On that same day, when work was over and the evening well on towards
night, they began to drop in at Klemba’s for the grand spinning-party.
Dame Klemba had invited elderly women, for the most part, kinswomen or
good friends of hers, and they had all come in proper time, as careful
not to be late as not to disregard the invitation.
First of all, according to her custom, came Vachnikova, plentifully
supplied with wool, and carrying several spindles under her arm. Then
Golab, Matthew’s mother, with a vinegar-face, always bound up, who
always complained of everything; after her, Valentova the talkative—a
huffy woman who cackled like a hen; and Sikora’s wife, a terrible
gossip, thin as a broomstick, and much interested in all her neighbours’
quarrels. And then rolled in Ploshka’s wife, tubby, red-faced,
plethoric, always over-dressed, high and mighty to everybody, and gifted
with rare powers of speech, which made her generally disliked.
Afterwards there quietly slipped in Balcerkova, skinny, undersized,
withered, and sly; an ill-tempered woman, and such a lawsuit-maker that
she was on fighting terms with half the village, and went to the
law-courts every month. And now boldly stepped in (uninvited, indeed)
the woman Kobus, Voytek’s wife, so malicious a gossip and so rank a
shrew that folk shunned her friendship as they would fire. Also came,
breathing heavily and in a hurry, Gregory’s wry-mouthed wife, a
drunkard, a cheat, and given to practical jokes—especially such as did
harm to her neighbours. Then old Sohova (Klemba’s son-in-law’s mother),
a very quiet woman, most religious, and (Dominikova excepted) the one
who spent most time in church. There were others also, too hard to
describe, being as like one another as geese in a flock, and
indiscernible, save by their attire. All these came—an assembly of
matrons, each bringing with her something or other: wool or flax to
spin, or hurds; some with linen to sew, or feathers to make up for
bedding—not willing to be seen empty-handed, as if they had only come to
talk.
They formed a large circle in the centre of the room, under a lamp that
hung from the ceiling; and they looked like a clump of bushes,
well-grown, mature, and blighted by late autumn; for all were elderly,
and all about the same age.
Klembova welcomed them all with the same friendly greeting, but spoke
low; she was short of breath, her lungs being in a bad state. Klemba, as
a good sensible man, who loved to be on pleasant friendly terms with
everybody, said some kind words to each, and set the tables and benches
for them himself.
Yagna arrived somewhat later, with Yuzka and Nastka, and a few other
girls, together with a sprinkling of young men who dropped in
subsequently.
It was a big gathering. The winter was a hard one, and the days irksome
to pass. People cared little to go to bed as fowls to roost; that would
give them overmuch time to lie in bed till daybreak, and make their
sides ache with weariness.
They seated themselves, some on benches, others on chests. Klemba’s
sons, too, brought in tree-stumps from the yard for the boys to sit down
upon, and there was room enough for all. The hut, though of no height,
was very large, built in the old style, most likely by Klemba’s
great-great-grandfather, and a hundred and fifty years old or more. It
was already tottering with age, leaning slantwise like a stooping old
man; in places, the thatched eaves almost touched the hedge beneath, and
had to be propped up.
After a time, the talk grew louder and more general, while the spindles
twirled and whirled and hummed on the floor, and a spinning-wheel buzzed
here and there.
Klemba’s sons were four: tall slender striplings, with budding
moustaches. They sat close to the door, engaged in twisting ropes of
straw. The other young fellows were sitting in corners, smoking
cigarettes, grinning and joking with the lasses, and making them giggle
till the room rang again.
At last Roch, whom they had long expected, came in, followed by Matthew.
“Is it windy still?” someone asked.
“No wind at all; the weather will change.”
“It surely is going to thaw,” Klemba added; “we hear the forest
moaning.”
Roch, who now taught a class at the Klembas’, and lodged and boarded
there, sat down to eat at a separate table. Matthew greeted some of the
company, but did not so much as glance at Yagna, whom he made out he had
not seen, although she was straight in front of him. At that she smiled
faintly, with her eyes fixed on the entrance door.
“Well, it has been blowing all day long, Heaven preserve us!” Sohova
said. “Some women have crept back from the forest, half dead; and they
say Hanka and her father, who were among them, are missing.”
“Ah, yes,” Kobusova grunted. “‘Wherever the poor man goes, the wind
against him blows.’”
“Alas! Hanka has come down indeed....” Ploshkova was beginning to say,
but stopped and talked of something else on seeing how red Yagna had
turned.
“Has not Yagustynka been here?” Roch inquired.
“She is not wanted: our company takes no pleasure in slandering and
backbiting.”
