Roch, grieving bitterly over all the evil in the village, walked slowly
on along the shores of the pond. Yes, things were so bad in Lipka that
they could not possibly be worse.
That diseases prevailed; that some died of starvation; that quarrels and
fighting were rife amongst them; and that death was now taking a heavier
toll than in preceding years: all that was not the very worst. To such
things the people were accustomed, and bowed to them as to the
inevitable. The worst of all was this: that the fields lay untilled,
there being no one to till them.
The spring had come, with all her train of birds, now returning to their
last year’s nests; the fields were drying on the uplands, the waters
draining away everywhere; and the land simply cried out to be ploughed,
and manured, and blessed with the sacred blessing which the sower gives.
But who could go afield? All had gone to prison. Only women remained,
with neither vigour of arm nor of brain to do things aright.
Moreover, for some of them the time of childbirth had arrived, as is
usual in spring; and cows were calving, fowls hatching, swine farrowing.
Then it was the season to sow and plant the gardens. Potatoes awaited
selection, dung had to be carted, water drawn off from the fields.
Without men to help, they could never do all that, even should they wear
their arms to stumps. And besides, feeding and watering cattle, cutting
straw for fodder, chopping up fuel or bringing it in from the forest,
and a thousand other duties (such, for instance, as caring for the
innumerable children running about everywhere)—ah, well! it was wearing
toil, O Lord! and in the evening one’s bones and loins ached grievously,
and not half the work done!
And the land lay there, expectant. Warmed by the sun, dried by the
breezes, drinking in the soft fertilizing rains and the sweet influence
of those spring nights, it began to teem with green blades of thick
grass, and wheat swiftly sprouting. Larks trilled over the plains, and
storks wandered in the wet meadows, and many a flower in the marshes now
raised its head towards the shining sky; that sky which daily, like a
beautiful tent spread out above them, seemed to rise higher and farther
from the earth. And now their longing eyes could distinguish far away
the sharp outlines of woods and hamlets, never visible in the dusky days
of winter; and the whole country-side, awaking as out of a death-trance,
arrayed itself joyfully like a bride for her wedding-day.
Everywhere around Lipka, as far as the eye could see, men were hard at
work. Whether in fair or in rainy weather, the air thrilled with merry
songs, ploughs glittered athwart the fields, men were trudging, horses
neighing, wagons rumbling blithely. Only the fields of Lipka lay waste
and silent, like a vast mournful burial-ground.
Over and above all this, anxiety for the dear ones in prison tortured
them.
Hardly a day passed by without several people trudging to town, bearing
bundles of food on their backs for the captives, and vain requests that
they, being innocent, should be set free.
In short, the state of the village was deplorable; and the men of the
vicinity now began to see that the injury done to their neighbours was
also done to the whole peasant class. “Only apes are foes to apes,” they
said; “we, who are men, ought to stand up for our brethren, lest the
same fate befall us likewise.”
So it came to pass that the other villagers, who had formerly quarrelled
with the men of Lipka over territorial limits and matters of like
nature, or out of envy, because these had set themselves above their
neighbours and claimed superiority over them—now set aside all such
bickerings, and often came to Lipka in secret to ascertain the truth of
the matter: some from Rudki, others from Volka or Debitsa, or even men
who were of the “nobility” of Rzepki.
The day before, when they came for their Easter confession, they had
inquired diligently about the prisoners, and their faces had set
fiercely, while they heard; and they broke out into curses on the
injustice done, and pitied the people that had suffered so much.
Roch was thinking of this event, and pondering over a certain important
step to take, frequently stopping to shelter himself against the wind,
with a far-off look in his eyes.
It was brighter and warmer now, but the wind increased steadily, and
roared all over the country. It made some of the slenderer saplings bow
deeply, sighing and lashing the pond with their whip-like boughs; it
tore off fragments of thatch from the roofs, snapped the brittle boughs,
and swept overhead with such violence that everything seemed in motion
and tossing about: orchards, palings, cabins, solitary trees—all, as it
were, moved along with it; nay, even the pallid sun itself, emerging now
and then from the scudding clouds, appeared fleeing precipitately
through the sky. And over the church a flock of wild birds, with
outspread wings, sailed down the wind, unable to make head against its
might.
Yet, notwithstanding the harm it did, it did also great service in
drying the lands, which ever since morning were taking a lighter tinge,
while it swept the roads clear of water.
Roch was roused from the thoughts which absorbed him so deeply, by the
sound of quarrelling voices. He hastily drew near.
One quick glance showed him a large crowd of women, in red petticoats,
surrounding a group of men on the farther side of the pond, in front of
the hut where the Soltys lived and in all the enclosures thereabouts.
He went forward quickly, eager to know what was the matter; but,
recognizing the men for a company of gendarmes along with the Voyt, he
turned off into the nearest enclosures, whence he drew nigh the throng,
creeping cautiously from orchard to orchard; for somehow he objected to
meeting the eyes of the police.
The tumult increased. Women were in the majority; children, too, had
flocked there from every side, edging in amongst their elders, pushing
and elbowing one another, overflowing the enclosures and pouring out
into the roads, with little heed either of the deep mud or of the
lashing boughs. All were babbling together; sometimes one voice rose
above another, but there was no making out what was said; the gale was
too high. Looking through the trees, Roch could perceive only that
Ploshkova headed them all: a big fat crimson-faced woman, who cried out
louder than anyone else and, shaking her fist furiously under the Voyt’s
very nose, made him shrink back, while the others screamed their
approval, like a flock of offended turkeys. The wife of Kobus also was
there, on the skirts of the crowd, vainly striving to get at the
gendarmes, against whom many a fist was shaken, and here and there a
stick or dirty broom.
The Voyt, sorely embarrassed, was trying to appease them and scratching
his head, while drawing the women’s onslaught on to himself, so that the
gendarmes cunningly managed to extricate themselves from the throng, and
retired in the direction of the mill. The Voyt, following in the rear,
continued to answer them back and threaten the boys who had begun to
pelt him with mud.
“What do they want?” Roch asked of the assembled women.
“They would have our village supply them with twenty wagons, horses and
men, for road-mending in the forest!” Ploshkova told him.
“Some big official is to pass this way, and they want to get the holes
in the road filled up.”
“Neither wagons nor horses nor men! we have said.”
“Who is here that can drive?”
“Let them set our lads free first: then we shall think about the roads!”
“The Squire! let them put him to a wagon!”
“Or set to work themselves, and keep their snouts out of our cabins.”
“Ah! the hounds, the carrions, the scurvy knaves!” many voices shouted
at once, in a rising chorus.
“All the morning they have been with the Voyt, laying their heads
together in the tavern.”
“Aye, aye, drinking vodka, and then going round to every hut for
labourers!”
