outcry and the sound of sobbing, and
beheld outside the entrance a black box and various articles scattered
on the snow—a feather-bed, some wearing-apparel, and so forth.... Magda,
the housemaid at the organist’s, stood by the wall, crying bitterly and
screaming aloud.
“They have turned me out! They have driven me forth! Like a dog! Out
into the world, the wide, wide world! Whither shall I go now—bereft of
all—oh, whither?”
“You swine, you swine, scream not thus at me!” cried a voice from the
open entrance-passage; “or I’ll take a stick, and make you hold your
peace pretty quickly. Begone this instant, and betake you to your
Franek, you jade!—Ah, how are you, Hanka?... My dear, this business you
see was to be expected since autumn. And I pleaded with that wench, I
talked to her, implored, watched over her; but who can guard a wanton?
When we all were sleeping, out she would go a-walking ... and has walked
so well that now she has a bastard for her pains!—How often did I say:
‘Magda, take care; consider: the man will never marry you’ ... and she
would declare to my face that she had naught to do with him! And when I
saw the creature changing form and swelling like leavened dough, I said
to her: ‘Go to some other hamlet, hide yourself, ere people see your
shame.’ Did she listen? No.—And to-day, while milking in the byre, she
was taken with great pangs and upset the milking-pail; and my girl
Franka ran to me in a fright, crying out that something had befallen
Magda. Good Lord! such a disgrace, and in my house!—Take yourself off
now, or I’ll have you cast out on to the road!” she cried again, coming
out in front of the house.
Magda left the cabin wall and, with many a sob and moan, set to making
all her things into a bundle.
“Do come in now; it is cold.—But you! leave no trace behind you!”
shouted the dame, as she went in.
She led Hanka in through a long passage.
There was a very large low room, lit by a big fire that burned bright on
an open hearth. Red as boiled crayfish, the organist, in his
shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows, sat baking altar-breads at the
fire. Every now and then he dipped a ladle into a dish of thin
half-liquid paste, and poured the contents into a cast-iron mould, which
he then closed, squeezing it till the hot paste hissed.[5] He then
placed it on the fire, supporting it on an upright brick set there, and,
opening and turning it round, took out the newly baked bread, which he
cast upon a low bench just by. Here sat a little boy, trimming the edges
of each of the oblong loaves with scissors.
-----
Footnote 5:
This is the instrument used to make the Altar-breads (or Communion
Breads well known outside the Catholic pale, but much thicker; the
Catholic Altar-breads are semi-transparent).—In Poland, the organist
goes round the parish at Christmas-time, offering packets of these
breads with his good wishes, and receiving such gifts as may be
offered to him. This practice naturally entails some contempt towards
him on the part of peasants.—_Translator’s Note._
Hanka greeted them all, and kissed the hand of the organist’s wife.
“Sit down and warm yourself.—And now, what news?”
Unable to find at once the words she wanted, and feeling ashamed, she
gave a timid side-glance into the other room, where, opposite the door,
and on a long table, stood a white pile of altar-breads, pressed down
with a board. A couple of girls were making them into packets, each tied
with a paper wrapper for distribution. From the unseen portion of the
room came the monotonous tinklings of a harpsichord twangling under some
unknown performer’s fingers—and suddenly breaking off with a jarring
discord that gave Hanka gooseflesh and made the organist exclaim:
“There, there—quite wrong: you’ve ‘eaten a fox!’—Repeat from ‘_Laudamus
pueri_.’”
“Are you making these for Christmas already?” she asked, feeling it
would be discourteous to sit silent.
“We are. The parish is big and straggling; and, as all the altar-breads
have to be taken round before Christmas, we must begin betimes.”
“Are they of pure wheat?”
“Pray taste them.”
She gave her one that was still hot from the mould.
“I scarcely dare to eat of it.” She took it with a corner of her apron,
holding it up to the light with awed and respectful scrutiny.
“Why, what curious designs are stamped upon it!”
“On that first circle, to the right, you see our Blessed Lady, St. John,
and our Lord. On the other there is the manger, the rack, the cattle,
the Child on its couch of hay, St. Joseph, and again our Lady; and here
are the Three Wise Men, kneeling.” Such were the explanations of the
organist’s wife.
“Yes, yes; I see.—Oh, how wonderfully these designs are made!”
She wrapped the altar-bread in a kerchief and put it in her bosom.—A
peasant had entered and told the organist something; at which he cried:
“Michael! They have come for a christening: take the key and go to the
church. His Reverence knows and will come, but Ambrose must stay to
serve the company.”
The harpsichord became mute, and a tall pale lad passed out of the room.
“My brother’s orphan boy. Practises to learn playing with my husband,
who teaches him gratis. We must make a sacrifice, and do something for
our own flesh and blood.”
Little by little, Hanka became more communicative, and at last brought
out the story of her sufferings and troubles, though piecemeal and with
much hesitation. It was the first time she had been able to speak openly
of all that had passed.
They listened and talked to her with sympathy; and though they took good
care not to mention Boryna’s name, they showed her so much sincere
compassion that it made her weep very copiously. Now the organist’s
wife, being a clever intelligent woman, understood what Hanka wanted,
and came out the first with a proposal.
“Listen: you may perhaps have a little spare time.—Would you spin some
wool for me? I thought I would get it done by Pakulina, but ’tis better
you should do it.”
“May God reward you! I was indeed in want of work, but durst not ask for
it.”
“Well, well, no thanks: folk ought to help their neighbours. The wool is
carded, and weighs about a hundred pounds.”
“Yes, I shall spin it, and am well able. Why, when with my parents, I
not only spun thread but wove cloth and dyed it. We never had to buy
garments.”
“Look at it: how soft it is! and how dry!”
“’Tis beautiful wool. From the Manor sheep, belike.”
“Ah, and should you happen to need flour or groats or pease, pray let me
know; you shall have all you want, and I will settle when I pay you.”
She then took her into a store-room full of sacks and barrels of corn,
and flitches of bacon hanging from the walls. The rafters bore long
skeins of spun yarn in clusters, and on the floor thick rolls of linen
cloth lay piled up. As to the strings of dried mushrooms, the cheeses,
the jars crammed with various good things, the shelves groaning under
huge round loaves, and the other articles of household consumption, who
could tell them all?
“You shall have the smoothest yarn that hands can make,” said Hanka.
“And thanks once more for all your kindness. But I fear I shall be
unable to carry all that wool by myself.”
“It will be taken over to you.”
“That is well, for I have still to go about the village.”
She again thanked her, but now with something less of warmth and
expansiveness: envy was gnawing at her heart.
“’Tis our people gives them all they have, carries it to them, and
produces the same ... and their store-rooms overflow by our gifts!
Besides, who knows how much money they have out at high interest? Ah,
‘Who has sheep to shear, he shall have good cheer.’ ... It were harder
work for them to produce all this.—Well, well!” So she thought on her
exit from the house, whence Magda had now disappeared with all her
things; and as it was getting late, Hanka quickened her pace.
Where—and of whom—could she inquire about work for Antek?
When on her father-in-law’s farm, she had found everybody friendly;
people were constantly coming to visit her, either to get some service
done or to exchange kind looks and words. And now there she was,
standing out in the cold, and knowing not to whom she could go!
She stopped in front of Klemba’s, and of Simon’s too: but she was loath
to enter, for now she recollected how Antek had told her not to make any
calls. “People can do nothing, and will give no assistance—only pity;
and that they would give just as well to a dead dog!” he had said.
“How true, oh, how true he spoke!” she said, remembering the organist
and his wife.
Oh, had she but been a man! She would have set to work at once, and put
everything to rights. She would not then have had to whine and lay bare
her wounds that her neighbours might pity her!
She experienced in her soul a devouring, a ravenous craving for work,
and such a concentration of force as stiffened her frame and gave
firmness and speed to her steps. She also felt a longing to pass near
her father-in-law’s cabin, were it but to look at the premises from
without, and satisfy the desire of her eyes! But in front of the church
door she turned away to follow a narrow path that led over the frozen
pond to the mill; and she walked fast, not looking to right or
left—careful only not to slip on the ice, determined to pass swiftly by
and see nothing, lest her heart should be wounded again by the
remembrance of the past. But she failed. Somehow, just opposite
Boryna’s, she stopped suddenly, and could not take her eyes away from
the lights that glimmered in the windows.
“It is ours—ours!... How can we possibly go from here?... The blacksmith
would seize it instantly. No! I do not budge hence. Here shall I stay,
like a watch-dog, whether Antek stays or not!... His father is not
immortal; and other changes too may come about.... I will not see my
children despoiled, nor will I go from the village.” These thoughts
passed through her mind, as she gazed upon that snow-covered orchard,
and the faint outlines of buildings beyond: the silvered roofs, the
dark-tinted walls, and—in the background, behind a shed—the sharp cone
of a haystack.
The night was still, cold, black-hue, oversprinkled with a sand of
stars, it seemed, and wrapping the snowy earth in silvery folds. The
trees stood drooping under the weight of snow that bent them down, as if
slumbering incomprehensibly in the stillness which flooded the world:
white-sheeted phantoms, vapoury, yet rigid. Every voice had died away;
only something—was it the breathing of those entranced inanimate trees?
was it a murmur from the quivering stars?—something there was that
trembled in the air. And there stood Hanka, forgetful of the minutes
which went by, forgetful of the sharp intolerable cold, her eyes staring
on that homestead, greedily drinking the sight of it, taking it all into
her heart, absorbing it with all the strength of her insatiable dreams.
A sudden crackling in the snow woke her up: someone was coming by the
same path across the pond, and in a little she looked upon Nastka.
“What, you, Hanka?”
“Why such amazement? Am I dead, and is it my ghost you see?”
“What fancy has taken hold of your I had not seen you for a long time,
and was surprised.—Which way are you going?”
“To the mill.”
“My way too; I am taking Matthew his supper.”
“Is it a miller’s trade he is learning there now?”
“A miller’s? No, indeed! They are building a sawmill here in such great
haste that they are now working at it even at night.”
They walked on together, Nastka prattling away, but careful to say no
word about Boryna; and Hanka, though she would have been glad to hear,
feeling that she could not possibly ask.
“Does the miller pay well?”
“Matthew gets five _zloty_ fifteen _groschen_.”
“So much as that?”
“No great wonder, since he is at the head of everything.”
Hanka said no more till, passing in front of the smithy, whence a ruddy
light flowed through the unpaned window, crimsoning the snow, she
muttered:
“That Judas! Never in want of work to do!”
“He has engaged an assistant, and is himself continually travelling.
Also he is with the Jews in that forest business, and occupied with them
in deceiving the people.”
“Do they cut down the clearing yet?”
“Are you dwelling in the woods, that you do not know?”
“Not so; but I am not greedy for village news.”
“Well, let me tell you, they are cutting down a bit of the forest that
was already bought.”
“Of course; our folk would never permit them to fell the trees on our
clearing.”
“Even for that, who would interfere? The Voyt holds with the Manor folk,
and the Soltys too, and all the wealthier men.”
“True. Who is it can get the better of a rich man? or who can overcome
him?—Well, Nastka, pray look in at our home.”
“Farewell.—Yes, I shall bring distaff and spindle one of these days.”
They separated in front of the miller’s dwelling, and Nastka went on to
the mill, down below, while Hanka passed through the yard into the
kitchen. She had great trouble in getting there; a number of dogs
swarmed round her, barking and driving her to the wall. Eva came to
protect her and usher her in; and just then the miller’s wife arrived,
saying:
“If you have business with my husband, he is in the mill.”
She met him coming back to his house; he took her to the family room,
where she immediately paid all she owed for meal and groats.
“You are living on your cow, hey?” he said, throwing the money into a
drawer.
“What would you have?” she replied, offended. “One cannot live on
stones.”
“Your goodman is a sluggard, let me tell you.”
“So you say. But what work is he to do? where? with whom? Tell me.”
“Are no threshers needed here?”
“Of course such work is not to his taste; he was never yet a common
farm-labourer.”
“I am sorry for the man. He’s headstrong, without respect for his
father, and fierce as a wolf; all the same, I am sorry.”
“I—I have heard—that you, Sir Miller, have work to be done; perhaps you
might employ Antek.... I beseech you...” Here she fell a-weeping and
imploring him very earnestly.
“Let him come.—Mind, I do not ask him. Work there is, but hard work. To
hew the trees into logs—ready to be sawn.”
“That he can do: few men in the village as well.”
“That’s why I say, Let him come.—But you, my woman, you do not look
after him properly. Not at all.”
She stood amazed, having no idea of what he meant.
“The fellow has a wife of his own. Children too. And yet he is running
after another man’s wife.”
Hanka turned white; the words were a thunderbolt.
“It’s true what I say. He wanders nightly. Has been seen out more than
once.”
Her relief was immense, and she breathed freely again. She knew all
about it ... how he was driven to wander by the memories of the wrongs
suffered. Oh, she understood him well! but the folk had painted things
the colour they preferred.
“It may be that work, if he sets to it, will drive love-making from his
mind.”
“He is a farmer’s son....”
“Oh, yes! Quite a Squire, is he not? And he would pick and choose, just
like swine before a full trough. If he is so hard to please, why did he
quarrel with his father? why run after Yagna? For think of the sin and
the shame of it!”
“Sir!” she exclaimed, hastily. “What on earth are you thinking of?”
“I only say the thing that is. All Lipka knows. You may ask,” he rapped
out jerkily, in a loud voice; for he was a very impulsive man, who
always liked to blurt out things just as they were.
“Well, but may he come here?” she asked, almost in a whisper.
“He may. To-morrow, if he cares—What ails you? what are these tears
for?”
“Nothing ... nothing but the cold.”
And she went away, with slow, heavy footsteps, scarcely able to crawl
along. The world had grown dark for her, the snow was grey now, she
could not find the path she came by, and tried in vain to brush away the
tears that were freezing on her lashes. So she walked on, wrapped in
darkness, very sudden—and dolorous—O Lord! how dolorous!
“He, in love with Yagna!... With Yagna!” She stood breathless, her heart
fluttering like a shot bird.
“But perhaps it is a falsehood; the man may have lied!” In her fright
she clung to this possibility and clutched at it with both hands.
“Lord! was there not enough of misery and humiliation already, but
this—this too must fall upon my wretched head?” She gave way to her
grief for a moment, moaning aloud; then, to overcome it, began to run as
though wolves had been on her track, so that she entered her hut all
panting and more dead than alive.
Antek had not returned.
The little ones were on their grandfather’s sheepskin, spread out as a
rug before the fire-place, and he was making a little windmill to amuse
them.
“Hanka, they have brought wool—brought it in three sacks.”
She opened them, and at the top of one found a loaf, some bacon, and at
least half a gallon of groats.
“God bless her for her generous heart!” she said, much moved, and
thereupon prepared a plentiful supper, and afterwards at once put the
children to bed.
The whole cabin was very quiet now. On Veronka’s side they had gone to
bed already, and her father had fallen asleep in his pallet near the
fire. But Hanka remained in front of the hearth and span.
She span long and far into the night, even to the first cock-crow, and
as she twisted the thread, so too she revolved in her mind the miller’s
words: “He is running after Yagna.”—Yagna!
The spinning-wheel hummed busily, monotonously, tranquilly. Night, with
frozen face, looked in at the window, and rattled at the panes, and
sighed, pressing close against the wall. The cold came creeping out of
the corners, caught at her feet, spread itself in hoary blotches over
the clay floor; crickets struck up their ditty, somewhere behind the
hearth, and only held their peace when either of the children cried out
in his sleep or turned in his bed. Yet more intense grew the frost,
clutching all things and pressing them in his iron claws: many a time
did the planks overhead crack and creak, and fissures were cloven in the
old bulging walls with a noise like a pistol-shot, and fibres in some
beam broke, with a rull report. Surely the cold had penetrated even to
the house-foundations; they shuddered at times, it seemed, with the pain
of it, and the hut itself shrank together, crouching and quaking in the
dreadful frost.
