“I thought,” he muttered sourly, “you’d been lost in some snow-drift!”
“In such a storm as this, how could I go faster? I had to grope my way
along, for the snow blew in my eyes so, I could not keep them open; and
it drives along the roads so thick that it hides everything two paces
away.”
“Your mother at home?”
“Surely; where else, in such villainous weather? She was at the Koziols,
this morning. Magda is in a bad way, though, and like to go to the
churchyard, ‘the priest’s cow-byre.’” So answered Yagna, shaking the
snow from her clothes.
“Any gossip abroad?” he inquired, chaffing her.
“Go out and ask, and ye will know. I did not run thither to gossip.”
“Do you know that the Squire is here?”
“Here? In such a storm it were hard to keep a dog out of doors; and he
has freely chosen to come?”
“‘Who must, will go, even through storms of snow.’”
“Yes, who must.” She smiled sceptically.
“He himself promised; no one asked him,” Boryna answered sternly. Then
he set aside a barrel hoop he was working at, and got up to look out at
the window; but such a hurricane of snow filled the air, whirling and
swirling outside, that neither trees nor fences were visible.
“I think the snow is not coming down any more,” he added, more gently.
“No, it is only blown and swept about so, that one cannot see one’s
way,” Yagna replied, warming her hands, and setting to wind the thread
from a spindle on to a reel. Her husband, after again peeping out of the
window, and listening with still greater impatience, took up his work.
“Yuzka—where is she?” he asked presently.
“Gone to Nastka’s, no doubt; she is always there.”
“The girl’s a gadabout—never at home for the space of a ‘pater.’”
“She says staying at home is wearisome.”
“Wants to divert herself, the little chit!”
“No; to shirk her duties, rather.”
“Can ye not forbid her?”
“I? Once I did; and was abused and railed at for my pains. Ye must give
her orders yourself: mine are of no account.”
To this complaint Boryna paid little attention; he was listening with
extreme impatience. But no human voice was audible outside, only the
gale blowing, roaring here and there, and smiting the walls till they
vibrated and groaned again.
“Going out?” she asked.
He made no answer, hearing the front door open; and immediately Vitek
ran in, out of breath, and crying out, as he entered:
“The Squire has come!”
“Only now? Shut the door, quick!”
“I can hear the jingling of his harness-bells still.”
“Did he come alone?”
“I could only distinguish the horses, the air was so thick.”
“Run this instant and find out where he has stopped.”
“Shall ye go to him?” she asked, with bated breath.
“Not until he has asked to see me; I shall not invite myself. But
without me he can do nothing.”
There was a pause: Yagna winding up threads, counting them and making
them into skeins, while her goodman, so impatient that he could not work
any longer, laid the things down and was preparing to go out ... when in
bolted Vitek!
“The Squire is at the miller’s, in his front room—and his horses stand
in the yard.”
“How have you dirtied yourself so?”
“The wind blew me into a snow-drift.”
“Say rather you were fighting with other young rascals in the snow!”
“No, it was the wind!”
“Aye, aye: tear your clothes, do: you’ll get such a beating from me as
you’ll remember!”
“But it’s true what I say. It blows and blusters so, one can scarcely
keep one’s feet.”
“Get away from the fire-place; you will warm yourself enough later.—Go
to Pete, tell him to do some threshing; and you are to help him—not run
about the village like a dog with its tongue lolling out.”
“I go,” he answered sulkily; “but I must first bring firewood, as
mistress ordered me.” He sorely wished to tell what he had seen in the
village. Going out, he whistled to Lapa, but the dog, curled up by the
fireside, paid no heed to him. Boryna, dressed to go, went about the
cabin, poked the logs, peeped into the stable, looked out of the window,
and waited with growing restlessness to be sent for; but no one came.
“He may have forgotten,” Yagna hazarded.
“Forgotten?—Forgotten _me_?”
“Perhaps. Ye trust the blacksmith so, and he is such a liar.”
“You are a fool. Speak not of what ye do not understand.”
