It was pitch-dark in the lanes; in every cottage all the lights were
out; the laggards were now dropping in to church. Outside stood a number
of carts, with horses unharnessed, whose pawing and snorting made their
presence heard in the gloom. Close to the belfry, several Manor-house
coaches loomed apart.
Hanka, on entering the porch, set something straight in her bodice,
loosened her shawl that wrapped her too closely, and vigorously elbowed
her way to the first pews.
The church was very full indeed. The close-pressed congregation was
massed in the aisles; and, with mingled prayers, ejaculations and
coughs, they swayed and swung from wall to wall, till the banners stuck
in the pews, and the fir saplings which adorned the church, began to
wave also.
Scarcely had she pushed through to her place, when the priest began the
service.
They fell on their knees devoutly, and the press became still greater,
till all knelt close together, like a field of heads—a cluster of human
plants—but with eyes swiftly darting and flying up to the high altar,
whereon stood the figure of Jesus, risen from the dead, with bare limbs,
draped only in a crimson mantle, holding His banner in His hand, and
showing His five wounds to them all!
By degrees their prayers grew intensely fervent; words uttered low, and
presently sighs, came welling up to their lips, like the sounds of
raindrops falling on leaves; and then their heads bent lower still,
their arms were stretched forth towards the altar beseechingly, and
stifled weeping was heard. Under the shadow of the dark naves with their
lofty pillars, the crowd seemed as clumps of brushwood amongst the great
trees of some immemorial forest; for, though the altar was ablaze with
tapers, the church itself was shrouded in gloom, and the black night
crept in through the windows and the wide-open portal.
But Hanka could not compose herself to pray; she trembled all over, not
less upset than when in her father-in-law’s store-room a while before.
Once more, and shudderingly, she felt her hands plunging in the cool
grains of corn; and she pressed her shoulders forward, to make sure that
the bundle was still nestling between her breasts.
Joy and terror alternately held her in their grip. The rosary slipped
from her fingers; she could not remember her prayers; looking round with
eyes aflame, she recognized no one, though Yuzka and Yagna with her
mother sat close by.
In the pews which stood on either side of the sanctuary, the ladies from
the manors of Rudka, Modlitsa and Volka were reading out of
prayer-books; at the sacristy-door several squires stood talking to each
other; gaudily arrayed, the miller’s wife and the organist’s were
standing close to the high altar on either side. But, just outside the
Communion railings, once the place for the first amongst the Lipka
farmers—who were the overseers at every service, who carried the canopy
over his Reverence and supported his steps in the processions—there now
knelt a dense multitude of peasants from other villages, and scarce any
to represent Lipka but the Voyt, the Soltys and the carroty-headed
blacksmith.
Besides Hanka’s, other eyes too wandered in that direction, sorrowful,
and remembering the absent dear ones. Those men, once the foremost in
the parish, were alone not to be seen there now! The thought depressed
them, and bore many a head down to the pavement, with painful memories
of their present bereavement.
Alas! it was the greatest festival in the whole year—Easter! So many
other faces were there, from other parts of the parish, full of
gladness, though a little emaciated by the long fast of Lent. Folk had
come, splendidly clad, to swagger in the church like Manor-folk, and
occupy all the best places; and the poor men of Lipka—where were they?
In dungeons, suffering cold and hunger, and longing for home!
For all but them it was the great day of joy. The others would presently
return home and enjoy life and rest and food, the sunny springtime, and
friendly talk: but not the poor Lipka folk!
They would crawl back to their desolate homesteads, lonely, drooping,
miserable; would eat their Easter meal in tears, and go to their couches
full of unrest and vain desires.
“O Lord! O Lord!” were the dreary half-stifled ejaculations that went up
around Hanka’s pew, and made her at last come to herself again and look
upon the well-known faces and eyes dimmed with tears. Even Yagna hung
her head over her book, crying bitterly, till her mother nudged her to
bring her back to reality. But the source of her misery was far
different, and nothing could allay it. Was it not at Christmas, in this
very pew, that she had heard _his_ burning whisper and felt _his_ head
droop down upon her knee? The thought tore her breast with a sudden
excruciating yearning.
It was then that his Reverence began to preach, and they all rose from
their knees, thronging round the pulpit as close as might be—every face
turned to hear him. First he spoke of our Lord’s Passion, and of those
vile Jews who crucified Him for coming to save the world, deal justice
to the oppressed, and uphold the cause of the needy. And he set the
sufferings of Jesus so vividly before their eyes that many a one grew
hot with indignation, and more than one peasant, eager to avenge Christ,
clenched his fist; and all the womenfolk sobbed aloud in chorus.