“But the Voyt knows the state of affairs perfectly well,” said Roch,
vainly attempting to make himself heard in the tumult. “He ought to have
explained matters at the Bureau.”
“He! He is the best friend of our enemies!”
“He only cares to get money!” they all shouted again.
“Yes, he advised us to give them a score of eggs, or a fowl per hut:
then they would let us alone, and press men to work from the other
villages.”
“A score of stones for him rather!”
“Peace, good woman; ye might smart for contempt of an official.”
“I don’t care. Let them take me to jail. I’ll stand up to the very
biggest official and tell him what injustice we have to bear.”
“Afraid of the Voyt? What, I?” Ploshkova cried. “The tainted wretch! I
fear a scarecrow as much as him! He forgets that ’tis we that have made
him Voyt, and what we have made we can unmake.”
“He would punish us, would he? Do we not pay taxes, send our boys to the
army, do whatever they tell us? Is it too little for them that they have
taken our men from our midst?”
“Whenever they show their faces, some evil attends them.”
“They shot my dog in the fields last harvest-time!”
“They had me before the court, because my chimney took fire!”
“And what a flogging they gave young Gulbas for flinging a stone at
them!”
All were crowding around Roch and shouting together. He cried out:
“Can screaming serve your turn? Be quiet!”
“Then go ye to the Voyt and lay the matter before him!” Kobusova the
fiery suggested.
“Else we go thither—and our brooms with us!”
“Go I will; but only after you have dispersed. Now, pray, off with you:
each has so much to do at home!—I shall lay the matter before him
fitly.” He spoke very earnestly, fearing lest the gendarmes might
return.
The noonday Angelus was sounding from the belfry. They slowly left the
place to talk things over in eager excitement, standing in knots outside
their cabins.
Roch went hurriedly to the Soltys, at whose house he was then dwelling,
as he taught the children in the empty cabin of the Sikoras, down beyond
the tavern, at the other end of the village. But the Soltys was not at
home, having driven over to the district town with tax-payments.
Soha’s wife told him of all that had happened, but in a quiet subdued
manner, and wound up by saying:
“God grant that no harm may come of these disturbances!”
“’Tis the Voyt’s fault. The gendarmes only do as they are bid. But he is
well aware that there are, so to say, only women left in the village,
and that they have no one to work on their own fields, let alone working
for the government. I shall go and get him to arrange matters, so that
no fines be imposed.”
“It looks very much like revenge taken for the forest business,” she
remarked.
“Taken by whom?—by the Squire? My good dame, what has he to do with the
Administration?”
“Gentlefolk always agree better with gentlefolk, and are hand in glove
with each other. Besides, he said he would be even with the Lipka folk.”
“Good God! not a single day of peace—always some fresh affliction coming
upon us!”
“May nothing worse than this befall us, I pray God!” she answered,
clasping her hands in supplication.
“They were all screaming together like a flock of magpies, and, Lord
protect us! how they gabbled!”
“He that itches will scratch!”
“But it can do no good, and may bring still greater harm!”
He was sorely agitated and apprehensive of some yet greater impending
evil.
“Are ye,” she asked, “returning to the little ones?”
He had risen from his seat.
“I have sent them home. Easter holidays have come, and besides, they
will be wanted in the house, where so much is to be done.”
“I went this morning to hire labourers in Vola, offering three _zloty_ a
day and their board, but could get no one. Everyone wants to plough his
own fields first. They promised to come, but only in a week or two.”
“My God!” he said, heaving a sigh; “one man has only a couple of arms:
what can he do?”
“Ah, but ye are of use to the folk, and of no little use. Were it not
for your wise head and kind heart, I cannot tell what would become of
us.”
“Could I do all I long to do, there would be an end of suffering on
earth!”
He threw out his arms with a gesture of pained helplessness, and
hastened away to the Voyt’s dwelling. But it was long before he got
there; cottage after cottage attracted him.
The village had somewhat quieted down. Some of the more excitable women
were still loud in talk outside their cabins, but the greater part had
gone to cook the dinner. Only the wind howled along the roads and swept
through the trees as heretofore.
But presently, dinner over, and the gale notwithstanding, the whole
place was swarming with folk, and an increasing clatter of women’s
tongues resounded about the gardens, in every part of the farm-yards,
before the huts, in the passages and in the rooms they led to. For only
women and lasses were toiling there; of males, there were only little
boys.
They were all the more feverishly earnest in their work because the day
before had been a sort of half-holiday, with the confessions to the
priests who had come; and the morning had been lost because of the
gendarmes.
Easter was near, Holy Tuesday had come already, and so much still to be
done! A spring cleaning was necessary, clothes had to be made for the
children, and in some cases for the grown-ups too; and corn required to
be ground, and the Hallow-fare to be got ready! In every cottage the
goodwives’ brains were whirling to find out how all this was to be
accomplished. Most carefully did they look through their store-rooms for
anything to be either sold to the tavern-keeper or taken over to town to
get the needful funds. Several women even drove off at once after
dinner, with saleables under the litter in their carts.
“I hope no tree may fall on you by the way!” Roch said warningly to
Gulbas’ wife, who had such a wretched jade to her cart that it scarcely
made any headway against the wind.
And with that he entered her farm-yard, where the girls, who had been
trying to plaster up the chinks, could reach no higher than the tops of
the windows. In that work he helped them, made some slaked lime in a tub
for the whitewash, and a sort of straw brush to lay it on.
Then he walked on to Vahnik’s, where the lasses were carting dung, but
so clumsily that half of it fell out into the road, while they pulled
the unruly horse along by the bridle. Up came Roch, shovelled the dung
into the cart, set all to rights there, and whipped the horse into
obedience.
Farther, at Balcerek’s, there was Mary, held to be (barring Yagna
Borynova) the comeliest girl in the village, sowing peas in black and
highly manured soil close to the hedgerow. But she wriggled about like a
fly caught in resin, her kerchief twisted round her head, and her
father’s capote put on over her petticoat to protect it, and trailing on
the ground.
“No need to hasten so; you have plenty of time!” he said, smiling, as he
drew near.
“Why, know ye not, ‘If peas be on Holy Tuesday sown, each gallon will
give you a bushel when grown’?” she cried in response.
“Ere your sowing be ended, those first sown will be out. But, Mary! ye
cast the seed too thick; when they come up, they will lie in a tangle on
the ground.”
And he taught her how to sow as the wind blew; the silly girl had never
thought of making the peas drop equally everywhere.
“Vavrek Soha had told me you were a handy lass,” he remarked casually,
as it were, while retracing his steps along the miry furrow.
“Have ye spoken with him?” she asked, stopping in her work, and suddenly
out of breath.
She had flushed a dark crimson, but was ashamed to repeat her question.
