The morrow which followed that memorable night was full of great
excitement; and all Lipka swarmed like an ant-hill when a naughty boy
has thrust a stick into it.
Dawn had scarcely risen, people had but just begun to rub their eyes and
wake up, when they all of one accord made their way to the scene of the
fire. Some even said their prayers as they went, to save time, and
hurried along as to a fair.
The day rose, blurred as with mist; for the snow, coming down in great
soft flakes, threw its wet ragged cloak over everything. That, however,
no one minded; all gathered in groups, and stood for hours together on
the spot, talking in low tones about the events of the night, and
pricking up their ears to get at any new detail that might offer.
The rick was in ruins—so completely burned down that nothing had been
left standing save the two supports it had been built upon. And these
too were like half-burnt-out brands. The thatch had also been torn from
the sties and the shed, down to the very girders. The pathway and
neighbouring land were, for half the length of a field, covered with
burnt thatch, splinters of laths, ashes of straw, bits of charred wood.
The snow continued to fall, and after a time overspread everything with
a glistening sheet, which the glowing embers had thawed in places. Here
and there, too, there issued streams of smoke or even pale hissing
flames from heaps of hay that had been pulled from the rick, which the
men set to work upon with hedge-bills, stamping out the flames with
their clogs, beating the hay with sticks, and heaping it over with snow.
They were just at work on one of those smouldering heaps, when a lad
fished out a charred rag and held it aloft.
“’Tis Yagna’s apron!” Kozlova sneered; for they all knew what had taken
place, or guessed it shrewdly.
“Search well, lads; ye may also find a pair of hose.”
“Oh, no! he carried them off unscathed ... unless he lost them by the
way!”
“The lasses have been after them all the time, but someone was too quick
and got them first.”
“Silence, babblers!” the Soltys shouted indignantly. “Come ye to make
merry here, and grin over your neighbour’s misfortune?—Off, women! get
you home; what do ye, standing here?”
“Meddle not with our business, but do your own; for that only are ye in
office!” Kozlova retorted in such shrill tones of anger that the Soltys
looked her in the face, spat with disgust, and withdrew to the
farm-yard. No one moved an inch; and the women set to pushing the singed
apron about with their clogs, and confer together in fierce tones.
“Such a one,” Kozlova said aloud, “should be treated as witches were
dealt with of old—driven out from amongst us with a lighted candle and
an oven-poker!”
“Surely! Has not all this befallen through her fault?” chimed in
Sikora’s wife.
“It is,” put in Sohova gently, “a mercy of the Lord that the whole
village has not been burnt down!”
“True: a miracle, a miracle indeed.”
“Yes; there was no wind, and they gave the alarm at once.”
“Besides, the alarm-bell was rung, and we were only in our first sleep.”
“It is likely the bear-leaders, who were coming from the tavern, were
the first to see it.”
“Ah, no, my dear! Boryna caught them inside the haystack, and had only
just separated them, when the fire broke out. Last night, when I saw
them at the Klembas’, going out together, I was sure something of the
sort would happen.”
“The old man had long been on the watch to catch them.”
“My son tells me he had been walking about outside Klemba’s ever so
long, waiting for them,” Kobusova remarked.
“Antek must have set the rick on fire out of spite.”
“Did he not threaten he would do so?”
“It could not but have ended in some such way; it could not,” Kozlova
put in.
Meanwhile, another group of housewives were also whispering, but lower
and to more purpose.
“Do you know? Boryna has swinged Yagna so, that she is now lying sick in
her mother’s house!”
“Certainly; he turned her out at dawn, and sent her chest with all her
things after her,” Balcerek’s wife, who had hitherto said nothing, told
them now.
Ploshka’s wife contradicted her:
“Pray do not talk at random; I was in the hut just now, and her chest is
standing there.
“But,” she added in a higher key, “on her wedding-day I foretold it
would come to this.”
“O my God!” Sohova groaned, raising her open hands, “what an awful,
awful thing!”
“Ah, well, he will be locked up for it, and that’s all!”
“It is but just: we might all have been burnt out.”
“I,” said Ploshka’s wife, “was beginning to enjoy my first sleep, when
Luke, who had been running about with the bear-leaders, came tapping at
my window-pane and crying: ‘Fire!’—Jesu Maria! the window was as red as
hot embers.... And I felt so faint, I could not budge one inch.... And
the bell tolled, and the people shrieked....”
Here someone broke in: “No sooner had I heard there was a fire at
Boryna’s than I knew it was Antek’s doing.”
“Tush, ye talk as though ye had seen him do it.”
“Seen him I have not; but all say it is he.”
“Why, Yagustynka has been whispering something of the sort for ever so
long.”
“Of course they will put him in the stocks, and then in prison.”
“But,” cried Balcerkova, whose pride was that she knew the law, “what
can they do to him? Who has seen the man? What witnesses are there?”
“Well, but did not Boryna catch him in the act?”
“Yes; but not in _that_ act.—Besides, even had it been that, his
testimony is worthless, because he is at odds with his son!”