Offended, she became mute. He tried in vain to bring her round with kind
words, and at last he too lost his temper, snatched up his cap and
strode out, slamming the door.
Yagna, having supplied her distaff with flax, sat down by the window,
and began to spin, with a glance from time to time at the tempest of
snow that raged outside.
The wind howled deafeningly. Great clouds of powdery snow, as large as
houses, torn and tattered and formless, were whisked about in every
direction, and again and again broke upon the cabin walls, making every
beam and rafter tremble, rattling the contents of the sideboard, and
swinging to and fro Yuzka’s “globes” and “stars” that dangled overhead.
A draught, piercingly cold, came in through the doors and windows,
making Yagna throw her apron over her shoulders, and Lapa more than once
shift his place for a warmer nook.
Vitek entered noiselessly, and said, not without hesitation:
“Mistress!”
“Well?”
“Do you know, the Squire has driven over with stallions! Carriage-horses
they are, black as night, with red netting and plumes on their heads,
and tinkling bells about their flanks; and they shine like the gildings
in the church. And how they did fly past! Oh, faster far than the wind!”
“Of course.—They are not peasants’ horses: they belong to the manor.”
“O Lord! I never saw such wonderful beasts!”
“Could they be otherwise, with no field-work to do, and feeding on
naught but oats?”
“Ye are right, mistress.—But should we feed our filly so, and dock her
tail, and harness her together with the Voyt’s mare, would they go as
well as these?”
The dog started up in alarm, and barked.
“Someone is in the passage: see who it is.”
But ere Vitek could do so, a man, crusted over with snow, appeared on
the threshold, “praised God,” beat his cap on the leg of his boot, and
looked round the room.
“Pray let me breathe a space and warm myself here,” he gasped.
“Be seated,” she replied, in some confusion. “Vitek, put more logs on
the fire.”
The stranger sat down on the hearth, warmed himself, and lit a pipe.
“Is this the dwelling of Boryna—Matthias Boryna?” he asked, consulting a
paper.
“It is,” she answered, fearing she might have to do with someone of the
police.
“Is your father at home?”
“My _husband_ is gone to the village.”
“Allow me to wait here a little, warming myself by the fire: I am quite
frozen.”
“You are welcome: neither bench nor fire will lose thereby.”
He took off his sheepskin coat, but had evidently been chilled to the
marrow, for he shivered all over, rubbed his hands, and drew nearer and
nearer still to the fire.
“This year,” he remarked, “we have a bitterly hard winter.”
“Of a truth, it is not mild.—May I heat a little milk for you?”
“No, thanks; but I should like some tea.”
“We had some not long since, in autumn, when my goodman had pains
inside, and I got some from town for him; but it is all run out, and I
cannot say where I could obtain any here.”
“Why,” Vitek put in, “his Reverence is drinking tea all day long.”
“Would you run to him and borrow some?”
“No need. I have some by me—if you would give me some water....”
“I shall boil some at once.”
She placed a pot on the fire, and returned to her spinning, but spun no
more; while she seemed to be twirling the spindle, she was scanning him
with great curiosity.—Who could he be? what did he want? Was he a man of
the police, making out some list? the paper he was always consulting
seemed to point to that.—His apparel, too, was not of her class: grey
and green, like the hunting-dress of a manor-house footman.... But
again, he was wearing a peasant’s sheepskin and cap!—He might possibly
be an eccentric fellow, or perhaps a world-ranger.
Thus she pondered, exchanging glances with Vitek, who, apparently gazing
into the fire, scrutinized the stranger, and was much surprised to hear
him try and make friends with Lapa.
“Pray beware: that dog bites!” he could not help exclaiming.
“Fear naught!” he said, and, with a singular smile, he patted the dog’s
head, come to rest on his knees.
Presently Yuzka came in and, soon after, Vavrek’s wife, and several
other neighbours; for already the news had been spread abroad that a
stranger had come to Boryna’s hut.