“Why did the thought of this never come to me? Aye, she—so
well-favoured, so well-knit, so comely to behold! And I—a poor thin
creature, merely skin and bones! Have I the power to attract him? dare I
even try? If I should give my heart’s blood, it were naught: he cares no
whit for me. What am I to him?”
Helplessness, still but torturing—how cruelly torturing!—now took
possession of all her being. She was even beyond shedding tears. She
felt as if she were a shrub that the frost is killing, that is as unable
to avoid its doom as to cry for help or to protect itself: anguish was
riving her soul as the frost rives the shrub. Resting her head on her
wheel, she dropped her hands and looked out into vacancy, musing on her
lot. Long, long did her reverie last, with only at times a few burning
tears falling from her heavy eyelids on to the wool, there to freeze
into a rosary of anguish—tears, as it were, of blood.
The next day she rose somewhat calmer. This was of course; the storm had
had time to blow over. What the miller said might or might not be true;
but should she droop and complain, now that everything was on her
shoulders—the children, and the house matters, and all the trouble and
woe?
Who would see to things, unless she did? She knelt down before our Lady
of Sorrows, and prayed fervently; and, begging our Lord to set things to
rights, she made a vow that she would go on foot to Chenstohova in the
spring, and have three masses said, and—as soon as she should be
able—take a great lump of wax to the church for tapers to be made of it.
Greatly relieved by this vow, she was able to do plenty of spinning; but
the day, though bright and sunny, seemed immeasurably lengthy to her,
and her anxiety about Antek increased.
He came at last, but only in the evening, at supper-time, and looking so
worn and subdued, and greeting her so kindly! He had bought some rolls
for the little ones.
She almost forgot her suspicion. And when he also went to cut straw for
fodder, and helped her with the animals, she felt tenderly and deeply
agitated.
However, he neither told her where he had been nor what he had done, and
she did not venture to question him.
When supper was over, Staho came in: a thing he frequently did, in spite
of Veronka’s prohibition; and a little later, quite unexpectedly, who
should drop in but old Klemba? They were not a little surprised, for
since their expulsion no one in the village had been to call upon them
yet: it seemed clear enough that he had come on some business or other.
But he told them quite simply that he had come to see them because
nobody else came.
They were sincerely and deeply grateful.
Sitting one alongside of the other on the bench in front of the fire,
they then entered into grave and serious conversation, while old Bylica
now and then put more fuel on the hearth.
“A pretty sharp frost, is it not?”
“So sharp,” said Staho, “one can hardly thresh without sheepskin and
gloves on.”
“The worst is that wolves are about!”
All stared at Klemba in astonishment.
“Oh, ’tis quite true. Last night they were at the Voyt’s, burrowing
under the sty. Something must have frightened them away, for they did
not get at the pig: but the burrow ran quite beneath the foundations; I
went myself at noon to see. There must have been five of them at least.”
“That, beyond all doubt, betokens a hard winter.”
“Yes, the frosts have only just begun, and behold, the wolves are here!”
“Near Vola,” Antek said, with much animation, “on the road beyond the
mill, I saw tracks of a whole pack, crossing the way slantwise; but I
fancied they were the Manor hounds. Very like, they were wolves.”
“Went ye as far as the clearing?”
“Not so; but I hear it said they are only felling the wood bought close
to Vilche Doly.”
“The keeper told me the Squire will not take a single man from Lipka to
work there: punishing them, I suppose, because they stand up for their
rights.”
“Who is to cut down the trees, if not the men of Lipka?” Hanka asked.
“My good Hanka, there are folk in plenty seeking work, begging for work.
Are there few in Vola itself? few in Rudka? and in Debica, are the
paupers fewer? Let the Squire but lift up his voice: he will find
hundreds of able-bodied peasants who will swarm round him the very same
day. So long as they fell trees only on the purchased land, let them do
so by all means; there is but little of it, and besides, it is too far
from our village.”
“What if they set to work on our[6] forest too?” Stach inquired.
-----
Footnote 6:
_Our_ here means only, of course, “that part of the forest on which we
claim to have a right to cut wood for fuel, and which the Squire
cannot sell without our permission.”
“That we will not permit!” Klemba replied, briefly and with emphasis.
“We will fight it out, and the Squire shall learn who is the stronger—he
or all the people. Yes, he shall learn.”
Here they dropped the subject, which was a matter too burning to please
anyone; but not before old Bylica had, in stammering and hesitating
tones, had his say about it:
“I know that generation of the Squires of Vola, I know them well: they
will steal a march upon you somehow.”
“Let them try,” said Klemba. “We are not little children. They shall not
succeed.” And no more was said.
Then they spoke of Magda, and how the organist had expelled her. Here
again, Klemba gave his decision:
“Aye, the deed was not very charitable. But then one cannot force them
to set up an infirmary in their home for Magda, who is neither kith nor
kin to them.”
The talk then became desultory, and the guests left them somewhat late.
As he went, Klemba, after his short-spoken and simple fashion, told
them, “if they lacked of aught, just to let him know, and he would
behave as a neighbour should do.”
And now Antek and his wife were alone.
Hanka hesitated a long time; but at last, after many timorous catchings
of the breath, she asked him if he had found any work.
“No. I was at more than one manor, and looked about me there, and among
the folk too; but I found nothing.” This he said with a low voice and
eyes on the ground; for though he had indeed wandered about, he had done
nothing more, and made no attempt to get work.
They went to bed. The children were asleep by this time; they lay at the
foot of the bed for the sake of greater warmth. Darkness reigned, save
for the moonbeams that darted through the sparkling frozen panes and
threw a luminous band obliquely athwart the room; but the two could not
sleep. Hanka tossed from side to side, considering whether she had
better tell him about the sawmill now, or wait till the morrow.
“Yes, I went seeking work. But even had I found something, I would not
have left the village. To go astray about the world like a masterless
dog is not to my liking.” So he whispered, after a protracted silence.
“Why, that is just what I too was thinking—just the very same as you!”
she said joyfully. “Why go away and seek for bread, when we can get
quite good work here at home? The miller assured me he had something for
you to do at the sawmill, and that you might begin to-morrow. You would
get two _zloty_ fifteen _groschen_!”
“What?” he snarled. “Did you go a-begging to him?”
“No, no,” she explained in much fear. “I only went to pay what I owed
him; and he told me himself he intended to send for you.”
Antek did not answer. The two lay motionless and speechless side by
side; but sleep fled from their eyes. They were thinking, thinking, down
in the mysterious depths of their minds; sometimes breathing a sigh, or
at others letting their souls melt away in the dull dead stillness.
Outside, far, far and faint on the country-side, they heard dogs baying,
and cocks flapping their wings, and crowing at midnight, and the muffled
murmur of the wind soughing overhead.
“Do you sleep?” She crept a little closer to him.
“No.—Slumber has forsaken me.”
He was on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. So near her! yet
in heart and thoughts so far off! He lay very still, almost without
breathing, forgetful of everything; for once more Yagna’s eyes shone out
of the dark—deep blue in the moonlit night.
Hanka approached him yet nearer, and rested her burning face upon his
shoulder. No suspicions now remained in her heart, nor any regrets, nor
the least drop of bitterness; only true love, faithful affection, full
of trust and self-surrender. And she came close—close to his heart.
“Antek,” she asked him with a thrill of eagerness, “will you go to work
to-morrow?” She was so fain—so longing to hear his voice, and converse
with him, heart to heart.
“Perhaps I shall. Yes, I must go; I must.” But his mind was filled with
other thoughts.
“Pray, Antek, go. Go, I pray you.” With a tender appeal, she put her arm
around his neck, and sought his lips, which hardly breathed, with the
burning kisses of her mouth.
Not the least emotion did he feel. He paid no heed to her embraces, he
was not even aware of her at all, as with eyes wide open he gazed into
those other eyes—Yagna’s eyes.
CHAPTER III
It was not very early in the morning when the miller took Antek on as a
workman, and, leaving him in the yard amongst great piles of logs, went
to Matthew, who was just then getting some timber placed in the sawmill,
and setting the saws in motion. After a few words with him, he called
out to Antek:
“Then you are to work here, and obey Matthew in everything: he is my
deputy.” So saying, he walked away, for a very bleak and piercing wind
was just then blowing from the river.
“I suppose you have no ax?” Matthew inquired, after coming down and
greeting him in a friendly way.
“I have brought a hatchet: I was not aware....”
“You might as well use your teeth. The wood is frozen hard, and brittle
as glass: a hatchet would not bite into it. For to-day, I’ll lend you an
ax; but you will have to whet it. And to a flat edge, mind.—Bartek, get
to work with Boryna and let this oak-log be ready presently: the other
will have been sawn in no time.”
From behind an enormous log that lay in the snow, there rose up a tall
and wiry but stooping figure of a man, wearing clogs and red-striped
trousers with a pipe in his mouth, a grey sheepskin cap on his head, and
a tawny leather furred jacket on his back. Resting himself on his ax, he
whistled through his teeth, and exclaimed merrily:
“We are going to be wedded together. All right. We shall be a happy
pair, and never fall out or fight!”
“A fine forest. The trees are as straight as tapers.”
“Aye, but full of knots all the same. ’Tis awful ... as if the timber
had been sown with flints. The days are few, when the ax is not notched
by them. You mustn’t sharpen your ax quite smooth, but draw it along the
grindstone, whetting it on one side only. That makes the edge stronger,
you see. And deal with the iron as when you want to manage somebody—you
find which way he is to be taken, and how; and then you lead him like a
dog on a string.—The grindstone is in the mill, by the groat-bin.”
In a very short time indeed Antek was at work, cutting off the
projecting spurs, and hewing the log to a rectangular shape along marks
made with tar by Bartek. But he was taciturn and moody, and resentful of
having—he, who was a Boryna!—to do the biddings of such a one as
Matthew.
“Not bad, your work, not bad at all!” Bartek remarked.
And indeed his work was excellent: the art of fashioning logs was not
unknown to him. But it was hard labour for one unaccustomed to it, and
after a time he was out of breath, and perspiring to such an extent that
he took his sheepskin off. But the frost was hard and held pitilessly;
he had constantly to stand and work deep in the snow; his hands were so
benumbed, they almost stuck to the ax-handle, and the time seemed so
long to him, he could scarcely hold out till noon.
Yet he would take neither bite nor sup for dinner, only dry bread and
river water; nor would he even enter the mill, for fear lest he should
meet some acquaintance, come to bring corn and awaiting his turn. He
stayed out in the frozen air, sitting close to the wall as he crunched
his bread and gazed up at the sawmill shed, built over the river, one of
its sides touching the main building, so that the stream from the four
mill-wheels swept under it with a great rush of green water, making the
shed above to vibrate.
But he had not yet rested properly, nor had a good breathing-space, when
Matthew, who had dined with the miller, shouted as he came out:
“To work, men! To work!”
So, much against his will, and groaning over the shortness of his
noonday rest, he was forced to pull himself together and once more take
up what he had to do.
All were in lively movement and worked briskly; the frost was so
intense, and Matthew urged them with so much zeal.
The mill clattered unceasingly; beneath its wheels, all overgrown with
icicles like a long greenish mane, the stream went rushing noisily on.
The saws rasped away with continuous crackling harshness, as the sound
of one biting glass to bits, and they spat the yellow sawdust forth.
Matthew was everywhere, active and indefatigable, always shouting and
urging the toilers to hurry up. He filled the whole place, nimble as a
goldfinch pecking at hempseed; his short red-striped spencer, his grey
sheepskin cap, were seen flying about over the trodden snow covered with
chips, where they were getting the logs ready—ordering, scolding,
laughing, joking, whistling, and working as hard as any; but for the
most part on the platform close to the saws. For this sawing-shed had no
side-walls, only a roof; so that its whole interior was visible from
outside. It rose above the river on four stout piles, against which the
current rushed with such force and fury that the roof, made of reeds and
resting only on those piles, often trembled like a wisp of straw in a
gale.
“A good craftsman he is, that fellow!” quoth Antek, with unwilling
recognition.
“And well paid too!” Bartek growled in reply.
They beat their arms against their chests to keep off the increasing
cold, and went on working silently.
Of workmen there were enough. Two were at the saws, rolling the sawn
logs down to the yard and dragging up fresh ones; two more were cutting
off the one end of each log that had been left untouched, and making the
sawn planks into piles or carrying into a shed those too thin to bear
the outside cold; and a couple of others were stripping the bark off oak
and fir and pine logs. To these last, Bartek used often to shout in
jest:
“Devil take you, how ye skin them! Ye’ll be pastmasters in dog-flaying,
belike!”
But they objected to such jokes, for they never had anything to do with
the dog-killer’s craft.
All these men Matthew kept so hard at work that they could only seldom
and by stealth find means to run round to the mill, warm their freezing
hands, and come back at a gallop, pressed hard by the work itself.
Twilight was nearly over when Antek crawled home, so weary and broken
that every bone in him ached. After supper he went to bed at once and,
falling asleep, slept as one dead.
Hanka had no heart to inquire about anything, but tried to make him as
comfortable as she could, keeping the children quiet, asking her father
to make no noise with his boots, and walking barefooted in the room
herself; and when he prepared at daybreak to go to work, she boiled a
pot of milk for him to take with potatoes for breakfast, that he might
feed better and be warmed.
“Confound it!” he declared; “my bones ache so, I cannot move about.”
Bylitsa remarked that this was only because he was not yet accustomed
to, and that it would soon pass off.
“Of course it will pass off: I know that.—Hanka, will you bring me my
dinner?”
“I will, I will: why should you come hither so far?”
He then started at once, the work being due to begin with the day.
Many a day of hard and weary toil followed.
Whether the frost baked the ground at the height of its fierceness, or
the gusts and snow-charged gales were blowing, or a thaw came, and they
were forced to stand the livelong day in the melting slush, while the
bleak damp cold entered their very marrow, or the snow fell so that
Antek could hardly see his ax—they had to work all day long till every
vein and sinew of the body ached with weariness: the four saws devoured
the timber so fast that the men were hardly equal to supplying them; and
Matthew was driving them on besides.
But what exasperated him was not the work; for, as wise men say,
“Whatever you take to well, can give comfort even in hell.” No: what he
could not bear was Matthew’s position of superiority, and his continual
sneers.
The others had got used to these; but he could not help boiling with
indignation each time; and more than once he uttered so fierce a snarl
that the overseer’s eyes flamed. And then, of set purpose, he would
begin to criticize everything about Antek: not openly to his face, but
always animadverting on anything imperfect in his work, till the latter
tingled all over and felt his fists clench of themselves. He
nevertheless restrained himself, damped his fires, and simply put all
these things by for future remembrance, being well aware that Matthew
only awaited an opportunity to oust him from his place.
Now, though Antek cared little for his work in itself, he was resolved
not to be put down and triumphed over by any man alive.
And the outcome of all this was that their mutual hatred grew deadlier
every day: Yagna, like a festering wound, being at the bottom thereof.
Ever since last spring, possibly since last Carnival, both had
alternately followed her, each trying to get the better of the other,
secretly indeed, yet well aware of the other’s attempts. Matthew,
however, worked in the open, telling everyone of his love, while Antek
was compelled to hide his feelings, and let a dull, yet burning jealousy
devour his heart.
There never had been much love lost between them, and they had always
looked somewhat askance at each other, and would boast great things in
the presence of third parties, each holding himself to be the strongest
fellow in the whole village. And now that this mutual hate had grown to
such an extent in a few weeks, it had came to pass that neither would
address the other; they passed by, glaring like angry wolves.
Matthew was not a bad fellow, nor even of churlish disposition. On the
contrary, he had a good heart, and an open helping hand. His only
defects were too much self-confidence, and a tendency to set himself
above others, together with a belief in his irresistibility with the
other sex. No girl, he thought, but must give way to him; and he said
so, and bragged of it, and was the first of men in his own conceit. He
now also enjoyed telling folk that Antek worked under his orders, and
looked up to him humbly lest he should be expelled.