Roch’s only answer was a smile; but, as he left her, he said: “At
Eastertide I shall tell him with what a will you work.”
Again, on the lands of the Ploshka, a couple of little boys were at work
on a potato-field hard by the road. One drove, the other meant to
plough. But as each of them hardly reached to the mare’s tail, and had
next to no strength at all, the plough zigzagged like a tipsy man, and
the mare was ever and anon for going back to the stable. At which they
both used the whip on her, and also bad language.
“We can manage, Roch, we can manage; ’tis only these nasty stones twist
the plough awry, and the mare would fain go to the manger,” the elder
one blubbered, to excuse himself, when Roch took the handles and traced
a straight furrow, teaching him meanwhile how to deal with the mare.
“But now,” the boy cried boldly, “we shall have ploughed the whole field
ere nightfall!” He peered round suspiciously, to see whether anyone had
been witness to Roch’s assistance; and when the old man had gone, he
seated himself on the plough, turned away from the wind (as he had seen
his father do), and lit a cigarette.
Roch went on, looking about him to help where help was required.
Silencing brawls, settling disputes, giving good advice, he also came in
aid, however hard the work, whenever aid was wanted. Klemba’s wife could
not chop up a hard knotty stump—he did it for her; Dominikova required
water from the pond—he brought it; and, farther on, children were
wayward, and he awed them into obedience.
A wise and pious man, and one who knew people as few did, he knew at one
glance what to say and how to say it; how to drive away sadness with a
merry tale; how to laugh with one, pray with another, and reprove a
third with words of grave wisdom or stern warning.
So kind-hearted was he, so full of sympathy for all, that he would often
and unasked spend many a night by a sick-bed: and to the sick he did so
much good that they set him even above his Reverence.
In time, folk had begun to look upon him as one of God’s saints, who
always brought mercy and consolation to their lowly huts.
Alas! could he ward off all misery? Could he prevent all misfortune,
feed all the hungry, heal all the sick, and alone supply the many hands
they stood in need of?
For, indeed, the village was a large one. Of dwelling-houses alone there
were hard on threescore, and a great expanse of cornland stretched round
them; there was also much cattle, plenty of other live stock, and many a
mouth to feed besides.
All this, since the men had been taken away, now lived mostly by God’s
providence alone; and so, as a matter of course, their troubles and
needs, their complaints and murmurs, multiplied very much indeed.
This Roch had long known and realized; but it was only that day, when
going from door to door through the village, that he saw how fearfully
all had gone to rack and ruin.
That the fields now lay fallow, no one ploughing or sowing (for the
little that they did was mere child’s play), was but a lesser evil.
Wherever you went, you could see the spread of gradual decay: fences
knocked down, beams and rafters peeping through the torn thatches, gates
wrenched from their hinges, hanging like broken wings, and flapping
against the walls; and many a cabin, too, leaning much out of the
perpendicular, and sorely in need of beams to buttress it.
All about the huts were pools of stagnant water, or mud and filth up to
the knees around the walls: which made walking no easy matter. At every
step the desolation and downfall of the village was so evident that it
made the heart bleed. In many a homestead, too, the kine would often low
in vain for their fodder, and the horses, with no one to curry them,
were caked and plastered with dung.
So it was everywhere. The very calves, with mud all over them, would
wander alone about the roads; household utensils rotted in the rain,
ploughs rusted away, sows farrowed in the wagon-baskets. When anything
was warped or torn or broken, it remained as it was: who was there to
set things to rights?
The women?—Why, they, poor things! had scarce time and strength to do
what was most urgent. Ah! but if the men came back, then things would
change in the twinkle of an eye!
And they therefore awaited their return as a great mercy of God, and,
trusting in Him from day to day, possessed their souls—as well as they
could—in patience.
Yet neither did the men return, nor was it possible to know when they
would be set free.
Twilight was scattering greyness over the land, when Roch left the last
hut beyond the church (that of the Golabs) and plodded over to meet the
Voyt.
The gale had by no means abated, and fought with the trees so fiercely
that walking was perilous: every now and then the broken limb of a tree
would be hurled to the ground.
Stooping forward, the old man glided along by the fences, hardly visible
through the eerie grey twilight, opaque as powdered glass.
“Are ye seeking the Voyt? He is not at home, but at the miller’s,” said
Yagustynka, appearing unexpectedly.
He turned suddenly, and made for the mill; he could not bear that old
mischief-maker.
She, however, following and walking fast at his side, said in a low
whisper:
“Pray look in at the Prycheks’—and at Philip’s too—I beg you.”
“If I can be of any use....”
“They begged me so to ask you.—Pray visit them!”
“Good, but I must see the Voyt first.”
“Thanks, and God bless you!”
He felt her lips tremble as she kissed his hand. He was amazed: she had
usually been on skirmishing terms with him.
“To everyone,” she said further, “there comes a time when, like a stray
dog, driven away by all folk, one is glad to be caressed by some kindly
hand.” And ere he could find a word to reply, she hurried away.
He was told that the Voyt was no longer at the miller’s, but had driven
over to town with the gendarmes. And Franek ushered him into his own
little room, where several people from Lipka and the neighbouring
villages were sitting to have their corn ground. Roch would have waited
there, but Tereska, the soldier’s wife, who sat with the others, came to
him timidly and in secret, to get news of Matthew Golab.
“Ye were with the prisoners, and must know, surely. Is he in good health
and spirits?... When will they let him out?” She put these questions,
however, with downcast eyes.
He looked at her with stern sorrow. “And your goodman in the army, how
is he? Is he well? and like to come home soon?”
She blushed deeply and fled away into the mill.
He shook his head. “Poor blind creature!” he thought, and went after
her. But the lamps were burning dimly in a dusky air, full of meal-dust,
and he could not find where she had hidden herself from him. The mill
went clattering on; the waters hurled themselves upon the wheels with
such incessant din; the wind roared round the roof and walls, so like
wheat pouring out of some enormous sack, that all was in a quiver, and,
it seemed, about to fly to pieces. Roch then gave up the search, and
went to see those poor people according to his promise.
Now the night had fallen; here and there lamps twinkled amongst the
tossing trees like wolves’ bright eyes. But, all around, it was
strangely luminous; the huts were seen clear-cut in the distance; the
sky hung aloft, bluish-black and cloudless, save for a few flying scuds
like scattered snowflakes; and the stars oversprinkled it in ever denser
multitudes, while the gale waxed mightier and mightier, and reigned over
all the land.
So, all night long, it continued blowing. Few could close their eyes. It
made such a terrible draught in the huts, and smote the boughs against
the walls, and broke the window-panes, and tore and beat on the huts
like butting rams, till they feared it might carry Lipka away bodily
into space!
