After that Twelfth Night, Boryna’s house became like a tomb. No weeping,
no clamour, no invectives: but a sinister silence dwelt there, telling
of rancour and suppressed resentment.
Everybody in the house was now taciturn, veiled in gloom, living in the
continual expectation of some awful thing about to take place, as under
a roof that one knows may at any time crash down upon one’s head.
Neither on his return to the hut, nor even the next day, did Boryna say
a single sharp word to Yagna. Nor did he complain to Dominikova: he kept
silence about all that had happened.
But the paroxysm of anger he had felt made him ill: he was unable to
rise from his bed, had continual qualms, a stitch in his side, and fits
of fever now and then.
“’Tis nothing much; only the liver is inflamed, or perhaps the womb has
changed position,” was Dominikova’s diagnosis, as she rubbed his side
with hot oil. He replied nothing, but groaned heavily, staring at the
rafters above.
“It was not Yagna’s fault, indeed it was not!” she said, speaking low,
lest they should hear her from the other room. She felt extreme
uneasiness at his saying no word to her about the happenings of the
night before.
“Whose then?” he muttered.
“What evil has she done? Ye left her, and went away to drink in the
private room; the band played, and all the folk danced in the other.
What then? Ought she to have sat alone in a corner? She is a young
healthy woman, and needs to be amused. Well, he was urgent, and she
danced with him. Could she help it? In the tavern, everyone has the
right to choose his dancer. He—that wretch! choose her, and would not
leave her alone ... all out of spite against you!”
“’Tis good ye rub me to set me on my legs again; but I will take no
lessons from you. I know the truth of the matter quite well.”
“Are ye so wise? Then should ye know that a young woman in good health
needs some pleasure. She is not a log of wood, neither is she an old
dame: she married a man, and a man she must have. Not a decrepit
veteran, with whom she can only tell her beads! No, no!”
“Yet ye gave her to me in marriage: wherefore, then?” he asked, with a
sneer.
“Wherefore? And who was it came whining like a dog? Was it I who
implored you to take her? Did I entice you ... or did she? Why, she
might have wedded anyone, aye, and of the first in Lipka: so many were
after her!”
“After her, yes; to wed her, no.”
“Yelping cur! May your tongue rot off!”
“Ah! the truth is a stinging nettle to you!”
“’Tis no truth, but a wicked lie!”
He drew up the blanket over his chest, turned his face to the wall, and
answered not one word more to all her heated arguments; only, when she
at last burst into tears, he whispered mockingly:
“‘If a woman’s tongue fail, she thinks tears will prevail.’”
On the point in discussion, he had come to a strong conviction. Whilst
he was laid up, the things he had heard of old against Yagna had all
come back to him: he had pondered them well in his mind, gathered them
together, and thought them over.—And now such bitter exasperation took
hold of him for his inability to quit his bed, that he would toss upon
it all day with silent angry curses, following, with the fierce eyes of
a falcon, every step that Yagna took. She, pale and drooping, would go
about the house like a sleep-walker, looking at him with the wistful
eyes of an ill-treated child, and sighing so deeply that he could not
but feel some compassion for her—though her sighs inflamed his jealousy
still more.
And so things dragged on in the hut till Sunday. She, who by nature was
extremely sensitive, could hardly bear it any more, and, like a delicate
flower that feels the first touch of frost, began to pine and waste
away. Daily she looked worse and worse, could sleep no more, was unable
to sit still, and spoiled all she did, her work slipping through her
fingers. She lived in perpetual dread besides. The old man still kept
his bed, moaning, saying never one word of kindness to her, but fixing
his gloomy hostile eyes upon her constantly, until she could no longer
support it. Life was a burden. And also she was deeply distressed and
anxious at getting no more news from Antek. Since Twelfth Night he had
never come, though more than once, in spite of the mortal fear she was
prey to, she had repaired to the hayrick.
Of course she durst ask no one for news of him. And by this time she
loathed her cabin so heartily that she would several times in the day
run out to see her mother. But Dominikova was mostly either visiting
patients or in church, and, when at home, had only sour looks and bitter
reproaches for her. The lads, too, went about moody and sullen, ever
since their mother had taken a flax-swingle to Simon for having spent
four whole _zloty_ in drink at the tavern on Twelfth Night! To get
through the day somehow, Yagna would also look in at the neighbours’;
but with them too she felt ill at ease. Without telling her to begone,
they let their words drop sparingly, sifting them, so to speak: all were
very, very sorry that Boryna had fallen ill, and had much to say against
the evil times in which they lived.
Yuzka, too, did all she could to annoy her at every step. And Vitek
feared to chatter as he had used to do, now his master was of such grim
humour. So no conversation was possible with anyone; she had no solace,
no diversion at all, save with Pete of an evening, when he played the
violin quietly to her in the stable after his day’s work, old Boryna
having forbidden him to play in the hut.