For those that knew the latter, it was surprising to mark how he kept
himself calm, and stooped to behave so humbly as he did. But there were
those who said there was something brewing under all this; that Antek
had never yet overlooked an insult, and would one of these days take his
revenge. These were even ready to bet that Matthew would soon find out
that he was (as they say) biting at a very sour apple.
Antek, of course, who never looked in anywhere, was ignorant of all that
was said. He used to pass by without speaking even to his acquaintances,
always going straight home after working-hours. But he, too, felt that
there was something about to happen, and he saw plainly through
Matthew’s doings.
“But I’ll beat you into such a jelly, you carrion, that the very dogs
will have none of you, and you’ll never brag any more!” Such was the cry
that escaped him one day at work. Bartek heard and said:
“Take no thought of him; he is paid to drive us, and he does.” The old
man had not caught the meaning of that cry.
“I cannot brook even a dog that barks without cause!”
“You take it all too much to heart; it heats your liver, and makes you,
as I see, toil too feverishly.”
“No, I work like that on account of the cold,” he answered, wishing to
make some reply or other.
“Let us do all things slowly, step by step. Slowly; for the Lord Jesus,
who might have made the world in one day only, chose to do so in a whole
week, with one day of rest. Why should you be so anxious to wear
yourself out for the miller or anyone else’s sake? Who forces
you?—Matthew is a watch-dog, nothing more: why take his barking amiss?”
“I spoke as I felt,” Antek said; and then, to change the conversation,
“Where were you last summer?” he asked. “I did not see you in the
village.”
“I worked a little, saw something of this God’s world, looked about me,
and filled my soul with spiritual food,” he answered deliberately,
whilst hewing the other side of Antek’s log, now and then straightening
himself, and stretching his limbs till the joints cracked: always pipe
in mouth.
“I was working with Matthew at the new Manor; but he drove too hard, and
it was springtime in the land, and the sunshine smelt sweet. So I left
him. There were folk going that way down to Kalvarya;[7] so I went with
them to gain the indulgences and see a bit of the country.”
-----
Footnote 7:
A town close to which stands a monastery on a high hill, with the
stations of the Way of the Cross, made in imitation of those in
Jerusalem. After Chenstohova, this is the greatest place of pilgrimage
in Poland.—_Translator’s Note._
“Is it far to Kalvarya?”
“’Tis beyond Cracow.—But I did not get so far. In a village where we
stopped to dine, there was a peasant building a hut, and he knew as much
about building as a goat knows about pepper! He made me angry; I swore
at the man, for he was wasting good timber—and in the end I stayed on
with him. In a couple of months I had built him a house like a villa;
and for that he would perforce have me wed his sister, a widow that had
five acres of land hard by.”
“Old, I dare say.”
“Not young, ’tis true; but still comely enough. Rather bald, to be sure;
lame, too, with a cast in her eye; and smooth of face to look upon, as a
loaf nibbled by mice for a fortnight. But a pleasant woman, and a kind
one; gave me lots of good things to eat—now scrambled eggs with bits of
sausage, now vodka and lard, now other dainties. And she took to me so
that I might have shared her cot any day, had I cared.”
“Why did you not? Five acres are always worth having.”
“Oh, I had no mind for any woman. Of petticoats I have long had more
than enough. They are always crying out and screaming, like magpies in a
hedge: you say one word, and they bang a score at your head, like a
handful of peas. You have your reason to go by; they have only their
tongues. You talk to them, thinking to be understood: and they neither
understand nor heed you, but jabber foolishness only.—They say our Lord
created woman with only half a soul. It must be so—and the devil has
supplied them with the other half.”
“Perhaps,” Antek put in sadly, “some women may be intelligent.”
“Some crows may be white, but none has ever seen any.”
“Tell me: were you ever married?”
“I was! Oh, yes, I was!” He stopped short, straightened himself, and his
grey eyes looked far, far away. He was an old man, dry as a
wood-shaving, but sinewy: and straight too, save when at times he
drooped, and the pipe wobbled about in his mouth, and his eyes, as now,
blinked with quick flutterings.
“Time for the next log!” cried the man at the saws.
“Hurry now, Bartek! Don’t dawdle there! The saws are stopping!” shouted
Matthew.
“He’s a fool—wants things done quicker than possible.
“‘There comes a rook to church;
“A priest am I!” he screeches,
And croaks from pulpit-perch,
And fondly thinks he preaches,’”
Bartek grumbled, as in anger; but some other emotion had taken hold of
him, and his rests were more frequent, and he sighed at times, looking
southward for noon.
Luckily it came then: the women were there, with the dinners in the pots
they carried. Hanka appeared from behind the mill. The saws ceased their
rasping, and they all went to eat in the building, Antek, who knew the
miller’s man, going to his room. At present he did not avoid folk, nor
turn away from them, but would look them in the face with eyes that made
them turn their own away.
In a room too hot almost to breathe in, there sat several persons in
sheepskins, talking joyously. These were people from villages at some
distance, who had brought corn that was to be ground while they waited.
They had crammed with peat the little stove that was already red-hot,
and were smoking cigarettes and chatting, so that the whole room was as
dim as it was hot.
Antek seated himself on a sack near the window and, with the pot between
his knees, he fell to with great zest, first upon the dish of cabbage
with peas, and then upon another, made of potatoes mashed with milk.
Hanka, crouching on the floor by his side, looked tenderly on him. Hard
work had made him thinner, and in places the skin had peeled off his
face: yet to her he seemed the handsomest man on earth. Yes, just as he
was: tall, straight-limbed, lithe; slender-waisted, broad-shouldered,
supple; his face a long thin oval, his nose like a hawk’s beak, but only
slightly curved; his eyes full, a greyish green, under eyebrows that
seemed drawn with charcoal from temple to temple in one straight line,
and were terrible to behold when he knit them in angry mood; his
forehead lofty, but half covered with hair that fell over it, straight
down, like a mane, dark almost to blackness; and that upper lip of his,
clean-shaven after the peasants’ fashion, disclosing a row of white
teeth within crimson borders, like a string of ivory beads! Oh, she was
never tired of gazing upon him!
“Could not your father bring the dinner? You have to go so far every
day!”
“He had to remove the dung from our heifer’s stall; and besides, I
preferred to come myself.”
And she always managed to do so, for the mere sake of gazing at his
comely form.
“Any news?” he asked, as his dinner came to an end.
“Nothing much. I have spun one sack of wool, and taken the yarn—five
hanks of it—to the organist’s wife. She was very much pleased.—Our
little Peter is not well: he won’t eat and is hot and feverish.”
“He has only overeaten himself.”
“Surely, surely.—Oh, and Yankel came to buy our geese.”
“Will you sell them?”
“A likely thing, indeed! To buy others when spring comes round?”
“Do as you choose. I leave all that to you.”
“And at the Vahniks’ there has been a fight again, and his Reverence has
been sent for to reconcile them.—And they say that the calf at the
Paches’ has choked itself with eating carrots.”
“That’s all one to me,” he growled impatiently.
“—And the organist came collecting sheaves,” she said after a while,
with a tremble in her voice.
“What did you give?”
“Two handfuls of carded flax, and four eggs.—And he said that, if we
wished, he would let us have a wagonful of oat-straw, and wait till
summer for payment. But I did not accept: why should we take aught from
him? And moreover, we have a right to your father’s pasturage. We had
only two cartloads—far too few for so many acres....”
“I will not remind him of it, and I forbid you to do so. For the
spinning you do, take the oat-straw from the organist. If you will not,
then sell all our livestock. So long as I live, never will I ask my
father for anything whatsoever.—Do you understand?”
“I do, and shall apply to the organist.”
“Your work, together with mine, will perhaps suffice.—Hanka, no weeping
here: they see us!”
“I am not weeping.—Antek, pray ask the miller for half a hectolitre of
barley to grind: if we bought it ready ground, it would cost more.”
“Good. I will tell him to-day, and stay on here one of these evenings to
see it ground.”
Hanka left him, and he remained, smoking cigarettes in silence. They
were just then talking of the Squire of Vola, and of his brother.
“His name is Yacek: I knew him well!” Bartek exclaimed, coming into the
room.
“Then of course you know he has returned from foreign parts.”
“No, indeed. I thought he had died long ago.”
“He is here; arrived a fortnight back.”
“Yes, he has come, but—so folk say—not quite in his right mind. He
refuses to live at the Manor, and has gone to dwell in the pine-forest,
where he does everything for himself—cooking, sewing, and all. Everyone
wonders at him. In the evening he plays on his violin: they often and
often meet him on the roads near certain graves, where he sits and plays
tunes.”
“I was told he goes from hamlet to hamlet, asking people for news of one
Kuba.”
“Kuba?—Many a dog is named Tray!”
“He gives no surname, but seeks the man Kuba, who carried him off a
battle-field, it seems, and saved his life once.”
“There was a Kuba at our farm who went out with the nobles in the last
insurrection; but he’s dead,” Antek observed, rising to his feet; for
Matthew was already shouting outside:
“Come out, you: are ye to make dinner last till teatime?”
Antek, much ruffled, rushed out, and cried:
“Do not spend breath in vain, we all can hear you!”
“He is too full of meat, and eases his belly with shouting!” was
Bartek’s remark; and someone added:
“The noise he makes is but to curry favour with the miller.”
Matthew went on grumbling: “They must dine and enjoy long chats at their
ease,—must they not?—these grand fellows, these big farmers, who haven’t
one whole pair of breeches!”
“Take that, Antek; that’s for you!”
“Hold your peace, and let not your tongue clack so, or I’ll cut it out
for you!” Antek had raised his voice, ready now for anything. “And never
a word more about farmers!”
Matthew darted a murderous look at him, but replied nothing. For the
whole day, he mutely watched Antek’s work with the most rigid scrutiny,
but without finding anything against him. He worked so admirably well
that the miller himself, who came round several times a day to look over
the work done, could not find any fault with it, and at the first weekly
payment raised his wages to three _zloty_.
At this Matthew, in a towering passion, had words with the miller, who
answered: “I am satisfied both with him and with you, and with every man
who works well.”
“You have raised his wages merely to spite me!”
“I have done so as in justice bound, and want all men to know I am just.
Why, he is worth as much as Bartek, if not more.”
“Then,” Matthew threatened, “I throw the whole damned business up. You
may do the work yourself!”
“Do so, if you choose. If my black bread is not to your taste, go seek
rolls elsewhere. Young Boryna will take your place, and that at four
_zloty_ daily,” the miller said, with a laugh.
Matthew cooled down immediately, seeing that bullying was out of the
question. He gave up his persecutions, put his dislike for Antek deep
into his pocket (though there it burned like a live coal), and also
became less exacting, less of a taskmaster for the men. This they were
not slow to perceive, and Bartek presently remarked to the others:
“He’s like the dog that snapped at a man’s boot, got kicked on the
muzzle, and fawned on him. Aye, he thought he was the favourite, and
knows now he will have to go as soon as a better man is found.”
Both to the rise in wages, and to Matthew’s knuckling down, Antek was
indifferent; he cared for all that as much as for the year gone by. It
was not for the money’s sake, but to please Hanka, and for his own
satisfaction, that he was working. Had he made up his mind to lie on his
back all day long, he would have done so, no matter what came of it.
Thus day after day, week after week slipped by, till Yule-tide, in hard
incessant labour. Little by little, his mind grew calmer—frozen up, as
it were: so far was he from resembling the man he had been. Folk
marvelled at this, and judged him diversely. But the change in him was
only external and for the eyes of men: within he remained as he was
before. He worked now, and toiled hard, gave his wife every _groschen_
he earned, stayed at home of evenings, was kinder than ever, silent,
peaceful; played with his children, helped his wife at home, nor ever
said a cross word to anyone. But all this did not avail to hoodwink
Hanka. His transformation pleased her, indeed, and she fervently thanked
God for it, watching over him, attentive to the looks in his eyes to
find out what he desired—the most attached and thoughtful of servants.
But she would often note a mournful gleam in his eye, and overhear a low
sigh that escaped him. Then her arms dropped to her sides, and her heart
died within her as she sought in her mind, thinking whence the evil that
was to come would proceed. Well did she know that something terrible was
fermenting within him—something that he repressed only by putting forth
his whole strength—something that crouched secretly, sucking, sucking
the life-blood of his soul!
But whatever he felt, good or evil, he said nothing. After his work he
returned straight home, choosing the longer way by the other side of the
pond, that he might not pass near his father’s home, not meet with ...
someone.
_Someone!_
Therefore, too, he stayed at home on Sundays, although Hanka besought
him to come to church with her. He feared a meeting with Yagna; he felt
that he should not stand it, that he never could resist.
Besides, he had heard from Bartek, with whom he was not on unfriendly
terms, how the village folk were always busied about him; how they
watched and spied upon him at every step, as on a thief. And he had
himself more than once seen eyes that peeped at him round corners, with
swift peering glances,—glances which would have loved to penetrate his
very soul, to search all that was therein, and explore it through and
through.
“The wretches! But they shall get nothing out of me, nothing!” he would
say bitterly, all the more stubborn in his hate because he kept more
aloof from everyone.
“I need no one; I am on such terms with myself that I can scarcely bear
my own companionship,” he would reply to Klemba, when the latter
reproached him for never coming to see them.
This was true, most true; he could hardly bear to live on thus,
continually holding himself down with all his might, breaking his soul
in as with an iron curb, and keeping it under the strictest control. But
he felt himself giving way with sheer weariness of the struggle; ever
more and more frequently there came over him the longing to throw
everything up and yield to his fate—happy or miserable, it mattered
little to him. He was disgusted with life, and devoured with
sadness—infinite sadness, which, like a bird of prey, had sunk its
talons deep into his mangled heart.
To bear the yoke thus was irksome beyond words: he choked and strained
in bonds, as a horse tethered in a paddock, or as a chained-up dog might
do.
He thought of himself as a fruit-tree, broken by the gales, condemned to
die, withering slowly in the midst of a blossoming orchard full of lusty
life.
And Lipka—Lipka went on as usual. There were christenings, as at the
Vahniks’; betrothals, as at the Klembas’ (though now they had no music,
they took as much enjoyment as was allowed in Advent); then in some
families there was a death, as at that other Bartek’s, whom his
son-in-law had beaten so fearfully that he pined away and lay moaning
until at last refreshed in Abraham’s bosom. And Yagustynka had once
again brought another action against her children for breach of
contract. Many another thing was going on besides, something new in
nearly every hut, and folk had plenty of matter for gossip, and for
laughter and for sorrow. And throughout the long winter evenings, the
women gathered together and spun in many a cabin. And, Lord! how they
all did laugh and chatter and wrangle, till the noise of their jollity
was heard far out on the road! Everywhere there was no end of
squabbling, of striking up friendships, of wooings, of trysts outside
the homesteads; of turmoils and fightings and sweet converse: as in an
ant-hill or in a beehive, so the folk swarmed and buzzed within their
cabins.
Yes, everyone lived as he pleased, as seemed best to him and was fitter
both to himself and his neighbours, and according to the commandments of
God.
And he, Antek, stood alone, outside of them all, cut off from humanity;
like a strange bird, hungry, yet afraid, that will perhaps flap its
wings outside the lighted windows, and long to draw nearer to the
corn-filled stacks—and yet does not: only wheels around, listens, feeds
on its hunger, gulps down its thirst, and never will draw nigh!
Unless—unless God should deign to work in him a change that might last
for ever, and make him a new creature!
Alas! of such a change he dreaded as yet even to think.
One morning, only a few days before Christmas, he met the blacksmith;
who, though Antek would have passed him by, blocked the way and,
stretching out his hand, said to him kindly and in a slightly sad tone:
“And I expected you’d come to me as to a brother. I could have talked
with you and aided you, little as we have at home.”
“Why did you not come first?”
“What? intrude and be driven away like Yuzka?”