And then he turned upon the people themselves; bending forward over the
pulpit, he shook his fists, crying out that every day, every hour,
everywhere, Jesus was crucified by our sins, slain by our wickedness,
our ungodliness, our contempt for God’s law; that we all crucified Him
within ourselves anew, forgetful of His sacred wounds and of the blood
He shed for our salvation!
At the words, the whole congregation burst into a tempest of wailing and
sobbing; and such a storm of lamentation swept through aisles and nave
that he had to pause awhile. Then he went on to speak, but more cheerful
and with words of comfort, of the Resurrection of Christ. Of that
springtide which the Lord in His bounty sends—and will always send—to
sinful men, until such time as He shall come to judge the living and the
dead, and abase the proud, and hurl the wicked into the fires of hell,
and place the good on His right hand in everlasting glory. Yea! the time
should come when all injustice should have an end, all wrong receive its
punishment, all tears be wiped away, all evil enchained for ever!
He spoke so earnestly and with such kindness of heart that every word of
his sank into their minds with sweet mastery, and brought sunshine into
every soul; and everyone felt consoled and radiant—except his hearers of
Lipka. These quivered with anguish, with the remembrance of the wrongs
done them racking their minds. They burst out crying and groaning, and
threw themselves down upon the pavement with outstretched arms, asking
from the bottom of their hearts for mercy and relief in their woes.
Throughout the church the emotion was profound. A universal cry arose;
but soon they remembered where they were, raised up the prostrate women
of Lipka, and comforted them with kind words. His Reverence, too, deeply
moved, wiped away his tears with his surplice sleeve; and then he
reminded them how our Lord chastiseth them that He loveth; and said that
though they had not done aright, their punishment would very shortly be
ended. “Let them but trust in the Lord, and they would very shortly see
the return of their husbands.”
Thus he quieted and relieved them, and they once more began to take
confidence.
Presently the priest, from the high altar, intoned the grand
“Resurrection chant”; the organ took it up with a roar and boomed
sonorously; all the bells rang out and pealed aloud. And then his
Reverence, bearing the Most Holy Sacrament, surrounded with a thin blue
cloud of incense smoke and the tumultuous din in the belfry, came down
towards the people. The chant was continued, bursting forth from every
throat; the waves of the crowd tossed and rolled, a fiery blast of
enthusiasm dried every tear and lifted every soul to Heaven. So all
together, like a living and moving human grove, swaying hither and
thither as they sang the hymn in grand unison, went forward in
procession, following the priest holding the Monstrance aloft in front
of him, as a golden sun that burned above their heads, with chants
sounding on all sides and bright tapers all around, scarce visible
through the smoke shot forth from the censers: the object of the gaze of
every eye, of the love of every heart!
With slow and measured steps did the procession wend along the nave and
thread the aisles, in a close-packed, surging, vociferously sonorous
crowd.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! The noise was deafening; the very
pillars and arches thrilled to the chant. Hearts and throats burst forth
with one accord; and those glowing voices, instinct with mystic fire,
flew up to the vault like flame-birds, and sailed out afar into the
night, seeking the sun away in those regions to which at such times the
soul of man mounts upon the wings of rapture.
It was close on midnight when the service ended and the congregation
began to break up. Hanka lingered behind. She had been praying
ecstatically; for the priest’s words had filled her with confidence, and
the service itself, together with the memory of what she had that very
day achieved, gave her such intense joy that she desired to lay it all
at the feet of Jesus Risen. But Ambrose at last came jingling his keys
and signifying to her that she must now leave the church.
As she went out, even that passion of fear for Antek which lived within
her heart and was wont to start up on the slightest occasion, had as she
thought suddenly died out of her.
She saw at a distance the rest of her household plodding home. The carts
were rolling along in an unbroken procession, and the foot-passengers
had to go in groups by the side of the road, almost invisible now that
the moon had set and darkness reigned.
In the warm quiet night, damp with abundant dew, the breeze blowing
athwart the fields was laden with the raw moist odour of the earth; and
from the roads there came the honey-sweet fragrance of budding poplars
and birches. Folk swarmed along through the shadows; where the gloom was
less pitch-black, a few heads appeared, dimly visible. Steps and voices
resounded on every side; angry dogs barked, rushing along behind the
palings; and in hut and cabin, lights began to gleam.