But he continued warming himself, paying no attention to the people or
their whispers and remarks. When the water in the pot boiled, he took
some tea out of a piece of paper, poured the tea in, took a white mug
down from the shelf, and drank the tea thus made, nibbling at a lump of
sugar the while, and walking about the room, examining the pieces of
furniture, or standing in the midst and eyeing the people with such
sharp glances that they felt confused.
“Who made these?” he asked, pointing to the wafer “globes” that dangled
from the ceiling.
“I did!” Yuzka sang out, turning very red.
He resumed his walk, Lapa following him step by step.
“And who did these paintings?” he inquired, stopping before a few of the
cut-out figures that were on the picture-frames and the walls.
“They are not painted, but cut out of paper.”
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed.
“I do, for I cut them out myself.”
“And did you invent them?”
“Of course, but every child here can do as much.”
He said nothing further, poured out some more tea, sat down by the fire
again, and a pretty long silence ensued. The folk slunk away; night was
coming on, and the storm had abated. At times an angry gust would still
rush by, but at rarer intervals and with less fury, like a bird that a
long flight has worn out.
At length, Yagna put her distaff aside, and began to prepare supper.
“Was one James Soha ever in your service?”
“Is it Kuba you mean?—Aye, he was, but he died last autumn, poor man!”
“Your parish priest has told me so.—Lord God! I have been seeking him
for ever so long in all the villages around, and find him dead!”
“Have you sought for our Kuba?” cried Vitek, greatly touched. “Then ye
are surely brother to the Squire of Vola.”
“How do you know that?”
“People have often told me his brother was back from a far-off land, and
seeking a certain Kuba in all the country-side: but no one could tell
who that Kuba was.”
“Soha was his other name; I learned only to-day that he was dead, and
had been in your service.”
“Yes,” Vitek sobbed; “he was shot, and died—died of loss of blood!”
“Was he long with you?”
“Ever since I can remember.”
“An honest fellow, I suppose?” he asked hesitatingly.
“Oh, the whole village will tell you how honest he was: all wept at his
funeral, all, even his Reverence, who would take no money for the
burying.—He taught me my prayers, and how to use a gun, and was like a
father to me.... Sometimes, too, he would give me a five-kopek
bit.—Religious he was, and a quiet man, a hard worker, and one that his
Reverence has praised many a time.”
“Is he buried in your churchyard?”
“Where else should he be?” Vitek returned. “I know the place; Ambrose
set up a cross there, and Roch wrote about him on it. Even were it
covered with snow, I could find it for you.”
“Then let’s start at once, to get there ere nightfall.”
The stranger put his sheepskin on, and stood there in a brown study for
a time. A man of many years, somewhat stooping, grey-haired and
withered. His rugged face had a clayey tint, with a deep scar in one
cheek from a bullet, and another, long and fiery, on his brow. His nose
was long, his beard tufted and scanty, his eyes dark, deep-sunk and
glowing; a pipe was always in his mouth, and he was always refilling
it.—Waking up at last from his reverie, he bethought himself of offering
money to Yagna, who put her hands behind her back, and flushed crimson.
“Pray take it: nothing in the world is given for nothing.”
“In the world, that may be the fashion,” she retorted, with wounded
pride. “Am I a Jewess or a trader, to take money for a little fire and
water?”
“Well, God reward your hospitality! Tell your husband that Yacek from
Vola has been here: he will remember me. I shall be here again some day,
but am now in haste, for night is near. God be with you!”
“And with you also!”
She would have kissed his hand, but he snatched it away, and hurried out
of the cabin.
The darkness was coming down slowly over the land. The great gale had
gone down, but from the hillocks of drifted snow that lay across the
road, there blew a dry powdery dust, like flour shaken out of a cloth.
Above, all was now tranquil: huts and gardens came clear and distinct
out of the livid blur of the uprising dusk.
The village, lethargic during the blizzard, had started up; the ways
were full of passers-by, the gardens of voices; here and there they were
clearing away snow from before the huts, or cutting holes in the ice and
carrying water from the pond; gates were opening and a few sledges
ploughing their way through the snow. Crows—an infallible sign that the
weather was about to change—appeared, hopping about the huts.