“A wicked hag she is! This very day she set the Voyt and the Soltys’
wives so by the ears that they fell to railing and would have fought,
had not the company prevented them.”
“That’s because they let her talk as she pleases.”
“And there’s no one to pay her out for her spiteful words and
mischief-making.”
“Yet all know what she is: why listen to her snarls?”
“True: we never know when she is lying and when not.”
“They let her, because they all enjoy hearing her talk against someone
else,” Ploshka’s wife concluded.
Teresa, a soldier’s wife, here called out: “Let her say one word against
me! She would pay it dear!”
Whereupon Balcerek’s wife said to her, sarcastically:
“Why, is she not telling tales against you in the village all day long?”
“Repeat—repeat them, whatsoever ye have heard!” she shouted, flushing
crimson: it was a matter of general knowledge that she was on
exceedingly intimate terms with Matthew.
“I will, and to your face, when your goodman is back from the army.”
“Beware what ye say of me! What, will ye babble and gabble here?”
“Wherefore scream, when none accuses you!” Ploshka’s wife cried out in
rebuke; but Teresa was not soon appeased, and she muttered to herself
for a good while.
“Have they been here, with the ‘bear?’” Roch asked, to change the
subject.
“They are at the organist’s now, and will be here at once.”
“Who are the performers?”
“Why, the sons of Gulbas and Filipka; who but they, the rogues!”
“Here they come!” the lasses cried. In front of the cabin, a long-drawn
roar resounded; then various animals’ cries: cocks crowing, sheep
bleating, horses whinnying: all this to the accompaniment of a fife.
Finally, the door opened, and a young fellow came in, clad in a
sheepskin coat, turned inside out, and a tall fur cap, with his face so
blackened, he looked like a gipsy. He came pulling the “bear” in
question after him by a rope, covered all over with shaggy brown
pea-straw, save for a head of fur with paper ears that he could shake at
will, and a tongue that hung out for more than a foot. To his arms were
fastened staves with pea-straw twisted round them, so that he seemed to
go on all fours. After him went the other bear-leader, wielding a straw
lash in one hand, and in the other a club that bristled all over with
sharp pegs, to which bits of fat bacon, loaves and bulky packets were
stuck. In the rear walked Michael, the organist’s boy, playing the fife,
and a number of youngsters with sticks, tapping on the floor and
shouting vociferously.
The bear-leader “praised God,” crowed, bleated, neighed like a rampant
stallion, and, lifting up his voice, spoke thus:
“We, bear-leaders, come from a foreign clime, beyond the ocean and the
endless forests, where men walk upside down, use sausages for palings,
and fire to cool themselves; where pots are set to boil in the sun, and
where the sky rains vodka: thence have we brought this savage bear! It
has been told us that there are in this village wealthy husbandmen,
good-natured housewives—and fair maidens too. And therefore from that
foreign clime have we come, beyond the Danube, to obtain kind treatment,
have our needs supplied, and something given us for our pains!—Amen.”
“Show, then, what ye can do,” said Klemba; “peradventure there may be
something for you in the larder.”
“Instantly.—Ho, play the fife there; and you, bear, dance!” the
bear-leader cried. Then the fife poured forth one of its sweetest tunes,
and the lads tapped the floor with their sticks, and shouted loudly in
cadence, while the leader mimicked the voices of many a beast, and the
“bear” jumped about as on all fours, twitching his ears, putting his
tongue out and in again, and running after the girls. The bear-leader
seemed to be pulling him back, and struck with his lash at everyone
within his reach, crying:
“Have found no husband yet, lass?—A rope’s end you shall get, lass!”
The noise in the room, with the racket and scampering and squealing,
waxed louder and louder; and the merriment grew to its height, when the
bear began to frolic wildly, rolling on the floor, roaring, leaping for
fun, and catching at the girls with his long wooden arms, making them
dance to the tunes played on Michael’s fife: the two bear-leaders,
meanwhile, and the lads who accompanied them, making such an uproar that
the old cabin might well have fallen to pieces with the horse-play and
the din and fun of it.
Then, Klemba’s wife having treated them very bountifully, they left the
place; but far along the road came the sound of shouting men and barking
dogs.
“Who played the bear?” Sohova asked, when they had quieted down.
“Could ye not find out? Why, Yasyek Topsy-turvy.”
“How could I know him, with that shaggy head of fur?”
“My dear,” Kobusova observed, “for such games as that, the doodle has
quite enough sense.”
“Yasyek is not such a fool as ye make him out to be!” said Nastka,
taking his part. No one contradicted her; but sly significant smiles
flickered on many faces. They again sat down and began chattering
merrily. The girls, headed by Yuzka, who was the least shy of them all,
crowded round the fire-place where Roch sat, coaxing and teasing him to
tell them some such story as he had told at Boryna’s in the autumn.