“You were right. ‘He that suffereth naught will for nothing take
thought.’”
“‘Suffereth naught!’ Is not my grievance the very same as yours?”
“How dare you tell me such a barefaced lie? Am I a witling in your
eyes?”
“As I love the Lord God, I have spoken naught but the truth.”
“‘The fox, it is a cunning beast:
’Twill run and sniff and turn and twist,
And with its tail
It sweeps its trail,
That none may nose the scent of it,’”
said Antek, with contempt.
“Your grievance is, I know, that I went to the wedding. It is true that
I did not refuse. But how could I? The priest himself urged and pressed
me not to offend God, making division between the children and their
father.”
“Ah, ye went at the priest’s bidding, did ye? Tell that to him that will
believe you, not to me.—Oh, but ye wring out of the old man all ye can
wring, as the price of your friendship: he does not send you away
empty-handed!”
“‘Who takes not what is offered him’s an ass,’” the blacksmith quoted.
“But I’ll not argue that with you. All Lipka will tell you—why, you may
ask Yagustynka, who is always with the old man—that I press him to make
it up with you. It will come about ... he will calm down ... and we
shall arrange matters.”
“Try to reconcile dogs, not him and me: do you hear? I never thought of
quarrelling with you; but now, let me alone, you and your
reconciliations!—Look at him! A fine friend indeed! Never would you
reconcile us, unless to get the last coat off my back!—Once for all, I
tell you: let me alone, and do not come in my way; for if I ever fall
into a passion, I’ll tear your red hair off your scalp, and play the
devil with your ribs: aye, and your good friends, the gendarmes, will
not prevent me. Just remember that.”
He turned on his heel and went off, not even looking round at the smith,
who stood with mouth wide open in the middle of the road.
“The rotten liar!—Hand in glove with the old man, to come and talk to me
of friendship! He that would make beggars of both of us, if he could!”
It took him some time to cool down after this meeting; especially as
everything that morning went wrong with him. He had scarcely begun
chopping the logs, when a knot made a notch in his ax; then, just before
noon, a piece of timber crashed upon his foot, and only failed to crush
it by a rare good chance: he had to pull his boot off and cool his
swollen foot with ice. Matthew was, moreover, in bad humour that day,
finding fault with everybody: this was badly done, that done too slowly;
and, as for Antek, he took every pretext to grumble at him.
Everything went wrong; even the barley that Franek was to have ground,
and about which Hanka was always troubling, had not been done yet, the
excuse being press of work.
At home, too, things were not quite right. Hanka was distressed and
tearful, for little Peter lay sick of a burning fever, and she had been
forced to call in Yagustynka to fumigate him.
She came just at supper-time, sat by the fire, looked furtively about
her, and would have liked to gossip very much, but that they received
her attempts very coldly; and so she presently set to trying her healing
powers on the boy.
“I am off to the mill,” Antek said, taking his cap; “unless I see the
barley ground myself, it never will be done.”
“Could not Father go in your stead?”
“I shall be far more likely to get it.”—He went off in a hurry,
ill-humoured, out of sorts, tossed about like a solitary tree in a
storm. Besides, everything at home enraged him—especially those prying
ferret eyes of Yagustynka.
The evening was still and not frosty, with but few stars to be seen—only
one or two, twinkling far away as through a veil. The wind blew from the
woods, with a dull humming murmur, betokening a change of weather. Dogs
barked dispersedly about the hamlet, smoke trailed along the road, and
the air, though bleak, was damp.
Christmas being at hand, there were plenty of people at the mill. Those
whose corn was being ground waited in the passage; the others stayed in
the room of the miller’s man. These formed a circle round Matthew, who
was telling them something very funny, at which they every now and then
burst into laughter. Antek did not care to cross the threshold, and went
out to look for Franek at the mill.
“He is on the dam,” they said, “squabbling with Magda—you know—the wench
the organist turned out.”
“The miller,” another peasant told him, “has threatened to send him
away, if he is ever again seen in the mill with Magda; for she used to
spend her nights there. But, poor thing! where else has she to go?”
And someone else added, jestingly: “‘What in March we pursue, in
November we rue!’”
Antek sat down to wait, close to the place where the finest flour was
ground, and opposite to the half-open door of the waiting-room. There he
could discern Matthew’s shoulders, and the heads of the others all
turned towards him and intent on what he was telling them. But for the
clatter of the wheels, he could have even made out what was said, though
he had no curiosity that way.
He threw himself on to some sacks of corn, and presently, out of sheer
dejection and weariness, began to doze.
The mill clattered away, flapping, throbbing, and in full activity in
every one of its compartments; the wheels beat as if a hundred
washerwomen were all using their bats with might and main; the water
swirled past them with a bubbling hullabaloo and, churned up into
boiling foam and snowy flakes, rushed on to the river.
For hard upon an hour, Antek stayed there, expectant, but at last made
for the yard to go and seek Franek and also to rouse himself up
somewhat, feeling overcome with slumber. The way out led through the
waiting-room, which he was just going to enter, and his hand was upon
the latch, when what he heard Matthew saying made him stop on a sudden.
“Yes, the old fellow boils the milk and tea, and takes it to her in bed!
They say that he, along with Yagustynka, does all the kine want done for
them, and will not let her soil her hands; nay, that he has bought
something for her in town, lest she catch cold by going out behind the
barn!”
Here followed a burst of loud laughter, and then a hailstorm of jests.
Antek, by an instinctive movement, returned to where he had sat before
and, flinging himself again upon the sacks, gazed vacantly at the streak
of ruddy light that came from the door which stood ajar. Now he could
hear no more, for the din made the talk inaudible; a grey mist of
flour-dust rose and dimmed everything round him; the lamps, which hung
by cords from the ceiling, twinkled through the white fog, and glowed
athwart it, as yellow as cats’ eyes, and vibrated continually. But he
was too restless to stay seated; again he rose, and quietly and on
tiptoe approached the door, and bent his ear.
“... She explained everything!” Matthew said. “Dominikova assured him
that the girl had been in a hurry, scrambling over a fence ... it was a
thing that very frequently happened ... had occurred to herself when a
maiden. A most convenient explanation! And he believed her, the old ram!
Such a clever man! and he believed her.”
The laughter became a hurricane; they all were in paroxysms, and made
the house ring again.
Nearer and nearer crept Antek, now almost on the very threshold, pale as
a corpse, with fists clenched, crouching and gathered together for a
spring.
When they had done, Matthew continued: “But as to what they say of
Antek’s being on too friendly terms with Yagna, I happen to know that to
be false. I myself heard him whining like a dog outside her bedroom
door, till she drove him out with a besom! He stuck to her like a burr
to a dog’s tail, but she got rid of him for all that.”
Someone here inquired: “Did you see that? In the village they talk
otherwise.”
“Did I see?—Why, I was in there with her, and she herself complained how
he teased her!”
“You lying cur!” Antek shrieked, as he darted past the threshold.
Matthew instantly sprang at him. But, swift as thought, Antek was upon
him with the leap of a wolf. One hand clutching at his throat, stopping
both breath and voice, the other grasping his belt, he whirled him up in
the air like a bush you root out, burst open the door with a kick, and
rushed with him beyond the sawmill to the river-fence, against which he
hurled him with such fury that four rails broke like reeds, and Matthew
fell into the stream like a log!
A great tumult and clamour ensued, for in that spot the river was deep
and swift. They hastened to the rescue and got him out at once, but he
was insensible. The miller came running in directly and sent for
Ambrose, who came in at once. The people from the village assembled in
crowds, till Matthew was conveyed into the miller’s house; he swooned
again and again, and spat much blood. And as they feared he could not
live through the night, the priest was sent for.
Antek, as soon as Matthew had been carried out, coolly took his place by
the fireside, chatting with Franek, who had turned up; and when the folk
were back in the room again, and things a little more quiet, Antek spoke
out, so loud that all could hear him:
“If anyone shall a second time bait and mock me, I will do the like to
him, yea, and more also!”
No one answered a word. They only gazed upon him in profound wonder and
respect. How had it been possible to lay hold on such a man as Matthew,
lift him up as easily as a bundle of straw, carry him out and hurl him
into the river? So stupendous a feat had never yet been heard of. They
might have fought together, wrestled, and one in the end have overcome
the other, with breaking of bones even, or the crushing out of life:
that was quite a usual thing. But no: he had taken the man, just as you
take a puppy by the ears, and thrown him into the river! That the rails
had broken his ribs, that was nothing; he might get well. But the shame
of it, the shame, was what Matthew would never be able to bear: he was
disgraced for all his life.
“Really, really, my dear fellow,” one man repeated to another, “never
yet has such a thing been!”
Heedless of their talk, Antek got his meal ground and went home about
midnight. He saw the lighted window of the room at the miller’s where
they had taken Matthew.
“Foul dog!” he said as he glanced that way, and spat on the ground in
hatred, “ye never will boast again of having been with Yagna in her
bedchamber!”
Hanka had not yet gone to bed, and was spinning when he came in; but he
told her nothing. In the morning he stopped away from work, feeling sure
they had turned him away. But he had scarcely breakfasted when the
miller came in.
“Come and work. Your quarrel with Matthew is your own business: I have
naught to do with it. But the sawmill must go on working as before, till
he is well.—You will now be overseer, and have four _zloty_ a day and
dinner.”
“I do not accept. Give me what you gave Matthew, then I will: and do his
work as well as he.”
The miller flew in a rage, and wanted to bargain, but he was obliged to
give in: what else could he do? He took him on at once, and walked away.
Hanka, who had been told nothing of what had occurred, was much puzzled
at all this.
CHAPTER IV
Since daybreak on Christmas Eve, the whole village was in a state of
feverish excitement and bustling activity.
It had again frozen during the night, and as the frost came after a
couple of mild days and damp fogs, the trees were all covered over with
a moss-like growth of glassy crystals. The sun had come out of the
clouds, and shone in a clear blue sky, with only the thinnest and most
transparent veil of haze; but it shone palely, coldly, like the Host in
the Monstrance, warming nothing. The frost had grown harder as the day
advanced, and of such severity and penetration that it almost took the
breath away, and raised a cloud of condensed vapour round every living
being. Yet the world was steeped in bright sunshine, and radiant with
glittering splendour; on every side the sparkling snow seemed
oversprinkled with a dew of diamond-like scintillation. The surrounding
fields, buried under their white pall, lay refulgent, but dead. Now and
then a bird passed, flapping over their pure expanse, while its black
shadow glided along the ground below; or a covey of partridges clucked
amongst the snow-laden bushes, with timorous watchfulness and stealth,
drawing near to the dwellings of men and their cornstacks crammed with
grain. Elsewhere a hare would show its dark form, leaping through the
drifts, or standing on its hind legs, or gnawing to get at the garnered
corn, but—alarmed by the barking of the dogs,—scamper back to the great
forest, where every tree was tufted with hoarfrost.
A keen piercing cold, luminous with glacial sheen, now shimmered over
the whole world, and plunged it in icebound stillness.
Not a single cry broke the hard silence of the country-side, no living
voice resounded, no breath of wind whispered amongst those glistening
arid fields of snow. Only at rare intervals, from the roads half buried
in the drifts, did faint-voiced bells and the stridulous creaking of a
sledge strike the ear, so feeble and so far off that they were all but
inaudible, and no one could tell whence it came or whither it went, ere
the sound again faded into utter silence.
But all along the Lipka roads, on either side of the pond, the folk were
noisy and swarming. The air itself wafted something of festive joy, and
the people, nay, even the cattle, were full of the same. Through the
frozen air that carried sound so well, there floated cries like musical
tunes; laughter out of many a merry throat echoed from one end of the
hamlet to the other, awakening like gaiety of heart; dogs rolled madly
about on the snow, and bayed with glee, and pursued the crows that hung
about the cabins; horses whinnied in unseen stalls; and cows in their
byres bellowed tunefully. One might almost fancy that the snow crackled
more crisply and briskly underfoot, while the sledge-runners sounded
sharp along the hardened and glass-smooth roads, and the smoke went up
in blue pillars straight as arrows, and the cabin-windows winked in the
sun till they fairly dazzled you. Noisy children were all about, and the
hum of talk was heard, and the cackling of geese that swam about in the
holes made in the ice; and people were calling, calling to one another.
On the roads, round about the homesteads and their belongings, folk were
passing everywhere; and through the snow-whitened orchards gleamed the
red petticoats of women going from hut to hut and, as they went and
grazed the trees or shrubs, receiving a shower of silvery dust.
On this day, even the mill did not clatter. Indeed, it was silent during
the whole festival; but a pellucid ice-cold stream, led out by the
sluices, ran with babbling melody; and beyond this, somewhere far away,
the cries of a flock of wild ducks, wheeling in the air, arose from
marshes and moors.
Every cabin—Machek’s, Simon’s, the Voyt’s, and who can say how many
more?—was now being aired and scoured and scrubbed, and the rooms, the
passages, and even the snow in front of the huts, were strewn with fresh
pine-needles; in some dwellings the hearths, grown black and dingy, had
also been whitewashed. In all the huts they were busy making bread,
especially the _strucle_, or wheaten bread, with poppy-seed-sprinkled
crust; and this seed was also being pounded in mortars for other
much-liked dainties.
Yes, Yule-tide was at hand: the feast of the Divine Child, the joyful
day of wondrous goodwill to men; the blessed respite from the long
never-ending round of labour, to arouse the souls of men from their
wintry torpor, and shake off the grey dullness of everyday life, and
make them go forward joyfully and with a glad thrill of the heart, to
meet the day of our Lord’s Nativity.
At Boryna’s, too, the same activity, and quick going to and fro, and
bustling preparation, prevailed as elsewhere.
Boryna himself had been in town since the morning, to make purchases.
Pete, a man whom he had taken as groom after Kuba’s death, accompanied
him.
They all were very busy inside the cabin. Yuzka, humming a tune, was
cutting out of coloured paper some of those curious figures which they
stick for decoration either on the beams or on the picture-frames,
making them look as if painted in brilliant colours. Yagna, her sleeves
turned up almost to her shoulders, was kneading in the trough with her
mother’s aid; now preparing the long _strucle_, and loaves of the finest
flour (she was hurrying, for the dough had already risen, and she had to
fashion the loaves instantly); now casting an eye on Yuzka’s work; now
seeing to the honey-and-cheese-cakes, that were rising under warm
coverings, and awaiting their turn for the baking-oven; and now flying
round to where the fire roared up the chimney.
Vitek had been ordered to see to the fire and keep it well fed with
logs; but they had seen him only at breakfast: afterwards, where was
he?—Both Yagna and Dominikova looked for him about the premises, and
called him, but in vain; he never answered. The naughty lad was away
beyond the haystack, out in the fields, under the bushes where he was
setting snares to catch partridges, and covering these over with thick
layers of chaff, both to conceal them, and as a bait. Lapa accompanied
him, and also Bociek, the stork that he had taken care of, and healed,
and fed, and taught a number of tricks, and made such a friend of that
he had only to whistle in a peculiar manner for it to come to him as
obediently as Lapa—with whom, besides, it got on in perfect harmony, and
they used to hunt rats together in the stable.
Roch, whom Boryna had taken to his home for the holidays, had been and
was still in church, where, in company with Ambrose, he had spent the
morning decorating the altar and the walls with pine-branches that the
priest’s servant brought to them.
It was near noon when Yagna had finished kneading all the loaves, and
was now placing them on a board, patting them into shape, and daubing
them over with white of egg, lest they should crack in the oven. Just
then Vitek came in, crying out: “They are bringing us the Kolendy!”
Since early dawn, Yanek, the organist’s eldest son—the one who was at
school—had been taking altar-breads round, in company with his younger
brother.
When they came in, and said: “Praised be Jesus Christ!” Yagna turned and
saw them.
She was greatly confused at the room being in such disorder and, hiding
her bare arms beneath her apron, asked them to sit down and rest, as
they had heavy baskets, and the younger one bore several packages
besides.