Mr. Yacek gazed round him with interest, asking at times about the
people they met or the huts they passed by, and walked so fast that
Vitek could scarcely keep pace with him. Lapa ran on in front, barking
gaily.
In front of the church, the snow was piled up in such great masses that
it went over the fence completely, and was as high as the boughs of the
trees. They were accordingly compelled to go round the priest’s
dwelling-house, outside of which a troop of urchins were running to and
fro, shouting and snow-balling each other. Lapa barked at them; one boy
caught it by the neck and threw it into a feathery steamy drift. Vitek
rushed to the rescue, but they pelted him so hard, he could scarcely get
away; and, having retaliated as best he could, he ran to rejoin Mr.
Yacek, who had not waited for him.
With difficulty they plodded through as far as the burying-ground. Here,
too, the snow was often as high as a man, and the black arms of the
crosses were only just above the surface of the white mounds that
covered the graves. The place was somewhat exposed and there was some
wind here. Now and then, wafting the powdery snow hither and thither, it
hid all things from sight, except the naked trees waving their shattered
branches and looming with dark trunks through the cloudy veil. All the
fields around were one plain of pure white; and just beyond the
churchyard, hard upon a score of people could be seen going along the
deeply covered road, bending forward under very heavy burdens that they
bore. When the wreaths that hid them now and then were swept away, and
the wind fell, women’s red petticoats were seen clear and distinct,
straggling units on the plain.
“Who are these? Are they returning from some fair?”
“No, they are _komorniki_,[9] and have been to the forest to get
firewood.”
-----
Footnote 9:
Peasants form two classes: the _gospodarze_, or landowners, who have
at least a hut and enclosure of their own; and _komorniki_, or
lodgers, who must work even for the lodgings they occupy. These are
very poor, and looked down upon by the others.—_Translator’s Note._
“What, are they carrying it on their backs?”
“Surely. As they have no horses, their shoulders must bear the load.”
“Many such in the village?”
“Not a few. Only the _gospodarze_ have land; the others live in
lodgings, and go out to work, or take service on farms.”
“Do they often go out to fetch firing?”
“The manor allows them to come twice a week with billhooks and take as
much dry wood as they can break off and carry in their bundles. The
_gospodarze_ alone have the right to go to the forest with a cart, and
use an ax on the trees.... We have often and often, Kuba and I, gone
there together, and come back with a splendid tree in the cart! Kuba
knew well how to fell a hornbeam, and conceal it so amongst the firewood
faggots that even the keeper never caught him,” he said, not without
pride.
“Was he long in pain? Tell me all.”
This Vitek did, nothing loath, Mr. Yacek putting some questions to him
from time to time, now stopping short, gesticulating and exclaiming
aloud. The lad thought his manner strange, could not make out what he
meant, and was beginning to feel terror besides: it was getting so dark;
the whole churchyard looked as though clad in a huge shroud, and
murmuring with eerie voices. So he ran on in front and, with eyes
starting from their sockets, looked about for the cross that marked
Kuba’s grave. At last he found it, close to the fence, and near the
scattered tombs of those slain in the insurrection—“the War”—where he
had prayed on All Souls’ Day.
“Here it is, and the name, written on the cross: James Soha.”—He spelt
it out, following every one of the great white letters with his finger.
“Yes, Roch wrote that, and Ambrose made the cross.”
Mr. Yacek gave him a couple of _zloty_, and bade him run home. So he
did, and scampered away, but stopped once to whistle for Lapa, and
glance back to see what the stranger was about.
“Lord! The brother to the Squire, kneeling at Kuba’s grave!” he
ejaculated, stupefied. But night was coming on fast, and the trees,
bending down over him, shook their heads in a weird way; so he went back
to the village at a run, and by a short cut; only stopping near the
church to take breath and look at the money he had safe in his closed
fist. The dog caught up with him, and they went back at leisure to the
cabin.
Close to the pond he met Antek, returning from his work. The dog rushed
to fawn on him, whined with delight and barked, and Antek caressed it
kindly.