Hanka, after taking a look into the byre and stable as she entered, went
in and laid herself down at once.
“Let him but return and be master here: I shall never say a word to him
of what has been,” was her resolution while she was undressing.—“Ah,
but,” she thought once more, hearing Yagna opening the door on the other
side, “what if he should fall and go to her again?”
Listening, thinking, she lay still for some time. All was growing
silent, with the hum of voices fading into the distance, and the faint
clatter of the last wagons going away.
“——Then there would be no God, no justice in this world!” she ejaculated
fiercely.—But a deep sleep came over her, and she gave up thinking of
this.
* * * * *
The village awoke very late the next day.
Morning was already opening his pale-blue slumberous eyes, and as yet
those of the Lipka folk were all fast closed.
The sun rose directly in the East, making the ponds and the dewy meadows
glitter: its beams floated down from the pallid sky above, singing to
the world its Hallelujah—its song of warmth and light.
Merry and sparkling, that song was echoed among the ground-mists: birds
twittered gladly, the waters tinkled and bubbled with mirth, the great
woods murmured, the breeze blew, the young leaves quivered, the very
clods were a-tremble; and from the undulating fleeces on the cornlands,
bright dewdrops fell like tears upon the earth.
“Ah! the grand day of joy for us is dawning:
Conqueror of death, Christ rose on Easter morning!
Hallelujah!”
Yes, Christ had risen—He, tortured and slain by the wickedness of men.
Again He had returned to life, He, the Well-beloved, as light rising up
in darkness; had opened the cruel grip of death; for the welfare of man
He had vanquished the invincible. And behold Him now, in that spring
season, hiding mysteriously in His sacred sun, to sow happiness
throughout the world—to rouse the faint—to quicken the dead—to raise the
fallen ones, and make fertile the fallows!
One cry echoed over all the land: Hallelujah! for the great day that the
Lord had made!
In Lipka alone were the folk less uproariously joyful than in former
years.
They slept most soundly. Only when the sun had risen above the orchards
did the people begin to move, and the doors to creak, and unkempt
tousled heads to peep outside the cabins at the country-side steeped in
light, ringing with the songs of larks, and overspread with delicate
verdure.
So at Boryna’s, too, the folk were sleeping. Hanka alone, anxious that
Pete should get the horses and britzka ready, rose a little earlier, and
then set to making out the portions of the Hallow-fare for each.
Yuzka, fussy and chattering, was presently engaged in tidying the
children, and putting on their best clothes; and at the well in the
court-yard Pete and Vitek were washing themselves thoroughly, while old
Bylitsa amused himself with the dog in the porch, and from time to time
sniffed inquiringly. Had Hanka yet begun slicing the sausages?
According to custom immemorial, they lit no fire that day, but ate the
Hallow-fare cold. Hanka had just fetched it out of old Boryna’s
apartments, and was setting it out on plates, for everyone to get an
equal portion of sausage, ham, cheese, bread, and eggs, and sweet cake.
Then, having first completed her own toilet, she called everyone in ...
even Yagna, who at once made her appearance, beautifully arrayed, and
looking fair as the dawning sun, her eyes of turquoise-blue shining
beneath her glossy flaxen hair.—All were in the very best apparel.
Vitek, indeed, was barefooted; but he wore a new spencer with bright
buttons; the latter begged from Pete, who made his appearance
clean-shaven, his hair freshly cut straight over his forehead, wearing a
completely new suit—a black-blue _zupan_ with green and yellow-striped
trousers, and a shirt tied with a red ribbon. When he came in, everyone
was amazed at his transformation, and Yuzka clapped her hands with
delight.
“O Pete! your own mother would not know you!”
And Bylitsa observed: “Once he has thrown off that dog’s skin of a
uniform, he’s as fine a peasant as any!”
Greatly flattered, Pete smiled, rolled his eyes at Yagna, and drew
himself up stiffly.
Hanka, crossing herself, drank to each in turn and made them sit down at
table, on the benches. Even Vitek took a seat timidly at one end.
They ate with the utmost deliberation, taking into themselves with
religious silence all the savour of the food they had gone without for
so many weeks. The sausages had a strong flavour of the garlic with
which they had been abundantly supplied; the room reeked with it, and
the dogs pressed in to enjoy its pungent scent.
No one said a word until the first pangs of hunger had been appeased.
Pete was first to speak. “Are we to start directly?”
