On Twelfth Night, which that year fell on a Monday, the folk were slowly
filing out of church, even before Vespers were over. For they heard from
the tavern the music and singing, and made their way towards the
inviting sounds. It was now that, for the first time since Advent, music
was permitted; now, too, that Margaret Klemba and Vincent Soha
celebrated their betrothal. The latter, though bearing the same name as
the deceased Kuba, denied any relationship with him, being of those who
pride themselves on their acres alone.
Also, it was whispered that Staho Ploshka (who had since the
potato-harvest been making up to Ulisia, the Soltys’ daughter) would
surely that evening come to the point and settle everything with her
father over a bottle. The latter was known to have objected to the
match, not wishing for a son-in-law such a quarrelsome fellow, fickle
besides, never on good terms with his parents, and demanding either four
whole acres of land or two thousand _zloty_ in cash and a couple of cows
into the bargain, as Ulisia’s dowry.
That day, too, was the christening at the Voyt’s; and though the
festivities were to be held at home, most who knew him expected that, as
soon as the company should be in convivial mood, he would adjourn to the
tavern and stand them drinks there all round.
Besides these attractions, there were also greater and more serious
matters, which concerned all the people equally.
They had, as it happened, learned after High Mass from the people of the
other hamlets that the Squire had already engaged all the hands he
needed at the clearing: ten from Rudka, from Modlitsa fifteen, about
eight from Debitsa, and of the “nobility” of Rzepki[10] hard upon a
score; from Lipka, not one single man. It was a fact, for the forester
had been at High Mass, and had told them so.
-----
Footnote 10:
Here and there in Poland, one finds villages whose inhabitants hold
aloof from the other peasants, and keep strictly to themselves; types
very different from the others; haughty, reserved, and generally very
poor. In old days, their forefathers were ennobled and grants of land
were made to them for distinguished military service; and these are
the remnants of their posterity.—_Translator’s Note._
The poor were in consternation.
There were indeed in Lipka a great many wealthy families. And there were
others, too, not so well off, but to whom this mode of earning money did
not appeal. And others, again, though in distress, would never own to
it, in order to keep up appearances and friendly relations with the
wealthy men with whom they invariably held.—But there were also the
_Komorniki_, and such as possessed only a hovel to live in. Of these,
some worked on the farmers’ threshing-floors, some wielded axes at the
sawmill, some did any work that came to hand, and (with the help of the
Lord) scraped together enough to live upon. And, besides these, there
were still five families that could get no work at all in the village:
these had been looking forward to tide the winter over by work done on
the clearing.
What were they to do now?
The winter was terrible. Few of them had any savings; some had even
finished their stock of potatoes, and starvation was staring them in the
face. They had to wait till spring, with no help in sight: small wonder,
then, that they were sorely troubled in mind. They assembled in their
huts to discuss matters, and in the end came to Klemba in a body,
begging him to go with them to his Reverence, and seek his advice.
Klemba excused himself, pretexting his daughter’s betrothal. Others whom
they tried shirked the troublesome duty, wriggling out of it like eels,
and caring only for themselves and their own profit. This enraged Bartek
(him of the sawmill), who, though he had work, was always on the side of
the poor. He therefore took with him Philip, who lived over the water,
Staho (old Bylitsa’s son-in-law), and Bartek Koziol and Valek the
Wry-mouthed: with these four he went to beg his Reverence to plead for
them with the Squire.
They were closeted with him a considerable time, and only after Vespers
did Ambrose hurry to tell Kobus that they were in conference with the
priest, and would come over to the tavern.
Evening was falling meanwhile; the last fires of sundown were burnt out
in the west, save for a few grey ashes that glimmered red like dying
brands; and the country-side was slowly being wrapped in the mantle of
the night. No moon was up as yet, but from the hard-frozen snow some
chill icy gleams were reflected, making things appear as if shrouded in
a winding-sheet. Stars peeped forth from the overhanging darkness—specks
that swelled and shrank tremulously in the deep space, and shone bright
with sparkling reflections on the snow. And the frost grew so bitter
that men’s ears tingled and the slightest noise seemed to echo over all
the land.
But in the huts the fires blazed, and folk went busily about their
evening duties: when in the yard and the enclosures, they bustled with
furious haste, the frost burning their faces like a hot iron and
strangling the very breath within them; but all was very quiet in the
streets and lanes.