It subsided a little before dawn; but hardly had the crowing cocks sung
daybreak, and the weary inhabitants fallen asleep, when the thunders
uttered their roars, the lightnings blazed across the sky with blood-red
streaks, and a torrent of rain poured down. It was said afterwards that
a thunderbolt had then fallen somewhere in the forest.
But when morning had fully come, it cleared up gloriously; the rain
ceased, warmth came steaming up from the fields, the small birds
chirruped cheerily; and though the sun was hidden still, the white
low-sailing clouds fell asunder and the azure sky appeared. And folk
predicted fine weather.
All through the village now arose lamentations and outcries. Very much
harm had been done by the gale; the roads were so strewn with rows of
fallen trees across them, and fences blown over the ways, with portions
of torn-off roofs, that they were impassable.
At the Ploshkas’, the sties had fallen, crushing all their geese to
death! There was no hut but had suffered in the storm: so the enclosures
were filled with women as full of tears as a showery day.
Hanka had just sallied forth to inspect the farm-buildings and see what
damage had been done, when she met Sikora’s wife, who came rushing into
the yard.
“What! have ye not heard? Staho’s hut has fallen! By a miracle, they
have escaped being crushed,” she cried from afar.
“Jesu Maria!”
The news petrified her.
“I have come for you.—Those folk are clean out of their wits!”
Throwing an apron over her head, Hanka ran to the spot.
It was quite true. Nothing of Staho’s cabin remained but the walls. All
the roof had gone, except a few broken rafters, still hanging above. The
chimney, too, had fallen: only a ruined fragment of it stood there, like
the snag of a decayed tooth. The floor was covered with splinters and
bits of thatch.
Veronka, sitting outside the wall on a heap of fallen rubbish, was
embracing her little ones, who wept aloud with her.
Hanka rushed to comfort her through the crowd she was surrounded with;
but she saw nothing, heard nothing, and her sobs continued, violent and
convulsive.
“O my poor, my miserable children!” she moaned, and several other women
shed tears of compassion, to hear her.
“Whither shall we wretched creatures go? where lay our heads?” she cried
frantically, clasping her children in her arms.
Old Bylitsa, meanwhile, shrunken, haggard, livid as a corpse, went about
the ruins, now driving the fowls together, now giving a few wisps of hay
to the cow, tethered to a cherry-tree, now crouching close to the wall,
whistling to the dog, and staring at the people like a man demented.
They thought, indeed, that he was out of his mind.
With a sudden movement, they all made way, bowing to the very ground: it
was the parish priest, come upon them unexpectedly.
“Ambrose has just informed me of this calamity. Where is Stahova?”
They drew aside for him to see her; but she, blinded by her tears, took
no notice.
“Veronka,” Hanka said to her in a whisper, “here is his Reverence
himself, come to see you!”
She started at the words, and, seeing the priest, fell at his feet in a
tempest of tears.
“Peace, be still; do not weep.—What is to be done? It is—aye, it
_is_—God’s will!” he said twice, brushing a tear away, and deeply moved.
“We must go hence, and beg our bread through the world!”
“No, no; do not give way so. There are kindly folk, and they will not
suffer you to perish. Moreover, the Lord will help you in His own way.
Has any one of you been hurt? No?”
“In that, God has been merciful.”
“Truly, a marvellous escape!”
“They might well have all been crushed to death, like Ploshka’s geese,”
someone said.
“Yes,” another remarked, “all without exception.”
“Any cattle or live stock lost, eh?”
“God ordered things so that all was then in the enclosure and nothing
lost.”
The priest, taking a pinch of snuff, looked round at the heap of
rubbish, all that remained of their cabin; and his eyes again brimmed
with tears.
“Really, it is a very great mercy. Ye might have been all crushed flat.”
“But had that been, I should not be looking on these ruins now, nor live
to see our home destroyed. O my Jesus, my Jesus! Here am I with my
little ones, homeless! What shall I do, and whither shall I go?” she
cried once more, and tore her hair in despair.
The priest shifted uneasily, and spread his hands out with a gesture of
indecision. Someone slipped a plank under his feet, saying: “Lest your
feet be wetted!” And, indeed, the mud was ankle-deep. He moved on to the
plank, and took another pinch of snuff, considering what he should say
to comfort her.
Hanka was busily engaged with her sister and father, while the other
women pressed round the priest, and feasted their eyes on him.
More women and children were arriving every instant, and their clogs
splashed through the mud, and the gathering crowd made comments in
hushed voices, amongst which the sobs, now less violent, of Veronka and
her children were heard. On all the faces around, so far as they were
visible, with their aprons pulled down over their brows, there were seen
much sorrow and deep concern, dark as the cloudy sky overhead: hot tears
rolled down many a cheek.
But, in their concern and sorrow, they were calm, and resigned to this
visitation of God on their poor neighbour. “What then! should everyone
take the affairs of others too much to heart, what room would be left
for his own?”
After a pause, the priest turned to Veronka, and said: “Above all
things, ye ought to thank the Lord God that your lives have been
spared.”
“Surely, and if I have to sell my pig for it, I will get the wherewithal
for a Mass.”
“No need for that. Keep your money for your most urgent wants: I shall
say Mass for you as soon after Easter as the Rubric allows.”
She kissed his hands gratefully, and clasped his feet, peasant-fashion,
whilst he gave her his blessing with the sign of the cross, and, like
the best of fathers, caressed the little ones who came crowding round
him.
“Now, tell me the manner of it.”
“The manner of it?—Why, we went to bed early, having no oil in our lamp,
and no wood to make a fire. It blew hard, and the cabin shook, but I had
no fear, because it had resisted fiercer gales. The draughts in the room
kept me awake for some time, but I must have fallen into a doze at last.
All at once, there was a crashing banging sound, and the noise of the
walls splitting. O Lord! I thought, the world is falling to pieces!—Out
of bed I leapt, but had hardly taken my little ones in my arms, when
everything overhead began to crack and break down. I just got to the
porch outside, while the roof was thundering down upon me. Ere I got my
wits back, the chimney too fell with an awful noise. In the yard it was
blowing fearfully: we could scarce stand, and the thatch went piecemeal
down the wind. I had a good way to go to the village in the night; all
were sleeping sound there, and I could make no one hear me. So I
returned and took shelter with the children in the potato-pit till
morning.”
“God was watching over you.—That cow, tethered to the cherry-tree, whose
is she?”
“Ours. She feeds us: we owe our lives to her alone.”
“A good milker, no doubt: loins as straight as a beam.—With calf, I
see?”
“She will calve in a few days.”
“Take her over to my cow-house; there is room, and she may stay till the
grass is grown.—Now, where will you dwell? Tell me where.”
At that moment a dog fell a-barking and made a fierce onset upon the
people there. Driven off, it sat down on the threshold, and howled
dismally.