They said they could not. “We have still to go over half the village,
and but little time for that.”
“At least stay awhile, Mr. Yanek, and warm yourself: it is so bitterly
cold!”
“And,” Dominikova proposed, “perhaps you will both take a little hot
milk.”
They made excuses, but at last rested themselves close to the window.
Yanek was unable to take his eyes off Yagna, till she hurriedly pulled
her sleeves down over her arms: at which he turned crimson like a
beetroot, and fumbled in his basket for the altar-breads. He took out
the finest and largest packet, in a gilt paper wrapper, and containing
several coloured wafers, also shaped like altar-breads. Yagna, holding
her hands under her apron, took the packet, laid it on a plate beneath
the crucifix, and then brought him a good gallon measure of linseed, and
six eggs.
“Have you been back here long, Mr. Yanek?”
“Only three days: since Sunday.”
“Is not that book-learning a very tedious thing?” Dominikova inquired.
“Not very; but then it is only to last till spring.”
“Your mother told me—I remember ’twas on my wedding-day—you were going
to prepare for the priesthood.”
“Yes, I—I am.—After Eastertide,” he answered, in a low tone and with
downcast eyes.
“Lord, what a consolation that will be to your parents! To have a priest
in the family! And what an honour to the parish!”
“Have you any news?”
“None; and that is good news. Everything goes on quietly with us, as is
usual amongst farmers.”
“Yagna, I should willingly have come over for your wedding, but they
would not let me.”
“Oh,” Yuzka exclaimed, “what a merry-making that was! Why, there was
dancing for three days running!”
“Kuba died then, I am told.”
“Yes, he did, poor wretch! Lost so much blood, he passed away before the
priest came to shrive him. They say in the village that his soul is
doing penance—that there is now some creature wandering about and
groaning by night along the ways and where four roads meet, and hard by
crosses, waiting for God to have mercy on it. It must be Kuba’s soul:
whose else?”
“What is this you say?”
“Naught but the truth. I myself have seen nothing, and so cannot swear
to it. But there may be things in the world that man’s mind is unable to
see through, no matter how keen. For these are the works of God, not of
man.”
“I am sorry Kuba died. The priest himself wept when he told me.”
“A most upright servant he was: quiet, religious, hard-working, never
taking what was not his, and always ready to share his last garment with
a poor man.”
“Continual changes in Lipka. Every time I come back here, I find things
quite altered.—I was at Antek’s to-day. His children are ill, misery is
knocking at their door, and he himself is so changed, so thin, I hardly
knew him.”
To these words there was no answer. Yagna quickly turned her face away,
and set about putting the loaves on the shovel, whilst her mother darted
him such a glance that he felt he had touched on an unpleasant subject.
With a wish to mend matters, he was seeking to start another, when Yuzka
addressed him with a blush, and asked for some of his coloured wafers.
“I want them for the ‘globes’ we hang up. We had some from last year,
but they were quite spoiled in the racket of the wedding-feast.”
Certainly he would; and he gave her more than a dozen, of five different
tints.
“So many! O Lord! I shall have enough to make not only ‘globes,’ but
‘moons’ too, and ‘stars’!” she cried in great glee. Yagna whispered to
her, and she came, blushing, her apron over her face, to offer him six
more eggs in return for his gift.
Boryna had meanwhile returned, and came in, Lapa and Bociek following
him, along with Vitek.
“Shut the door this instant,” cried Dominikova, “or the cakes will get
cold!”
“When women set to putting things in order,” Boryna said jocosely, as he
warmed his freezing hands, “men must seek lodgings, even at the tavern.
The road was like glass, the sledge ran splendidly, but it was so cold
we were nearly frozen in our seats.—Yagna, give Pete something to eat.
He has been nigh freezing to the marrow in his soldier’s greatcoat.—Tell
me, Yanek, are you home for long?”
“Till Twelfth Night.”
“You must be a great help to your father, both at the organ and in his
office. It is so cold, he can hardly wish to leave his warm bed, now
that he is getting on in years!”
“But that’s not why he did not come to you himself: our cow has calved
to-day, and he is forced to stay and tend her.”
“That’s good for you: you will have milk all the winter through.”
“How now, Vitek, have you watered the colt?”
“I have myself,” said Yagna, “but it would not drink at all, only
frisked about; and it teased the mare so, I had to take it away to the
biggest stall.”
Yanek and his brother took their leave, but the former had his eyes
fixed on Yagna to the very last: he saw she was still more lovely than
in autumn, when yet unmarried.
It was therefore no wonder that she had so completely overcome her old
husband, who could see nothing in the world but her. They said truly in
the village that his love had made a dotard of him. Hard and unyielding
as he was to everyone else, Yagna could do with him whatever she
pleased; he obeyed her in everything, saw things only through her eyes,
and took her advice, and her mother’s too. Nor had he any reason to
regret the results. His farm was in good order, everything prospered, he
had every comfort, someone to complain to and talk things over with; and
his only care in the world was now Yagna, to whom he cast up his eyes as
to some holy image.
Even now, whilst warming himself by the fire, he looked lovingly in her
direction, and had ready, just as before the wedding, sweet affectionate
words for her; all his thoughts were to give her pleasure.
Yagna, indeed, cared as much for his love as for last year’s snow. Just
now she was moody, and out of patience with his transports of
tenderness. Everything harried her, and she went about, angry and cold
as a February wind, throwing work on her mother, or on Yuzka, and
spurring her husband himself to exertions by some sharp word: she
herself went to the other lodgings, she said, to see about the stove,
and to the stable to tend the colt; but, in reality, to be alone and
think of Antek.
For Yanek had reminded her of him, and now Antek was as present to her
mind’s eye as if he were there before her in the flesh. During hard upon
three months she had seen nothing of him—except that once, when she was
driving out along the Poplar-road. Yes, time had flowed by like a river:
the wedding, the home-coming, her various occupations and the cares of
her household duties, had left her no time to think of him. Out of
sight, out of mind; and her acquaintances had avoided all mention of his
name. And now, she knew not why, he had surged up suddenly before her
with so sad and reproachful a look that her very soul within her was
shaken and distressed.—“I have done no harm to you,” she said within
herself; “why, then, are you haunting me thus, like a spectre, like a
ghost?” And she attempted to wrestle with her memories of the past. She
marvelled why his figure alone came back to her so—not Matthew’s, not
Staho Ploshka’s, not any of the others—only his! Had he given her a
love-charm that was now putting her beside herself, and tormenting her
with the pangs that she felt?
“What is he doing now, poor fellow? what is he thinking of?... And there
is no means of having speech with him, none!—Certainly, it is a grievous
sin.—Dear Jesus! It is a thing forbidden; so the priest told me in
confession.—Oh, but if I could only speak to him once more—speak even in
presence of a third person!—No, no: never, never, never!... I am
Boryna’s until death!”
“Yagna!” her mother called; “do come: we have to take the loaves out.”
She ran back to the house, hurrying and bustling, and seeking to forget.
But in vain: everywhere she saw his eyes, and those black overshadowing
brows of his—and those red, red lips ... how ravenously eager, and how
sweet!
She set to work with feverish activity, putting the place in order; and
in the evening she went to the byre, a place she scarcely ever visited.
But all would not do. He was always there—there before her.—A great
craving arose within her, tearing her heart to shreds; and her soul was
so sorely tempest-tossed that she at last came to Yuzka, sedulously at
work making “globes,” and, sitting down upon the chest by her side,
burst into a passion of tears.
Her mother and her husband were alarmed and sought to calm her; they
tried to soothe her as one soothes a spoiled child; they caressed her,
they looked lovingly into her eyes: all was of no avail. She cried till
she could cry no longer. And then, suddenly, she felt a change and,
rising from her seat in a strange humour of merriment, began to talk and
laugh, and almost burst into song.
Boryna stared at her in wonder, and so did her mother. Then they
exchanged glances full of meaning, and went out to whisper together in
the passage. They came back gay and joyful, and embraced and kissed her
with the most tender affection.
“Do not lift that kneading-trough!” exclaimed Dominikova earnestly; “you
must not. Matthias will do that for you!”
“Why, I have often lifted and carried many a heavier thing!”
She did not understand.
Boryna would not let her touch the trough; he carried it himself. And a
little later, when she was in the bedroom, he took the opportunity of
taking her in his arms and telling her something that Yuzka was not to
hear.
“Both mother’s head and yours are turned! What you suppose is not the
case: you are both wrong.”
“These are things that we know something about, and there is no mistake
here.—Let me see. It is Yule-tide now.... Then—then it will be only in
July.—Dear, dear! in harvest-time!—Yet let us thank God that it has come
to pass in any case.” He would have embraced her again, but she shrank
away from him in a temper, and ran to her mother to protest. The old
dame, however, asserted that there was no mistake.
“There is, there is! ’tis naught but your fancy!” Yagna cried in hot
denial.
“You are not glad of this, it seems?”
“And why should I be glad? Have we not enough troubles, without this too
thrown in?”
“Do not complain, or the Lord will punish you!”
“Let Him, let Him!”
“But what have you to complain of?”
“That I do not wish it: that is all!”
“Look, Yagna: if you have a child, then, in the case of your husband’s
death (which Heaven forfend!) it would have an equal part with the other
children as his heir; and possibly all the land might come to it in the
end....”
“Land, land, land! Ye think of naught else; and to me it is naught!”
“Because you’re as yet a silly child, and your head is full of nonsense.
A man without land is like a man without legs: he crawls about and
cannot get anywhere.—But, at any rate, say nothing of this to Matthias;
it would vex him.”
“I shall say whatever I like. What do I care for him?”
“Then do so, if you are such a fool; yes, tell everybody about it!—Go
rather, set to work; take the herrings out of the water to soak them in
milk; it will make them less salt. And tell Yuzka to pound some more
poppy-seed; there is yet much work, and the day is far spent.”
So it was. Evening approached, the sun had sunk behind the forest; its
setting glow stretched along the sky in blood-red streaks, and all the
snows were fiery and as if oversprinkled with live coals. The hamlet had
quieted down. Folk were still fetching water from the pond, and chopping
firewood; at times sledges went past like a whirlwind, men ran across
the pond, gates creaked on their hinges, and voices were heard here and
there; but the movement was slowing down as the fires of sunset died
out: with the pallid livid hues now overspreading the plain, the quiet
also spread, the land sank to rest, and the ways had fewer and fewer
passers-by. The far-off fields now lost in murky darkness, the winter
evening reigned over the country; the cold increased, the snow crackled
louder underfoot, and all the panes were embellished with frost-patterns
and fantastic traceries.
Slowly the village was vanishing in grey snowy shadows, melting away;
neither huts nor fences nor orchards could be made out; only a few
lights twinkled, more thick than usual, because everyone was busy
preparing the meal of Christmas Eve.
In every cabin, from the richest to the very poorest of all,
preparations were being zealously made; in each family room, at the
corner next the east, they had placed a sheaf of corn; the tables were
strewn with hay beneath bleached linen napery; and they looked out
eagerly through the windows for the appearance of the first star.
The sky, as is often the case when it freezes, was not very clear when
evening began to fall; it had seemed to veil itself as soon as the last
glow had burned out, and was hidden in the gloom of many a dusky wreath.
Yuzka and Vitek, terribly chilled, were standing outside the porch, on
the watch for the appearance of the first star.
“There it is!” Vitek suddenly exclaimed. “There it is!”
Boryna and the others, and Roch last of them all, came out to see.
Yes, it was there, and just in the east, having pierced through the
sombre curtains which hung round about it: it shone forth from the
dark-blue depths, and seemed to grow larger as they gazed upon it;
gleaming brighter and brighter, nearer and nearer, till Roch knelt down
in the snow, and the others after him.
“Lo, ’tis the star of the Three Wise Men,” he said; “the Star of
Bethlehem, in whose gleaming our Lord was born.—Blessed be His Holy
Name!”
These words they piously repeated after him, gazing up with eager eyes
at the bright far-off witness of the miraculous Birth—the visible token
of God’s mercy, visiting the world.
Their hearts throbbed with tender gratitude and glowing faith, while
they received and absorbed into their hearts that pure light, the sacred
fire—the sacrament to fight with and to overcome all evil!
And the star, seeming to grow larger still, rose up like a ball of fire,
from which beams of azure brightness shot down like the spokes of a
mystic wheel, darting its rays upon the snows, and twinkling with
radiant victory over darkness. Then after it there came forth other
stars, its faithful attendants, peering out in innumerably dense
multitudes—filling all the heavens, covering them with a dew of light,
and making them, as it were, a mantle of dark azure, strewn with silver
motes.
“And now that the Word is made Flesh,” said Roch, “it is time to take
our meal.”
They went in, and took seats for supper at a high long bench.
Boryna occupied the first place, then Dominikova and her sons (for they
had arranged to eat together); Roch sat in the middle, Pete, Vitek, and
Yuzka after him, and Yagna at the very end; for she had to see about the
service.
The family room was now in utter and solemn silence.
Boryna, having made the sign of the Cross, divided an altar-bread with
each of those present, and all partook of it with reverence, as
representing the Bread of Life.
“Christ,” then said Roch, “was born at this hour; therefore let every
creature feed upon this holy bread!”
And though they had eaten all day long only a little dry bread, and were
very hungry, they all ate slowly and with due decorum.
The first dish consisted of sour beetroot soup, with mushrooms and
potatoes in it. After this came herrings, rolled in flour and fried in
oil. Then there was a dish of cabbage and mushrooms, also seasoned with
oil. And, to crown the feast, Yagna had prepared a most dainty
dish—buckwheat meal, mixed with honey and fried in oil of poppy-seed!
With all these dishes, they ate common dry bread: it was not becoming,
on such a great fast-day, to eat either cakes or _strucle_, these
containing butter or milk.
They ate for a considerable time, and there was but little conversation;
only spoons clattered and lips were smacked. Boryna wanted to get up and
help Yagna, but her mother would not have it.
“Let her be,” she said; “it will do her no harm. ’Tis the first
Yule-tide at which she presides; she must learn and accustom herself.”
Lapa, whimpering at times, was poking its head against thighs and knees,
fawning and wagging its tail, in hope of getting sooner fed. Bociek the
stork, whose place was in the passage, ever and anon pecked at the wall,
or uttered its _klek-klek-klek_, to which the hens at roost responded.
The meal was not over yet, when someone tapped at the window.
Dominikova cried out: “Let no one in, no, nor even look that way! It is
the Evil One: he will enter, and then stay here all the year round!”
The spoons dropped, and they listened in dismay, as the tapping was
repeated.
“It is Kuba’s soul!” Yuzka whispered.
“Say no foolish things: someone in need is there. On this day, none
should suffer hunger, or be without a roof over him.” So saying, Roch
got up and opened the door.
It was Yagustynka, standing humbly on the threshold, who wept
abundantly, and begged to be let in.
“Oh, give me but a corner, and what you leave your dog! Have pity on a
poor old woman!... I was waiting for my children to ask me; I waited in
vain, starved with cold in my hut.... O Lord! I am now a beggar-woman;
and they leave me here, forlorn, without a morsel of bread—worse off
than a dog!... And their cabin is full of people and of noise. I crept
thither, looked round the corner and in at the window.... It was all of
no use.”
“Well, sit ye down with us. Better had it been to come when evening
fell, and not expect favours from your children.—They will rejoice when
they drive a last nail into your coffin, to make sure you will not come
back to them.” Thus Boryna spoke, and very kindly made a place for her
by his side.
But she was unable to eat anything, however heartily Yagna, the least
stingy of housewives, pressed her to take some food. It was impossible;
she sat drooping, bent, crouching, taciturn, her trembling body showing
how much she suffered.
The place was now cosy and quiet, pervaded by an atmosphere of
kindliness and of solemn piety, as if the Holy Child were lying in the
midst of them.