Not in the tavern, however. Here the musicians made a joyful noise, ever
louder and louder. People were there, come from almost every hut: some
to look about them, some (whom neither betrothals nor serious affairs
interested) allured by the scent of the vodka. Women to whom solitude at
home was irksome, and girls fond of romping with boys and hearing the
band play, had slipped away stealthily before the gloaming, ostensibly
to take the men home with them; but they stayed on themselves. Children
too, especially boys in their teens, had followed their fathers;
whistling to one another about the messuages, they had gathered in
groups, loitering inside and outside the tavern porch, in spite of the
cruel frost which bit them.
The tavern was well crowded. A big fire roared up the chimney, flooding
half the public room with blood-red light. Each man, on entering,
stamped to clean his boots on the hearth, warmed his numbed hands, and
then went to seek his own set in the throng: no very easy matter, for,
notwithstanding the fire and the lamp hung over the bar, it was dark
enough in the corners. In one of these the musicians sat, playing only
now and then, and not very willingly: the dances had not properly begun
yet, though an impatient couple or two were already whirling round and
round.
The walls were lined with people, sitting at tables all along them, and
in separate companies. But few of these drank much; they conferred
together, and looked with a wistful eye on all who came in.
There was most noise about the bar, where Klemba’s invited guests and
Soha’s kinsmen were standing; but even these were for the most part
talking, and behaving with great propriety, as was the right thing at
betrothals.
Many darted furtive glances towards the window, where about fifteen men
of Rzepki were sitting at table; they had come before any, and still
kept their places. No one insulted them, but no one showed them goodwill
either, except Ambrose, who made friends with them at once, drank much
vodka, and told them as strange stories as they could swallow. Close by
stood Bartek of the sawmill, with his friends, telling them what his
Reverence had said, and inveighing loudly against the Squire. He was
noisily supported by Voytek Kobus, a wiry little man, so fierce that he
was all the time banging his fists on the table and boiling over with
rage. This he did on purpose, guessing that the Rzepki men there present
were going to fell the trees next day. Not one of them, however, took up
his provocation, but they talked among themselves as if they had heard
nothing.
Nor did any of the _gospodarze_ there take it much to heart that his
Reverence had been unwilling to plead for them with the Squire. On the
contrary, the more noise the others made, the more these avoided them,
turning away among the crowd. This was not difficult, the throng being
so thick and making so much din that each man could, at his ease and
regardless of his neighbours, choose the society he preferred. Only
Yagustynka passed from group to group, here with a word of mockery,
there with a merry jest, or whispering low some bit of gossip—but always
attentive to go where bottles passed round and glasses clinked.
After a time, and by slow degrees, the people’s fancy turned to
merry-making. The noise had by now become an uproar, the glasses jingled
oftener, the door opened incessantly to let new guests in. At last the
musicians, being well plied with liquor by Klemba, struck up a brilliant
mazur; and Soha, with his Margaret, led off, followed by as many couples
as cared to dance.
These were not many in number. Most of the folk, seeing the first
dancers in the place—Ploshka, Stach, Vahnik, the Voyt’s brother, and
many more—sitting and talking in nooks and corners, preferred to hold
joyous converse together, or to jeer, half aloud, at the “nobility” of
Rzepki, to whom Ambrose was constantly paying court.
Then Matthew appeared, leaning on a stick, drawn from his bed for the
first time by his longing for society. He at once ordered vodka boiled
with honey, took a seat by the fireside, and set to drinking and joking
with his acquaintances. Suddenly he stopped. Antek was standing in the
doorway; who, seeing him, drew himself up proudly and, after shooting
one glance at the man, would have passed on as if he did not exist.
But Matthew exclaimed excitedly:
“Boryna! come hither to me!”
“Come ye yourself, if ye have aught to say,” was Antek’s curt reply: he
thought the other meant to attack him.
“I would; but I cannot walk yet without a stick.”
Antek, mistrusting him, passed on with an ominous frown; but Matthew
caught him by the arm, and made him sit down at his side.
“Seat yourself here.—You have shamed me before all men; you have beaten
me so, they had to call the priest in! But I bear you no grudge, fellow,
and come first with words of peace.—Here, drink with me, boy! No man had
ever beaten me, and I thought no man could.—Wondrously strong you are,
truly!—To toss up a man like me as a truss of straw ... good heavens!”
“Ye were ever harrying me as I worked.... And then ye let out foul
speech: it made me furious, I knew not what I did.”