The priest had shrunk back at its attack. “Is that dog mad?” he asked.
“Whose is it?”
“’Tis Kruchek, our dog. Aye, the misfortune has made it daft. A good
watch-dog,” stammered Bylitsa, hastening to silence it.
The priest then took his leave, beckoning to Sikora’s wife to follow
him. Holding out both hands to the goodwives who pressed forward to kiss
them, he walked away slowly, but was seen for some time talking with the
women upon the road.
The womenfolk, having duly pitied their unfortunate neighbour, now
departed hastily, all at once remembering breakfast and the work before
them.
No one remained about the ruins except the family; and they were
thinking how to rescue something more out of the wrecked hut, when
Sikora’s wife came up, breathless.
“Your abode must be with me, on that side of the cabin where Roch has
been teaching. There’s no chimney, to be sure, but you can arrange a
makeshift fire-place that will do for the nonce,” she said hastily.
“But, good dame, how am I to pay the rent?”
“Take no thought as to that. If ye get money, pay what ye choose; if
not, then aid us in our work, or simply say, Thanks; ’twill do. Why, the
room stands empty! Most heartily do I invite you; and the priest sends
you this bit of paper for present necessities.”
She unfolded a three-rouble note.
“May the Lord grant him health!” Veronka exclaimed, kissing the gift.
“There’s not another man on earth so kind as he!” Hanka said; and old
Bylitsa added:
“In the priest’s byre, our cow will not be so very badly off!”
The removal took place at once.
The Sikoras’ cabin was by the roadside, not far off; and they carried
there such articles as they had managed to get out of the ruins on so
short a notice. Hanka ordered Pete to lend a hand, and Roch came a
little later, helping them at such a rate that Veronka was settled in
her new lodgings before the midday Angelus had rung.
“Now I am next door to a beggar-woman!” she complained bitterly, with a
glance round her. “Four corners and a hearth: not one image! not one
unbroken dish!”
“I shall fetch you a holy image,” Hanka said, soothingly. “Also, any
vessels that I shall be able to spare.—And soon Staho will be back, and
get men to restore the cabin with him.—Where is Father?”
She wanted him to go to Boryna’s with her. But the old man had stayed at
the ruined hut, sitting on the threshold binding up a wound in the dog’s
side.
“Come ye with me,” she said; “Veronka’s lodgings are not large, and we
shall find a corner for you at our place.”
“Nay, nay, Hanka; I remain here: here was I born, and here will I die.”
No arguments, no entreaties, could shake his determination.
“I shall make myself a straw bed in the passage ... and if you will have
it so, I’ll tend the little ones and eat my meals at your home in
payment.... But take the dog with you: it is wounded.... It will take
care of the house.—A good watch-dog.”
“But,” she pointed out, “the passage walls may fall upon you!”
“No, no; they will stand longer than many a man shall live.... Do take
the dog.”
She yielded at last. There was really but little room at Boryna’s, and
the old man would have been hard to lodge.
She told Pete to slip a string through Kruchek’s collar, and take it to
the cabin.
“Burek has fled somewhither: Kruchek will fill its place well.—O you
good-for-nothing fellow!” she cried, seeing that Pete could not manage
the dog.
Old Bylitsa helped to drag it away, chiding it severely. “You foolish
Kruchek! Here, there’s naught to eat; there, you’ll get plenty, and a
warm place to lie in!”
But she went before them, in order to look in at her sister’s new abode,
before going home.
To her surprise, she found Veronka again in tears, and several women
with her.
“How have I ever deserved such kindness from you?” she sobbed.
“’Tis but little we can give; we too are poor: but take what we bring
you, it is given with goodwill.” So said Klembova, putting a large
parcel in her hands.
The others chimed in:
“Such a mishap!”
“We know what it means to you, and our hearts are not of stone.”
“And your goodman is away too, as ours are.”
“And that makes it so much harder for you!”
“Our Lord has sent a far heavier trial to you than to us.”
They had put their heads together to bring her what they could: pease,
pearl barley, flour ... and so forth.
“O kind goodwives, dear to me as ever my own mother was!” And she
embraced them fondly, with many a sob, whilst they wept with her.
But Hanka had no time to stay; so, glad that there were still good
people in the world, she hurried back to her cabin.
Though there was no direct sunlight, it was a pretty fine day, and
plenty of sun filtered through the clouds. The sky rose above, like a
great sheet of bluish canvas, with white ragged kerchiefs of cloud laid
out upon it. Beneath, the fields expanded unendingly, distinctly seen,
verdant in places, and in others tawny with stubble or with bits of
fallow land, or bright with streams, glittering like window-panes.
Larks sang loud. From the plain was wafted the fresh odour of
springtime, redolent with moist warmth, and the honey-sweet aromas of
poplar-buds.
There was a breeze, but so soft that the down of the first verdure on
the boughs was all but motionless.
About the church were congregated sparrows in such countless multitudes
that the wide-spreading branches of the maples and lindens were black
with them as with soot, and the deafening din of their chirping was
heard throughout the village.
On the smooth lustrous pond, the ganders screamed, watching their
goslings, while the sharp squattering of the washerwomen’s beaters told
that a good deal of linen was being bucked.
Rooms and passages stood wide open from one end of the huts to the
other, the wash was drying on the hedges, bedding was being aired in the
orchards, and in some places they were whitewashing the walls. Swine,
much vexed by dogs, sniffed about in the ditches; and here and there a
few cows, lifting their horned heads from behind the fences, would utter
a plaintive bellow.
Many a wagon, too, was rolling along to town to make purchases for
Eastertide; but, immediately after noonday, there came the old pedlar
Yudka in his long cart, with his wife and a young olive-branch.
With a following of unfriendly dogs, they were driving from hut to hut,
and seldom did old Yudka leave with empty hands. For he was no cheat,
such as the tavern-keeper and many another: he gave good prices, and, if
anyone needed a loan till harvest-time, would grant one on easy terms: a
shrewd man, who knew all the folk in the village, and how to deal with
them. Often enough he had a calf trotting after his wagon, or half a
bushel of good corn inside of it. His Jewess did business, but on her
own account, mostly by way of barter; getting eggs, cocks, or moulting
hens, for which she would give (at a scandalous profit) the frills and
ribbons, the braid and pins, and other articles of finery, so much
coveted by the female sex.
As they passed Boryna’s, Yuzka rushed in with a shrill cry:
“O Hanka, do buy some red tape!... And we want log-wood to colour the
Easter eggs!... And we need thread also!”
Her voice had sunk to tones of whining entreaty.
“But you shall go to town to-morrow, and buy whatsoever is needed.”