A huge fire, continually supplied with fresh fuel, was droning up the
chimney, lighting the whole apartment; against its blaze the glazed
images shone dazzlingly, the panes loomed black in the night. And now
they seated themselves in front of the fire, on the long bench, and
talked together in hushed and serious tones.
Presently Yagna made coffee, with plenty of sugar in it, which they
sipped at leisure.
After a pause, Roch took out a book, round which he had wound his
rosary, and began to read to them in a low voice that was full of deep
emotion:
“Lo, a new thing hath come to pass to-day: a Virgin hath brought forth a
Son: our Lord hath in the town of Bethlehem, not least of Judah’s
cities, entered this our world in poverty, within a wretched byre, on
hay, amongst the cattle, which were all His brethren on this night. And
that same star, which now is gleaming, gleamed upon the Child, showing
the way unto the Three Wise Men: who, albeit black and heathens, yet
were kind of heart, and came from far-off lands, across wide rolling
seas with gifts; and thus bore witness to the Truth....”
He continued reading a long time and his voice took the intonations of a
prayer, almost of a chant or the singing of some holy litany. They
listened to him in pious stillness, their souls silent and attentive,
their hearts thrilling under the fascination of the miraculous, with the
sincerest gratitude to God for the favours conferred upon them.
“Ah, sweet Jesus! Didst Thou then deign to be born in a stable, in that
far-off country, amongst filthy Jews and cruel heretics—and in such
poverty—and in such wintry frost! O poor, poor Holy One, O sweet
Child!”—Such were their thoughts, and their bosoms throbbed with pity,
and their souls flew away like birds, over land and sea, to the place of
the Nativity, to the Manger and the Crib over which the Angels sang—and
to the Sacred Feet of the Child Jesus. There they fell, with all the
might of their fiery faith and trust in Him; and they surrendered
themselves to Him—His faithful servants for ever and ever. Amen!
As Roch went on reading, Yuzka, who was a good, kind, impressionable
girl, fell to weeping copiously over our Lord’s unhappy lot. Yagna, too,
wept with her face in her hands and her head hidden behind Andrew, who
was listening close by, with mouth wide open, and so greatly struck by
what he heard, that he repeatedly pulled Simon by his sleeve, saying:
“Lo! do you hear that, Simon?”
When it was over, some remarks were dropped:
“Poor Child! not even a cradle!”
“I marvel that He did not freeze.”
“And that our Lord was willing to bear so much pain.”
“Because,” Roch answered, “it was only by His sufferings and sacrifice
that He could save His people: which had He not done, Satan would
assuredly have been master of the world and lord of every soul.”
“Of this and these he is pretty much master and lord as it is,”
Yagustynka muttered.
“Sin is master, wickedness lord; and these are the helpers of Satan.”
“Ah, well, whosoever it may be, one thing is sure: an ill fate has power
over man.”
“Speak not thus, lest ye sin: ye are blinded by wrath against your
children.”
The rebuke was stern, and she did not dispute its justice. The others
also were silent, and Simon rose to withdraw; but his mother, attentive
to everything, noticed him.
“Wither away so fast?” she hissed.
“Out—I feel too hot in here,” he faltered, taken aback.
“Going to Nastka—to divert yourself, hey?”
“Would ye forbid, or hold me back?” he growled, but threw his cap back
on to the chest where it had been.
“Return with Andrew to our hut: we have left the place to the care of
Providence. See to the kine, and stay there for me; when I have rejoined
you, we shall all go together to church.” These were her orders; but as
the lads were slow to obey, she did not repeat them; rising at once, she
took an altar-bread from the table.
“Vitek, light the lantern; we are going to the kine. In this Yule-tide
night, all the animals understand what men say, because our Lord was
born in their midst. And whosoever shall, being without sin, speak unto
them then, him will they answer with a human voice: this day they are
the equals of man, and they are our fellows. And therefore we shall go
and share the altar-bread with them.”
All made for the byre, Vitek leading, lantern in hand.
The cows were lying in a row, leisurely chewing the cud; but the
approach of the lantern and the voices caused them to snort and scramble
heavily to their feet, turning their great heads away from the light.
“You, Yagna, are mistress here; it is yours to divide this bread amongst
them: so will they thrive and not take any sickness. But let them not be
milked till to-morrow evening, or they will give no more milk at all.”
Yagna broke an altar-bread into five pieces, made the sign of the cross
over each cow between her horns, and laid the thin bit of wafer upon her
broad rough tongue.
Yuzka wanted to know whether the horses were also to get their share of
the bread.
“It must not be; there were no horses in the byre where Christ was
born.”
When they had returned, Roch spoke thus:
“Every being, every meanest blade of grass, every little pebble, nay,
even the star that is all but unseen to the eye—everything feels to-day,
everything knows that the Lord is born.”
“My God!” Yagna exclaimed. “What! even clods and stones?”
“I speak sooth: it is so. Everything has its soul. All beings in the
world have feeling, and await the hour when Jesus, taking pity on them,
shall say:
“‘Awake, O soul, and live, and merit Heaven!’—Yes, and the tiniest worm,
the swaying grass even, can after its fashion have merit, and praise the
Lord in its own way.... And to-night, of all nights in the year, they
all rise up, full of life, and listen, waiting for His Word!
“And to some it comes now, but to others not yet: they lie patient in
the dark, expecting the dawn; stones, waterdrops, clods, trees, and
whatever God has appointed each of them to be!”
Mute, they all pondered over the words he said; for he had spoken, and
in sapient wise, and words which touched the heart. Yet both Boryna and
Dominikova had doubts as to the truth of these; and, much as they turned
them over and over in their minds, they could not clear up the matter.
For, though God’s Omnipotence was indeed marvellous and beyond all
thought, still—that everything should have a soul!—this was what they
could not grasp. But now, the smith having come in with his family, they
set these thoughts aside.
“We shall sit up with you, Father, and then go together to midnight
mass,” he said.
“Sit down,” said Boryna; “it will be more pleasant with you. We shall be
all together, save for Gregory.”
Yuzka looked indignantly at her father, for she thought of Antek: but
she durst not say anything.
Once more they took their seats on benches by the fire; but Pete went
out into the yard to chop firewood against the coming great Day of Rest,
Vitek taking the chopped wood in his arms and piling it up in the
passage.
“Ah! but I had forgotten!” cried the smith. “The Voyt ran and asked me
to tell Dominikova she was to come at once; for his wife is in travail
and screams so that she is likely to be confined this very night.”
“I would have liked to go to church with you all; but since you say she
screams, I must look in.”
Having whispered with the smith’s wife, she hastened away, for she was
an expert in these matters, and to many had done more good than the
doctors.
Various legends relating to the day were told by Roch: one of them was
as follows:
“Long ago—as many years back as from now to Christ’s Birth—a certain
wealthy husbandman was walking home from market, where he had sold a
couple of fatted calves, and had the money concealed in one of his
boots. He bore a stout cudgel and was stout himself—perhaps the
strongest fellow in his village. But he was in a hurry to get home ere
nightfall, because in those days thieves used to hide in the woods and
waylay true men.
“This must have been in summer, for the greenwood was fragrant and
resounded with many a sweet song; a mighty wind rocked the trees, and
there was an uproarious rustling overhead. Now, therefore, the man went
along in haste, looking around him and fearing. But he saw only young
and old pines and oaks standing side by side, and never a living soul.
Yet he feared, for he was approaching a cross, and close by was so dense
a thicket, the eye could not see to pierce it: there thieves were mostly
wont to hide. So he crossed himself and, saying prayers in a loud voice,
ran on as fast as he could.
“He had without hurt passed out of the wood of tall trees, and had gone
through the undergrowth of dwarf pines and of juniper-bushes. Already he
could see the green of the open country, hear the streamlets babbling
and gurgling along and the lark singing on high; and he noted men
ploughing and flocks of storks winging their way over the marshes; nay,
he had even caught the scent of the cherry-orchards in blossom: when out
of the last of the thickets the robbers came leaping upon him! They were
twelve, all armed with knives. Bravely he fought, and though they soon
overpowered him, he would not give up his money, and shrieked for help.
So they threw him down, put their knees on his chest, and were going to
slay him. Suddenly, they were all struck motionless, and remained
so—bending over him, knives in air, full of rage, but, as it were,
turned to stone!—And at that same instant all things around also became
still as death. The birds, silent, floated moveless in air—the streams
rested—the sun rolled on no more—the wind fell dead—the trees remained
as they were bent by the wind—and the corn also. And the storks seemed
fixed in the sky, with outstretched wings ... and the ploughman remained
with whip raised over his horse where it stood ... and the whole region,
as if terror-struck, became immobile like a picture.
“How long this lasted, none can tell, but it endured until men heard
upon earth the Angels’ chant:
‘Christ comes: fear Him, O ye mighty!’
when immediately all things began to move again. But the thieves took
the warning given them by this prodigy, and released their victim; and
they went together, following the voices they heard, to the stable;
there they paid homage to the new-born Babe, along with all the
creatures which lived on earth or in air.”
They wondered much at the legend told them; but presently Boryna and the
smith began to talk of other matters.
After a time, too, Yagustynka, who had all the time sat silent, spoke
out, and with no pleasant words.
“Oh, ye talk, ye talk, ye talk: and wherefore, but only to make time
pass? Were it true that of old there came from heaven those who
protected the wretched and saved them from the oppressor: then why do
they not come now too? Is there now less of poverty, less of misery,
less of torture and of pain? Man is like a poor bird, unarmed, and let
loose to fly about the world. The hawk, the beasts of prey, and want of
food slay it; and him Crossbones always takes in the end.—And ye prate
of mercy, and feed fools with promises, deluding them and saying that
salvation is at hand!—Ah, who is at hand?—Antichrist! and he will deal
out justice, and He will have mercy, even as the hawk has mercy on the
chickens!”
Roch started up. “Woman!” he cried in a thundering voice; “do not
blaspheme! do not hearken sinfully to the whispers of the Wicked One,
that will drag you down to your damnation and to everlasting fire!”—But
he fell back upon the bench, and could speak no more for the sobs that
choked his voice, and shuddered from head to foot with horror and with
sorrow for that lost soul. And when somewhat calmer, he set the truth
before her with all the power of a firm believer, striving to bring her
back into the right way.
He spoke to her long—very long; and as well as a priest in the pulpit.
Meanwhile Vitek, having been greatly struck to hear that cattle
possessed human speech on Christmas Eve, called Yuzka away quietly, and
they went both of them to the cow-house.
Holding each other by the hands, trembling with awe, and crossing
themselves more than once, they slipped in amongst the cows.
Down they knelt by the side of the largest one, that they looked on as
the Mother of the Byre. Out of breath, agitated, with tears in their
eyes and dread in their hearts, as if they were in church and during the
Elevation—they nevertheless were upheld by strong trust and a lively
faith. Vitek put his mouth to her ear, and quavered in a low voice:
“Hist! Grey One! Grey One!”
But she only gurgled inaudibly, and went on chewing with a roll of her
tongue and a smack of her lips.
“Something strange has come upon her: she answers naught!”
Then they knelt by the next cow, and Vitek, who by this time was on the
verge of weeping, called earnestly to her:
“Spotted One! Spotted One!”
They both approached very close to her mouth, and listened, holding
their breath; but never, never a word!
“Ah! no doubt we have sinned, so we shall not hear her speak. They
answer only such as are sinless; and we are sinners!”
“True, Yuzka, true! we are sinful, we have sinned. O Lord! so it is!
Aye, I stole some bits of string from master once. And an old strap
besides.... Yes, and also....” He could go no farther; remorse and
repentance for his faults shook the lad with a convulsion of tears and
sobs; and Yuzka, following his example, wept from the bottom of her
heart. They cried together, and would not be comforted till they had
laid bare before each other all their “manifold sins and offences.”
At home, no one remarked their absence, for all were piously singing
hymns—not Christmas carols, which it was not deemed proper to strike up
until after midnight.
On the other side of the house, Pete was having a wash and making a
grand toilet. He had completely changed his clothes, Yagna having
brought him another suit of his, that he had put by in the store-room.
But what a cry arose when he appeared before them, clad—no longer in his
military cloak and grey uniform—but in the usual garb of a peasant!
“They laughed at me and nicknamed me Grey Dog,” he faltered; “so I have
changed my clothes.”
“Change your speech, and not your garments!” Yagustynka snarled.
“That likewise he will get back, since his soul has remained Polish.”
“And what marvel if he should forget something, after five years far
away, never once hearing his mother-tongue spoken?”
Here they broke off their talk; the high-pitched tinkle of the mass-bell
was now heard in the chamber.
“We must be off: it is ringing for the shepherd’s mass!”
And in a very short time all had set out, save Yagustynka. She stayed to
watch the house, and still more to loose the reins in solitude to the
bitterness of her heart.
The mass-bell meantime rang, rang, rang, like the quick twitter of a
bird, calling them to church.
Out of their cabins they poured; now and then a ruddy refulgence shone
from the opening and closing doors, with a flash as of lightning. In
some huts, the fire was put out or covered. In the dark night, as they
hurried on, a voice would be heard, or a cough, and the crunching of
shoes on the snow, and the holy words of mutual greeting: and on they
went, deeper and deeper into the dark-grey blackness, till only their
footsteps sounded in the frozen air.
From afar they now began to perceive the glowing church-windows, and the
great door thrown open and pouring forth light, and the people surging
in—billows on billows, slowly filling the aisle, decorated with
Christmas trees of many a kind; crowded along the white walls, swarming
in front of the altar, filling the pews in an ever-rising flood, rolling
and undulating to and fro with the incoming human tide, which brought in
along with it a fog of condensed breath-vapour, so thick that the
altar-lights shone dim and scarcely seen through its folds.
And still the people came in, came in continually.
They arrived from Polne Rudki in a compact mass, great tall fellows,
ponderous, yet active, all flaxen-haired, all clad in blue-black
capotes; their women comely, every one of them, adorned with “double”
aprons, and having for headgear caps underneath red kerchiefs.
Next came in straggling knots of twos and threes, the men of Modlitsa:
poor sickly wretches, strengthless creatures, in grey patched capotes,
and all bearing sticks, for they had come on foot. Of these the common
tavern joke was that they lived on mud-fishes only, because their lands
were miry and intersected with marshes, and their garments smelt of the
peat they used for fuel.
From Vola, too, came some, by separate families, like the juniper-bushes
that always grow in thick clumps and close together: none of them tall,
but all of middle height, stumpy and not unlike sacks of corn, yet
lively fellows: great talkers, most stubbornly litigious, given to
fighting, and spoilers of the forests. They were in grey capotes, with
facings of black braid, and red girdles.
There, too, was the “nobility” of Rzepki, which, as evil tongues say,
“has only a bag and a bundle, one cow for five and one cap for three”;
they came all in one band, taciturn, looking down and askance at
everyone they met. Their womenfolk, dressed like manor-people, very much
pranked out, very handsome, white of complexion and voluble of tongue,
walked in their midst, and were treated by them with the utmost
courtesy.
Directly after them entered the men of Przylek, tall, slender and strong
as trees in a pine-forest, and so decked out as to make the eye water:
white capotes, red waistcoats, shirts adorned with green ribbons,
breeches striped with yellow bands; and they pushed forwards, giving way
to no one, till they got quite close to the altar.
And then, almost the last of all, like so many squires, in walked the
people of Debie. They were but few; each went apart from the others,
strutting proudly forwards, and took his place in the pews next to the
high altar, having precedence of everyone; self-confident, because
wealthy. Their womenfolk carried prayer-books, and wore white caps tied
under the chin, and jackets of dark-coloured cloth.—And then there were
also men from the more remote hamlets, from many a little cluster of
huts, from sawmills, and from manors too—but who could count them all?
And in this multitude, pressed and surging and rustling like a wood in a
breeze, the white capotes of the Lipka men and their women’s red
kerchiefs were conspicuous.
The church was full, even to the very last place in the porch, and
anyone who came late had to pray outside under the trees in the cold.