“Well, Yuzka, do you remember the tale I told you then?”
“Certainly: ’twas about the Lord Jesus and His dog Burek.”
“If ye care, I will tell this evening about our kings of old.”
They placed a stool for him beneath the lamp, made a circle round him,
and he sat in their midst like an old hoary oak in a clearing, compassed
about with a clump of many bushes. He spoke deliberately and in a quiet
voice.
A hush fell upon them all; only the spindles hummed on, and the logs
crackled now and again upon the hearth. And Roch told them many a
marvellous tale: of the kings and the bloody wars of old; of the
mountains amidst which there now sleeps an army of enchanted warriors,
awaiting but the sound of the trumpet to start up and fall on the foe
and purge the land of evil; of the great castles, in whose golden
chambers white-clad enchanted princesses, expecting their deliverer,
mourn in the moonlit nights; and of those where music is heard nightly
in the empty rooms, and multitudes assemble there to dance, who at
cock-crow vanish and go back to their tombs. They listened; the spindles
no longer twisted under their fingers; their minds went forth into that
world of marvels, and their eyes flashed, and tears of ineffable rapture
welled up, their hearts well-nigh bursting their bosoms with longing and
amazement.
Roch wound up by telling them of a king nicknamed by his nobles the
“Peasant King,” because he was humane, just and good to all folk alike;
of his terrible wars, and of his wanderings in the disguise of a
peasant, when he went about the land and lived with his people as a
brother, so that he knew of the evil things done, and could redress the
wrongs; and how, after that, that he might be yet more at one with the
peasants, he married a husbandman’s daughter, Sophia by name, who dwelt
nigh Cracow; and, taking her to the castle in that city, he reigned
there for many years, the father of his people, and the best husbandman
in the country.
To all this they listened with rapt attention, not missing one word, and
even holding their breath for fear of interrupting the stream of wonders
told them. As to Yagna, she was now quite unable to spin any more; her
hands had fallen to her sides, and with head bowed and one cheek pressed
on the top of her distaff, she fixed her turquoise-blue eyes on Roch’s
face. He seemed to her like a saint, come out of a picture-frame; so
holy he looked, with his grey hair, his long white beard, and those pale
eyes of his that seemed to be gazing at something far away. She listened
with all her might—the might of an exceedingly impressionable heart—so
earnestly taking in all he said, that emotion hardly suffered her to
breathe. His words brought everything plainly before her mind’s eye; and
where he led, she too followed in spirit.—What struck her most of all
was his tale about the king and his peasant queen; oh, how beautiful she
thought it!
“And did the king himself live so—together with the peasants?” Klemba
asked, after a long silence.
“He did.”
“Lord!” whispered Nastka; “if a king spoke to me, I should die of fear!”
“And I would follow him all over the world to get one word from him ...
one word!” Yagna cried, passionately.
They then put many a question to Roch. Where could those castles be
found? and that army? and those great riches and beautiful things? and
those kings, so mighty?—where?
He answered, somewhat sadly, but with wisdom, pointing out to them so
many a deep truth and holy maxim that they all sighed, and fell to
reflecting on the ways of God’s providence in this world.
“Yes,” said Klemba, “to-day is ours; to-morrow belongs to the Lord!”
But Roch was tired, and needed some rest. As all were highly interested
in the wonderful tales told, each began, at first in whispers, and then
aloud, to tell of such things as they too had heard.
One told one tale, another a second, and this reminded a third of
something else, each bringing in a fresh point of interest. So the tales
glided on like spun threads, and softly as the moonbeams that light up
the dead dark waters in the secret woodlands.—They told how a drowned
woman came back to suckle her hungry babe, whose cries had drawn her;
and how an aspen stake must be thrust through the heart of a vampire in
its coffin, that it may not come out to suck human blood any more; how
there are noonday phantoms that lurk in lanes between fields, to
strangle children. They spoke of talking trees, of horrible midnight
spectres, of hanged men, of witches, of bound souls, doing penance upon
earth—and of many another weird and awful thing that made the hair to
stand on end, the heart to faint with horror, and all that heard to
shudder, frozen with dread. Then they sat mute, looking apprehensively
one at the other, and lending an ear: they fancied someone was walking
about the loft over the ceiling, or lurked hid outside the windows; that
glaring eyes glowed upon them through the panes, or dim shadowy forms
skulked in nooks and corners; and more than one made the sign of the
cross, and said prayers with chattering teeth. But this mood was swift
to pass away, like a cloud, when it has glided over the sun and one has
forgotten that it ever was there. And they then set once more to chatter
and spin long, long yarns, which Roch heard attentively, till at last he
joined their talk, and related a certain fable about a horse.