“Yes, yes, in town it will be cheaper, for they cheat less!” she
exclaimed, delighted at the thought of the morrow’s drive; and ran at
once, without prompting, to inform the pedlars that they needed none of
their wares, and had nothing for sale.
Hanka, peeping outside the door, shouted after her: “Keep the fowls
together, lest one should stray into that wagon of theirs!”
Tereska, the soldier’s wife, now came running into the premises, away
(it seemed) from the Jewess, who was shouting something to her.
She rushed into the cabin, stammering, exceedingly red, and very
indignant. A tear or two glistened in her long lashes.
“O Tereska! what is the matter?” Hanka inquired with curiosity.
“Why, that swindling woman will give me no more than fifteen _zloty_ for
this woollen skirt. Quite new! And I am in such terrible want of money
just now!”
“Let me see it.... Is—is it dear?” She would have liked to buy the skirt
herself.
“Worth at least thirty _zloty_! Quite new; seven cubits and half a span
of stuff! I put more than four pounds of pure wool into it, and paid,
moreover, for the dyeing.”
She spread it out on the table, where its vivid rainbow tints blazed in
the light.
“’Tis more beautiful than any skirt I ever saw! Oh, what a pity I cannot
buy it now!... I too am short of money for Easter. If ye could but wait
till Low Sunday?”
“But, alas! I want the money instantly!”
She rolled the skirt up swiftly, averting her head with a sense of
shame.
“The Voyt’s wife may purchase it: she generally has money in her purse.”
Hanka took it once more, measured its length, and unwillingly returned
it.
“You want to send something to your goodman in the army, no doubt?”
“Yes!... he wrote ... complaining ... in great want.—Farewell!”
She left the hut in a great hurry. Yagustynka, who was busy mashing
potatoes in a tub, burst into a roar of laughter.
“You made her run so fast, ’tis a wonder she did not lose her petticoat
as she fled!—It is for Matthew she wants the money, not for her
husband!”
“What, are they intimate, then?” Hanka asked, much surprised.
“Where do you live? In the forest?”
“But how was I to know about such a thing?”
“Well, ’tis a fact; Tereska runs over to Matthew every week, and wanders
about outside the jail all day like a dog, and sends him all she can
get.”
“My God! what, has she not a goodman of her own?”
“True, but he is far away in the army, and none knows when he will
return ... and the woman felt lonely all by herself ... and there was
Matthew at hand—a strapping young buck. Wherefore, then, should she deny
herself?”
Hanka thought of Antek and Yagna, and fell into a brown study.
“So, when they took Matthew, she made friends with Nastka, his sister;
they fadge together very well, and each goes to the town along with the
other: Nastka on the pretext of going to her brother, but in reality for
Simon, son of Dominikova.”
“Upon my word! ye know of all that happens!”
“’Tis not hard to guess; those fools cannot conceal aught. Think of it!”
she added sarcastically; “this creature selling her last skirt that
Matthew may get something good to eat!”
“In faith, folk will do strange things.—I shall visit Antek.”
“The way is far ... and in your present state?... It might do you
harm.—Could not Yuzka go? Or ... or someone else?” Yagna’s name was on
the tip of her tongue, but she did not utter it.
“God helping, I shall take no harm. Roch said they permit visitors at
Easter, and I shall go.—Ah! but we ought to have brought those flitches
of bacon over to our own side ere now!”
“Aye, they have lain in brine these three days: that will do.—I’ll go at
once.”
Yagustynka went, but was back directly, much agitated, and with the news
that half the meat had been taken away!
Hanka ran to the store-room, and Yuzka after her. Both stood presently
before the tub, dismayed, and wondering how the meat had disappeared.
“No dog has done this!” Hanka exclaimed; “I can see the cuts of a knife
quite plainly.—And a stranger, had he stolen aught, would have taken
all.—It’s Yagna’s work!” she said at last, rushing like a whirlwind into
her room. But she found it empty, save for old Boryna, staring as ever
into vacancy.
Thereupon Yuzka remembered that, on leaving the hut that morning, Yagna
was carrying something under her apron, which she had then thought to be
the dress she was, in company with Balcerek’s daughter, making up for
Eastertide.
“She has taken the meat to her mother’s. He that is greedy for a thing
cares little whose it is,” said Yagustynka. The words put Hanka in a
passion.
“Yuzka! call Pete. What remains must be taken over to my store-room
now!”
This was done directly. She would have wished to take the corn-barrels
too at the same time, in order to overhaul them at her ease; but she
decided that there were too many of them, and the smith might come to
hear of the matter.
But she looked out doggedly for Yagna all the afternoon, and, when she
came in at dusk, swooped down upon her and accused her on the spot.
“Aye, I have eaten it!” she coolly replied; “I have as much right to it
as you have!” Almost all the evening, Hanka continued to upbraid her;
but, as if to exasperate her of set purpose, she answered not one word
more. She even came in to supper as if nothing had happened, and looked
her rival in the face with a smile. Hanka could not get the better of
her, and raged with impotent hate.
Everything therefore made her angry that evening; she flew out on the
slightest provocation, and finally sent everyone to bed earlier than
usual. The morrow was Maundy Thursday, and they would have to begin
preparations for Easter.
She too went to bed earlier than her wont, but it was long before she
could sleep. Hearing the dogs bark furiously, she looked outside.
Yagna had not yet extinguished her lamp.
“It is late,” she called out crossly to her from the passage. “Ye waste
oil: think ye it costs nothing?”
“Ye may burn oil the whole night long, for all I care!” was the retort;
which put her into such a state that she had not yet fallen asleep when
the first cock crew.
Early in the morning, Yuzka, though she was a great lie-abed, jumped out
first, her mind full of her journey to town; she speedily woke the
farm-lads, told them to get the horses ready, and went back in a temper
to quarrel with Hanka, who had told Pete that the bay mare alone was to
be put to.
“I will not go in the worst wagon of all, and drawn by a blind mare!”
she cried, bursting into tears. “Am I a beggar, to travel in the
dung-cart? They know me in the town for Boryna’s daughter!—Father would
never have allowed me to go in such wise.”
By dint of wrangling she got her own way, and started off in the large
britzka, with a couple of good horses, and the driver on the seat in
front, after the fashion of a farmer’s goodwife.
“Get some gilt paper, some red, and of all the other colours!” Vitek
screamed to her from within the garden, where he had been digging away
ever since dawn, Hanka intending to plant cabbages there that very day.
Time passed, however, and she did not come; so he ran out into the road,
and went off with the other boys twirling rattles along the hedgerows.
(No bells, as is the custom on Maundy Thursday, were to be heard any
more.)
The weather was rather quieter, but less cheerful, than on the preceding
day. The night had been cold; the morning was dewy, hazy and cool till
late in the forenoon: the swallows twittered shivering under the eaves,
and the geese, driven to the pond, uttered louder and harsher notes.