“Yes, as soon as breakfast is over.”
“Yagustynka,” Yuzka reminded her, “wished to go to town with you.”
“If she come in time, she shall: but I do not wait for her.”
“Any provender?”
“Enough for one feed only: we return in the evening.”
They continued to eat till their faces were flushed with delight, and
they felt their garments tight about them, and some had eyes starting
from their sockets. This slowness in eating was intentional, that they
might stow away as much as possible and enjoy their meal to the full;
and when Hanka rose from table, there was nothing empty about them; Pete
and Vitek even carried away to the stable all the remains of their
portions, to finish them later.
“Now,” Hanka’s command rang out, “put the horses to, this instant!”—And,
having made up for her husband such a parcel as she scarce could lift,
she dressed for the journey.
Yagustynka came in quite out of breath, and just as the horses were
pawing the ground outside the cabin.
“We were about to start without you!”
“Alas! and the Hallow-fare is over?” She sniffed ruefully and drew a
long breath.
“There is yet a morsel or two: sit down and take what’s left.”
The poor hungry creature needed no pressing. Ravenous as a wolf, she set
to, and swept the platter clean.
“When the Lord Jesus created the pig, He knew well what He was doing!”
she exclaimed, after a few mouthfuls; adding, as a gentle hint in the
form of a joke: “Strange, though, that men let it wallow in the mud
during life, and are afterwards so willing to wash it in vodka!”
“Well, here is some: drink our healths and be quick: there is no time!”
In about the space of a Pater, they were off. From the britzka, Hanka
reminded Yuzka not to forget her father. She immediately went to him
with a plateful of various meats, and tried to speak with him. Though he
did not reply, he swallowed all she put in his mouth, staring vacantly
as ever. Possibly he might have taken some more; but Yuzka soon tired of
feeding him, and ran out to the gate to look at the many women, either
driving (there were upwards of a score of wagons) or else trudging to
town with great packs on their shoulders.
Soon, however, the clatter ceased, and melancholy reigned throughout the
village.
Yes, melancholy! notwithstanding the bright sun on high, and that pond
as of glass mingled with fire, and the trees all bathed in aromatic
perfumes and brilliantly fresh green tints, and the quiet loveliness of
spring now spreading over the world—the blue haze on the vast rolling
plain, the larks that sang, the far-off villages tremulous under the
blaze of day, and resounding with loud pistol-shots and merry-making!
Lipka, Lipka alone, was sad, abandoned, forsaken; and the hours there
crept drearily and wearily by.
Noon was at hand, when Roch went over to Boryna’s, to see after the sick
man, and have a talk with the children, and sit in the sun. He read for
a while, often lifting his eyes to the road, and presently saw the
smith’s wife come in with her little ones. She sat down outside the hut,
after having looked in at her father’s.
“Is your goodman at home?” Roch asked her after a pause.
“Oh, no! Gone to town with the Voyt.”
“All Lipka is there to-day.”
“Aye, and the poor sufferers will have some morsels of the Hallow-fare
to comfort them.”
Yagna was just going out.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Have ye not gone to town with your mother?”
“And what business have I there?” she returned, stepping out of the
enclosure, and looking wistfully along the road.
Magda sighed. “She has a new skirt on to-day!”
“’Twas Mother’s!” Yuzka told her sullenly. “Did ye not see that? All
those coral and amber beads on her bosom were Mother’s as well. The
kerchief on her head is her own—nothing else!”
“True. So many a thing have his dead wives left him! He never would let
us touch any; and now all are hers, to strut about in!”
“Yet she railed at them the other day—told Nastka the garments were
mouldy and noisome!”
“Oh, may they smell of devil’s dirt to her!”
“Let Father but be healed!... I shall tell him instantly about the
corals.... Five strings of them there were, every one as long as a whip,
and each bead as big as the largest pea!”—And Magda, having said her
say, heaved a deep sigh, and spoke no more.—Yuzka slipped away; Vitek,
outside the stable, was busily constructing a toy something like a cock;
while the children played in the porch with the dogs, under the eyes of
old Bylitsa, who watched over them as a hen over her chickens.
“Is the field-work here finished?” Roch inquired of him.
“Aye, as far as pea-sowing and potato-planting go: no more.”
“Few folk here can say as much.”
“All will be well, we are told: the men are to be set free on Low
Sunday.”
“Who, then, knew so much ... and said it?”
“’Twas a whisper that went about the congregation.—And Kozlova is to go
and beseech the Squire!”