“After all, ’tis the court’s business, not ours; but who, before God and
man, is guilty of it all, if not that foul wench Yagna?” Balcerkova
continued sternly, raising her voice.
“You say true!—Ah, such wickedness, such depravity!” they assented,
speaking lower and thronging closer, as they recounted her former
misdeeds.
Little by little, their voices rose loud in condemnation of Yagna’s
behaviour. All the old offences which had caused their hatred, now again
returned to their minds: a shower of epithets, reproaches, threats, and
evil spiteful words, were hurled at her; and their fury was so hot that,
had she appeared among them at that instant, she would surely have been
attacked and beaten.
The men, on the other side, were discussing Antek, more calmly, but not
with less animosity. Every heart was full of indignation and bitterness.
More than one fist was shaken with dangerous menace, more than one word
of harsh import flew about. Even Matthew, who had been on his side at
first, forsook him now, only saying:
“Well, if the man had dared to attempt such a thing, he must needs be
out of his mind.”
Thereupon the blacksmith entered the lists, speaking loud, with furious
passion, and pointing out to them that Antek had long ago threatened his
father he would burn him down; that Boryna had known of his threats, and
been in the habit of keeping watch every night.
“Yes, I could take my oath it was he that did it.—Besides, there are
witnesses who will speak; he must—he must be punished! Was he not always
plotting with the farm-hands, setting them against their betters, egging
them on to evil deeds?—Yes, and I know,” he cried in threatening tones,
“I know more than one of these—I see them here before me, and they hear
me speak ... and yet they dare to stand up for such a scoundrel—one who
taints the whole place!... To prison, to Siberia with the wretch!
What—with his own stepmother! Was not that crime heinous enough, without
adding to it arson besides? ’Tis a wonder any of us is yet alive!”...
And so he went on, shrieking and shouting so vehemently that he might be
guessed to have a purpose in doing so.
Roch, who stood with Klemba not far off, took good note of this, and
said:
“Ye make a mighty uproar against him, yet ye were drinking with him in
the tavern only yesterday!”
“Whoso would beggar all the village is my foe!”
“And yet,” Klemba gravely remarked, “the Squire is no foe of yours!”
The smith then strode off amongst the people, stirring them up, calling
them to take revenge, and laying unheard-of offences to Antek’s account;
and his hearers, already greatly moved, were presently wrought to the
very highest pitch of rage. Some began to cry that the incendiary ought
to be seized, fettered, and taken to the police-court; while others, of
yet more fiery mettle (those especially whose ribs had in days past felt
Antek’s cudgel), were now looking for sticks, intending to drag him from
his cabin and give him such a thrashing as he would remember to his
dying day.
The clamour grew, with cries, threats, curses, and a hullabaloo so great
that the folk swayed hither and thither like a spinney in a gale,
rolling to and from the palings of the enclosure, and preparing to pour
out through the gate into the road. The Voyt came to pacify them, but
without avail; nor did the Soltys and the elders of the village succeed
any better. Their voices were lost in the uproar, and they were
themselves swept away by the torrent. No one heeded what they said:
everyone dashed on, tore along, and shouted with all the force of his
lungs: the whole band, carried forward by a tempest of hate, appeared
like men possessed.
At that moment, Kozlova elbowed her way forward, vociferating:
“There are two culprits: let both be dragged to the place of their crime
and judged there!”
The married women, especially the poorest of all, took up the cry with a
hideous bellow and, with arms stretched forth, placed themselves by her
side. The mob rolled on with the din of a raging torrent.
The howling and shrieking grew as they went on, delayed by the narrow
fenced road; they all pressed together, surging along, shrieking,
shaking their fists, and lurched against one another, glaring with
sinister glances; and a savage many-sounding voice, the cry of universal
exasperation, burst from them as they hastened on, intent upon their
purpose.—Suddenly those in front cried out:
“The priest! the priest!—And with the Sacred Host!”
At this the mob moved uneasily, as if held back by a chain—wavered,
spread out upon the road, stopped, and broke up into little groups. A
hush fell all at once upon them: they were struck speechless—fell on
their knees and, kneeling, bowed down their heads.
It was indeed the priest, coming out of the church, and bearing with him
Christ’s Body—the holy viaticum. Ambrose walked on in front, ringing a
bell and swinging a lantern.
He went swiftly past, and presently, in the eddying snowfall, was seen
only as a dim blur outside a frozen window-pane. Then they rose from
their knees.
“Going over to Filipka. She was so starved with cold in the forest
yesterday that she has been scarce able to breathe since dawn. They say
she will not hold out till night.”
“He has also been called to Bartek of the sawmill.”
“What’s amiss with him?”
“Why, know ye not? A falling tree-trunk has crushed the man so, that he
is not likely ever to be well again.” So they whispered—still gazing
after the priest, now almost unseen.