“Good dog! good dog!—Whence come you, Vitek?”
He told him of all, omitting the money given.
“Come one of these days and see my children.”
“Yes, yes; I have made a cart for little Peter, and another funny figure
besides.”
“Do not forget to bring them.—And here is something for yourself.”
“I’ll come this very day, but first I must see if master is home yet.”
“Is he out?” Antek inquired, with poorly assumed indifference.
“At the miller’s, taking counsel with the Squire and a few more.”
“Mistress at home?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Aye: busy at work. I’ll just look in there and be back.”
“Yes, come to us!” he said, and would have made more inquiries; but,
though it was late, people were still about; moreover, the boy, a
feather-headed fellow, might blab and let things out. So he walked on
swiftly, looking round when near the church to see if he was watched,
and then turned aside, taking a path that ran by the granaries. Vitek
meanwhile made for the cabin.
Boryna had not come yet: the family room was in shadow, save for the
brands which glowed dully on the hearth. Yagna was preparing the evening
meal, and in evil humour; for Yuzka had gone off again somewhere, and
there was so much to do, one did not know what to begin first. She gave
no heed to what Vitek said, until he mentioned Antek’s name; it arrested
her attention and she paused in her work.
“Tell no one that he gave you money!”
“Since mistress forbids me, I’ll not breathe a word of it!”
“Here are five kopeks more, for you to remember.—Did he go home?”
Without waiting for an answer, she suddenly ran out into the porch,
calling for Pete, whilst she peered into the orchard and court-yard,
with searching, yet frightened glances. She even went out to look beyond
the shed and about the haystack. No one was there.... This quieted her,
but also tried her patience. She rated Yuzka for not having given the
cows their drink, and for her continual idleness; to which the little
girl, being bold and fierce and by no means tongue-tied, was not slow to
answer back. And they had a quarrel, each saying very sharp things.
“Gabble, gabble your fill! your father is coming, and his strap will
silence you!” she threatened her, lighting the lamp, and taking up her
spinning again. Yuzka went on grumbling, but no one replied to her;
Yagna had just heard, she thought, someone passing outside the corner
window.
“Vitek, look outside; I think that one of our swine has got out of the
sty and is in the orchard now.”
But he assured her he had driven them all in and made the door fast.
Yuzka went to the other side of the hut and brought tubs, Pete helping
her, for the cows to drink from; then she ran for the milking-pails.
“I myself shall milk them; after so much labour, ye need rest.”
“Yes, milk them, do! Once more ye will leave the udders half full!”
Yuzka snapped at her.
“Hold your peace, you had best!” she cried in a fury, as she put her
clogs on, tucked up her petticoat, and went to the cow-shed with a
couple of pails.
Night had fallen, the wind was hushed, the white snow-mist settling
down. But the sky above hung black, starless, packed close with small
low-lying clouds; the fields loomed a dark grey; an oppressive lull
prevailed everywhere. Not a voice was heard in the village, nor any
sound but the hammers, beating, clinking, clinking, beating, on the
anvil in the forge.
In the byre it was close and dark; the kine were drinking the water, and
noisily licking, with muffled gurgles, the bottom of the tubs as they
emptied them.
Yagna groped and found the milking-stool, sat down by the first cow in
the row, felt her udder, wiped it clean, and, propping her head against
the animal’s flanks, began her work.
The milk spurted rhythmically into the resounding pail; the hoofs of the
horses pawed in the adjoining stable; from the cabin, muffled, yet
audible, came the noise of Yuzka’s chattering.
“Aye, she babbles and babbles, but does not peel the potatoes!” Yagna
muttered, bending a most attentive ear; for now the snow outside was
crackling under—it seemed to her—the steps of someone coming from the
shed.... They stopped ... all was still again ... they approached—the
snow crackled louder.—Turning her head toward the glimmering outlines of
the open door, she saw a figure dimly silhouetted there.
“Pete!” she cried.
“Hush, Yagna, hush!”
“Antek!”