The winter, moreover, was so severe with daily frosts and blizzards that
she often could not go out at all.
But when Saturday came round, Boryna, though not yet quite well, dragged
himself out of bed, put on warm clothes against the intense cold, and
ventured out.
He called at several huts, ostensibly to warm himself, or to talk of
business, and now chatted willingly with some that he would formerly
have passed by without a word. He always managed to bring the
conversation round to the tavern incident, giving the whole affair a
comical turn: he had, he said, been most ridiculously tipsy that night.
Wondering, they agreed with him, nodding sagacious heads; but they were
not taken in, all the same. They knew too well that headstrong pride of
his, for which he would let himself be roasted alive without uttering a
cry.
They quite understood that he came on purpose to give the lie to any
malicious tales that might have been circulated.
Old Simon, the Soltys, even told him as much quite frankly, as his
custom was:
“‘Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee!—One fable and two make three.’ Gossip is
like fire: ye shall not quench it with your hands—only burn them.—Let me
repeat to you what I said before your wedding: ‘He that takes for a wife
one that might be his daughter, for his pains gets a fiend who will
scorn holy water.’”
He went home, offended. Yagna, thinking all was over now he had got up,
felt relieved, tried to talk and look sweet and be loving and joke with
him as before. But he met her advances with so crushing a word that she
shuddered to hear it; and no change in him took place with time. He no
longer caressed or petted her at all, nor anticipated her wishes, nor
cared to win her smiles. If anything was in disorder, he would scold her
and drive her to work like a common servant-girl.
And thenceforward he took everything in hand again, looked after all by
himself, and saw to everything with his own eyes. For days together,
after his recovery, he threshed corn with Pete, and winnowed it in the
granary, scarcely ever leaving the premises even for an instant. His
evenings, too, he spent at home, mending harnesses, or repairing
domestic implements. She could take no step out of doors without his
going to look for her; and he went so far as to lock up her Sunday
clothes and keep the key in his pocket.
How she suffered, how she suffered! Not content with rating her soundly
for the slightest shortcomings, with never a word of praise, he treated
her just as if she were not the mistress of his house. It was with Yuzka
alone that he took counsel about what was to be done, explaining what
she did not understand, and ordering her to have an eye to everything.
For days together, she did nothing but spin at home, almost distracted.
She went to complain to her mother, who set herself to plead for her,
but in vain.
“She was mistress,” Boryna replied, “and did whatever she pleased, and
lacked naught. But she has failed to act up to her position: let her now
try something else! And, hark ye! tell her that, so long as I can move
my limbs, I will defend what is mine, and not suffer myself to be a
laughing-stock, or branded with the name of cuckold! Let her bear that
in mind!”
“But, good heavens, man! she has done you no injury whatever!”
“Oh, if she had, I should speak and act otherwise! It is enough for me
that she has had to do with Antek!”
“Why, ’twas at the tavern ... in a dance ... in the presence of
everyone!”
“Oho! Only at the tavern? Indeed?” For he shrewdly guessed that at the
time when he found her apron, she had been out to meet Antek.
No, he was not to be talked over. His faith in her was gone, and his
mind quite made up about her. At last:
“I am,” he said, “a kind-hearted and a good-natured man: all know
that.... But ‘strike me a blow with a whip, I at once hit back with a
cudgel!’”
“Hit the guilty, all right: but beware of hitting wrong. Every wrong
cries out for vengeance.”
“When I defend my right, I do no wrong.”
“Aye, but find out betimes how far your right extends.”
“Is this a threat?”
“I say what I think. Ye are too self-confident: take heed. ‘Who to
another gives an evil name, himself deserves the same.’”
“I have enough of all your proverbs and your lectures!” Boryna angrily
rejoined.
Seeing the man’s stubbornness, Dominikova gave up the attempt, and did
not try again. She hoped the storm would blow over and things take a
better turn; but he did not for an instant swerve from the line he had
taken up; he never wavered in his severity, and even tasted a grim
pleasure in it. Sometimes, indeed, hearing Yagna weep of nights, he
instinctively started up to go to her side—but, remembering in time,
would walk to the window and look out.
A couple of weeks elapsed in this way, without any change. Yagna was
wearied out, melancholy, and so wretched-looking that she could scarcely
bear to be seen by people; she was ashamed before the whole village, for
everyone knew what was going on at Boryna’s.
This cast a deep and mournful shadow on his home, and it became the
abode of apprehension and of silence.
Few people, it is true, came to call upon them. The Voyt, offended at
Boryna’s refusal to come to his child’s christening, no longer darkened
his door. Now and then, Dominikova’s sons looked in; Nastka came with
her distaff, but chiefly to see Yuzka or meet Simon. Roch, too, now and
again showed himself there, but never for a long visit, seeing such
sullen gloomy faces.