But, notwithstanding, the whole village had been up and busy ere
sunrise.
Long before breakfast-time, there had been the noisy hum of strenuous
work; and the children, sent out of the cabins, where they would have
been in the way, filled the lanes with the din of their whirring
rattles.
At Mass, celebrated on that day without bells or organ, there were but
few present.
No one had any time to go to church. All necessary preparations for the
great feast had to be made now. Chief of these was the baking of loaves
and cakes; and, in well-nigh every hut, both doors and windows were now
fast closed, lest the dough might fail to rise. The fires burned bright,
and the smoke of the chimneys went up to the cloudy sky.
This, too, was the reason why not infrequently the cattle lowed beside
their empty mangers, and the swine rooted in the gardens, and the
poultry wandered about the roads, and the children were left to do as
they pleased—fight each other, or climb trees for birds’ nests. All the
women were so absorbed in the kneading and rolling out of the dough for
loaves and cakes, and all that pertained thereto, that they had
forgotten nearly everything else besides.
And in every home this bustle and stir was the same: Whether at the
miller’s, the organist’s, or the priest’s; whether amongst the farmers
or the _Komorniki_. However poor, they had—were it by a loan or even by
selling their last half-bushel of wheat—to prepare the banquet of the
Hallow-fare, in order to get, at least once a year, meat and other
dainties in abundance.
As there were not baking-ovens in every hut, makeshifts were built up in
the orchards, and girls ran about, feeding them with dry faggots and
logs. And from time to time there were seen women uncouthly attired and
white with flour, carefully carrying dressers and kneading-troughs, full
of cakes as yet unbaked and hidden from the air, as the statues of the
saints are seen carried in a holy procession.
There was work, too, to be done in the church. The priest-man had
fetched a number of young fir-trees from the woods; and the organist,
together with Roch and Ambrose, were adorning Our Lord’s Sepulchre.
When Good Friday came, the work was still more absorbing, so that but
few noticed the arrival of Yanek, the organist’s son, who had come over
for the holidays, and was going about the village, now and then taking a
peep into the cottage windows.
Entering anywhere was out of the question: the passages, nay, even the
orchard paths were blocked up with presses and bedsteads and all sorts
of furniture; for on that day they whitewashed the cabins in all haste,
scrubbed the floors, and cleaned the holy images that had been taken
outside.
A great hurry-scurry and confusion prevailed everywhere: people were
running about, urging the others to make haste and thereby increasing
the turmoil. Even the children were now employed to clear the premises
of mud, and sprinkle yellow sand everywhere.
It being an ancient custom to eat nothing warm from Good Friday till
Easter Sunday, the people chose to suffer a little hunger in our Lord’s
honour, eating only dry bread and potatoes that had been roasted.
The hurry and bustle were just the same at Boryna’s, with the difference
that there were more hands to work and less trouble about money, so that
all was ready sooner.
On Friday, at the first glimmer of dawn, Hanka had, together with Pete,
finished whitewashing the cabin and outhouses, after which, and a hasty
toilet, she had gone to church, where the other women were already
assembled to be present at the carrying of the Lord’s Body to the
Sepulchre.
In the cabin, a big fire was blazing up the chimney; and on it, in a
vast cauldron that a couple of men could hardly lift, an entire ham was
simmering, while sausages bobbed up and down in a smaller pot; from
these the room was penetrated with so strong and delicious a scent that
Vitek, busy whittling toys for the little ones, would again and again
lift up his nose, and sniff and draw a deep breath of longing.
Before the fire-place, and in the brightest light of the flames, sat
Yagna and Yuzka, amicably engaged in colouring the Easter eggs, though
each vied with the other and kept her methods secret. Yagna washed hers
first in tepid water, dried them, and then overlaid them with dots and
patches of melted wax, and plunged them successively into the seething
contents of three small pots. It was tedious work: the wax scaled off
sometimes, or the eggs broke under her hands, or burst in the boiling;
but she succeeded with about thirty. And then, oh, what things of beauty
they were!
The idea of Yuzka as Yagna’s rival! Hers had been boiled with ears of
rye and onion-skins that stained them a pretty reddish-brown, which she
had embellished with variegated white and yellow patterns, uncommonly
pleasing to the eye.... But, when she saw Yagna’s work, she remained
open-mouthed with amazement, presently followed by vexation and
annoyance.—Why, they dazzled the eyes with their red and yellow and
violet tints, and colours like fields of blue flax-flowers! And upon
those backgrounds there were painted such wonders that she could not
believe her eyes: on one, cocks perched upon a fence and crowing
open-beaked; on another, a lot of geese hissing at a sow that wallowed
in the mud: here you saw a flock of doves flying over a crimson field,
and there fantastic traceries of a bewildering type, and like the
frost-patterns on the panes in winter.
Wondering, she gazed upon them again and again. Hanka, too, looked at
them when she got back from church with Yagustynka, but said not one
word. Only the old woman, after a glance at them all, gave vent to her
surprise:
“How in the world have ye come by such fancies? Dear, dear!”
“How? Why, they just flowed from my head to my fingers.”
She was pleased with herself.
“Ye might take a few to his Reverence.”
“I shall offer him some; it may be that he will accept them.”
“His Reverence, indeed! Never saw such marvels! Will be thunderstruck
with them!” Hanka muttered ironically, when Yagna had gone from the
room.
That evening many villagers sat up late.
It was a black night, overcast, though still. The mill clattered on
steadily, and the lamps gleamed in the hut-windows till close on
midnight, throwing many streaks of light out into the lanes and over the
trembling surface of the pond.
Saturday came, quite warm and a little hazy, but brighter than the
previous day; so that the people, notwithstanding the hard work done
already, rose blithely to encounter what was coming.
Outside the church, there was a great noise and tumult: for, according
to immemorial custom, on that day (which brought Lent to its close) they
had come together in the early morning to give a funeral to the _zur_[3]
and herrings on which they had been feeding all Lent through. There were
no grown-up men in Lipka now; so the youngsters arranged the funeral,
with Yasyek Topsy-turvy at their head. They had got, somewhere or other,
a big pot of _zur_, to which they had added certain filthy matters
besides.
-----
Footnote 3:
_Zur_ is a sort of soup made of flour and water, mixed with bran and
left to ferment till it is sour. It is then boiled with various
seasonings.—_Translator’s Note._
Vitek let himself be enticed into carrying the pot, which dangled from
his shoulder in a net, whilst another little fellow, at his side,
dragged along the ground a herring cut out of wood and attached to a
string. They went foremost, the others trooping behind with a deafening
noise of rattles and shouts.