Motionless, palsy-stricken at the sight and words, she could not
articulate one syllable, nor even think. Instinctively she went on
milking, but the milk squirted on to her petticoat, or fell on the
ground. A fit of fever had seized upon her; a gust, as it were, of fiery
flame swept through all her being, flashing lightnings before her eyes,
tearing at her heart-strings with delicious pain. And then something
caught her and throttled her so, she had like to fall dead on the spot.
“Ever since Yule-tide,” he whispered, “I have been as a watch-dog,
waiting and watching for you, there, by the haystack ... and you did not
come once.”
That voice of his! Strangled, passionate, flaming with love, it
overwhelmed her with the might of its clamorous outcry to her heart, and
of the sweet irresistible fire it bore. He stood facing her, leaning (as
she could feel) against the cow’s flank, bending down and gazing upon
her—so near that she could feel his hot breath upon her brow.
“Do not fear me, Yagna. No one has seen; fear nothing.... I could bear
it no longer, it was impossible: day and night and always, you stand
before mine eyes, Yagna.—Will you not say one word?”
“What—what can I say?” she faltered tearfully.
Then they both were silent. Emotion made them mute, and the very
closeness of one to the other, the very solitude in common that they had
so much desired, now took all power from them, and weighed them down—a
burden delightful indeed, but fearful as well. They were irresistibly
drawn to each other, and yet it was now so hard to bring out a single
word! Their desire was mutual, and yet neither could stretch forth a
hand!
The cow, swishing her tail as she drank, struck him more than once in
the face, until he caught it in a firm grasp. Then he bent down over
Yagna still lower, and whispered again:
“Sleep I cannot—nor eat—nor do aught without you, O Yagna!”
“Things are not easy for me either.”
“Yagna! did you ever think of me at all?”
“Was I able not to think? You arise in my thoughts always.... I know no
longer what to do.—Is it true that ye did smite Matthew?”
“It is. He lied, slandering you: I have stopped his mouth.... And I will
deal likewise with anyone who does so.”
The cabin-door slammed: someone came out into the yard at a run,
straight for the cow-house. Antek had but just time to leap the manger
and crouch there.
“Yuzka ordered me to take the tubs back; we must get the food ready for
the swine,” said Vitek.
“Take—take them all!” she answered, huskily.
“Nay; Lysula has not finished hers yet; I shall return for it.” He
hurried away, and they heard him bang the house-door.
Antek emerged from his hiding-place.
“He is coming back, that imp! I shall go to the haystack and wait....
Will you come to me, Yagna?”
“I fear....”
“Come, oh, come ... if but for an hour or so.—I shall wait for you,” he
entreated.
He came behind her, still sitting beside the cow, threw an arm round her
breast in a strong embrace, bent her head back and kissed her mouth with
so powerful an intake of the breath, that she herself could not breathe.
Her arms fell to her sides, the pail rolled along the ground. But,
straining up towards him, she kissed him back with such wild vehemence
that they both closed as in a death-grapple; each fell into the other’s
arms; and so they remained awhile locked in that one mad, frenzied,
delirious kiss.
At last he tore himself away, and slunk out of the byre.
She would now have sprung after him, but he was on the threshold and
vanished like a shadow into the night. Yet still she could hear his
muffled whisper, and it wrought on her senses with such fiery and
commanding power that she looked around, astounded to see him no more.
No, he was not there—only the kine, chewing the cud and whisking their
tails. She looked out into the yard, where—beyond that threshold—reigned
night impenetrable, and silence was lord, save where the forge-hammers
beat and clinked afar.—But he _had_ been there, had stood by her side,
had hugged, had kissed her. Her lips were yet burning, the flame was
running through her still, and an unuttered shout of gladness echoed
within her heart.—“Antek!” she cried aloud; and the sound of her own
voice brought her partly back to her senses.—She set to milking as fast
as she could, but was so dazed that she more than once sought the udder
between the beast’s forelegs, and was so beside herself with gladness
that she never knew her face was wet with tears till, as she returned to
the cabin, the cold air blew on her cheeks. She brought the milk, but
forgot to strain it out, and ran round to the other side of the hut
under the impression that she had something urgent to do.... What it
was, she could not remember: the one thought that filled her mind was
that Antek waited for her by the hayrick. She took a few steps about the
room, threw her apron over her head ... and went out.