The smith alone came every evening, and for a long stay, each time
embittering the old man against Yagna as much as he could: for he had
again got into Boryna’s good graces. Yagustynka, besides, dropped in
frequently, enjoying their quarrels, and adding fuel to the fire with
great relish. Dominikova, present daily, daily preached to Yagna the
duty of winning her husband back by submission and humility.
It was of no use. Yagna could not humble herself; for her life, she
could not. On the contrary, she felt more resentful every day, more
inclined to revolt against his rule. Yagustynka did a good deal to make
this inclination stronger. She said to her one day:
“O Yagna, I do grieve for you—aye, as though you were my own daughter!
That hound, to ill-treat you so! and you bear it all like a lamb!
Another woman would not behave in that wise. Oh, no!”
“And how then?” She put the question with some curiosity, having more
than enough of the present state of things.
“You will not overcome evil with good, but only make the evil worse. He
uses you as a common wench, and ye let him. He has locked up your
things, they say; he dogs every one of your footsteps, and never gives
you one word of comfort; and you, what do you do? Sigh, moan, and wait
for Heaven to set matters right. Ah, but Heaven helps those that help
themselves! Were I in your place, I know well what I should do. First, I
should flog Yuzka till she gave up meddling with the household. Are ye
not the mistress here?—Then, I would not yield in aught to the goodman.
Will he have war? Then let him have war till he is sick of it. Aye, aye!
Let him but get the upper hand, and he will soon come to beating you ...
and how far he will go afterwards I cannot tell.”
“But first of all”—here she lowered her voice and spoke in her ear—“let
him be as a calf weaned from its mother. Let him perforce keep himself
to himself, and be like a dog left outside on the threshold. Ye will
soon see how much milder and better-behaved he will grow.”
Yagna turned aside to hide her scarlet blushes.
“What, ashamed? Foolish girl! Why, all do likewise, and will ever do so:
this is no new discovery of mine. A dog follows a piece of bacon: even
so, and more so, does a petticoat allure a man! Of an old man, this is
still truer, he being more self-indulgent, and less likely to find
comfort elsewhere.—Do as I say, and ye will thank me soon.—And as to
what folk say of you and Antek, do not take it to heart; were you white
as driven snow, they still would think you sooty. But it is the way of
the world: all rise against the meek, if they but crook their finger;
and who is proud and determined may do what the devil he pleases, no one
will dare to raise his voice against him, but all will fawn upon him
like curs. The world belongs to the strong, the dauntless, the
resolute.—Oh, they slandered me not a little in my time ... and your
mother as well.—About Florek ... a matter well known to all.”
“Let my mother be!”
“Ah, well! may she ever remain a saint in your eyes.... We all must
needs hold someone for a saint.”
She went on with these instructions. Little by little, and unasked, she
began to tell her things about Antek—things of her own invention, but
interesting. Yagna listened with greedy ears, though careful not to
betray herself in any wise. But she thought well all day of the advice
given; and in the evening, when the smith, and Roch, and Nastka were
present, she said to her husband:
“Hand me the key of my chest: I must air my things.”
He was ashamed to refuse, with Nastka tittering at his side; but after
she had put the clothes back, he stretched out his hand for the key.
“In the chest there are only my own garments: I am quite able to keep
the key by myself!” she boldly replied.
That evening marked the commencement of a new state of things in the
cabin: life there became a hell. As stubborn as the old man was
obstinate, to any rebuke of his she replied in a voice that might be
heard out in the road. She pounced upon Yuzka wherever and whenever she
could, and more than once inflicted so severe a beating on her that the
girl ran crying to complain to her father. And complaints were of no
avail: she persecuted her still more fiercely afterwards, when Yuzka had
not obeyed. Her evenings she decided to spend on the other side of the
passage, leaving her husband alone, and ordering Pete to come there and
play to her, and accompany the ditties she would sing till late at
night. And on Sundays, dressed in her very best clothes, she went to
church without waiting for Boryna, and talked to the farm-servants on
the way.
Wondering at this transformation, he raged and fumed, but did his best
to withhold the knowledge of it from the village. She was not to be put
down; and, little by little, he began to overlook her whims in order to
have a quiet life.
“Why, good dame,” he once exclaimed to Yagustynka, “she was even as a
lamb before—the gentlest of ewe-lambs; and behold, she butts now like a
ram!”
“She has waxed fat, and is too full of fodder!” Yagustynka replied with
indignation; she always took the part of anyone that asked her advice.
“But let me tell you, ye should drive out these humours of hers with a
stick betimes, lest ye may not prevail later, even with a club!”
“Such was never the custom of the Borynas!” he returned, in a lofty way.
“Yet methinks,” she spitefully remarked, “that even the Borynas will
have to come to that!”
A few days later, just after Candlemas, Ambrose came in the afternoon to
tell them the priest would come the next day for the _Kolendy_[11]
visit.