Yasyek directed the procession: though somewhat idiotic in life, he had
quite enough brains for such tomfoolery. They went in procession round
the pond and church, and turned off to the poplar road where the funeral
was to take place ... when suddenly Yasyek struck at the pot with a
spade and shivered it to pieces! And the _zur_, with all its filth,
poured over Vitek’s clothes!
This practical joke made everybody laugh very heartily, except Vitek,
who flew at Yasyek and fought with him and with the other boys until,
overpowered by numbers, he was forced to flee roaring home.
There he got a beating besides from Hanka, for having ruined his coat;
and then she sent him to the woods to get sprays of pine-boughs for
decorations.
Pete laughed at him into the bargain; nor did even Yuzka show him
sympathy. She was busily engaged in strewing all the premises as far as
the road with sand brought from the churchyard; its yellow was deepest
there. She scattered it over the whole drive up to the porch, and all
round the eaves, encircling the cabin with a saffron-coloured girdle.
And now, in Boryna’s cabin, they began to set forth the victuals that
were to be blessed by the priest.
The great room had been well scoured and sanded, the windows cleaned,
and all traces of cobwebs brushed away from the images on the walls.
Yagna’s bed, too, had been covered with a beautiful shawl.
Hanka, Yagna and Dominikova, working together, though in all but
absolute silence, had dragged a large table near the corner window,
parallel to the bed where Boryna lay, and covered it with a white linen
table-cloth, the edges of which Yagna had embellished with a border of
red paper fantastically cut out. In the centre, and opposite the window,
they then set up a big crucifix, adorned with paper flowers, and in
front of this, upon a dish turned bottom upwards, a lamb moulded out of
butter by Yagna so cleverly that it seemed alive. Its eyes were rosary
beads; its tail, ears, hoofs and the banner over it were made of crisp
red wool! After this, there came a first row of great loaves and wheaten
cakes large and small, white or tawny; some stuck all over with raisins
(certain of these being specially made for Yuzka and the little ones);
others, again, were very dainty ones all of curds, or frosted with sugar
and sprinkled with poppy-seed. And, quite at the end, there stood, on
one side, an enormous dish full of great snaky coils of sausages, and
hard-boiled eggs (white, for they had been shelled) within the coils to
adorn them; on the other, a pan containing an entire ham, and a huge
piece of so-called “head-cheese,” all these gay with coloured eggs
strewn about. But the whole affair still awaited the coming of Vitek
with the sprays and sprigs of pine-needles to give it the finishing
touch.
As they brought this work to an end, several neighbours came in with
dishes and baskets containing their own Easter victuals, which they put
near the table on a side-bench. There was not time enough for the priest
to go round to all the cabins, so he had told them to bring their Easter
feast to a few of the largest cottages.
Lipka being his own dwelling-place, he used to give the blessing there
last of all, and very often only near nightfall. The people,
consequently, prepared everything early, that they might be in church in
time for the “blessing of the fire and of the water,” having previously
extinguished their own fires at home, which were subsequently to be
again lighted at the newly consecrated flame.
Yuzka ran to church for that purpose; but she had to wait very long, and
it was nearly midday when she returned, carefully protecting the light
of a taper just kindled in church. Along with the fire, she brought a
bottle of holy water. Hanka immediately lit the firewood set ready for
kindling, and first of all drank a gulp of holy water, piously believed
to preserve folk from ailments of the throat; she then gave some to each
of the others in turn, and lastly sprinkled with it the live stock and
the fruit-trees of the orchard, that the cattle might bring forth their
young without trouble, and the trees abound with fruit.
Later, seeing that neither Yagna nor the smith’s wife had taken any care
at all of Boryna, she washed his body with tepid water, combed his
matted hair, and changed his linen and bedding; he meanwhile lying as
usual with blankly staring eyes.
After noontide, it was a sort of half-holiday. Although some people had
still a little of the more tiresome work to finish, the most part were
getting themselves ready for the coming feast, combing and washing and
scrubbing the children, till many a hut resounded to their cries and
screams.
It was only just before nightfall that the priest came in from the
outlying villages. He wore his surplice; Michael, the organist’s pupil,
went after him, bearing a holy-water pot and sprinkling-brush. Hanka
came to meet him at the gate.
He came in quickly, being in a hurry, said the prayers, sprinkled “God’s
gifts,” and cast a glance on Boryna’s livid hairy face.
“No change? eh?”
“None. The wound is all but healed, yet he is no better.”
“The boy who sold me the stork—where is he?”
Vitek turned very red, and Yuzka pushed him forward.
“Ye have trained it well: it keeps the fowls out of the garden, and none
dare venture in.—Here are five kopeks for you.—Are any of you going to
see your husbands to-morrow?”
“Half the village at least.”
“Good; but behave yourselves, and do not brawl.—And come to the
Resurrection Service now: it is at ten.—At ten, mind! And,” he added
sharply, as he went out, “should anyone fall asleep, Ambrose has orders
to put him out of the church.”
Several people followed him as far as the miller’s.
But Vitek, showing the copper coin to Yuzka, said crossly:
“My stork will not drive his fowls out for long. Oh, no!”
The darkness fell slowly. Dusk came down over the earth, drowning
cottages, orchards and fields in a bluish semi-transparent murk. The low
cabin-walls alone were here and there dimly visible. Athwart the
orchards flashed a few flickering lights, and a pale half-moon gleamed
in the sky.
It was the calm of Easter eve that enveloped the village; through the
darkness, the church-windows, high above the cottages, were seen
shedding floods of light afar, and out of the great wide-open door
poured streams of splendour.
Then the first carts came rumbling in, stopping in front of the
churchyard; and the people arrived on foot from the farthest hamlets.
Many also came from the cottages of Lipka; not infrequently the doors
would open and a streak of light flash forth, plunging into the
jet-black pond; and the patter of footsteps and half-hushed murmurs came
multitudinous through the warm and misty air. Greeting one another on
the way, the crowd, like a river that rises slowly but unceasingly,
pressed onwards to the “Resurrection Service.”
In Boryna’s cabin and the surrounding outhouses, no one remained on
guard but the dogs, old Bylitsa and Vitek, who was hard at work with
Maciek, Klemba’s son, making a cock that was to perform wonderful feats
a few days later.
Hanka first sent Yuzka to church, along with the little ones and Pete;
she herself, she said, would follow presently.
Yet, when dressed, she lingered on, awaiting something, it seemed; for
she continually went out and watched the road from the passage. When she
had seen Yagna set out with Magda, and heard the smith in talk with the
Voyt on their way to church, she returned to the hut, and showed
something in silence to the old man. He thereupon went outside to watch,
while she walked on tiptoe to her father-in-law’s store-room.... A good
half-hour elapsed before she came out, carefully buttoning something in
her bodice. Her eyes sparkled; her hands were shaking.
Murmuring incoherent words, she went on to the “Resurrection Service.”