Several of the elder dames had joined him to follow in procession,
together with a large party of men; and the rest stood uncertain, like a
flock of sheep which their dog has headed round. All their resentment
had evaporated, the back of the riot was broken, the din ceased. They
looked at one another, scratched their heads or mumbled some unconnected
words; several were ashamed of themselves, spat on the ground, and slunk
off. Part of the crowd thus leaked away like water, creeping through
fences and into wayside cabins. Kozlova alone went on ranting in spite
of all, and threatening Antek and Yagna; but, seeing himself without
adherents, she had a passage of arms with Roch (who had told her certain
truths), and then went back to the village. In the end but few remained,
watching at the place of the disaster, lest the fire should break out
anew.
The blacksmith, too, remained in the farm-yard, much vexed with the
course of events. He spoke no more to anyone, but prowled about, prying
into holes and corners, and more than once driving Lapa away for
persistently following him and barking.
All this time, Boryna was nowhere to be seen. He was, they said, fast
asleep under his bed-clothes; and only Yuzka, with eyes red from crying,
peeped out of doors for a moment to disappear immediately. Yagustynka
did the farm-yard work alone, as waspish that morning as could possibly
be. It was no use speaking to her, and after a few answers that stung
like nettles, no one cared to try.
Punctually at noon, a clerk and several gendarmes arrived in Lipka. They
wrote a great deal, and made much inquiry into the causes of the fire:
which made all present take themselves off pretty quickly, fearing to be
called as witnesses.
No one was even seen about the roads; but this was because the snow,
falling ceaselessly and yet moister than before, was melting ere it
touched the earth, and covered the whole country with a layer of
half-liquid slush. But the folk at home were as lively as bees in a
hive; that day had brought them an unexpected respite from their work;
few did anything at all, and at some farms the cows were lowing over
their empty mangers. In every cabin, people were busily discussing the
great event, and often someone would pass from hut to hut: old dames
especially, wagging eager tongues. So, from hearth to hearth, news went
fluttering round like crows; and at windows and front doors, and
elsewhere within the enclosures, many an inquisitive face was seen,
watching for Antek to appear, going by in the clutch of the law!
Their curiosity increased hourly, still unsatisfied. Every now and then,
someone would rush in, with the breathless announcement that the
gendarmes were at Antek’s; or swore that he had overpowered them, broken
his fetters, and got away. And others had other facts at hand, not less
sure than these.
One thing was beyond doubt. Vitek had run to the tavern to get vodka,
and great volumes of smoke were pouring out of Boryna’s chimney: which
told of good cheer preparing within.
Then evening came, clerk and gendarmes drove off in the Voyt’s
britzka.—But Antek was not along with them!
Great was the wonder and disappointment of the village folk. All had
expected to see him carried off in chains. It was in vain that they put
their heads together to guess what the old man’s testimony had been.
That only the Voyt and the Soltys knew: and they kept their own counsel.
So the village was in a fever of curiosity; and manifold conjectures,
some of them quite incredible, were put forth.
The night fell slowly, dark and quiet enough; the snow no longer fell,
and there were signs of a slight frost at hand; for a star or two
glittered in the sky, and a bleak wind was hardening the wet expanses of
snow which began to break underfoot into thin crackling splinters.
Lights shone from within the cabins, where the folk, closely crowded,
rested from the emotions of the day and gave rein to yet more
conjectures and surmises.
The field was a wide one. Antek had not been arrested: so he was
innocent of having burnt the rick. Then who was guilty? Not Yagna,
certainly: no one dreamed she was. And as little did anyone think of
accusing old Boryna.
So they groped and groped in the dark, quite unable to find any solution
of the mystery. There was no hut wherein the question was not debated,
nor any where they arrived at the truth. The only outcome of all these
debates was that people were no longer set against Antek. Even his
enemies’ mouths were stopped; and his friends, Matthew amongst them,
once more lifted up their voices in his favour. On the other hand, their
fierce hatred for Yagna became still more envenomed. With cruel tongues,
the women set themselves to deal with her, dragging her as through a
wilderness of thorns and briers. Dominikova, too, came in for her share,
and no small one either: being all the more spitefully treated, because
no one could say what had become of Yagna; her mother had driven all
busybodies from her door, as one drives away troublesome dogs.
But all unanimously felt profound compassion and sympathy for Hanka,
whom they pitied sincerely, and heartily condoled with. Klemba’s wife
and Sikora had even gone to her that same evening, bearing with them
presents in bundles for the poor woman.
Thus that memorable day went by. The next, things were once more as
usual. Curiosity and resentment had cooled down, indignation was blunted
and subdued: the daily round of work began again, and they bent their
necks to the yoke, and accepted the lot which the Lord God had given
them.
At times, indeed, people would talk of what had taken place, but more
and more seldom now, and ever with less keen interest.
March coming round, the weather grew really intolerable: dark, muggy,
dreary, with such deluges of rain and sleet that to stay within doors
was almost a necessity. The sun seemed to have lost itself somewhere
among those low-lying masses of cloud, and often did not shine for one
second throughout the livelong day. The snows melted, or softened only,
taking a dingy greenish hue, like mouldy walls; the furrows were filled
with water, and it flooded the lower lands, and the outlying premises of
the farms; and during the nights a frost would frequently come and make
walking along the slippery roads and paths no easy matter.