-----
Footnote 11:
_Kolendy._ An annual ceremony of blessing the house and farm and the
live stock.—_Translator’s Note._
All the morning they were busily engaged in a general cleaning. The old
man, to avoid hearing Yagna continually abuse and upbraid Yuzka for all
she did, had gone out to sweep the snow about the premises. The rooms
were given fresh air, the walls cleared of cobwebs; Yuzka strewed the
porch and passage with yellow sand, and they all arrayed themselves in
their very best attire; for the priest was now not far off, officiating
at neighbour Balcerek’s.
Presently his sledge stood outside the porch; and he, with his surplice
over his fur, and accompanied by two of the organist’s sons in
choir-boys’ robes, entered the cabin. Before him, Boryna carried a deep
plate, full of holy water. He said some Latin prayers, sprinkled the
rooms, and then went out to bless the farm-buildings and all the man’s
possessions, passing round and saying the sacred words aloud, the
organist’s boys walking on either side of him, singing Christmas carols,
and untiringly ringing and swinging their little jingling bells. Boryna
carried the holy water before; the others walked behind, in procession.
All being over, he returned to the cabin to rest; and while Boryna,
aided by Pete, was putting fifty litres of oats, and half as many of
pease, in the priest’s sledge, he was listening to Yuzka’s and Vitek’s
prayers, which they repeated to him in the cabin.
They knew them perfectly. Who had taught them? he wondered.
“Kuba taught me my prayers; Roch, my catechism and my primer!” the lad
answered boldly. The priest patted him on the head, and gave each of
them a couple of pictures. Then he told them to obey their elders, never
neglect prayer, and beware of sin. “For Satan, whithersoever we go, is
on the watch, ready to drag us down to hell.” Then, raising his voice,
he concluded with a solemn warning:
“And this I say unto you, that nothing, no, nothing is hidden from the
eye of the just God. Beware therefore of the day of judgment and of
doom: repent ye, and mend your ways whilst it is yet time!”
The two children burst into tears, feeling as at church during a sermon.
And Yagna’s heart throbbed with dread, and a deep blush overspread her
face; she knew those words were meant for her, and as soon as Matthias
returned she left the room, without daring to raise her eyes to the
priest.
“I should like to have a talk with you, Matthias,” he said, when they
were alone together. Motioning him to a seat by his side, he cleared
his throat, offered him snuff, used a beautifully scented
pocket-handkerchief, and, making his finger-joints crack one after
another, began quietly:
“I have heard—yes, Matthias, I have heard of what took place in the
tavern not long ago.”
“Aye, indeed,” the old farmer returned, with a pained look; “it was
public enough, to be sure.”
“Do not go to the tavern, and do not take your womenfolk thither: how
often have I forbidden it! I wear my lungs out in beseeching you.... No
use!—Well, ye have received what you deserved.—Nevertheless, I thank God
most heartily that in all this there has been no very grievous sin. I
repeat: no grievous sin.”
“None?” Boryna’s face brightened: he did not distrust the priest.
“But I have also been told that you are punishing your wife very
severely for what has happened. This is not just, and injustice is a
sin. A sin.”
“How’s that? I am only holding her in with a tighter hand. I am
only....”
Here the priest interrupted him, saying excitedly: “Antek, not she, was
at fault! It was to spite you that he forced her to dance with him;
evidently he wanted a scene. A scene.” Of this he felt quite sure:
Dominikova, in whom he reposed much confidence, had given him her
account of things.—“What else had I to say to you?—Ah, yes! Your filly
wanders loose about the stable. You must tie her up, else one of the
horses may injure her with a kick. Last year I had my mare lamed that
way.... Whose is her sire?”
“The miller’s.”
“I was sure of it—knew it by her colour and the white spot on her
forehead.—A fine filly!—But, as to Antek now: you and he should be
reconciled: your disagreement is driving that young fellow to evil
ways.”
“I did not begin the quarrel,” Boryna replied with decision, “and I am
not going to beg him to end it.”
“The advice I give you it is my duty as a priest to give. As to taking
it, follow what your own conscience says. Only mark this well: he is
going to his destruction, and you let him go. He drinks continually in
the tavern, is a fire-brand among the young men, incites them to revolt
against their elders, and—as I hear—is plotting harm to the manor folk.”
“Of that I knew nothing.”
“One tainted sheep infects the flock. And these plots against the manor
may result in great evil to the village people.” But on this point
Boryna was doggedly mute; so the priest changed the subject, and said
finally:
“Union, my dear friend, is the only thing. Union.” He took snuff, put
his fur cap on, and added: “Union and brotherly love make the whole
world go round. And that is why the manor would willingly come to an
agreement with you. The Squire told me as much: he is a good man, and
would fain arrive at a neighbourly understanding with everyone....”
“When a wolf is your neighbour, you can only come to an understanding
with a club or an ax!”