“The more fool she! Was it the Squire who cast them into prison?”
“His intercession might set them free.”
“Once he did speak, but naught came of it.”
“Had he but a little goodwill! But my goodman says he hates Lipka, and
will do naught for us....” Here Magda broke off abruptly, and became
more interested in her children, and Roch listened in vain for any more
information from her.
“And when,” he asked with interest, “when is Kozlova going to him?”
“At once, as soon as noon is past.”
“Well, then, all she will get of it will be a walk and some fresh air.”
She did not reply. Just then, the Squire’s brother, Mr. Yacek, commonly
held to be somewhat feeble-minded, came in from the road into the
enclosure, with his long yellow beard and wandering eyes, bowed down,
pipe in mouth and violin under his arm as usual. Roch went out to meet
him. They surely must have been well acquainted; for they went and sat
together on the stones by the shore of the mill-pond, and talked so long
that it was well into the afternoon when they separated. But Roch came
back to the porch, out of sorts and gloomy.
“That gentleman,” Bylitsa remarked, “has grown so thin, I scarcely knew
him.”
“Did ye know him of old, then?” said Roch, dropping his voice as he
glanced at the blacksmith’s wife.
“To be sure, I did.... He was a gay youngster once upon a time.... Aye,
and a sad fellow with the wenches.... In Vola, they said, not one of
them slipped through his fingers.—Ah, and I remember what splendid
horses he used to ride—and what a rake he was.—Aye, aye, I remember
well,” the old man said maunderingly.
“For that he is now doing a sore penance. A sore penance, I say.—Are ye
not the oldest man in the village?”
“Nay, Ambrose must be older: I cannot remember him but as an old man.”
“He himself,” the smith’s wife put in, “says that Death has overlooked
him.”
“No, Dame Crossbones never overlooks anyone; but she leaves him to the
last, that he may repent. For he is greatly hardened.”
Bylitsa continued, after a long silence: “I remember the time when there
were no more than fifteen peasants’ farms in Lipka.” He moved his hand
hesitatingly towards Roch’s snuff-box, which the latter offered him at
once, saying:
“And now there are a couple of score.”
“So the land must be divided again and again. Whether the harvest be
rich or poor, the folk must always grow poorer. Ye cannot make the land
to stretch. Yet a few more years, and there will be too little for us to
live upon.”
“In truth, we are straitened enough as it is now,” the smith’s wife
observed.
“Yes; and when our lads marry, there will be no more than one acre
apiece for their children.”
“Therefore,” Roch said, “they will have to go abroad.”
“And what will they do there? Shall they clutch at the winds, and grasp
them in their bare hands?”
“But,” he somewhat ruefully observed, “there are some German settlers
who have purchased land of the Squire of Slupia, and are working it now:
seventy acres to each settlement.”
“Of that I have heard. But the Germans are wealthy, and know much: they
do business with the Jews, and profit by the sufferings of others. Were
that same land to be taken up by empty-handed peasants like us, they
would not sow it thrice! For us, there is scant room in Lipka. While
that man—why, he has no end of broad acres that lie fallow close by!”
And with a sweep of his arm he pointed to the Manor lands beyond the
mill, shelving up towards the forest, and black with heaps of lupines.
“All that land,” he went on to say, “is close to our own, and might be
parcelled out into thirty small holdings.—But the Squire would never
sell it: such a rich man cares naught for money.”
“Rich? He?” the smith’s wife broke in. “He needs money as a mudfish
needs mud. Why, he is driven to borrow from the very peasants. The Jews
are dunning him now for what they advanced him upon the forest he cannot
sell them. He is in arrears with the taxes, does not pay his own
people—they have not yet received what is due them in kind for the New
Year. He is in debt to everyone; and now that the government has
forbidden him to cut down any timber till the peasants’ consent is
obtained, how is he to get money to pay? He will not be master of Vola
very long, not he!—They say he is seeking a purchaser.” Here she broke
short as unexpectedly as she had begun, and all Roch’s efforts to draw
her out a little more were useless; she put him off with a few
commonplace remarks, and presently withdrew with her little ones.
“Her goodman,” old Bylitsa thought, “must have told her many things, but
she fears to speak of them.... True, the lands close to Lipka are
fertile, and the meadows give an aftermath. Even so....” And he went on
pondering, with his eyes fixed upon the fields adjoining the forest, and
on the Manor farm-buildings—Roch had meanwhile perceived Kozlova near
the pond with other women, and gone over to her in haste.