“Once upon a time, a poor five-acre husbandman possessed a horse, whose
nature was slothful and evil beyond words. He was good to it, but that
was of no use; he fed it well, but it never was pleased. And it would do
no work at all, but pulled its harness to pieces, and lashed out so
viciously that no one could go near it.... At last its master, seeing
that kindness was of no avail, grew mightily angry and, harnessing the
horse to a plough, set it to till a field that had long lain fallow,
thinking to wear it out thereby, and weary it into obedience. It refused
to draw; then he gave it so sound a flogging as made it submit and work.
But it thought it had been grievously ill-used, and the memory rankled,
with craving to be revenged at a convenient season. And when the
husbandman one day had stooped down to set its hind legs free, crash!
the horse’s hoofs struck out and killed him on the spot; and it set off
to roam the world at liberty.
“Throughout the summer, things went fairly well with him. He lay in the
shade, or ate the corn on strangers’ lands. But winter came round, the
snow fell, there was little to eat, and he was pinched with cold.
Therefore he went farther and farther away to get food. He had to run
day and night, the wolves following him close and often biting his
flanks very deep.
“Away he ran, and ran, and ran, even to the confines of the winter—to a
meadow where the weather was warm, the grass knee-deep and over, and
streamlets sparkled in the sun, with cool shadows moving to and fro upon
their banks, and a pleasant breeze blowing over them. He went to eat
that grass, for he was famishing: but, whenever he thought to get a
mouthful, it was only a mouthful of hard stones he got: the grass had
disappeared. Then he would fain taste some water: it was there no more,
but only stinking mire in its stead! He sought the shade to lie down: it
floated away, and he was burned and baked by the sun.—Then he would have
returned to the forests: they too had vanished! The poor horse neighed
in distress, and other horses answered him; and, following the sound, he
at last got beyond the meadow and came to a great farm-house. All of
silver it seemed to be, its panes as of precious jewels, its thatch like
the star-studded sky; and several folk were there, going to and fro. He
crawled after them, for now he was willing to labour, no matter how
hard, rather than die miserably of hunger. But he lingered on all day in
the heat, and no one came to put a halter on him. At evening, however,
someone came out: it was the farmer. Now He was the Lord Jesus, the
Great Husbandman, the Holiest! and He said:
“‘You lazy one, you that have slain a man, you have naught to do here.
Not till they that curse you now shall bless you, will I admit you into
My stable.’
“‘I did but strike him back, because he beat me.’
“‘For that beating he has answered to Me; but I hold all justice in My
hands.’
“‘I am so starved!’ the horse whinnied, ‘so thirsty! so tormented with
pain!’
“‘I have spoken. Away! and I will command the wolves to harry and pursue
you.’
“So back went the horse to the land of winter, and dragged himself along
in hunger and cold and exceeding great fear; for the wolves—the hounds
of the Lord, as it were—hunted him on continually, and scared him with
their howls. At last, one spring night, he stood before the gate of his
master’s dwelling-house, where he neighed, expecting to be received.
“But at that sound the widow and her children rushed out, and, snatching
up sticks, staves and cudgels, they beat him cursing him the while for
his evil deed, whereby they had come to great misery and destitution.
“Then went he back to the woods, knowing not what else to do. The wild
beasts came up against him, and he did not defend himself, for he now
thought death as good as life. Howbeit, they only touched his sides, and
the chief amongst them said:
“‘Lo, you are too thin—naught but skin on your bones! Eat you we will
not, nor wear out our teeth to no purpose: but we shall take pity on
you, and help you.’
“They took him with them, and the next morning led him to his master’s
fields, and put him to the plough that was standing there.
“‘They will plough with you, and make you wax stout; and in the autumn
we shall come and unharness you!’ So they spake.
“The widow came to the field later; but though she cried, ‘A miracle!’
seeing him back and about to plough, the bitter memory of what he had
done soon made her revile him and beat him as hard as she could. And
this she did the next day, and after, continually punishing him for his
crime. All the summer he toiled hard and in patience, knowing that he
suffered justly. Only after several years, when the widow had taken
another husband, and also purchased some more land from a neighbour, did
she relent towards the horse, saying unto him:
“‘You did us a grievous wrong; but since by your means the Lord has
blessed us with good harvests, and I have got an able husband, and have
bought some fields, I fully and freely forgive you.’
“And behold, in that same night, while they were celebrating a
christening-feast, the wolves, messengers of our Lord, came, took that
horse out of the stable, and led him to the fields of Paradise.”