The priest started, shocked at the words, and looked him steadily in the
face; but, seeing the cold relentless expression of his eyes and his set
lips, turned away hastily, and rubbed his hands, much upset.
“I must away. Allow me to repeat that you ought not to set your wife
against you by severe treatment. She is young—flighty, too, as women
are—and you should deal with her wisely, and justly as well: be blind to
one thing, deaf to another, and overlook a third. Thus ye may avoid
unpleasant scenes, which might have most evil consequences. Yes: our
Lord has a special blessing for peacemakers. For peacemakers.—Oh! what
on earth is this?” he suddenly exclaimed, much startled; for the stork,
hitherto standing motionless by the chest, had unexpectedly pecked with
all its might at the priest’s well-polished boot.
“It’s only a stork, that remained here in autumn, with a broken wing,
and Vitek took care of it, and nursed it till it got well again. Now it
stays in the hut with us, and catches mice as well as any cat could do.”
“Really? I never yet saw a tame stork. Curious, most curious!”
He bent down to give Bociek a caress; but this it would have none of,
and with curved neck meditated another sly attack on the priest’s boot.
“Upon my word, I like it so much that, if you would sell it, I would
gladly buy it of you.”
“Sell it? Not I. But the lad shall take it at once to your Reverence’s
house.”
“I will send Valentine for it.”
“Ah, but no one save Vitek may touch it, and it obeys him alone.”
They called the boy in; the priest gave him a _zloty_ and told him to
bring it in the evening, after the round of the parish had been
finished. Vitek cried much and, after the priest’s departure, took
Bociek with him to the byre, where he blubbered aloud till dusk; then
Boryna came to silence him and remind him that the bird had to be taken;
Vitek unwillingly obeyed, but his heart melted in his breast, and he
went about, his eyes swollen with tears and like one half-witted, now
and then running to the stork, gathering it in his arms and kissing it,
weeping sorely all the while.
So, when the priest was home at nightfall, he wrapped Bociek up in his
own little capote, to protect it from the cold, and (together with
Yuzka, for the bird was too heavy for him alone to carry) took it over
to the priest’s: Lapa accompanying them, and barking moodily all the
way.
Now, the more the old man weighed the priest’s words, and his strong and
evidently sincere assertions, the more satisfied and tranquil did he
become: so that, slowly and by imperceptible degrees, he changed his
attitude towards Yagna.
Yet, though things returned to their former state, the former peace of
mind, the deep quiet trust of old, was there no longer.
As when a broken vessel has been repaired with wire woven around it, it
indeed looks whole, yet somehow leaks and lets the water through, though
the place of leakage is invisible to the eye: so was it likewise in that
hut: from within that reconciliation, and through unseen fissures, the
secret mistrust it contained came forth by drops; and though resentment
was no more so keen, suspicion still remained alive and undying.
Hard as he tried, the old man could not quite rid himself of his
distrust. Almost unwittingly, he constantly had an eye on Yagna’s every
motion; and she, on her part, never forgave his past anger and bitter
words, and boiled with resentment that now too she could not but notice
how keenly vigilant his eyes were.
Perhaps, too, the certitude that he was watching and put no trust in her
made her dislike him more violently, and love Antek more.
She had managed things so dexterously that they often met by the
haystack. Vitek was their helper in this. Since the loss of his stork,
his master’s displeasure troubled him not at all, and he had quite gone
over to Yagna. She, on her side, gave him better food to eat, and Antek
very often had a few kopeks for the lad. But their chief abettor in this
was Yagustynka, who had so crept into Yagna’s good graces, and had so
won Antek’s confidence, that they simply could not do without her. She
brought messages to and fro, protected them from surprises on the part
of Boryna, and kept good watch over him. All this she did out of pure
hatred for people. She wreaked upon others her revenge for the harsh
treatment meted out to her. Though she detested both Antek and Yagna,
she detested still more the old husband, who was one of the rich men in
the village. And yet she had for the poor not less of hatred and even
more of scorn!
In truth, she was diabolically wicked ... and possibly, as folk
whispered, evil in a yet more unearthly sense.
“They will,” she often said to herself, “one day fly at each other, and
fight it out like mad dogs.”
In winter there was but little to do; so she used to go with her distaff
from hut to hut, listening to the talk and setting folk by the ears and
laughing with impartiality at everyone. None durst close their doors on
her, partly out of fear of her tongue, partly because she was thought to
have the evil eye. At times, too, she looked in at Antek’s, but for the
most part she met him on his return from work, and brought him news from
Yagna.
About a fortnight after the priest’s visit, she saw the young man on his
way past the pond.
“Do you know? Old Boryna said many things to the priest against you.”
“Of what new thing has he been yelping?” was his contemptuous answer.
“He says you stir folk up against the manor, and that the gendarmes
ought to arrest you.”