“Yes, you speak true, and I confess it: not from fear, but with a
willing mind.—But how ye did clapperclaw me! Why, I lost my best blood,
and have many a rib broken.... Well, to you, Antek, I drink.—What, man!
forgive and let hate die! I, too, forget all ... as well as my shoulders
will let me!... But are you indeed stronger than Vavrek of Vola?”
“Did I not, on Indulgence Day, last harvest-time, thrash him so that I
hear he is not well yet?”
“Vavrek! They told me that, but I would not believe it.... Here, you
Jew! Rum! And ‘essence’ to flavour it this instant, or I trounce you
soundly!”
“But ... ye vaunted of something in public,” Antek said, lowering his
voice; “surely it was not true?”
“Nay, I spoke out of spite and at random. Nay, how could that be
true?”—But, as he made this denial, he held the bottle to the light,
looking through, lest Antek should read the truth in his eyes.
They drank once, then once more; then it was Antek’s turn to stand
treat, and they emptied their glasses anew. And so they sat, quite as
brothers, and on such friendly terms that all in the tavern were amazed.
Matthew, who had taken more than a drop too much, yelled to the
musicians to play faster, stamped and roared with laughter, and then
spoke in Antek’s ear.
“So much is true: I did long for her to be mine; but she scratched me
so, I was like one dragged face down through the brambles. Yes, she
preferred you, I know it well; and even had she not, she would never
have cared for me. ’Tis hard to lead an ox against its will. And I was
sorely, how sorely! stung with jealousy. The girl is wonderfully
fair—none fairer in the world. But how she ever could marry that old
man—and to your hurt—I cannot think!”
“To my hurt? Aye, and for my perdition too!” Antek began, but stopped
short. Here his memory kindled within him such a flame that he muttered
an inaudible oath, and said no more.
“Peace, lest tale-bearers hear you!”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing that I could hear; but others might.”
“It is unbearable—my heart is torn asunder!”
“I tell you: while ye can, get the better of it!” he said, cunningly
striving to win his confidence little by little.
“Can I do so? Since love, far worse than sickness, burns in the bones,
festers in the heart, and fills me with such craving, I can neither eat
nor work nor sleep, and would like to dash my brains out to rid me of my
life!”
“Oh, I know all about that. Lord, how I once ran after Yagna!—But when
love comes, there is one thing to be done: marry, and it will at once
pass away and vanish. If one cannot have the wife, why, then, the
sweetheart: and immediately desire will be quenched, and love will die.
I tell you the truth, and am not without experience,” he added, with
pride.
“And what,” Antek asked, sadly, “what if it shall not pass even then?”
“That,” he returned scornfully, “is the lot of none but those that sigh
in groves, and lurk round corners, and tremble to hear a petticoat
rustle!”
“What you have said is true,” Antek replied, in deep thought.
“Come, man, drink to me: my throat is dry even to the bottom
thereof.—The foul fiend take all women! Such a one, so weak you could
fell her with a breath, will lead the strongest man as a calf led with a
rope, rob him of strength and reason, and make him a laughing-stock to
all! She-devils they are, every one of them, and the spawn of Satan, I
tell you!—Now, drink to me!”
“Here’s to you, brother!”
“God bless you!—I say, a fig for all that devil’s spawn!... But ye know
what they are, well enough.”
They went on drinking and talking. Antek was somewhat flustered; and
never having had one to whom he could tell his sorrow, he now felt a
burning desire to make a clean breast of it. And though he refrained and
controlled himself, he dropped a significant word or two here and there;
these, though he gave no sign, Matthew noted well.
And now the fun in the tavern was growing to its height. The band worked
away with might and main. One dance followed another; drink was quaffed
at every table; all raised their voices, often in dispute, so that the
public room resounded with the hubbub; and the feet of the dancers
drummed on the floor like the beating of flails.
Klemba and his party now adjourned to the private room, and there too
the noise was no trifle; but Soha continued dancing furiously with his
Margaret, and at times went out with her into the open air, with their
arms round each other’s waists.
Bartek of the sawmill and his people, who still stood where they had
been before, were now at their second bottle, with Voytek Kobus shouting
insults into the ears of the Rzepki Folk.
“Nobles in rags and tags, with naught but bundles and bags!”
“With but a couple of kine, the common property of the whole village!”
another screamed.
“Long lousy locks warrant well-born wights!”
“See them, the Jews’ hirelings!”