Meanwhile Bylitsa thought: “We now have beaten the Squire. Now is the
time for us peasants to make the most of our advantage.—Surely.—We might
found another village: there would be lands enough, and hands enough
willing to till it....” But the babies had got out into the road, and
this put an end to his musings.
The bells had sounded for Evensong.
The sun was rolling down towards the forest; and over the roadway and
mill-pond the shadows were growing longer. All was so quiet that, far
away in the distance, a cart was heard to clatter, or a bird to cry out
in the copses.
Some women had come back from town, and everyone was running to hear the
news they had brought.
His Reverence had driven over to Volka, directly after Vespers: to a
party at the Manor, Ambrose said. The organist had gone with all his
people to visit the miller, and his son Yanek, in splendid attire, had
accompanied his mother, saluting on his way the lasses behind their
garden-palings, who peered out at him.
As the evening drew on slowly, the after-glow filled half the sky with
sheets of blood-red fire, scattered about like brightly burning embers;
and the waters turned crimson, and the window-panes gleamed ruddily, as
more wagons came back from town, and in front of the cabins the noise
grew louder.
Though Hanka was not yet home, there was plenty of life and din in front
of her hut too. A number of little girls of Yuzka’s age had come to see
her, and were all warbling and twittering around her like a bevy of
finches, and laughing at Yasyek Topsy-turvy: while Yuzka was treating
them to such dainties as the cabin afforded on that day.
Nastka, much older than any of the others, was their leader. She was
making fun of Yasyek, because, blockhead though he was, he tried to give
himself rollicking airs. He stood just then before them all, wearing a
brand-new spencer and a hat cocked at a considerable angle, and saying
with a smiling look and arms akimbo:
“All of you must respect me—me, the only man in the village!”
“Not so: others as good as you are tending the kine!” said one.
“Or wiping babies’ noses!” cried another.
Yasyek, in no wise taken aback, answered them loftily:
“Such chits as ye are—mere goose-girls as yet—are not to my taste!”
“Why, the fellow kept kine last year, and he would play the man now!”
“Yet he runs away from a bull so fast that his breeches come down!”
“Go, marry Magda, the servant of the Jew: she’s the girl for you.”
“Nurse to the Jew’s brats, she’ll wipe your nose likewise!”
“Or,” someone said still more sarcastically, “take old Agata to wife,
and go on pilgrimages with her.”
“Oh,” he retorted, “if I would but send my proposers to any one of you,
she’d fast on dry bread every Friday of her life to thank God for her
luck!”
“But,” Nastka cried, “whom would your mother let you marry? You’re
needed to wash the platters at home.”
“Provoke me not, you! else I go and marry Mary Balcerek!”
“Aye, do: go to her; she’ll receive you with a broomstick—or worse!”
“Go—but take heed not to lose aught on the way!” Nastka said, with a
laugh and a slight pull at his breeches, that were indeed, like the rest
of his clothing, much too large for him.
“They were his grandsire’s once!”
Jests and gibes fell round him, thick as hail: he laughed as heartily as
anyone, and slipped his arm round Nastka’s waist. But a girl put her
foot out: down he sprawled upon the floor, and could not get up, for
they pushed him down again.
“Girls, let him be! How can you?” said Yuzka, coming to the rescue, and
helping him up. Though a zany, he was a farmer’s son, and her kinsman
through her mother.
They then played at blind man’s buff with him, who of course was
blindfolded, and did not succeed, much as he tried, in catching any of
the girls. These flew about him, nimble as swallows, and the noise and
laughter and uproar grew louder and louder.
Twilight was falling, and the game was at its height, when the sudden
cry of many fowls was heard in the yard. Yuzka, who ran there at once,
found Vitek in the outhouse, holding something behind his back, and
young Gulbas, whose flaxen head of hair was seen peeping over a plough.
“’Tis naught, Yuzka,” Vitek said in confusion, “’tis naught!”
“Ye have been killing a hen: I can see the feathers about!”
“Nay, nay! I only took a few from a cock’s tail, which I needed for my
own bird.—But, Yuzka, it was no cock of ours! Oh, no! This boy Gulbas
brought it here to me.”
“Show!” she commanded sternly.
He laid at her feet a bird quite plucked of all its feathers, and in a
pitiable state.
“No doubt it is not one of ours,” she said, though she could not make
sure.
“Now show your marvellous toy!”