They wondered exceedingly at the narrative, and were greatly exercised,
thinking how the Lord always punishes evil and rewards good deeds, and
watches carefully over all things, as this tale about the horse clearly
showed.
“Not even the worm that bores in this wall is hidden from His eyes.”
“Nor even,” Roch swiftly added, “is any most secret thought concealed
from Him, nor any foul desire.”
Yagna started at the words; for Antek had just come in, though noticed
by few. Valentova was at the time relating such wonders about an
enchanted princess, that the spindles ceased from turning, and all sat
motionless, listening in charmed silence.
And thus they spent that bleak February evening.
All their minds were on fire, and blazed like roaring resinous faggots;
murmurs of emotional outbursts—fancies, dreams, desires—fluttered about
the cabin like butterflies—living, flying flowers.
They wove themselves such a web of marvels—so bright with changing
prismatic hues—that for the moment it quite shut out the sad, grey,
miserable world they lived in.
They went a-roaming over dark plains, lit up with phantom lights; by
silver streams, where eerie songs and mysterious calls and gurgling
ripples resounded; through vast woods, full of glamour—of knights, of
giants, of castles haunted by spectres, of dragons breathing flames.
They stood horror-struck at those crossways where vampires screech with
laughter; where they that have hanged themselves utter the sobs of the
lost; and where the souls of unchristened children flit and hover on
bats’ wings. They wandered through dim burying-places, following the
shades of such as do penance for self-murder; they listened to uncanny
voices in ruins of castles and churches; saw fearful visions of terror
pass by in endless procession; were present at battles fought; and
looked beneath the waters, where the swallows sleep together in long
festoons, to be waked each springtime at the Blessed Virgin’s call, who
gives them to the world again!
Heaven and hell they passed through—through the dark shadows of the
wrath of God, and through the radiance of His tender mercy; through
ineffable regions and times of raptures, marvels, miracles; through
worlds never seen but in hours of ecstasy, or in dreams—when man looks
and gazes, is dizzy and spellbound, and knows not whether he is still in
this world or in the next!
It was then that, like an ocean before them, there arose an impassable
barrier—a barrier of enchantments and bright wonders—between them and
the real world, making it fade away, with the cabin, and the thick black
night—this world of troubles, miseries, wrongs, tears, unfulfilled
desires—and opening their eyes to that other world, far more majestic
and beautiful than tongue can tell!
They had entered the world of the Fabulous; the life of the Fabulous
surrounded them with its rainbow tints; the fables of Dreamland had
become realities for them. They were dying with a rapture in which they
yet found a new life—the great new life, abounding and sacred, merged
and plunged in the Miraculous: wherein all trees speak, all stones are
animated, all woods enchanted, and every sod of ground instinct with
unknown force: wherein all things great and invisible and superhuman
live their life—the sublime life of the Inconceivable.
With uttermost longing and a yearning of ecstasy did they aspire towards
that life, uniting all things with its infrangible chain—fancy and
reality, prodigy and wishes—in a bewildering procession of
dream-existences, for which, under the miserable conditions of their
earthly days, their weary crippled souls were insatiably pining.
And indeed, what was that life of theirs, so dull, so squalid? what was
that daily round of deeds, so like the glances of a sick man, veiled in
the mists of suffering?—Mere darkness—a sad tedious night, during which,
except at the hour of death, no such marvels were ever to be seen with
the bodily eyes.
As a beast of burden beneath the yoke, so livest thou, O man! caring
only to get through this thy present day, and never thinking of what
surrounds thee—what incense-perfumes—and from what most sacred
altars—fill the world—nor what hidden prodigies are lurking everywhere!
O man! thou seest no more than doth a rock beneath deep waters! O man!
who in darkness ploughest the field of life, thou sowest it but with
tears and trouble and sorrow!
And this thy starlike soul, O man! thou lettest it wallow in the marsh
and the quagmire!...
The conversation went on, and Roch willingly joined in it, always full
of wonder and sorrow and tears, when others wondered and sorrowed and
wept....
From time to time, there would be long pauses, in which you might almost
hear the throbbing of hearts ready to burst, and you could see how their
moist eyes glistened, shining with dewy tears; while exclamations of
wonder and longing arose, and their souls knelt down before the Lord, in
this His temple of marvels, and sang the great hymn of thanksgiving.
This all their hearts were singing, filled with ecstasy, trembling, in
the mystic communion of the Ideal; like the earth, when it thrills in
spring beneath the sunbeams; like the waters at evening, when the day is
calm and quiet, and vibrations and iridescent tints play all over them;
or like the young corn in an afternoon of early May, murmuring
continuously and gently waving delicate blades and feathery ears in a
prayer of thanks.