“Let them be leashed with the manor hounds! Both scent a good thing from
afar!”
“What they scented, they now have got!”
“They come to snatch away the work that is our due!”
“The good-for-nothing vagabonds! They come because the Jews would hire
them no more.”
To these shouts some added gestures, shaking their fists and pressing
forward in full cry; and they were soon surrounded by a ring of angry
peasants in liquor. But they said not a word, and sat close together,
with their sticks clenched in their hands, drinking only beer, munching
the sausages they had brought with them, and eyeing the peasants with a
bold undaunted stare.
A fight would perhaps have taken place, but that Klemba how came upon
the scene, soothing, beseeching, explaining matters; and the older men,
and Ambrose with them, spoke in the same sense. At last Kobus ceased to
taunt them, and the others were taken away to the bar for a drink. The
band played a tune, and Ambrose set to telling them the most incredible
tales—about the wars, and Napoleon, and Kosciuszko—and funny things that
made them almost split their sides with laughter.
And presently Klemba’s party poured out of the private room, coming in a
body to join in the dance; which increased the uproar to such an extent
that no voice could any more be distinguished in the universal clamour.
Heated with liquor, they waxed merrier and yet merrier, the young people
capering and footing it lustily, while their elders huddled together
where they could, hustled and driven back by the dancers, who whirled
round in a constantly expanding circle.
The band played enthusiastically now, and the dances went on with a
lively swing, though the partners were so many, there was scarce room to
turn; they pushed and shoved one another, laughing and shouting gaily,
making the floor groan, and the bar with the glasses and bottles jingle
to their tread.
In short, it was a splendid festival, in which everyone was taking his
fair share.
Winter was now at its height. Those weary arms that had so long delved
the ground, were resting now; those forms once bowed, bowed down no
longer: all were equal in freedom and repose, and the blithe thought
that each enjoyed his own separate and distinct individuality. Even so
in the forest, the trees that in summer-time present only a confused
mass of greenery stand out clearly when the winter snow has fallen and
veiled the earth, and each particular tree—be it oak or hornbeam or
aspen—is at once recognized.
Just so was it here and now with the village folk.
Antek and Matthew alone remained in their places, sitting side by side,
like good friends, and talking in low voices of many a thing. At times
one or another of the men would join them, and say a few words. Staho
Ploshka came; so did Balcerek, the Voyt’s brother, and all those
foremost young men in the place who had been bridesmen at Yagna’s
wedding. They felt at first embarrassed, uncertain whether Antek would
not receive them with some sarcastic speech. But he shook hands with
all, with friendly looks beaming in his eyes; and they presently came
round him, listened to all he said, and were again as friendly as they
had been of old, when he was foremost among them all. Yet, remembering
that only the day before these very men would have slunk from his way if
they had seen him at a distance, he could not repress a bitter smile at
times.
“We never see you now! The tavern knows you no more,” said Ploshka.
“At work from dawn till night, when can I find time?”
Then they went on to discuss other village topics—their fathers, the
lasses, the hard winter weather. Antek spoke little, glancing at the
door whenever it opened, in the hope of seeing Yagna coming in. But when
Balcerek told them of the meeting held at Klemba’s concerning the
forest, he roused himself and inquired what they had decided.
“Ah, what indeed? They whined and complained and lamented ... and
decided at last that they ought not to allow it to be felled!”
“Men of straw!” cried Ploshka. “What can be expected of them? They meet,
drink vodka, groan, sigh ... and the outcome of their meeting is as last
year’s snow. The Squire may safely cut down every tree in the forest.”
“That,” Matthew put in, curtly, “cannot be allowed.”
“Who is to prevent him?” they all asked.
“Who? Why, you!”
“But,” said Ploshka, “we are not free to act. Once I spoke—father
silenced me. The business was not mine, but theirs, the husbandmen’s. I
was to let it alone, and blow my own nose. And really, they have the
right to speak so. All is in their hands: we have no more say in the
matter than the farm-servants.”
“And that’s unjust.”
“The younger generation ought to have a share in the land and the
management.”
“And our elders to retire on an allowance.”
“I,” Ploshka exclaimed, “have served in the army, my prime is passing,
and yet my father refuses me what is my own!”
“It is time we all had what’s ours.”
“All here are wronged.”
“Antek most of all.”
“Let us set matters to rights in Lipka!” said one, in a hoarse voice.