And this abominable weather made folks think less and less about the
late fire; the more so, because neither Boryna nor Antek nor Yagna
excited curiosity by appearing in public. Thus did the event fall into
oblivion, as a stone falls into a stream; the water swirls and eddies
over it, ripples, breaks, trembles ... and flows calmly on as before.
And so things went on until Shrove-Tuesday, the last day before Lent.
It was somewhat of a holiday, and since the dawn a good deal of bustling
had been going on about the cabins. From well-nigh every home someone
had gone to town to get various articles, especially meat—or at least a
bit of sausage or fat bacon. Only the very poorest had to be satisfied
with a herring (bought on credit from the Jew) with a dish of boiled
potatoes and salt.
But, ever since noontide, the wealthier housewives had been frying
doughnuts; and the odours of burnt dripping, and baked meats, and other
viands yet more alluring, filled the air of the whole place.
Once more did the bear-leaders make their appearance, straying from hut
to hut and performing; and the shouts of the lads who accompanied them
echoed now from one part of the village, now from another.
And in the evening, when supper was over, the band played in the tavern;
everyone that could move his legs hastened thither, caring not one whit
for the sleet that had begun pouring down with the twilight.
They enjoyed themselves with particular gusto, because it was the last
time dancing was allowed before Eastertide. Matthew played the flute,
and Pete (Boryna’s man) accompanied him on the fiddle, while Yasyek
Topsy-turvy performed on the drum.
And all danced with extraordinary life and spirit, until such time as
the tolling of the church-bell signified to them that midnight had
come—and that the Carnival was over.
At once the band ceased playing, the dances stopped; everyone promptly
dispatched what food remained, and all went home—except old Ambrose,
who, fairly drunk, stayed singing outside the tavern, according to his
wont.
No lights shone anywhere but in Dominikova’s cabin; but there, it was
said, the Voyt and the Soltys sat in conference till the second
cock-crow, to reconcile Yagna and Boryna.
And when the whole village was fast asleep, and the land at rest (the
rain having stopped about midnight), they were still deep in conference.
But in Antek’s hut there was no joyous Carnival, no quiet sleep, nor any
peace at all.
God alone knows, and no human tongue can tell, what passed in Hanka’s
mind during those long days and nights since she had met her husband
outside the hut, when he forced her to go in.
For that same night she had been told all by Veronka.
The agony of it slew her soul within her, and it lay like a naked
corpse, horrible in death. For the first day or two, she hardly stirred
from her distaff and spinning-gear: though she spun nothing, only moving
her hands mechanically, as one in a deathly slumber, gazing within
herself, looking on the storm of sufferings that were hers, and on the
miserable chaos of burning tears, wrongs borne, injustice suffered. All
that time she neither ate nor slept; even her children’s cries could not
recall her to herself. Veronka had pity on her, and took care of the
little ones, and of her old father, too, who—to make matters worse—had
fallen ill after that expedition to the forest, and lay upon the top of
the baking-oven, moaning low.
Antek, one might say, was never at home, going out at dawn and returning
only late at night. But she now felt herself unable to say a single word
to him. It was impossible: her soul, hardened, as it were, in the fire,
had become like stone.
Only on the third day did she wake up, as out of a horrible dream. But
how changed! Coming back from that trance of death, she was in
appearance no longer the same person: grey, faded, wrinkled, many a year
older in looks, and now hard and rigid as though she had been carved in
wood. Only her eyes glowed, cold and keen; and her lips were set
hard.—So thin had she grown that her clothes hung on her as upon a peg.
And thus she came back to life again. Although her former self was now
burnt to ashes, she was aware within her soul of a wonderful power that
she never had felt before—of a stubborn force of living and fighting,
and of the settled certitude that she would overcome at last.
She at once flew to her wailing children, took them in her arms, and
well-nigh smothered them with kisses; and she burst with them into a
long sweet flood of tears that were a true relief to her, soothing her
anguish greatly.
She quickly set the hut in order, and went round to Veronka to thank her
for her kindness, and entreat her to forgive the past. They were at once
good friends again, which her sister took as a matter of course. Not so
the fact—the inexplicable fact—that Hanka never breathed a word of
reproach against Antek, or even complained of her own sad fate.
“I feel like a widow now,” she said; “I am alone, and must take thought
for the little ones and for everything.”
That same evening she went to see the Klembas and other acquaintances,
and ask them how things were going on at Boryna’s, whose words, so
lately heard, were ever in her mind.
Instead, however, of going at once to him, she waited a few days more;
and it was only when Ash-Wednesday had come round that she put on her
best clothes, committed her little ones to Veronka’s keeping,
and—without even preparing breakfast—made ready to go out.
“Whither away so early?” Antek inquired.
“To the Ash-Wednesday service,” she replied, slowly and evasively.
“Will you not get breakfast ready?”
“Get ye to the tavern; the Jew will give you credit still,” she could
not help answering: the words came out unawares.
He started up, as if he had got a blow; but she went out unheeding.