“Let him but try! Ere they get hold of me, I would make such a ‘Red
Cock’ perch on his roof, that his place would burn down to the ground,”
he replied in a great rage.
She at once ran to tell the old man, who thought the news over for a
time, and then remarked: “’Tis like him, the villain! He is the very man
to do such a thing.”
He said no more, not wishing to take counsel with a woman; but to Roch,
who came in the evening, he told all.
“Do not believe whatever Yagustynka says: she is an evil-minded
beldame.”
“Yes, it may be all a falsehood: yet such things have been. Old Prychek
burnt his father-in-law’s hut down for dealing unjustly by him in
dividing the land. True, he went to prison, but he burnt it down.... And
Antek may do the same. And he must have said something; she could not
have made it all up.”
Roch, who was a kind-hearted man, felt greatly pained, and tried to
advise him.
“Make it up. Let him have a little land for himself: to live, he needs
the wherewithal. Besides, that would steady him, and leave him without
excuse for quarrels and threats.”
“No! Were I even to be quite ruined—made a beggar—no! Beg I may, but, so
long as I live, not one inch of my land will I give up.... That he
struck me and used me shamefully, I could forgive, though hardly and
with pain; but should he attempt such a thing as this...!”
“Is it meet to take the tattle of a gossip so to heart?”
“I do not believe it, not I!—But what maddens me, what makes my blood
run cold, is that it _might_ be true!”
He sat with fists clenched, motionless and numb, at the bare possibility
of so heinous an act. He had no proof of Yagna’s guilt, nay, he felt
really sure she was innocent. But he shrewdly guessed that in his son’s
hatred for him there was more than mere resentment for the land
withheld; that the wild reckless look he had seen in Antek’s eyes came
from some other cause. And he, too, was instantly aware of the same
feeling within himself—of cold, revengeful, implacable hate. He turned
to Roch, and muttered:
“There is not room enough in Lipka for us twain!”
“What—what can ye mean?” Roch cried in alarm.
“God forbid he fall into my hands, if I seize him in the act!”
Roch did his best to calm him and bring him round, but to no purpose.
“Ah, he would burn me out, would he?—That remains to be seen!”
Thenceforward he had no peace. Every evening he watched in secret,
hiding behind corners, making the round of the house and messuages,
looking under the thatches; and often, waking up at night, he would
listen for hours together or, jumping out of bed, go round the premises
with his dog. And once he saw certain faint traces about the haystack,
where the ground had been trampled. Later, he found marks of footsteps
near the stile, and became more and more convinced that Antek had been
there at night, and was only seeking an opportunity to set the rick on
fire. For as yet he had no thought of any other possible outrage.
He purchased a very savage dog from the miller, chained it up in a
kennel under the shed, and made it more savage still by starving and
baiting it. At night he would set it free, and then it would bark
furiously and set upon anyone it met. It bit several people so seriously
that complaints were lodged against Boryna.
But this vigilance and these precautions made the old man weaker and
weaker, though his eyes glowed with feverish excitement.
He had determined to speak and complain to no one any more; this very
greatly increased the intensity of his sufferings.
It also prevented anyone from guessing the cause of his restless
behaviour.
That he watched so carefully over the premises, and had bought that dog,
and made those nightly rounds, found an easy explanation. That winter,
wolves had multiplied to an extraordinary degree; almost every night,
they would approach the village in packs, and the inhabitants often
heard them howl; not infrequently, too, they scratched holes under the
byres, and carried off something here and there. Moreover, as was common
enough just before the spring, cases of theft became more rife. A
peasant in Debitsa had been robbed of a couple of mares; in Rudka, a hog
had been stolen; elsewhere, a cow was missing. Therefore did many a man
in Lipka scratch his head, and get better locks, and keep good watch
over his stables; for the horses there were the very best in the
district.
So the days went on, slowly, regularly, like the hands of a clock—only
neither to be pushed forward nor set back.
Not only was the winter uncommonly severe, but the weather was also
unusually changeable. There were such frosts as the oldest inhabitants
had never known; sometimes the snow would fall in immense quantities;
then it would thaw for whole weeks together, so that the ditches were
filled with water, and the fields stretched out, black and desolate:
after which there would be whirlwinds and snow-drifts such as the land
had never seen as yet—and then a spell of serene calm weather, when the
lanes swarmed with children, and the folk were glad, and the old people
basked against the warm sunny walls.
In Lipka things went on according to the everlasting ordinance. He that
was predestined to death died; whoso was to be glad rejoiced; he that
was fated to be sick confessed his sins, and awaited the end. And so,
with the help of God, they continued to live on, from day to day, from
week to week.
Meanwhile, every Sunday, the band played loud in the tavern, and there
they danced, quarrelled at times, or even came to blows: wherefore the
priest chid them sternly from the pulpit, and many troubles came of it.