Yagna was in heaven. So deeply did she feel and realize all these things
that they stood before her in concrete form and shape, and she was able
to cut them out in paper without any difficulty. They handed her some
sheets, written over by the children whom Roch was teaching; and while
she listened to the legends and stories, she snipped out, now spectres,
now kings, or vampires, or dragons, or any other wonderful things, so
well cut that they were recognized without fail. So many did she cut out
that a whole beam might have been pasted over with her handiwork; and
she painted them all with raddle that Antek passed to her. So absorbed
was she in her work and the legends she was listening to, that she
failed to notice him, as he stood there impatient, trying to draw her
attention; nor did the others, who were also deeply interested, remark
the signs he made.
On a sudden, the dogs outside fell to barking furiously, and howling as
if in dread, till one of Klemba’s sons went out to them. He said on his
return that he had seen a peasant outside the window, who had run away.
No one either paid heed to what he had said or remarked that later, when
the dogs had ceased barking, a face passed swiftly outside the window,
and vanished. Only one girl saw it, and screamed out, rolling her eyes
in terror.
“Someone has just gone by—there—there—in the yard!”
“Yes, I hear feet scrunching through the snow!”
“And there’s a scraping noise along the wall!”
“‘Talk of the wolf ... it is sure to appear!’”
A panic came over them, and now they sat terror-struck, motionless with
dread.
“Ah!” someone said in a terrified whisper, “we were speaking of the Evil
One—and perhaps we have called him up—and he may even now be on the
watch for one of us!”
“Jesu Maria!” they exclaimed in horror.
“Just take a look outside, boys, will you? ’Tis but the dogs playing
about in the snow.”
“Oh, but I saw him too plain through the window—his head as big as a
barrel, and eyes like burning coals!”
“Ye saw not well,” said Roch, and, seeing that no one cared to go into
the yard, he went himself to calm them.
“I will tell you a tale about the Blessed Virgin,” he said on his
return, “and all your fancies will vanish away.” He seated himself in
his former place; his coolness somewhat quieted them.
“It was long, long ago, ages ago; so long ago that the tale is found
only in very ancient books. In a certain village, hard by Cracow, there
dwelt a free peasant, Casimir by name, and surnamed ‘the Hawk.’ His
family, a good one, had dwelt there from all time, and he tilled many a
thirty-five-acre piece of land. He had a forest of his own, a dwelling
like a manor, and water-mill close to the river. Our Lord had blessed
him, and all went well with him; his barns were always full of corn as
his money-box was of money; his children were blooming, his wife was
without reproach, and he himself a wise and kindly man, not proud of
heart, and just towards everyone.
“He ruled like a father in the assembly, always for justice, anxious to
be upright in all things, and ever the first to help and save his
neighbours.
“So he lived, soberly, quietly and happily, as one having the Lord God
at his fireside.
“Now one day the King sent to call the nation to war against the Paynim.
“The Hawk was sorely troubled at heart, for he had no wish to leave his
home and go out to the wars.
“But then, there was the King’s messenger standing at the door, and
calling him to hasten.
“It was a very great war. The Turks, a vile brood! had entered Poland,
burning villages, robbing churches, slaying priests, and putting the
people to death, or driving them, bound with cords, to their own country
of infidels.
“To fight them was a duty. If, to defend his home and kin, men and
country, a man shall willingly lay down his life, he is sure of eternal
salvation.
“So he called the assembly, selected the stoutest and bravest men he
could find; and on the morrow, after Holy Mass, all set out, some on
horseback, others in chariots.
“The whole village went with him, with tears and great lamentations, as
far as the statue of Our Lady of Chenstohova, which stands by the road,
at the crossway.
“He fought for a year, for two years ... but at last no news of him came
any more.
“And when all the others had been back a long time, the Hawk was still
far away. So they thought he must have been either slain or taken
captive by the Turks; moreover, the _Dziads_ and wanderers who passed by
said secretly much that made them think so.
“At length, at the end of the third year, he came back one day in early
spring; but all alone, without henchmen or horses or chariots, in great
poverty, and bearing a staff like a beggar.
“He knelt down before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, thanking her for
his return to his own country; then he made for the village, walking
with swift steps.
“But none welcomed him, none knew who he was; and the dogs attacked him,
and he drove them off.
“He arrived at his home ... rubbed his eyes ... crossed himself ... and
knew not what it meant.
“Jesu Maria!—No granaries, no orchards, no hedges even! and of live
stock, not a single head.—Of his cabin, there remained only the scorched
and ruined walls.—No children either! All was utterly destroyed. His
wife rose at his approach from a pallet of straw where she lay sick and
in pain, and she burst into most bitter tears!