Very quickly did she round the hut, gliding along outside the windows,
to the narrow passage between orchard and shed, which was nearly roofed
over with drooping snow-laden branches that bent so low, she had to
stoop down as she passed.
Antek awaited her by the stile; he leaped forward, ravenous as a wolf,
and half carried, half dragged her to the rick near the roadside.
But that day they were doomed to disappointment. They had scarce got
into the rick and joined lips in a kiss, when, stern and loud, Boryna’s
voice resounded.
“Yagna! Yagna!”
They sprang apart, as if struck with lightning. Antek darted away, and
ran crouching along the fence; Yagna hastened back to the court-yard.
The boughs had torn her apron off her head, and she was covered all over
with snow; but this she did not remark. She rubbed her face with snow,
took up an armful of firewood from the shed, and walked deliberately
into the cabin.
Old Boryna eyed her askance and somewhat strangely.
“I went to see about Sivula; she is lying down and lowing.”
“But where have ye got covered with so much snow?”
“Where?—Oh, there’s a lot of it hanging like beards down from the eaves;
if you do but touch them, down they come!” She gave the explanation
jauntily, but turned her face away from the fire, lest he should see her
flaming cheeks.
But she could not hoodwink Boryna. Without looking her straight in the
face, he could perceive very well that she was blushing crimson, and
that her eyes glowed feverishly. A sort of vague uncertain suspicion
crept into his mind, and his jealousy snarled and crouched within him,
like a dog ready to bite. He pondered and thought very long, and at last
concluded that Matthew must have met her and pushed her against the
fence.
Nastka coming in just then, he thought he would get her to speak.
“Ah! What have I heard?—Your Matthew is well and up by now, as it
seems?”
“Well and up, indeed? Alas!”
“Someone told me he had met him in the village this evening.”
“’Tis all mere talk. Matthew can hardly move, certainly not rise from
his bed. He spits no more blood, though; Ambrose cupped him to-day, and
prepared him a drink—lard melted in strong vodka—and they are both
taking the medicine together so heartily that one can hear their songs
from the road!”
The old man put no more questions, but remained suspicious.
Yagna, tired of the moody silence, and abashed by his fixed prying
stare, related to him every detail of Mr. Yacek’s visit.
He was greatly amazed; and, at a loss to conceive what it meant, he took
no small pains to find out, pondering every word. He finally decided
that the Squire had sent Mr. Yacek to make sure what the Lipka folk
thought about the matter of the clearing.
“But he never so much as asked one word about the forest!”
“When such a one begins, he leads you on and on, as with a rope, and you
know neither when nor how, but you tell him all. Well do I know that
brood of manor-folk!”
“He asked only about Kuba and the figures stuck upon the wall.”
“‘To find the road, he walks along a side-path.’ Yes, in all this there
is some trick or other of the manor-folk. What? the brother of the
Squire troubling about Kuba? ’Tis true, this Yacek is, they say, not
quite sound of mind—always wandering about the villages, playing his
violin where holy figures stand, and talking senseless talk.—Did he say
he would come again?”
“He did, and asked about you.”
“Well, well, this is beyond me.”
“And had you a talk with the Squire?” she asked him pleasantly, wishing
to turn his mind away from what had just occurred.
He winced, as though stung in some most tender part.
“No. I was at Simon’s.” And he said no more.
So they sat together in gloomy silence until supper-time, when Roch came
in. He sat down by the fire, according to custom, but would not eat.
When they had done, he said, in a low tone:
“I have not come here for myself. They tell me, the Squire is deeply
offended with the Lipka folk and will not employ one peasant of the
village to hew down his trees. I have come to ask if this is the truth.”
“In God’s name, my man, how should I know? It is news to me!”
“But a council was held at the miller’s to-day; the news has come
thence.”