Klemba’s daughter married, and they enjoyed themselves, dancing for
three whole days; and—so folk said—Klemba had to borrow fifty roubles of
the organist to pay the expenses. The Soltys, too, gave a fairly good
banquet at his daughter’s betrothal to Ploshka. Elsewhere there were
christenings, but not many now: numbers of women were expecting a child
in spring.
It was then that old Prychek died; after but one week’s sickness he
died, poor man! at only threescore and four years of age. All the
village went to his funeral, for his children had made a grand funeral
feast.
In certain huts they came together to spin, and so many girls and
farm-lads were there that they enjoyed themselves perfectly, with plenty
of laughter and gladness; especially as Matthew, now quite well again,
was mostly present, and the life of the party wherever he went.
The village was thus alive and humming with continual gossip and
scandal; invectives now and then, and bickering, or only bits of
interesting news. And from time to time there would come one of those
_Dziads_ who had seen and could tell of many a place and thing; and such
a one would stay with them for many a week.
Or, again, a letter would sometimes come in from somebody’s boy in the
army. Oh, then!—how it was read over, and commented on, and talked
about, with lasses’ sighs and mothers’ tears, for whole weeks and more!
What other topics were there? Well, Magda had taken service at the
tavern; and Boryna’s dog had bitten Valek’s boy, who had threatened to
bring an action; and Andrew’s cow, stuffed too full of potatoes, had
choked and swollen so that Ambrose had to slaughter her; and Gregory had
borrowed a hundred and fifty roubles of the miller and given a meadow in
pledge for the sum; and the smith had bought a couple of horses, a fact
that made folk wonder very much; and his Reverence had been ill for a
whole week, a priest from Tymov coming to take the services in his
place. They talked of thieves besides; old twaddling women babbled of
ghosts; much was spoken about the wolves that were said to have killed
some of the manor sheep; about household matters besides, and happenings
in far-off countries, and I know not what more—beyond telling or
remembering. And always there was something new, to make the day and the
long evenings full of interest.
So it was, too, at Boryna’s home; only he stayed in the house
continually, and neither went out himself nor would let his family go
anywhere. Yagna was wretched about it, and Yuzka grumbled angrily all
the day long. The cabin life tired her mortally. The only solace she had
was that he did not forbid her to go spinning to those huts (but to
those only), where no young folk dwelt. Most of the time, therefore,
they stayed moping at home.
One evening—it was towards the end of February—several people had come
in, and were all sitting together in the other lodgings, where
Dominikova was weaving canvas cloth by lamplight, and the rest of the
company crowded round the fire-place, because it was very cold. Yagna
and Nastka spun till their spindles hummed. Supper was preparing. Yuzka
pottered restlessly about the room, and the old man sat by the
chimney-corner, pipe in mouth, puffing away, and thinking deeply.
The stillness was irksome to them all. Only the fire crackled, a cricket
chirped in a corner, the loom whirred at regular intervals: but no one
spoke. It was Nastka who first broke silence.
“Are you going to spin at the Klembas’ to-morrow?”
“Roch has promised to be there, and to read a book about our kings of
old.”
“I should like to go, but I cannot tell as yet,” she replied, with a
questioning glance at her husband.
“Oh, pray do let me go, Father,” Yuzka begged.
He did not answer. The dog was barking loud outside, and in came Yasyek,
nicknamed Topsy-turvy, looking about him apprehensively.
“Shut the door after you, you gaby!” Dominikova shouted at him. “This is
not a cow-byre.”
“Do not be so frightened,” Yagna added; “no one will eat you.—Why do you
look round so?”
“Because of that stork.... He is somewhere in hiding, belike, ready to
peck at me!” he stammered, peering into the corners in alarm.
“No,” Vitek growled in reply, “he will harm you no more: Master has sent
Bociek away.”
“And I cannot tell why ye kept the bird at all: he did naught but
mischief.”
“Be seated, and give over grumbling,” Nastka said, making room for him
by her side.
“Ha!” Vitek exclaimed complainingly, “whom did he ever hurt save fools
and strange dogs? He would walk the room, strutting like any Squire....
And he caught mice ... and was never in the way.... And now they have
sent him from us!”
“Be comforted: you will tame another when spring comes round, since you
care so much for storks.”
“Not I! This same one will ever be mine. I have a contrivance to bring
him to me, as soon as we shall have warm weather: he cannot choose but
come.”
Yasyek was most inquisitive as to Vitek’s contrivance; but the latter
told him rudely that what he could not find out by himself he would not
be told, and that only a fool could be so greedy of another’s
contrivances.
For this he was rebuked by Nastka, who took Yasyek’s part; and indeed he
was much in her thoughts. True, he was rather foolish, and the village
folk laughed at him; but then he was an only child, with ten acres of
land; whereas (as she well knew) Simon had only five, and very possibly
his mother would not let him marry her; so she kept on good terms with
Yasyek, holding him in reserve, should Simon fail.