This was Simon, Yagna’s brother, who had but just come, and was standing
behind the others. They eyed him with astonishment, as he pushed forward
and spoke hotly of the wrongs he had to suffer. But as he met the young
fellows’ eyes, he blushed very red, unaccustomed as he was to speak in
the presence of many, and also standing as yet somewhat in awe of his
mother.
“’Tis Nastka has taught him thus much sense,” they laughed. Thereupon
Simon said no more, but withdrew to a shady corner; and Gregory Rakoski,
the Voyt’s brother, though no great speaker and somewhat given to
stammering, began to hold forth.
“Our fathers keep the land to themselves, and their children out of it.
This is wrong and iniquitous. But the worst is that they manage things
foolishly. If they had come to an agreement with the Squire, the
question of the forest would have been settled long ago.”
“How’s that? For every fifteen acres of forest, he offered only two of
his land, and we had a right to four.”
“A right? That is a question to be decided by the officials.”
“Who take the Squire’s part.”
“Not so. The commissioner himself advised us not to accept two acres: so
the Squire will have to offer more,” Balcerek observed.
“Hush now,” said Matthew; “here comes the smith, and an old man along
with him.”
They turned and saw in the doorway the smith, who was arm in arm with an
old man. Both had been drinking, and they pushed forward, straight on to
the bar, where they, however, remained but a short time, the Jew
ushering them into the private room.
“They have been feasting at the Voyt’s.”
“What, was the christening to-day?” Antek inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Ploshka explained; “all our elders are there. The Soltys was
godfather, and the godmother, Balcerek’s wife: Boryna, it seems, was
offended and refused.”
“But who,” Balcerek cried, “is the old man here?”
Gregory enlightened him: “He is Mr. Yacek, brother to the Squire of
Vola!”
They all stood up to look at him. Mr. Yacek was pressing forward slowly,
evidently seeking someone. At last his eyes met Bartek of the sawmill,
and he went with him to the wall against which the men of Rzepki sat in
a row.
“What does the man want here?”
“Oh, he is always wandering about the villages, talking with
peasants—sometimes helping them—playing on his violin, teaching the
girls to sing songs: he must be a little crazy.”
“Pray, Gregory, go on with what you had to say.”
“Ah, about the forest?—I was saying that we should not leave the matter
in the hands of the old men: they would bungle it.”
“Well, but,” Antek said with decision, “there is only one thing to be
done: if they set about felling our timber, we must all of us go and
drive them away, until such time as the Squire shall come to terms.”
“That is just what they said at Klemba’s.”
“Said, yes: but what can they do? No one will go with them.”
“The husbandmen will.”
“Not all of them.”
“All, if Boryna leads them!”
“Which is doubtful.”
“Then,” Balcerek cried hotly, “let Antek be our leader!”
The proposal was enthusiastically assented to. But Gregory, having seen
something of the world, and having a little book-learning, set to point
out to them, like the scholar that he was, that violence would be no
remedy; that all would end in court, and with sentences of imprisonment;
and that the right thing was for the people to apply to a lawyer from
the town.
But no one agreed with what he said; some even jeered at him. This put
him in a great rage, and he said:
“Ye complain that your fathers are fools, whilst ye yourselves are as
great fools as they, and talk nonsense, all of you, like children at
their games.”
Someone here said: “See, Boryna has come, with Yagna and some girls.”
Antek, who had intended to answer Gregory, left him unanswered at the
words.
They had come late, after supper. The old man had long resisted Yuzka’s
whimperings and Nastka’s entreaties, for he wanted Yagna to join with
them in begging him. Now, she had said at once, after dinner, that she
would go to hear the band play, and he had told her sternly that she
should not set her foot out of doors!
She did not ask him a second time, but cried in corners, and slammed
doors, and rushed about by fits and starts, in a gusty way. And when
they had supper, she would eat nothing, but set about getting ready to
go, and taking her best skirt out of the chest to try it on.
What was the man to do? He swore a lot, talked, said again that he was
not going anywhere—and finally he had very humbly to ask her forgiveness
and, willy-nilly, go to the tavern.
He entered with a haughty imposing mien, saluting few of those present,
for few of his equals were there, most of them being at the Voyt’s for
the christening. He looked round carefully for his son, but missed him
in the crowd.