Now the priest began the first mass, and the organ pealed forth, while
all the people swayed to and fro, and bowed down, and knelt before the
Divine Majesty.
There was a deep hush; fervent prayers went up; every eye was fixed on
the priest, and on the one taper that burned high above and in the
middle of the altar. The organ played soft music, fugues and harmonies
so touchingly sweet that they sent a thrill to the very heart. At times
the priest turned to the people with outstretched hands, uttering aloud
certain sacred Latin words; and the people too extended their arms,
sighing audibly, and, bending down in deep contrition, struck their
breasts and prayed with fervour.
Then, when the first mass was over, the priest mounted the pulpit, spoke
of the sacred festival, and exhorted them to flee all things evil: his
words went to their hearts like fire, and sounded like thunder through
the church. Of his hearers, some sighed, some beat their breasts; others
were sharply stung by remorse, and others again—those in particular who
were of amatory disposition—fell a-weeping. For the priest spoke with
true zeal and eloquence, his words went straight to the heart and mind;
and however drowsy the heat in the church had made more than one, even
these could not but listen to him.
Just before the second mass, the organ pealed out again, and the priest
intoned the famous carol:
“Come to meet Him—come to greet Him!”
and the people started up from their knees as one man, with a billowing
swirl, took up the tune, and roared in unison, with a loud blast from
each man’s lungs:
“Jesus in the manger laid!”
The Christmas trees vibrated and shook with the din, and the lights
flickered in the enormous volume of sound.
So united were they, in souls and faith and voices, that it seemed as if
a giant were trolling forth that tremendous chant that rolled, carrying
every heart along with it, to the sacred feet of the Divine Child!
When the second mass was over, the organist struck up one Christmas
carol after another, and to such lively leaping measures that it was all
they could do to hold back from leaping too; but at any rate they all
turned round to the organ-loft, and shouted the words in tune and time
with the music.
Antek alone was not singing with the others. He had come with his wife
and with Staho’s family, but had let them go on before him, he himself
standing close to the pews. He had no mind to take his old place among
the farmers in front of the altar, and was looking for a place somewhere
else, when he perceived his father coming in with all his family,
pushing forward to the centre of the nave, with Yagna going first of
them all.
He shrank back behind a young fir-tree, and thenceforward never took his
eyes off her. She sat down at the end of a pew close to the side
gangway; and he, unconsciously obeying instinct, pressed forward with
stubborn jostling, till he was close to her; and when all knelt down
during mass, he too knelt and bent forward so that his head touched her
knees.
She at first took no notice of him: the rushlight she was using to read
by shed so faint a glimmer round, and the fir boughs concealed him so
well that he could not be seen. It was only at the Elevation, when,
going down on her knees, she beat her breast and bowed her head in
adoration, that she happened to look in his direction—and her heart
suddenly stopped beating, and she was petrified with joy.
She durst not look a second time. What she had seen was but a dream to
her; a vision—a “false creation,” and no more.
She closed her eyes and remained long on her knees, with head bowed
down, and body bent forward—almost beside herself with excitement. At
last, however, she seated herself and looked him straight in the face.
Yes, it was really he—Antek—his face very haggard and bronzed; and those
eyes of his, so bold and daring, now looked into hers with such
sorrowful tenderness that her heart was smitten through and through with
affectionate apprehension, and the tears came to her eyes.
Like the other women there, she sat stiffly, apparently reading in her
book in which she saw not a single letter, nor even the page before her.
What she did see was his face—his eyes, so sad, so full of appeal,
flashing, blazing, bright as stars, coming between her and the rest of
the world. She felt lost and helpless—and he was kneeling by her side;
and she heard his quick breath and felt it hot, and was aware of the
dear, yet awful might which went forth from him, seized upon her heart,
bound it to him as with cords, thrilling her at once with pleasure and
dismay—with a vertiginous shuddering, and a cry for love so potent that
her every limb quaked, and her heart beat wildly like some poor bird
nailed in sport by the wings to a barn-door!
The second mass was now over, and the people were all singing together,
and praying and sighing and weeping; but these two, as if beyond this
world, heard nothing, saw nothing, thought of nothing but each other.
Dread—joy—affection—remembrance—enchantment—desire!—all these feelings
alternately glowed within them, passing from one to the other, and
knitting them in one, so that they felt themselves one being, and their
two hearts throbbed in unison, and one fire flamed in the eyes of each.
Antek came yet a little nearer, leaned his shoulder against her hip (and
a hot flush surged over her, and she was nigh to swooning); and as she
knelt again, he flung these words—words that might have been brands of
fire—into her ear:
“Yagna! Yagna!”
She shook, and almost fell fainting; his voice pierced her through and
through with keen rapture—with a sharp-edged delight.
“Come out some evening ... come out ... behind the haystack.... I shall
be waiting there every night.... Fear not.... I must speak to you....
’Tis urgent.—Come.” This he said in an impassioned whisper, very close
to her—so close that his breath was like a flame upon her face.
She replied nothing: the words stuck in her throat. Her heart was
palpitating so violently that she thought everyone near her must have
heard it. But she made a gesture as if she would go that very instant
where he wished, where her love was urging her ... behind the haystack.
The church was resounding with the joyful thunder of the carols, when
she came a little to her senses, and looked round at the people and the
sanctuary.
Antek was there no more. He had withdrawn unnoticed, and was slowly
walking out into the churchyard.
There he stood in the frost a long time, beneath the belfry, that he
might cool down a little and breathe some fresh air. But his bosom was
so overflowing with gladness, there was in him such an exultation, such
a triumph of power, that he never even heard the chant that welled out
from the open church door, nor the faint echoes which repeated it from
the bells above. No, he took no heed of anything whatsoever....
Seizing a handful of snow, and swallowing it greedily, he leapt over the
wall and into the road—rushing away, out on to the country-side, wayward
as the blast.
CHAPTER V
The Boryna family returned from church very late; and but a few minutes
later, they were all in bed, snoring loud. All except Yagna alone.
Wearied though she was, she did not fall asleep. She turned on her
pillow, she even threw the blanket over her head: it was of no avail;
sleep would not come. In its stead there came a sort of nightmare, and
fell upon her, and crushed her with its weight. She could neither
breathe, nor cry out, nor jump from her bed. There she lay, numb,
drowsy, in that half-awake state when the mind spins out memories all
the while and goes over the world with them—rising far above the earth,
arraying itself in the sun’s splendour, and yet no more capable of any
activity in itself than is a reflection in clear wind-rippled water.
Thus it was with her: though she did not fall asleep, yet her mind was
wandering about like a bird through the days of the dead past, through
those times that were now no more, and lived only in memory. She was
back again in the church, with Antek kneeling beside her, and
speaking—speaking—and burning her with those eyes of flame, and filling
her with a sweet torture and dismay!... And then appeared the flushed
and threatening face of the priest, and his hand stretched out over the
people ... and the lighted tapers.... Then came other reminiscences—old
ones: her meetings with Antek ... their kisses—their embraces ... till
she was full of such a fever of excitement and delectation that she
stretched and pressed herself down on the pillow with all her might....
And then, once more, she heard, clear and distinct, the words: “Come
out! Come out!” And it seemed to her that, rising at the call, she
walked, walked on, skulking along through the brushwood in the dark,
shaken with terror, followed by a hue-and-cry, and an awful wind blowing
after her among the shadows.
And so this went on unceasingly, one impression after another ... and a
third ... and a fourth ... and so on, beyond counting: she could in no
wise either get rid of these fancies of hers or control them. A
nightmare had her in its clutches; or ... was it Satan preparing her to
sin by tempting her thus?
It was broad day when she got out of bed, and she felt as though she had
spent the night on a rack. Every bone in her ached; she was pale, worn
out, unspeakably miserable.
The frost had slackened a little, but the weather was dull. Now and
again it snowed; and then a great wind would spring up, worry the trees,
and go whistling down the road. The village, however, was lively and
full of the gladness of Yule-tide, and the roads swarmed with folk. Some
were dashing by in sledges; some talked outside their huts or went
visiting their neighbours; and the children played about in the lanes,
and there was everywhere noise and merriment in plenty.
But of merriment there was little in Yagna’s heart. For all the joyous
flickering of the fire on the hearth, she felt cold: moody in spite of
all the mirth and din around her, and the gay songs of Yuzka, ringing
through the cabin. Though amongst her own people, she was alone—so
terribly alone that she was afraid to look upon them.
And frequently, whilst letting her fancy listen to Antek’s passionate
whispers, she could not help hearing at the same time certain other
words that went to her soul with no less force:
“To all such God’s wrath is reserved, and everlasting damnation!”—She
could distinctly hear the priest’s voice, and see his glowing face, and
his hand stretched out in a threatening gesture.
She quailed at the vision, feeling acutely the depth of her guilt.—“Then
I will not go, I will not! It were a mortal sin, a mortal sin!” she
repeated to herself, striving to find in these words the strength to
resist and a shield against evil. But then her soul revolted with the
pain of it; for indeed she was attracted to him with all the might and
bent of her vital forces, and turned towards him as a snow-burdened tree
turns towards the sun in spring.
But the fear of sin had still the upper hand, and she did her best to
forget him—forget him for ever!... She now stayed at home, fearing to go
anywhere about the premises, lest he might be lurking about and call to
her.... For would she then be able to resist, and not to follow his
voice?
She set about diligently to perform her home duties; but there was
little to be done. Yuzka managed all; besides, the old man was always
after her, unwilling to have her put her hand to anything.
“Rest yourself; do not work too much, lest some untimely harm come upon
you!”
So she did nothing, and only wandered aimlessly about the cabin, or
looked out of the windows—at nothing—or stood idle in the passage.
Meanwhile her longing and her desire increased continually; and her
irritation as well. She was angered by her husband’s watchful eyes,
angered by the joy and liveliness that filled the place; angered even by
Bociek the stork, walking about the hut, and flapped her apron to drive
it away. At last, when she could bear things no longer, she chose a
convenient opportunity, and ran over to her mother’s hut. But she went
there straight across the pond, looking round in fear, lest he should be
lurking somewhere behind a tree.
Her mother was not at home; she had only looked in early in the day, and
then returned to attend the Voyt’s wife. Andrew sat smoking by the
fireside, while Simon dressed himself in the bedroom.
Back in her old place, amongst her own furniture and surroundings, a
change came over her and her irritation disappeared. She was once more
in her element, and began instinctively to move about and do things:
going to the cow-house, straining out the milk which had since the
morning been standing in the pail, throwing corn to the fowls, sweeping
the room, setting things in order, and meantime keeping up a brisk
conversation with her two brothers; for Simon, having put on a new
capote, had now come in, and was doing his hair before the
looking-glass.
“So carefully dressed?—Whither away?”
“To the village, to meet a few lads at the Ploshkas’.”
“And ... will mother let you go?”
“I shall not everlastingly ask her leave: my reason is my own; so is my
will.”
“Surely, surely,” Andrew chimed in timorously, looking out into the
road.
“You are to know,” the other cried with a bold air, “that what I do, I
will do in spite of her. To the Ploshkas’, aye, and to the tavern as
well, will I go, and drink with the other lad.”
“‘A calf wants but its mother’s teat, yet wanders everywhere for it. So
with the fool, whose will’s his rule,’” she murmured to herself, not
caring to contradict him, nor indeed paying much heed to what he said.
She was to return home now, and had so small a mind to do so, that it
was almost with tears that she took leave of them, and dragged herself
slowly away.
At her cabin, it was still noisier and merrier than before. Nastka had
run in, and was laughing so gaily with Yuzka that Yagna could hear them
out in the road.
“Do you know? my rod has blossomed!” she cried to Yagna as the latter
entered.
“Your rod? what rod?”
“The one I cut on St. Andrew’s night, planted in sand upon the stove—and
behold, it has blossomed! I looked at it yesterday, and there was not a
single blossom yet.”
She brought the pot of sand to show her; there stood in it a rather
large spray of a cherry-tree, studded with delicate blossoms.
“Oh, what fragrant pink flowers!” said Vitek wistfully.
“So they are, so they are!”
All crowded round, and gazed on the sweet-scented spray with great joy
and wonder. But just then Yagustynka came in, now again her former self,
loud of speech, bold, and always seeking an opportunity to sting someone
to the quick.
“Aye, Yuzka, the rod has blossomed, but not for you: what you need yet
is the strap, or a good stout cudgel!” Thus she spoke at once on
entering.
“For me, for me, it has blossomed!” she cried. “I myself cut it on St.
Andrew’s night: I myself!”
“But,” Yagna explained, “you are as yet too young; no doubt it has
foretold Nastka’s marriage.”
“We both together put it in the pot; but I cut it, and so it has
blossomed for me!” Yuzka insisted, while the tears sprang to her eyes,
because her right to the prediction was not admitted.
“Plenty of time before you, Yuzka, to run after young men and wait at
stiles for them: let your elders go first,” said Yagna, smiling at
Nastka. “So, Yuzka, be quiet.—Here’s news for you all: that Magda who
was at the organist’s gave birth in the church porch last night!”
“Can such a thing be?”
“It can, for it has been. When Ambrose went out to ring, he stumbled
over the girl.”
“O Lord! and she did not die of cold?”
“No, not she; but her child did. Yet she all but died herself. They took
her to the priest’s dwelling, and they are tending her still. But ...
’twere better they had let her alone. What has she to live for? Can
aught of good come to her now?”
“Matthew told me that when the organist turned her away, she was always
at the miller’s, and staying there overnight, till at last—probably by
the miller’s directions—her Franek beat her and sent her flying.”
“Well,” said Yagustynka, “what was he to do with her? Frame her like a
picture and hang her up, hey?—Franek is like his fellows: ‘He of oaths
made a lot; what he wanted he got—and then kept them not.’ Not faultless
he, not by any means: but the organist is by far the worst of all. While
she was well, they made her work as much as a yoke of oxen ploughing:
she alone did everything for them. And now, as soon as she is ill, they
have driven her away! A murrain on such folk!”
“But,” Nastka cried, “wherefore did she yield to Franek?”
“And you also would yield to Yasyek, were you but sure that the banns
would follow!”
Nastka took offense at this, and a quarrel seemed imminent, but Boryna
came in at that moment, and they said no more.
“Do ye know about Magda? She is still living, but in a dead faint. Had
she been left there the space of another ‘Pater,’ Ambrose says, she
would have turned up her toes. Roch is rubbing her with snow, and giving
her to drink; but they think she will not be well for a long time.”
“And whither is she to go then, poor thing?”
“No doubt the Koziols will take her to their home: she is a kinswoman of
theirs.”
“The Koziols, indeed! Why, they have naught themselves but what they can
filch or get by cheating: how could they nurse her? And here we have so
many wealthy men and landowners, and none will come forward to help
her!”
“Yes, yes,” Boryna said; “farmers have endless treasures, and everything
falls to them from the sky, and their only business is to help everyone!
What, shall I gather all the needy on all the highways, bring them in
here, and feed and nurse them, and pay the doctor for them, perhaps,
into the bargain?—Ye are old, Yagustynka, and the wind blows in your
head.”
“I say not that anyone can be forced to aid the needy; but yet men are
not beasts, nor should they be left to perish out of doors.”
“Well, things in this world are as they are, and must remain so, and ye
will not change them.”
“Long ago, before the war—in the days when the nobles were masters,
there was, I remember, a hospital in the village for poor people. Yes,
and it was in the very house where the organist dwells now. And I
remember, too, folk had to pay to keep it up—so much out of every acre
they had.”
Boryna was annoyed and surly: he did not care to discuss the matter, and
closed the debate with:
“Talking of this will do as much good as incense burnt to bring the dead
to life.”
“True, no good at all. On him that feels no pity for the cries of those
who suffer, their tears too will have no effect. The thriving man thinks
that all in this world goes well and as God has commanded.”
To this Boryna gave no reply, so Yagustynka turned to Nastka.
“And what about Matthew’s ribs? Any better?”
“Matthew? why, what has befallen him?”