Vitek then unveiled an artificial cock, that he had just finished: it
was made of wood, plastered over with dough, into which the feathers had
been stuck, and it looked as if alive, with a real head and beak mounted
on a stick.
It had been fixed upon a board painted red, and very cleverly attached
to a small cart; and when Vitek began to pull at the shaft, the bird
would at once dance and flap its wings, Gulbas crowing the while till
the hens cackled in reply.
Yuzka squatted down to admire this miracle of art.
“Lord! why, never in my life have I seen aught so wonderful!”
“’Tis good, hey, Yuzka?—I have hit it off well, hey?” he whispered, full
of pride.
“And ye have made the thing all out of your own head?”
She was overwhelmed with amazement.
“Aye, all by myself, Yuzka! Yendrek here only brought me this live
cock.—Aye, all by myself!”
“Dear, dear! how lifelike it moves! And yet ’tis but wood.—Show it to
the girls, Vitek! How they all will marvel!—Show it to them, Vitek!”
“Ah, no. We shall go round to-morrow for the _Dyngus_,[4] and then they
shall see it. I must still put up a railing all round to protect it.”
-----
Footnote 4:
_Dyngus_, called also _Smigus_; a popular festival, with a great deal
of horse-play, drenchings and even dousings, on Easter Monday;
believed to be a custom surviving from the time when the Poles (in the
tenth century) embraced Christianity and were baptized _en
masse_.—_Translator’s Note._
“Then come round to our big room and work at it, as soon as you have
seen to the kine. There will be more light there.”
“So I will, but I have something else to do first in the village.”
She returned, but the company had finished the game and was now breaking
up. For it was dark; lights gleamed in the huts and twinkled in the sky,
and the evening chill was rising from the fields.
By now, everybody save Hanka was back from town.
Yuzka prepared a glorious supper: _barszcz_ with shredded sausage, and
potatoes seasoned with much fried bacon. She set it on the table, where
Roch was waiting already; the little ones were whimpering, and Yagna had
been looking in more than once. At that moment Vitek glided in
noiselessly, and sat down at once before the smoking dishes. His face
was red as fire and he ate but little; his teeth were chattering, his
hands trembling; and before supper was ended, he had slunk away.
Yuzka, wondering what was the matter, met him afterwards outside the
sty, taking some draff out of the trough, and questioned him sharply.
For some time he tried to hold back the truth, and put her off with
fibs; but all came out at last.
“Well, I have got my stork back again from his Reverence!”
“Gracious Lord! and no one saw you?”
“No one. His Reverence was away from home, the dogs were at their meal,
and there stood my stork in the porch. Maciek had seen it, and came to
let me know. I wrapped it close in Pete’s capote lest it should peck at
me, carried it off, and hid it ... somewhere!—But do not, my Yuzka, my
golden girl!—do not breathe one word of this. In a few weeks I will
bring it round to our cabin, and you’ll see it strutting about in front
of the porch; and none will know it for the same. Only betray me not!”
“Betray you? have I ever done that?... But I am amazed at your
daring—Good heavens!”
“’Twas but my own property I have taken back again. I said I would never
give it him: and behold, I have it once more. A likely thing indeed,
that I should tame it all for the delight of others! Yea, surely!”—And
he ran off, whistling.
Returning presently, he came in and sat down by the fireside with the
little ones, intent on finishing his creation.
The cabin became a drowsy tedious place. Yagna had gone over to her side
of the hut, and Roch was sitting outside with Bylitsa, who felt very
sleepy.
“Get home,” Roch said to him; “there, Mr. Yacek is waiting to talk with
you.”
“Mr. Yacek ... waiting?” he stammered, astounded and thoroughly waked
up.—“To talk with me? Well, well!” And away he hurried.
Roch stayed where he was, murmuring prayers, and looking out into the
impenetrable depths of the nocturnal sky, vibrant with twinkling stars,
wherein the moon was rising—a sharp bright semicircle that cut deep into
the darkness.
In the cabins, the lights had gone out one by one, like sleepy eyes that
close fast: stillness reigned, disturbed only by the quiet rustling of
leaves, mingling with the bubbling of the distant stream. At the
miller’s alone did the windows all shine brilliantly, and the folk
enjoyed themselves late into the night.
At Boryna’s all was still; everyone had gone to rest and the lights were
out, except for the dying embers about the pots on the hearth, where the
crickets chirped unseen; but Roch stayed up, waiting outside for Hanka.