Now his shouts, his fury, affrighted her no more. He was a stranger, and
so remote from her that she was herself astonished. And though, from
time to time, something like the last flicker of her old fondness rose
up in her heart from embers now covered over and trodden down, she at
once quenched them by recalling the memory of her inexpiable wrongs.
When she entered the poplar road, the faithful were just repairing to
church.
It was a singularly bright day for the season. The sun was just in the
east; the thin surfaces which the night had frozen on the snows had not
yet been melted by the thaw. From the thatches there hung strings as of
glittering crystal beads; the waters, frozen in the roads and ditches,
gleamed like so many mirrors, and the frosted trees sparkled in the sun.
In the pure blue sky, there were suspended a multitude of tiny
milk-white clouds, that floated in the light like a flock of sheep
playing in a great field full of azure flax-blossoms. The air was pure,
cold, and so bracing that inhaling it was a pleasure. The whole
country-side looked gay, the pools glistened; the snows shone with
glassy golden reflection; the children were frisking and sliding about
with joyous cries; an old man here and there, propped against a wall,
basked in the bright warm rays; even the dogs, as they chased the crows
come to pick up food, barked with a merry bark.
But, on entering the church, Hanka passed immediately into an atmosphere
of deep, cold, religious silence. A low mass was just being read at the
high altar; and the people, devoutly attentive and lost in fervent
prayer, formed a dense crowd in the nave, upon which long streams of
light were pouring down.
Hanka cared little to mix with the crowd then. She went into an aisle so
gloomy that it had no light at all, save a few ice-cold streaks; for she
desired to be alone with her own soul and with God. Down she knelt
before a side-altar consecrated to the Assumption and, kissing the
pavement, stretched out her arms, fixed her eyes on the sweet face of
the “Mother of Mercy,” and was soon absorbed in prayer.
And now at last, at the holy feet of her, the “Comforter of the
Afflicted,” she burst out into complaints, laying bare all the wounds of
her soul with the deepest humility and the most boundless trust, and
confessing all her sins from the bottom of her heart. Before our
Lady—the Mother of the Polish Nation—she truly repented of all her
transgressions. For lo! she had sinned, since she had been punished by
the Lord Jesus!
“Aye, I have been unkind to my neighbours, I have set myself above them,
quarrelled sometimes, and not been cleanly, and have loved good cheer,
been lazy in working and slothful in God’s service: I have sinned.” Such
was the fervent cry of her soul, bleeding with contrition, and she
prayed most earnestly that God might forgive Antek’s most grievous sins.
Oh, how, and with what ardour, did she beg for mercy! Even as a fowl
which, about to be killed, makes a frantic dash to the window beats at
the panes, and pipes in a mournful voice, begging for its poor life!
Her whole frame shook with weeping; and from out of her soul, as from a
bleeding wound, there poured a stream of prayers; and her tears, like
bloodstained pearls, trickled down and watered the icy pavement.
Mass was over; and the whole congregation, deeply contrite, went forward
to the altar railings, there to receive with bended heads the ashes with
which the priest, uttering aloud a penitential prayer, crossed their
brows as they knelt.
Without awaiting the close of the service, Hanka went out, greatly
strengthened, and full of trust in God’s help.
With head erect, she replied to all who greeted her, and—bold and brave
at last—met many a curious eye as she went by. But it was not without a
quiver of emotion that she at length reached Boryna’s enclosure.
Lord! how very long it was since she had been within! And yet, how many
a time had she, sorrowfully and from afar, approached to have a glimpse
of it! Now she could view all the place—cabin, outhouses, hedges, trees
covered with hoarfrost—with eyes as full of affectionate remembrance as
if all that had been part and parcel of her own being, of her life!
Her soul was glad and jocund within her. Scarcely had she got to the
porch, when Lapa dashed out and jumped upon her, joyfully whining; and
then Yuzka came out, astounded, and hardly believing her senses.
“Hanka! Good Lord! Hanka!”
“Yes, it is I: don’t you know me?—Is Father in the house?”
“Surely, surely!—Ah, ye have come at last, ye have come, Hanka!” And the
little lass fell a-weeping and kissing her hands, just as if she had
been her own mother.
The old man, hearing her voice, came out and brought her into the cabin
himself, asked about the children and was pained at what she had
undergone. She presently became calmer, and told him everything without
concealment. But she felt shocked at the change that he too had
suffered; for he had aged a good deal, stooped much more, and looked
faded and withered and thin. But his face still wore the same expression
as of old, and was even full of more grim and dogged determination than
before.
They had a long talk; and when, after an hour or so, Hanka prepared to
go home, Boryna told Yuzka to make a large bundle of everything they
could spare. It turned out to be so large that she could not carry it by
herself; so Vitek had to take it on a toboggan. And, as she went out,
Boryna thrust several _zloty_ into her hands “for salt-money,” and said:
“Come hither more often—every day, if ye can. No one knows what may
happen to me, so pray look after the house. And Yuzka loves you.”
Thereupon she went away, reflecting on his words as she went, and paying
but little heed to Vitek’s prattle. Yet he was telling her how the Voyt
and the Soltys came daily to press Master to be reconciled to Yagna; how
Master had even been at his Reverence’s, along with Dominikova—who had
afterwards conferred with him till very late the night before—and told
her all the news he thought would interest her.