He was sitting by her side, staring at her, and thinking of something to
say, when in rushed the Voyt, who had by this time made it up with
Boryna. He called out from the very threshold:
“News for you! You are to appear in court to-morrow at noon.”
“In the action about my cow?”
“Aye, against the manor.”
“I must be off betimes to-morrow; it is a long way. Vitek, go this
instant to Pete and get everything ready. You are to go, too, as a
witness.—Is Bartek notified?”
“I have brought all the summonses from the court bureau to-day: there
will be a lot of you together. And if the manor is at fault, let it pay
up.”
“Pay it must!—Such a cow as that!”
“Come with me into the other rooms,” the Voyt whispered; “I have to talk
with you.”
They went out, and remained so long that Yuzka had to take supper in to
them.
The Voyt, as he had more than once done already, entreated him not to
make enemies of the manor folk, to put matters off, see how things would
turn out, and beware of joining with Klemba and his party. Boryna had
hitherto seemed to waver, calculating chances. He did not refuse to
listen, but did not care to join the Voyt’s side, still feeling
indignant at the slight offered him by the Squire, when he had come to
the miller’s lately.
Seeing that he made no impression, the Voyt tried alluring him with a
bait.
“Ye know that I, with the miller and the smith, have come to an
agreement with the manor: that we are to cart the trunks to the sawmill
and, when sawn into planks, to the town.”
“Yes, yes, of course I know: tongues wag about it quite enough, and say
you prevent folk from earning any money.”
“Much do I care! But let me tell you now what we three have settled.
Hearken to what I say.”
The old man shot a glance at him and listened attentively.
“We want you to be one of us. You shall cart the very same quantity of
timber. Ye have a good pair of draught-horses, the wagoner will only
have to drive, and the profit is certain. Payment is by the cubic metre.
You will have earned fivescore roubles ere it be possible to work in the
fields.”
Boryna pondered long. “When do you begin work?” he asked.
“From to-morrow. They are already cutting down timber in the nearest
clearings. The roads are fairly good, sledges being still available. My
man is to start off on Thursday.”
“A plague upon it! If I but knew whether my action will succeed
to-morrow!”
“Only join us, and all will be well.—I, the Voyt, have spoken.”
Boryna remained plunged for a while in dubious musings; he eyed the Voyt
with attention, chalked something on the bench, scratched his head, and
said finally:
“I am with you in this undertaking.”
“Good. Come to the miller’s to-morrow, after the judgment, and we shall
talk the matter over further. I must be off now, to get my
sledge-runners tinkered up at the blacksmith’s.”
Away he went in high glee, assured that he had, by this offer of
partnership in cartage, bought the old man over to his side.
Truly, though, the miller might make one with the manor: his land was
not on the village register, nor had he any rights over the forest. So
too might the Voyt, whose lands had been taken from the clergy by the
Russians; so might the smith: but not he, not Boryna! He said: “Cartage
is one thing, and the forest dispute is another. Ere an agreement is
come to, or we have a complete rupture, many a day must elapse. Why not,
then, get my immediate profit out of the partnership, and yet hold fast
to our rights? There are, in any case, some scores of roubles of clear
gain. I should have to keep the servant and feed the horses, in any
case.”
He smiled, rubbed his hands, and chuckled over the situation.
“They have no more sense than so many sheep, thinking to take me in like
a silly calf. Silly themselves!”
In rare good humour, he went back to his womenfolk. Yagna was out of the
room. She had, they told him, gone out to feed the swine.
He talked gaily, bantered Yasyek and Dominikova, awaiting his wife the
while with increasing uneasiness. She was absent very long. Quietly and
without a word, he went out into the yard. The lads were in the barn,
making ready the sledge for the morrow’s ride. He looked into the
stables, the byre, the sties: Yagna was nowhere to be seen. For a time
he stood waiting under the eaves in the dark. It was a sombre night with
a cold howling gale, great dark clouds chasing each other across the sky
and, from time to time, some white flakes falling.
Presently a dusky figure loomed in the path beyond the stile. Dashing
forward, Boryna leaped the stile, and whispered fiercely:
“Where have you been, say?”
Yagna, though scared, carried it off boldly:
“‘Covering my feet.’ Would you pry into everything?” she said with a
mocking laugh, and went in.
He spoke no more about that; and when they went to bed, he said in a
quiet friendly tone, though without raising his eyes:
“Would ye like to go to the Klembas’ to-morrow?”
“Surely, along with Yuzka.—Unless ye forbid.”
“I must go to the law-court, and leave my house to the care of
Providence. It were better ye should stay at home.”
“But will ye not be back by dusk?”
“I fear not. Perhaps only late in the night. It looks like snow, and we
may have hard work coming home. But if ye will go, you may; I do not
forbid you.”