“The Voyt, the miller, and the smith were there: not I.”
“How so? They tell me that the Squire was here to-day to see you, and
you went out with him.”
“I have not seen him, and I speak the truth: believe me or not, as you
choose.”
But how this truth had stung him, and the fact that he had been slighted
had stung him, he did not say.
The very thought exasperated him; he held his tongue nevertheless,
ruminating over the bitter grievance, and controlling himself with a
great effort, lest Roch should guess at what he felt.
How now? He had been waiting, _he!_ and they had held their council, and
left him out of it! That he would not pass over.—A nobody in their eyes,
he would show he was somebody in the village.... It was the miller’s
doing: he had made a fortune by wronging the people, and was now above
everyone. That cheat! of whom he knew enough to send the fellow to
prison!... And the Voyt, forsooth! one fit rather to feed cattle than
command his betters—a vile drunkard, whose office, if they only elected
him, Ambrose might take, and fill it as well as he!... The blacksmith
too, his pestilential son-in-law! Let the brute but come again to
Boryna’s cabin!... And then the Squire—that wolf, always prowling and
sniffing round to snatch what he could from the people! A noble,
dwelling on the peasants’ lands, selling the peasants’ forests, living
but by the peasants’ sufferance; and he durst come there to plot against
them! Could not the wretch understand that a flail would strike as hard
on a noble’s back as on anyone else’s?—However, he let none of these
thoughts escape him in words. They pained him exceedingly, they tortured
him; but that was his business and no one else’s. And, remembering
presently that such silent brooding in the presence of a guest was
unseemly, he rose and said:
“Ye bring strange news; but if the Squire be resolved and will not
change his mind, I see no means of forcing him.”
“True; yet if some honourable man were to set before him the harm the
people would suffer thereby, he might decide otherwise.”
“I,” Boryna exclaimed tartly, “will by no means intercede!”
“But consider: there are a score of _Komorniki_ here, all eager for work
to do. Ye know them, and know how severe this winter is. Some have their
stock of potatoes frozen, and are out of work. Ere spring comes, the
misery among them will be frightful. Even now, many families have only
once a day warm food to eat. They all reckoned that, when the Squire had
his trees in Vilche Doly felled, there would be work enough for
everyone. And now it is said that he has vowed he would not take one man
from Lipka, being angered because they brought a complaint against him
to the commissioner.”
“That I signed myself; and I will stand by it. He shall not fell one
sapling without our consent.”
“If so, then he will perchance not fell any trees.”
“None, at least, on our land.”
“But,” Roch faltered, “what will become of those poor men?”
“I cannot help their fate, nor give up our rights that they may work for
him. I may stand up to defend others from wrong; but when I am wronged,
who will be on my side? My dog, perhaps?”
“Then I see ye are not a friend of the manor.”
“A friend of myself—and of justice. Of naught besides. And I have other
matters to think upon. If Voytek or Bartek has no food to eat—that is
the priest’s affair, not mine! With the best will, I cannot alone
provide for all.”
“But help to provide ... and help not a little,” Roch replied, sadly.
“Try carrying water in a sieve: how much will ye bring in? ’Tis even so
with poverty.—And to me it seems a divine ordinance that some should
have possessions, and others only the air they breathe.”
Roch bowed his head and went out, much grieved. He had expected less
harshness towards human sufferings from Boryna. The latter saw him to
the gate, and—as customary with him—went round to give a last look at
the cows and horses ere going to bed.
Yagna, murmuring her evening prayer, was beating up the contents of the
feather-bed she was making, when Matthias, coming in, cast a piece of
cloth at her feet.
“Ye lost your apron: I found it by the stile!” he said, very quietly,
but with such harsh emphasis and a look so keen and searching that she
was petrified with fear, and it was some seconds before she could
stammer out some words to explain things.
“’Twas ... ’twas that Lapa.... Mischievous brute! ... always making off
with something ... took my clogs to his kennel the other day.—Always up
to some mischief!”
“Lapa?—I see.—Aye, aye,” he muttered with grim irony, positive that she
had lied to him.