She found Antek still at home, repairing his boots. He did not even look
up in her direction; but, on seeing Vitek and the pack, he said,
tauntingly:
“Come back from begging, I see.”
“Beggars have to beg.”
But when Vitek came in, Antek, recognizing him, flew into a passion.
“Blood of a dog!—I forbade you to go to Father’s!”
“He asked me himself—I went; he offered the things unasked—I
accepted.—Am I, are the children, to die of hunger?—To you ’tis
indifferent; but I will not have it.”
“Take all that back again!” he shouted. “I want nothing from that man.”
“You do not: I and the little ones do!”
“Take it back, I say, or I’ll take it myself ... aye, and thrust his
charity down his throat to choke him! Do you hear? I’ll throw all that
stuff out of doors!”
“You dare to try! Lay but a finger on it, and you’ll see!” she screamed,
catching up the tiny house-mangle, ready to defend, tooth and nail, the
things given her. So dangerous did she look, so infuriated, that he
shrank back in confusion at this unexpected resistance.
“He has bought you cheap,” he growled. “Very cheap.—For a bit of bread,
as one lures a dog!”
“You have sold us—and yourself—cheaper still: for Yagna’s ...
petticoat!” she burst out.—Antek started, as though stabbed. And then
Hanka seemed suddenly to have gone raving mad. In a torrent of words she
overwhelmed him with every wrong he had ever done to her, and with a
host of remembrances and grievances she had never yet spoken of;
unsparingly, passing over not one single fault or unkindness; beating
him so unmercifully with the flail of her speech that, if she could, she
would have beaten him to death on the spot.
He stood aghast at her mad rage; and he felt something, too, that was
tearing at his heart. With bowed head he listened, dismayed, and a
bitter sense of shame burned his soul; then he snatched up his cap and
fled out of the hut.
It was long ere he could make out what strange transformation had come
over her. As a dog spurned from the door, he ran away, never thinking
where he went, to wander about aimlessly, as indeed was his daily
custom.
For since that terrible hour of the conflagration, a fearful thing had
come into being within him: he was, so to speak, a prey to secret
insanity. He no longer went to his work, although the miller had several
times sent for him; he did nothing but wander about the country-side, or
sit drinking in the tavern, continually revolving in his mind thoughts
of bloody vengeance, and his soul was full of nothing else.
He was even indifferent to the suspicions of arson which sullied his
name.
“Let anyone dare to utter them to my face ... let him but dare!” he had
cried to Matthew in the tavern, loud enough for all present to hear.
The heifer which remained to him he had sold to a Jew, and drunk the
price of it with his associates; for he had now for pot-companions all
the riff-raff in Lipka; such vile fellows as, for instance, Bartek
Koziol, or Philip (from over the water), Francis, the miller’s man, or
those, the lowest of all, the jail-birds, Gulbasowa’s sons—men always
ready for any act of debauchery, always prowling like wolves about the
country-side, seeking what they could snap up and barter to the Jew for
a few drams. But he cared little what they were: they kept him company,
and fawned upon him as spaniels fawn on their masters. He did indeed
give one or another a thrashing now and then; but he willingly stood
them drinks and protected them against other folk.
The gang shortly committed so many lawless acts and breaches of the
peace that complaints were made every day to the Voyt, and even to his
Reverence.
Matthew cautioned him, but unavailingly. Vainly, too, had Klemba, out of
pure kindliness, besought him to stop in time, and not ruin his life for
ever. He listened to no one, did more and more desperate deeds, drank
yet harder, and had become the dread of the whole village.
In short, he was rolling swiftly to his destruction down a precipitous
hill. All Lipka had their eyes upon him—eyes of suspicion and
apprehension. As to the fire, indeed, they were divided in opinion; but
they saw with their own eyes the deeds he undoubtedly did, and their
animosity increased daily; besides, the smith was always inciting them
against him. Even his former friends soon began to hold aloof from him;
but to Antek, blinded by the lust of revenge, that was all one.
And over and above this, as if to spite all men, he continued his
relations with Yagna. Was it love that attracted him? or what was it?
God knows: but they met in Dominikova’s barn: without her knowledge,
indeed, but willingly abetted by Simon, who hoped that Antek would help
him to get Nastka for his wife.
Those meetings were unwillingly consented to by Yagna. With the wales of
her husband’s castigation still fresh upon her, she had no mind for
love-making; but she feared Antek, who had sent her word that, unless
she came at every call of his, he would go to her hut, and in broad
daylight and in public administer a chastisement yet more severe than
Boryna’s had been!
As the saying is: “For the authors of their fall, sinners have no love
at all”: but she feared his threat, and was forced to go.
This state of things, however, did not last long. The second day of
Lent, Simon came in haste to the tavern and, taking Antek aside, told
him that Yagna had just been reconciled to her goodman and returned to
his cabin.
If a club had crashed down on his skull, it would not have stunned him
more than this news. She had met him the very day before, and had said
no word of this.