“He stood thunderstruck.
“It had come to pass, while he was fighting and putting to flight the
enemies of the Lord, that the plague had entered his cabin, and cut off
all his children, and the lightning had struck it and burned it down,
and the wolves had eaten his cattle. Then his neighbours seized upon his
lands, the corn had perished by drought, the rest of the crops by
hailstorms: and naught remained to him.
“Down he dropped on the threshold, ghastly as one dead. But when evening
fell, and the bell rang for the Angelus, he started up, and began to
curse and blaspheme in an awful voice!
“‘Had he shed his blood in God’s service for this? for this defended
God’s churches?’
“In vain his wife tried to calm him; in vain she fell at his feet and
entreated him: he continued to curse and blaspheme.
“‘What! had he suffered wounds, and hunger, and been honest and pious
for this? No matter what he had been, the Lord God had forsaken him, and
decreed he should lose all!’
“Most foully did he curse the name of God, and cry that now he would
give himself to Satan, who alone did not forsake the wretches that call
upon him.
“At those words, behold, Satan appeared before him!
“The Hawk, being very wroth, was now reckless, and cried out:
“‘O devil, if you can help me, do; for I have been dealt with most
grievously!’
“Fool that he was, and unable to understand that this was all but a
trial, whereby our Lord would prove him!
“‘I will aid you,’ Satan hissed; ‘but will you give up your soul to me?’
“‘I will—this instant!’
“So a compact was written, and signed with Casimir’s blood.
“From that day forth, all things began to mend. He himself did but
little, only ordering and overseeing things. Michalek (for so the devil
chose to be called) worked for him, helped by other devils, disguised as
farm-servants or as Germans; and in a short time the farm was in better
order, larger and more flourishing than it ever had been.
“Only there came no more children to them. For how, indeed, could they
come to a home so unblessed as that?
“This mortified the Hawk exceedingly. Also by night he was wrung at the
thought how he should support the everlasting fire of hell.
“But Michalek took upon him to say that all rich folk—lords, kings, men
of learning, yea, and even such bishops as were mighty on earth—had sold
their souls to him. And yet none of them cared for what might come to
them after death, and thought only of making merry and tasting all the
pleasures of this life to the full.
“Then was Casimir more at ease, and he became a yet greater foe to God.
With his own hands, he hewed down the cross by the forest; he cast the
holy images out of his cabin, and would even have removed the statue of
Our Lady of Chenstohova, because it was in his way when he ploughed.
Hardly could his wife, with many prayers and tears and entreaties,
prevail upon him to let it remain.
“The years flew by, like a rapid river. His wealth increased enormously,
and his importance along with it; so that the King himself came to see
the man, invited him to Court, and gave him the post of chamberlain
there.
“Now was he puffed up, and looked down upon all, oppressed the poor,
threw honesty to the winds, and cared no whit for anyone in the world.
“He also most foolishly closed his mind against the thought that he must
one day pay dearly for all this.
“But at last the hour of reckoning arrived.
“Our Lord’s patience and mercy towards that hardened sinner came to an
end at last.
“And his doom and punishment swooped down upon him.
“First, he was assailed by sore diseases, which tortured him
unceasingly.
“Then the plague swept away all his castle.
“Next, his farm-buildings were struck by lightning and burned to the
ground.
“After which, his corn crops were ruined by hailstorms.
“Then such terrible droughts came that everything was withered up and,
being dry, burned to ashes; the very ground was cracked and fissured,
and his trees died for lack of water.
“All men abandoned him, and Want sat down at his threshold.
“He was exceeding sick, and his flesh fell from off his bones, which
began to rot.
“He called for Michalek and his fellow-demons to help him; but without
avail. When the hand of the Lord is lifted up in anger against any man,
Satan can do nothing.
“Instead of trying to aid him, the fiends, who were sure that he was
already theirs, blew fire into his horrible wounds to make them rankle
yet more.
“And now, nothing could save him but God’s mercy.
“Late in the autumn, there came so windy a night that the gale tore off
the roof of the cabin, and all the doors and windows; and with it there
entered a troop of fiends that fell to dancing as they pressed forwards
with pitchforks to the middle of the room, where the Hawk lay dying.
“His wife did what she could to protect him. Thrusting a holy image in
front of him, and chalking the sign of the cross on the door and
windows, she drove them out; but she was most anxious lest he should die
unreconciled to God, and without the last sacraments. So, although he
had forbidden her, being hardened even at this last hour, and though
Satan sought to turn her back, she found an opportunity, and slipped
away to where the parish priest lived.
“But he was just driving out, and did not care to attend so wicked a
man.