“What!” Nastka exclaimed; “do ye not know of it? It came to pass ere
Yule-tide.... Your Antek flew at him, took him by the throat, carried
him out of the mill, and dashed him against the fence so hard that the
railing broke. He fell in and was like to drown. Now he is ill, and
spits blood, and cannot move. Ambrose says he has four ribs broken, and
his womb is out of place.[8] And now he is always moaning and groaning.”
-----
Footnote 8:
Compare this anatomical error with what Falstaff says, “Henry IV,”
Part 2, Act IV, Sc. 3.—_Translator’s Note._
She burst into tears.
At the first words, Yagna had started up, struck with the feeling that
the fight had been about herself. But presently she sat down again upon
a chest, pressing her lips to the cherry-blossoms to cool them.
Those of the house were astounded: though the incident was the talk of
the whole village, no whisper of it had yet come to Boryna’s cabin.
He growled: “Like has fallen foul of like—one ruffian of another. No
great harm done!”
“But,” Yagna inquired after a pause, “why did they fight?”
“On account of you!” the old woman said, with a spiteful snarl.
“Pray speak the truth!”
“It is as I say. Matthew was at the mill, boasting in the presence of
some men that he had been with you in your bedroom.... And Antek heard,
and gave him a beating.”
“Spare me your jests; I have no mind to hear them!”
“Will you not believe me? Then ask the whole village; they will tell you
the same. Did I say that Matthew was speaking true? Nay, I only repeated
the village talk.”
“He is a liar ... a foul liar and a villain!”
“Who can protect you from evil tongues? They will often slander you
beyond the grave.”
“’Tis well ... ’tis well he beat him!... I fain would add to the
beating!” she hissed vindictively.
“Oho! The chicken’s claws turn a hawk’s talons!”
“Aye! for the lie he told, I would kill him on the spot, the false
hound!”
“To everyone I say he lies, but they believe me not, and backbite you.”
“Oh, but Antek will silence them—cut their tongues out!”
Yagustynka leered at her maliciously. “Is he to fight the whole world
for you, eh?”
“O you Judas woman, you! With your sly hints and whispers, and the joy
you take in giving pain!”
Yagna was now in a towering passion; perhaps she had never yet been so
angry in her life. What she felt would have been beyond bearing, but for
Antek’s conduct that she now heard of. She was flooded with tenderness,
and unspeakable gratitude filled her heart that he had so well taken her
part and avenged her. Nevertheless, she exhibited so much ill temper at
everything that went on in the house, and rated Yuzka and Vitek so
sternly for every trifle, that old Boryna felt uneasy, and came to sit
by her side, stroking her face and asking:
“What is it ails my Yagna?”
“What should ail me? Naught.—Let me be: would ye make love before
everybody?” And she pushed him roughly away.
“He would soothe and blandish and cuddle her, would he? That withered
fellow, that spent worn-out old man!” she thought, and a feeling of
strong dislike welled up within her. Not till now had she noticed his
age: now, for the first time, there came to her a sense of loathing, a
deep-seated repugnance, almost hatred. She now looked upon him with glad
concealed contempt; for he had really aged a good deal in these last
days: his hands were shaking, and he dragged his feet and stooped.
“That nerveless old driveller!”
She shook herself with disgust, and set to thinking all the more
intensely of Antek. No longer did she strive against the memories that
pressed upon her, nor seek not to hear those sweet tempting whispers of
his.
The day dragged on, intolerably slow. Every minute she would go out into
the porch, or as far as the orchard behind the hut, and look through the
trees at the fields beyond ... or lean against the wattled fence which
stood between her and the village road that ran past the farm buildings.
With wistful looks, she would scan the country-side—the snow-covered
lands—the dark forest at the sky-line.... But she took note of nothing,
so deep was she plunged in the joyous knowledge that _he_ cared for her,
and would let no one do her wrong.
“And he would serve anyone the same! What a man he is, what a fighter!”
she thought with tender admiration. “Oh, if he came in sight now, I
could not resist him for one instant!”
The haystack stood close by, near the road, but at some distance within
the field. Flocks of sparrows chirruped round it, and took shelter in a
great hole that had been scooped out of one side. The farm-lad, though
ordered by Boryna to go up and take the hay always from the top, had not
cared to do so, but pulled truss after truss out of the side, till
enough had gone to form a sort of small den, in which two persons might
easily find room.
“Come out—come out behind the haystack!” Her mind was continually
repeating Antek’s petition. But now she ran back to the hut; the bells
were beginning to ring for Vespers, and she herself had a longing to go
to church, in the vague hope of meeting him there.
Him she did not meet: but instead, in the very entrance, she saw Hanka,
greeted her, and held back for her to put her hand first into the holy
water stoup. But Hanka neither made answer nor stretched out her hand to
the stoup, but passed on, darting out of her eyes a look at her—a deadly
look! as though she would have stoned her willingly.
Yagna’s eyes grew dim. Such a slight! so open an exhibition of hate!
Yet, from the pew in which she seated herself, she could not help fixing
her eyes on that pallid face.
“Antek’s wife—and so haggard, so ghastly to see! Well, well!” But her
thoughts soon wandered away from Hanka. They were singing in the choir,
and the organ played sweet music, so low and soft and mysterious that it
absorbed all her attention. Never, no, never had she felt so happy in
church, so serenely blissful! She did not even say prayers; her book lay
before her unopened; her beads were in her hand, but she did not tell
them. She sighed dreamily, and looked up to see the shadows creeping
slowly in through the windows, and to gaze on the pictures, the
scintillating lights, the gilded woodwork, and the now scarce visible
many-coloured decorations. Amongst all these marvels, her soul soared
up, lost itself in the painted skies, in the chanted prayers and the
faint dying melodies that she heard. Dissolved in a serene ecstasy,
oblivious of everything round her, she fancied she saw the saints come
down out of their pictures, approach her with smiles of infinite
kindness, and stretch forth their hands in blessings over her and over
all the people.
She ceased to dream only when Evensong was at an end and the organ
hushed. The silence roused her from her trance; unwillingly she rose and
went out with the others. And now again, at the church-door, she met
with Hanka, who stood and faced her as though intending to speak—but
only darted a look of hatred at her and went out.
“What, does the silly woman think to daunt me by glaring?” was Yagna’s
mental comment as she walked home.
Evening had fallen now—quiet, dull, holy. It was murky outside; the
stars’ faint light shone dim in the hazy sky; a little snow came down,
flake by flake, looking like long fluffy threads, and noiselessly
fluttering past the window-panes.
In the cabin, too, it was quiet and somewhat dull. Simon had come as
soon as evening had closed in—ostensibly to visit them, but really to
meet with Nastka; and the two sat side by side, talking in low voices.
Boryna was not home yet. Yagustynka sat on one side of the fire-place,
peeling potatoes. On the other, Pete was playing a tune on his violin,
very gently, but with such sad notes that now and then Lapa would whine,
or vent a long-drawn howl. Vitek was there too, along with Yuzka. After
a time, Yagna, whom the tune made nervous, called out from the bedroom:
“Pete, pray leave off: that music of yours is too dismal!”
And the violin sounded no more. But presently it was heard anew; for
subdued strains, all but inaudible, now came from the stable, whither
Pete had withdrawn; and there he continued playing far into the night.
When Boryna came in, supper was getting ready.
“Well, the Voyt’s wife is brought to bed. Folk are swarming there so
that Dominikova has to drive them off, they come in such crowds. Yagna,
you must go and see her to-morrow.”
“Instantly—I will go instantly!” she cried, excited and eager all at
once.
“Very well; and I’ll go with you.”
“Ah! Perhaps to-morrow will do better.” And she added, to explain her
quick change of mind: “Yes, I should prefer going in the day-time. The
snow is falling, it is dark, and you say there are so many people.”
He acquiesced; all the more readily because the smith’s wife and
children entered the hut just then.
“Why, where is your goodman?”
“At Vola. The threshing-machine there is out of order, and the manor
blacksmith cannot put it to rights.”
“Somehow,” Yagustynka observed, in tones full of significance, “somehow
he goes very often to the manor now.”
“Have ye any objection?”
“None in the world. I only note one thing and another, and watch to see
what will come of it all.”
Her words failed to set tongues wagging; no one cared to talk loud. Each
spoke to his neighbour in drowsy whispers; all were heavy with sleep, of
which they had had too little the night before. They supped, too, with
but little relish, and looked (not without surprise) at Yagna, who was
in high spirits, bustling about the room, pressing them to eat, even
after they had laid down their spoons, bursting into laughter, no one
knew why, and sitting down beside the girls and talking nonsense, to
break off on a sudden and run out to the other lodgings ... and return
when she had got only as far as the passage. Truth is, she was racked
with a fever of anguish and dread. The evening wore away sluggishly,
wearily, whilst her longing to go out behind the hut—to the
haystack—grew ever stronger and stronger. Yet she could not make up her
mind to go. She feared to be seen—she feared to commit sin. She was
putting forth all her power of self-control, and trembling with the
agony of effort; her soul cried out for liberty like a chained-up dog;
her heart was rent within her. No, no! she could not bear it!... Perhaps
he was standing there ... looking about for her ... he might be prowling
round the cabin.... Perhaps, hidden in the orchard, he was even then
looking in at the window at her ... and imploring ... and pining away
with sad desire!... Then she thought she would run out, but only for a
minute ... only to say one word, to tell him he must not come to her nor
she to him, for it was a sin.... And now she was looking for her apron
to put it on ... and now she made for the door.... But there something
caught hold of her by the nape of the neck, as it were, and pulled her
back.—Yagustynka’s eyes followed each of her movements, like a
sleuth-hound.—Nastka too looked strangely at her.—And the old man
too!—Did they know? had they found out anything?... “No, no; I will not
go out to-day.”
Lapa, barking outside the hut, roused her at last from the state of
obsession she was in. The cabin was nearly empty. Only Yagustynka sat
there, dozing by the fireside. Her goodman, too, was standing at the
window and looking out; for the dog barked more and more furiously.
“No doubt, Antek, no longer able to wait, had now....” She broke off in
terror.
But only old Klemba stood there in the doorway. Behind him, shaking and
stamping the snow off their clothes and boots, came Vinciorek, Gregory
“the Lame,” Michael Caban, Franek Bylitsa (Hanka’s uncle), Valenty “the
Wry-mouthed,” and Joseph Vahnik!
Boryna marvelled much at this deputation, as it seemed to be, but said
not a word, except to answer their greetings. He shook hands all round,
bade them be seated on the benches he pushed forwards, and offered his
snuff-box.
They all sat down in a row, and took a pinch, nothing loath; one
sneezed, another blew his nose, a third wiped his eyes, the snuff being
of first-class strength.... They then looked round them, and some spoke
a few words—about the snowy weather, about hard times—while others
assented with grunts and nods: all, however, approaching at leisure the
object of their visit.
Boryna shifted uneasily on his bench, stared at them, and attempted by
various means to draw them out and learn what they would have of him.
He failed. They sat there in a row, hoary-headed clean-shaven old men,
nearly of an age, hale as yet, though bowed down by years and labour;
ponderous as moss-grown boulders in the fields, rugged, tough-sinewed,
ungainly, but hard-headed and shrewd, they fought shy of speaking before
the time, and approached the matter in hand circuitously, as sagacious
sheep-dogs do a flock they aim at driving through a gate.
At length, however, Klemba cleared his throat, expectorated, and said
with a dignified mien:
“How long shall we hang back and beat about the bush? We come to know if
ye are on our side or not.”
“Without you we cannot decide aught.”
“For ye are the first man amongst us all.”
“And wisdom has been given you by our Lord.”
“And though ye have no office, yet are ye the leader of us all.”
“Also our common interests are at stake.”
Each man had his say, and every one was so complimentary to Boryna that
he turned red, held up his hands in deprecation, and exclaimed:
“Kind friends, I do not even know as yet what brings you hither!”
“Our forest! After Twelfth Night, they intend to cut it down.”
“I know they even now saw timber at the mill.”
“But that belongs to Jews in Rudka, as we thought ye knew.”
“I did not: I have little time to go about and question folk.”
“Yet ye were first to make complaint against the Squire?”
“Because I thought that he had sold the timber of our clearing.”
“Why, whose else? say whose!” Caban interrupted.
“That on the land he bought himself; his own.”
“Aye, but he also has sold the timber of Vilche Doly, and they are now
to cut it down!”
“That he can only do if we agree!”
“And yet the trees are marked already; they have measured out the land,
and will begin to fell the timber after Twelfth Night.”
“If ’tis thus”—Boryna paused to reflect—“if so, then we shall enter a
complaint before the commissary.”
“‘From seed-time to harvest, complainant, thou starvest!’” Caban
muttered; and Valenty “the Wry-mouthed” chimed in:
“‘In dying condition, folk need no physician.’”
“A complaint will do this much: ere the official prohibition is issued,
there will not remain a single stump of the wood—_our_ wood.—Remember
what they did at Debitsa!”
“‘The wolf that tastes a single lamb, with the whole flock its maw will
cram.’ The manor folk are like the wolf.”
“This,” Boryna said, “must be prevented.”
“Matthias, these are words of wisdom. To-morrow, when mass is over, the
farmers are to meet at my cabin and see what we should do; and they have
sent to ask you to come over with good advice.”
“Shall they all be there?”
“Yes, and just after mass.”
“To-morrow?—What can I do?—You see, I must be to-morrow at Vola without
fail. Kinsmen of mine are dividing land there, quarrelling and bringing
actions one against another. I have promised to arbitrate there, so that
the orphans shall suffer no wrong. So I must go; but I agree to stand by
the meeting’s decision.”
They left the hut somewhat dissatisfied. He had approved them and agreed
with all they said; but they had the impression he was not sincerely
holding with them.
“You will decide as you choose,” he was thinking; “I shall be clear of
it. Neither the Voyt, nor the miller, nor any of the foremost men here
follow you.... The Squire, if he knows I am not hostile to him, will
compensate me more willingly for the cow; and he may come to an
understanding with each of us separately.—They are foolish: it were
better to let him cut the very last sapling down—and then go to
law—lodge a complaint—get an injunction—and so wring out of him far more
than he would have given by any agreement.”
Long after everyone else was in bed, Matthias still sat up, poring over
a board on which he had made calculations with chalk, and revolving many
things in his mind.
The next day, immediately after breakfast, he ordered the sledge to be
got ready.
“As I said last night, I am off to Vola. Yagna, take good care of the
house; if anyone should ask after me, say I was obliged to go.—And do
not forget to look in at the Voyt’s.”
“Will ye come home late?” she asked, concealing the joy she felt.
“About supper-time: perhaps later.”
He put on his best suit, which she brought him from the store-room.
Instead of a button, she passed a ribbon through his shirt button-holes
and tied it; she helped him to dress, and hurried Pete on, with feverish
impatience to get the horses harnessed in a trice. She was all the time
in rapid movement, and her heart cried out for gladness: her goodman
would be absent for the whole day, and was to return late ... perhaps
only near midnight! While she would remain alone!—And at dusk—at
dusk—she could go out—out behind the haystack! Aha!... She exulted in
her soul; her eyes beamed with laughter, she stretched and drew herself
up; shocks as of tingling and burning electric fluid went through her
with most exquisitely sweet torment.... And then, all at once and
unexpectedly, a strange feeling of dread took hold of her, and a dead
hush came over her soul, and she looked on, as one dazed, at Boryna, as
he put on his cap and gave his orders to Vitek.
“Oh, pray, pray, take me with you!” she whispered low.
“But—but,” Boryna stammered in astonishment, “who will take your place
at home?”
“Yet take me.—It is St. Stephen’s feast to-day, and there is little to
do. Take me; I feel so dejected here!” And she begged so hard that—much
as he wondered at her whim—he made no further difficulties. A few
minutes later, she was ready, and off they set from the hut, the sledge
swaying and sweeping round with all the might of straining hocks and
beating hoofs.