“So! she left me in the dark!” he thought, and hurried away to Boryna’s
as soon as evening had fallen.
He prowled for a long time about his father’s premises, looking for her
and waiting by the stile; but she was not to be seen. This irritated him
so violently that he boldly pulled up a stake and entered the enclosure,
ready to proceed to any extremity—even to go into the hut; in fact, he
was in the passage, with his hand on the latch ... when an unknown
feeling of dread drove him from the door! His father’s face had come
before him with such sudden vividness that he started back in terror
from that mental image.
What it was that had come over him, and why he had quailed now again,
just as on that former night beside the pond, he was all his life unable
to understand.
On the following days too, he got no sight of her, although he watched
by the stile, and lurked about there for whole evenings together, like a
wolf.
Sunday come round, and he waited for a long while in front of the
church: but she did not appear.
The thought struck him that he might perhaps meet her at Vespers, and
get speech with her somehow. So he went.
He was rather late. Evensong had already begun. The church was full, and
so dark that the daylight, now dying, only lit the topmost vaults. A few
tiny rushlights had been kindled here and there, to read by; in front of
the high altar, brilliantly illuminated, the people were thronging
close. He elbowed his way as far as the sanctuary railings, and looked
furtively round for Yagna; but she was nowhere in sight. Instead, he
caught many a look of curiosity directed towards himself.
They were chanting the “Bitter Lamentations,” for it was the first
Sunday in Lent. The priest was sitting, surpliced and book in hand,
beside the altar, and more than once cast a stern look in his direction.
The organ was pealing forth soul-stirring music, and the whole
congregation lifted up their voices in unison. Now and then the chant
was interrupted, the music stopped playing, and from high above in the
organ-loft a broken voice was heard, reading out a meditation on the
Passion of our Lord.
But Antek heard nothing now. Little by little, he had forgotten where he
was and why he had come; the chants had sunk into his soul, and unstrung
him strangely. A sense of numbness overpowered him, together with a
feeling of deep quiet, as though he had escaped and flown somewhere very
far away—into some region full of light. And whenever he came to himself
and opened his eyes, he met the eyes of the priest, always fixed on him;
and that look was so piercing that Antek turned away his heavy drowsy
head, and began to fall once more into his torpor. Suddenly he woke up
at the sound of a well-known chant:
“Behold! the Lord of heaven hangs crucified:
Weep for thy sins, O man! for them He died!”
As if issuing from one single colossal throat, the chant—an immense wave
of sound—came bursting forth with such vehement lamentation, so
clamorous a wail, that the very walls vibrated to that cry!
Long did they sing thus and the walls echoed with dolorous
reverberations, and sighs, and earnest sobbing prayers.
Antek no longer felt drowsy, but a heavy resistless sense of sorrow
surged over his soul with such potency that it was all he could do to
restrain the tears which started to his eyes; and he was about to leave
the church, when the organ again ceased playing, and the priest,
standing in front of the altar, began to speak.
The people were pressing forward in so densely packed a crowd that it
was now impossible to get away, and Antek was pushed up against the
railing. A great hush fell upon all; every word the priest said was
distinctly audible. He spoke first of our Lord’s Passion, and then
passed on to inveigh against sin, waving his arms with threatening
gestures, from time to time looking hard at Antek, who stood right in
front of him, though somewhat lower, spellbound by the priest’s burning
glances, and unable to take his eyes off him.
In the audience there was presently a noise of weeping and sighing, the
holy Name of Jesus was invoked, and even groans were heard. Meanwhile
the priest spoke ever louder and with greater sternness; he seemed to
them to have waxed somehow taller; lightnings shot from his eyes, and he
lifted up his hands, and his words fell like stones hurled from them,
and, like red-hot irons, they burnt into the hearts. He spoke of their
wickedness and manifold transgressions; of the hardened sinners who
lived amongst them; of their forgetfulness of God’s commandments, their
eternal quarrels and fights and drunken bouts. He exhorted them with
great zeal, making them tremble in themselves, so that all hearts were
melted with sorrow; tears fell like dew, and there was a low ripple of
weeping, and sighs of contrition arose.—Then the priest suddenly bent
forward towards Antek, and with a mighty voice cried out against
unnatural sons, who burned down the homes of their own fathers; and
against seducers and all such men of iniquity, whom (he said) neither
the everlasting fires nor the judgments of men would fail to punish.
All the congregation were struck with awe and held their breath. Every
eye was cast upon Antek like a fiery dart. He, white as a sheet, and
scarcely able to breathe, stood stiffly upright, the words smiting him
as if the church were falling about his ears. He looked round, as though
to find help; but there was now an empty space round him, lined only by
menacing or terrified faces. The folk shrank from him, as from one
stricken with the plague.—And now the priest cried aloud, calling him to
repentance, beseeching, imploring, adjuring him. Finally, turning again
to the people, he exhorted them with outstretched arms to beware of a
man so infamous, to protect themselves against him, to refuse him fire,
water, food—aye, and not to let him so much as darken their doors. “For
such a one would taint you all; ye would all grow foul at his touch;
and, should he not mend his ways, atone for his misdeeds and do penance,
then ought ye to pluck him out as ye weed stinging nettles, and cast him
forth to his perdition!”