Antek gazed on Yagna all the time, as she stood by the bar, while the
lads crowded round her begging for a dance. She refused them all, but
chatted gaily with them, now and then casting a quick glance here and
there. Very lovely did she look that night, and they all eyed her with
admiration, the fairest amongst all the women. Yet Nastka was there,
arrayed in red, like a tall hollyhock; and Veronka Ploshka, like a peony
in bloom, stately and self-possessed; and Soha’s daughter, a mere chit
of a lass, but so slender and lithe and sweet to look upon! and many
another strapping well-favoured girl, who pleased the lads—as did Mary
Balcerek, divinely tall, shapely with firm white flesh, and the very
best dancer in the village; but not one of them, not a single one, could
vie with Yagna.
By her beauty, her attire, and her marvellous turquoise eyes, she
surpassed them all, as the rose does the hollyhock, the peony or the
poppy-flower, making them appear paltry and plain beside it: so was she
above and beyond them, every one. And that evening she had dressed
herself as for a wedding: had donned a skirt of rich yellow, striped
with white and green; and her bodice of deep-blue velvet, embroidered
with gold thread, was cut low, disclosing half of her bosom; and on her
chemise of fine linen, with dainty frills, frothing and foaming
abundantly about her throat and hands, there hung many a necklace of
coral and amber and pearl-like beads. And her head was adorned with a
silken kerchief of turquoise-blue, with pink spots, the corners of which
floated down on to her neck behind.
For this finery and sumptuousness of adornment, the women’s tongues
wagged against her with bitter reviling. But she cared not a whit for
all they said: she had beheld Antek. Colouring with delight, she turned
to her husband, to whom the Jew had said something. He thereupon went
over to the private room, and remained there.
This was precisely what Antek had been waiting for. He at once elbowed
his way through the throng, and welcomed them with easy familiarity. But
Yuzka sullenly turned her back upon him.
“Have ye come for the band, or for Margaret’s betrothal?”
“For the band,” Yagna replied, in a voice husky with emotion.
They stood for a while side by side, speechless but breathing fast, and
casting side-glances at each other. As the dancers jostled them and
drove them towards the wall, Simon took possession of Nastka, Yuzka
drifted away somewhere or other, and the couple remained alone.
“How I have waited day by day ... waited for you!” he whispered.
“How could I come? I am watched closely,” she answered, with a thrill,
for their hands had somehow come together, and they stood at close
quarters, hip touching hip. They both turned pale, their eyes gleamed,
and within them other and ineffable music was striking up.
“Pray let me go, and stand away a little,” she begged; for they were
surrounded with people.
He did not reply, but took her round the waist in a firm grasp, pushed
the crowd aside, and, entering the circle of dancers, called out to the
musicians:
“An obertas, boys, and a first-class one!”
And how they struck it up, and how the bass-viols growled! For well they
knew that Antek, when in a good mood, was lavish of drinks and of money.
His comrades and friends all followed his lead—Ploshka, Balcerek,
Gregory, and the rest: while Matthew, whose ribs would not let him join
them, stamped upon the floor and shouted encouragement.
Dancing recklessly, Antek soon took the place of the foremost couple,
and rushed on, faster and faster still, thought of nothing, cared for
nothing whatever, for Yagna was pressing close to him and entreating him
tenderly, again and again, the while gasping to find her breath:
“More, Antek! Pray, yet a little more!”
They danced long, very long, stopping only to take breath and drink a
glass of beer; then once more they started off, never noticing that folk
were watching them, and whispering—or even uttering aloud—their
disapproval.
But Antek no longer cared for anything in the world, now that he felt
her at his side, and pressed her to himself till she closed—closed with
delight—those dear blue eyes of hers: he had forgotten himself
completely—forgotten men and the whole world of men. His blood was at
boiling-point, and he knew his strength to be waxing within him, bold,
invincible, and filling his bosom full of the sense of force. As to
Yagna, she was entirely plunged in the oblivion of love. He was carrying
her off along with him—a fiery dragon!—and she neither made nor could
make resistance; so masterful was he, bearing her on in his strong
embrace, that now and again her eyes would be darkened, and she could
think of nothing else but the bliss, the unutterable joy of her youth:
the blackness of his brows, his unfathomable eyes, and the crimson
allurement of his mouth!
And the violins were all the time playing, as in an enchanted dream, a
tune as genial as the harvest breeze, a tune that turned the blood into
fire, and made the heart to throb with mighty gladness; and the
bass-viols rumbled with a quick jerky cadence, forcing the feet of the
dancers to accompany their lilt: while the flute warbled as entrancingly
as a blackbird in the springtime, and opening the heart so, and filling
it with such rapture, that you quivered all over, your brain swam, you
breathed no more, you longed to weep, to laugh, cry out, hug, kiss—and
fly away somewhere, out, out into the vast world!