“‘God has abandoned him: he needs must belong to Satan: I have nothing
to do there.’ And off he drove to play cards with the manor-folk.
“Weeping in bitter woe, the woman knelt down before the statue of Our
Lady of Chenstohova, and sobbed and besought mercy for him from the
bottom of her heart.
“And the Holy Virgin took pity, and spake to her:
“‘Woman,’ she said, ‘weep not: thy prayer is granted.’
“And down she came from the altar, just as she was: crowned with gold,
clad in her azure star-besprinkled mantle, and with a rosary dangling at
her side ... she, the Holy Mother, like unto the morning star, all
beaming with loving-kindness! The woman fell upon her face before her.
“With her sacred hands she raised her up compassionately, wiped away her
tears, and said tenderly:
“‘Take me to thy cabin, faithful servant; it may be that I can do
something.’
“She looked on the dying sinner, and her merciful heart yearned within
her at the sight.
“‘Thy husband must not die without a priest: the power to shrive, that
priests have received from God, is not mine; for I am but a woman. That
priest is an evil-doer, and cares not for his flock. For that will he
answer to God; but he alone can give absolution.... I will go myself to
the manor and fetch this gambler thence.—Here is my rosary: keep the
fiends at bay with it till I come back.’
“But how was she to go? The night was dark, windy, rainy, miry. It was
far to go, besides; and moreover, the fiends set up obstacles everywhere
to prevent her.
“Our Heavenly Lady dreaded none of these things. She only muffled
herself in a sheet of coarse drugget against the foul weather, and went
out into the darkness.
“Exhausted and quite drenched, she arrived at the manor, knocked at the
door, and humbly begged the priest to come to a sick man; but, supposing
her to be some poor woman, and knowing how stormy it was out of doors,
he sent her word that he would come next day, being too busy just then.
So he went on playing, drinking, and enjoying himself with the gentlemen
there.
“Our Lord’s Mother sighed deeply at his evil behaviour; but, causing a
gilded coach and horses and servants to appear at once, she went into
the room, arrayed in the garb of a castellan’s lady.
“Of course the priest set out with her at once and very eagerly.
“They arrived, but only just in time; the man was almost at his last
gasp, and the fiends were making efforts to rush in and carry him alive
to hell, before the priest arrived with the Sacred Host.
“The Hawk confessed, repented, was shriven, and gave up the ghost. Our
Lady herself closed his eyes; then, when she had blessed his widow, she
turned to the bewildered priest and said:
“‘Follow thou me!’
“He did so, ever more and more amazed; but, looking out of the
cabin-door, saw neither coach nor servants—only rain, mire, darkness—and
Death dogging each of his steps! Mightily afraid, he followed our Lady
to the chapel.
“Then he beheld her, now in her mantle and crown, surrounded with a
choir of angels, as she again took her place upon the altar.
“Then he knew her for the queen of Heaven, and was terrified. Falling on
his knees, he wept aloud, and begged her to have mercy.
“But the Blessed Virgin eyed him with indignation, and said:
“Many a century shalt thou kneel here in penance for thy sins, ere thou
hast atoned for them!’
“And immediately he turned into stone, and remained in that posture,
weeping every night, holding out his hands to her, and awaiting the hour
of pardon. Thus has he been kneeling for ages and ages.
“Amen!...
“Even at the present day, that same priest is to be seen in Dombrova.
The stone figure stands outside the church, in perpetual memory of the
fact, and as a warning to all sinners.”
All listened with attention; all were subdued, filled with wonder, awed
and silenced.
For what could they say at such a moment—when the soul, expanding like
the iron which glows red-hot in the fire, is so flooded with emotion and
splendour that one has but to strike upon it, and it shoots forth a
starry shower, becoming, as it were, a rainbow suspended between earth
and heaven?
And so they remained, hushed and silent, until the glow that then filled
them had dwindled and faded away.
Matthew took out his flute, and the touch of his cunning fingers brought
forth the anthem, “To Thy Protection, Holy Mother of God....” with its
touching, measureless, opalescent melody, like gossamer-besprinkled
dewdrops; and they all, in low voices, took up the anthem after him.
And then, little by little, one by one, they went back to their everyday
mood and talk.
After a time the young people smiled and laughed; for Teresa, the
soldier’s wife, was asking them funny riddles. In a while, someone
coming in said that Boryna was back from the law-court, and drinking in
the tavern with his companions: at which Yagna quickly and quietly
slipped out. Antek slipped out too, catching up with her at the outer
entrance on the very threshold; he seized her hand fast, and led her on
to the outer yard, and through the orchard, beyond the barns and
granaries.