At those words, Antek suddenly turned round; the people fell away from
him right and left, and he passed out by the lane thus made, while the
priest’s voice followed, smiting him as with a scourge that drew blood
at each stroke.
A wild cry of despair echoed at that moment through the church; but
Antek did not hear it. He walked out as fast as he could, fearing lest
he should fall dead with agony—fearing those eyes that glowed, fearing
that awful voice.
He went out into the highway and on to the poplar road, leading to the
woods. From time to time, he paused affrighted: he still could hear that
voice, which rang in his ears like a knell.
It was a cold and windy night. The poplars were rocking noisily;
sometimes a bough struck him across the face; and when the gale fell,
there came a cold thin March rain that drizzled in his eyes. But Antek
went on his way unheeding, bewildered, amazed, filled with unspeakable
awe.
“Things are now at their worst!” he muttered at last, coming to a
standstill. “Yes, he was right! he was right!”
“O Jesus! My Jesus!” he shrieked, seizing his head in his hands with a
sudden clutch. At that instant he had seen as in a flash all the horror
of his sins, and was torn with an unearthly sense of humiliation.
He sat for a long time brooding under a tree, gazing into the night and
listening to the low, tremulous, eerie music of the waving trees.
A convulsion of rage and hatred seized him. “It is all through that
man—that man!” he exclaimed, his former resentment springing up anew,
and all those cravings for revenge spreading over his mind again, dark
as the clouds that overspread the sky.
“Never will I forgive him! no, never!” he bellowed, his recklessness
returning. And he at once started up, to go back to the village.
The church was now locked; the cabin-windows shone bright. As he went
by, he passed several knots of people, who, in spite of the rain, stood
engaged in eager talk.
On passing the tavern, he looked in at the window, saw there was plenty
of company inside, and went in boldly, as if there had been nothing
amiss. But when he approached the largest group with greetings, only one
or two shook hands with him; the others hastily withdrew and left the
place.
In a minute, he was all but alone in the tavern. Besides the Jew behind
the bar, there was only a _Dziad_ sitting by the fire.
He had driven them all away! It was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it,
and ordered some vodka; then, laying down the glass untouched, he rushed
out.
He strayed along the banks of the pond, eyeing with a vacant stare the
long fiery streaks which, from the lighted windows, swept over the wet
snow and glistened on the water with which the ice was now covered.
Gentler thoughts came to him. His heart felt unspeakably heavy: he was
so terribly alone, so much in want of human converse, of some fireside
to sit by, that he went straight to Ploshka’s cabin, the first along his
way.
A large assembly was there; but, when he entered, they all started to
their feet in dismay. Even Staho, who was there too, could not find a
word to say to him.
He muttered: “Ye stare at me as if I were a murderer!” and went out to
the next hut, which was Balcerek’s.
Here they received him with the utmost frigidity, mumbling some
inarticulate words in response to his greeting, and not even asking him
to be seated.
He looked in at several huts in this way, and with the same result. As a
last resource, and to leave no drop of pain and humiliation untasted, he
went to see Matthew. But the man was not in; and his mother at once, and
from the very threshold, stormed at him and drove him out like a dog.
He answered not a word, nor did he indeed feel any resentment now; for
the time, all bitterness had left him. He plodded on slowly through the
darkness, stopping at times to look around him on the village, bright
with many a lighted window, at which, and at the lowly huts that rose on
every side, he gazed in bewilderment, as though he had never seen them
before. In those hedgerows, those orchards, those lights, resided a
strange spell, which somehow chained him to the spot. It was
incomprehensible, but he experienced a resistless power that had seized
hold of him and bound him to the land—which made him bow his neck to the
yoke, and filled him with an inexplicable dread.
He eyed those lamplit windows, and terror possessed his soul. They were
all watching him, he thought; they were peering at him, following him,
to fetter and enslave him with adamantine chains. He was no longer able
to flee, nor to move, nor to cry out. He leaned back against a tree; and
there, crushed with anguish, he listened ... and heard—from all the
homesteads, the shadows around them, the fields, nay, even the heavens
themselves—those same words of pitiless condemnation, now ratified by
the whole population of Lipka!
“It is just! it is just!” he said, huskily, humbled to the dust, and
from the inmost depths of his miserable heart, struck with mortal fear
of that almighty Power—the Voice of the Many.
By degrees all the lights went out, and the village fell asleep. It
drizzled still, and drops pattered from the drooping trees. Occasionally
a dog would utter a short bark, in the midst of the stillness that
reigned everywhere. Then Antek, returning to complete consciousness,
suddenly started to his feet.
“Yes, he spoke justly; he said the truth as it was in him. But I will
not let the other go scot-free—not I! Blood of a dog! whatever happens,
he shall pay!”
His words were a frenzied shriek, and he shook his fist at Lipka and at
the whole world.
Settling his cap on his head, he made again for the tavern.