So on they danced, till the tavern shook, and the barrels on which the
musicians had their stand shook too.
In the circle of dancers there were about fifty couples, swaying from
wall to wall. Sometimes the lamp would burn low or go out quite; and
then the brands on the hearth would fling their ruddy blood-red glow on
the dim forms that flitted by, so vague that one could in no wise know
which they were—men or women. One saw but waving capotes, skirts,
ribbons, aprons, flushed faces, bright eyes, and a mad din of
clattering, singing and shouting—all mingled together in one whirling,
twirling, swirling, calling, bawling, brawling, stamping, tramping,
ramping mass!
Of them all, Antek was the most boisterous and the liveliest, beating
the floor with noisy heels, wheeling hither and thither like a
whirlwind—falling down in homage, so that they thought he had
stumbled—up again with a shout or a song for the musicians to take up
after him—he passed round and round, a hurricane that scarce any could
follow.
For a full hour he continued thus, indefatigably. Others fell out,
exhausted; the musicians’ hands were weary with playing: he threw them
money, urging them to play as fast as he could dance. In the end, he and
Yagna were almost the only couple that held out.
The women were loud in their amazement at such behaviour and, while they
censured it, expressed their pity for Boryna; which Yuzka overhearing,
and moved more by hatred for her stepmother than by her grudge against
Antek, went to tell Boryna what was going on. But the latter, deep in
matters of village politics with the elders and with his son-in-law,
scarcely heard what she said.
“Let them dance: the tavern is surely for that,” he said.
She returned, disappointed, but set to watch them carefully. They were
then just after a dance, standing at the bar, in company with many lads
and lasses. It was a merry moment; for Ambrose, now completely drunk,
was telling them such tales that the girls threw their aprons over their
heads, and the lads laughed uproariously. And Antek was treating them
all round—drinking to them first, pressing them to drink, taking the
boys’ arms in a friendly squeeze, and putting caramels into all the
lasses’ bosoms by handfuls—that he might deal likewise by Yagna.
Thus they were all diverting themselves pretty well; all the company was
in the gayest key. Even the “nobility” of Rzepki had left their table,
having made it up with the Lipka folk over some glasses. Several of
them, too, had offered to dance, and the girls had not refused them:
their behaviour was so much more refined, and they asked them with so
great courtesy.
Antek’s set revelled apart from the others. They were of the younger
generation, and of the first people in Lipka. As to him, though he
talked with them all, he had no idea what he was talking about—neither
knew nor cared: he concealed nothing, and could conceal nothing, for he
could not help doing what he did then. But it was all the same to him!
He continually whispered in Yagna’s ear, pushing her nearer and nearer
to the wall; his arm was round her waist, her hand in his; he could
scarce restrain himself from kissing her in public. His eyes wandered,
with a wild look, a tempest raged in his heart, and he would have dared
to do no matter what, reading, as he did, in those turquoise-blue eyes
of hers, her admiration and her love. It raised his pride to heights
unknown, and he felt himself so exalted that he must needs cry and shout
aloud in ecstasy. Then he drank again, and forced Yagna to drink, till
her clouded mind no longer knew what had come to pass. Only at times,
when the music paused, and there was a lull in the tavern din, did she
return a little to her senses, and look around in terrified
bewilderment, seeking help—she knew not whence. At such moments, she
would even have fled; but he was close by, gazing on her, and the fire
in his eyes kindled in her such love that at once she forgot everything.
This went on for a pretty long time. Antek stood drinks to all the
company, whom the Jew served very willingly, chalking up every litre
twice upon the door.
Their heads were now turning, and they all went to dance together,
thinking it might sober them a little; and Antek with Yagna led the
dance.
At that moment, out of the private room came Boryna, whom the women,
shocked at what was going on, had brought to see. Instantly he
understood everything, and was transported with rage. He buttoned up his
capote, seized his fur cap, and pushed on to Yagna. They made way for
him, shrinking from the old man’s face, pale as death, and his eyes that
glared with fury.
“Home!” he commanded in a loud voice, as the couple approached, and
tried to seize her arm. But Antek, spinning on his heel, bore her away,
so that she could not free herself from him.
And then Boryna, leaping forwards, broke through the ring of dancers,
tore her from Antek’s arms, and never let her leave his grasp till they
were out of the tavern. He had not so much as glanced at his son.
Thereupon the band ceased playing; a sinister silence fell upon them
all, and they stood as though petrified. All saw that some awful thing
was about to take place; for Antek had gone out after them, pushing the
throng aside like sheaves of corn and rushing into the night. But the
sudden and intense cold made him giddy; he stumbled over a tree-trunk
that lay in front of the house, and into a snow-drift. Rising swiftly,
however, he came up with them at the turning of the road by the pond.
“Go your ways and let folk be!” the old man cried, turning upon him.
Yagna ran shrieking into the hut; but Yuzka put a heavy cudgel into her
father’s hand, screaming:
“Down with that ruffian, dad! down with him!”
“Let her go ... let her go!” Antek vociferated, quite beside himself,
coming on with clenched fists to the attack.
“Off, I say! or, as there’s a God in heaven, I kill you like a dog!
Off!” the old man cried again, ready to strike a crushing blow.... And
Antek instinctively shrank back; his arms fell to his sides. A sudden
panic had taken hold of him; he shuddered with dread, and let his father
go slowly home.
He had no longer even the thought of leaping after him as he went away,
but stood trembling, distracted, and casting bewildered looks around. No
one was there; the moon shone, the snows sparkled, a sombre whiteness
made things just visible. He could not understand what had taken place,
and only came partly to his right mind a little later, when brought back
to the tavern by the friends who had come out to render assistance,
having heard there had been a fight between him and his father.
The merry-making was all over now, and the people were going to their
homes, for it was late. The tavern had now emptied itself, but there
were, along the road, a few shouts and cries. No one remained but the
folk of Rzepki, who were to spend the night there, and to whom Mr. Yacek
was playing such weirdly and wailingly mournful airs that they sighed as
they sat listening, elbows on table and arms propping chins. Antek moped
all alone in a corner, apart from the others: talk with him was out of
the question; for when they spoke, he would not answer. There, then, he
sat dazed and stunned, and the Jew reminded him in vain that the house
was about to close: he neither made out nor heard what was said. It was
only at Hanka’s voice, who had been told he had again come to blows with
his father, that he roused himself.
“What do you want?” he snarled.
“Come home. It is late,” she said beseechingly, restraining her tears.
“Go yourself. With you I will not go.—Away, I tell you!” he cried in a
threatening voice. Then, on a sudden, moved by some unaccountable
impulse, he came close and hissed in her ear: “Were I chained and
fettered in a prison cell, I should still be more free than with you
beside me—far more!”
Hanka withdrew at once, weeping bitterly.
The night was moonlit and serene. The trees threw long bluish-silvery
shadows. The frost nipped very hard, making the fence-hurdles crackle
from time to time, and a sort of quiet rustling sound rise up from the
scintillating snow. Save for this faint susurration in the still night,
all the land lay silent. The villagers slept; no light came from any
window, not a dog barked, mill and mill-stream were alike soundless.
Antek could just hear—faint like a sound heard in sleep—the husky voice
of Ambrose, singing (according to his wont when drunk) in the middle of
the road.
With slow and heavy steps, he plodded round the mill-pond, stopping at
times to cast bewildered looks from side to side, and listening with
dread to his father’s awful words, that were still ringing in his ears.
Still, too, did he see those stern, fierce, baleful eyes: they pierced
him like a knife! Instinctively he winced before them: terror gripped
him by the throat, his heart sank within him, and his hair stood on end.
And they blotted out from his thoughts all the impetuosity of
erewhile—all his headstrong love and passion—everything but mortal
dread, trembling dismay, and a wretched sense of weakness and despair.
After a time he unconsciously set his face homewards. As he went, a
pitiful cry, a voice of lamentation, reached him from near the church.
Someone just beneath the statue which stood in front of the lich-gate
lay on the snow, with arms outstretched as one crucified; but in the
shade which fell from the churchyard wall, he could not discern who it
was. He stooped down, thinking it was some homeless wanderer, perhaps
overtaken by drink. And there, imploring the mercy of God, lay Hanka!
“Come home ... the cold is fearful ... come, Hanka!” He spoke with
entreaty, his soul melting strangely within him. She answered nothing.
Then he lifted her up and took her home.
All the way, they were mute. But Hanka wept grievously.