It was near midnight, when hoofs were heard beating upon the bridge by
the mill, and the britzka came rolling in.
Hanka was extremely depressed and taciturn; and it was only when, supper
over, Pete had gone to the stable, that Roch made bold to ask if she had
seen her husband.
“All the afternoon. He is in good health and spirits, and asked me to
send you a greeting.... I saw the other lads also.—They are to be set
free, but none will tell when. Also I saw the lawyer who is to defend
Antek....”
She was, however, keeping back something that lay like a stone at her
heart, and went on talking of other and indifferent matters: till
suddenly she broke down, bursting into tears, and covering her face,
while the drops came pouring through her fingers.
“I shall come to-morrow morning,” he said. “Ye need rest. You have been
much shaken, and it might do you harm.”
“Oh!” she burst out; “if I could but die and have done with this agony!”
He bent his head and withdrew, saying nothing.
Hanka went at once to lie down by her children; but, tired though she
was, she could not sleep. Ah! Antek had treated her as though she had
been some importunate dog. He had eaten the Hallow-fare with a good
appetite, taken a few roubles without asking whence she had got them,
and not so much as said he was sorry the journey had tired her!
She had told him all her doings at the farm: he had listened with not a
word of praise, but more than one of sharp censure. Then he had asked
about all the village—and forgotten his own little ones! She had come
out to him with what a faithful loving heart, with what intense yearning
for his caresses! Was she not his own wife, the mother of his children?
And yet he had not fondled her, nor kissed her, nor even inquired after
her health. He had behaved like a stranger, and looked on her as one. At
last, when she could speak no longer for the pain that strangled her,
and her tears flowed forth, he had shouted: “Have you come all this way
to whine and blubber at me?”—O God! the anguish of that moment!... And
that was her reward for all the hard work she had done for him, all that
toil so far beyond her strength, all her bitterness of woe!—Nothing; not
one word of endearment, of comfort even!
“O Christ! look down on me in Thy mercy, for I can bear no more!” she
moaned, her face pressed hard down upon the pillow, not to wake the
children, as she lay there, weeping, sorrowing, full of deep humiliation
and the sense of cruel wrong.
Neither in his presence, nor before anyone else afterwards, had she been
able to pour forth her soul: only now did she at last give vent to the
despair of her heart, and to those tears, more bitter than any
bitterness on earth.
* * * * *
The next morning—Easter Monday—the weather was still more beautiful, the
country-side more abundantly bathed in dew, in azure mist-wreaths, in
sunshine and in joy. The birds’ songs were more sonorous; the warm
gales, rushing through the trees, made them murmur, as it were, a quiet
prayer. The folk rose earlier, too, that day, opening doors and windows
wide, and going outside to gaze upon God’s world—on the verdurous
orchards; on the vast landscape, garlanded with spring greenery,
sparkling all over with diamonds, bathed in the light of the sun; on the
autumn-ploughed fields, with young tawny blades waving in the wind, and
rippling up to the cabins like sheets of water teased by the zephyrs.
The boys ran about with squirts, drenching each other to the cry of
_Smigus!_—or else, hiding behind the trees round the pond, they would
deluge with water, not only the passers-by, but anyone who peeped out of
doors; so that many a cabin-wall dripped with wet, and puddles glistened
all around them.
Along all the ways and about the enclosures, the lads ran, chasing their
victims with uproarious laughter, and dead set against the lasses, who
enjoyed the pastime as much as they did, emptying pails on their heads
and dodging them through the orchards; and as there were plenty of
grown-up girls among them, these soon got the upper hand, driving the
boys back with indomitable energy. Even Yasyek Topsy-turvy, who had
attacked Nastka with a fire-hose, was himself tackled by the Balcerek
girls, drenched from head to foot, and then flung into the pond to crown
their victory.
But he, being nettled, and loath to brook such shame, that girls should
get the better of a man, called to his aid Pete, Boryna’s servant: who
with him laid an ambush cunningly for Nastka, got her fast in their
clutches, dragged her to the well, and flooded her until she screamed
aloud.... Then, taking Vitek to help them, and young Gulbas, with some
bigger lads, they pounced upon Mary, daughter of Balcerek, whom they
deluged so, that, stick in hand, her mother was obliged to run and
rescue her! Yagna too they caught and drenched thoroughly, nor did they
spare even Yuzka, though she begged them hard, and ran in tears to Hanka
to complain.
“Complain she may!” they cried; “but yet she likes it: see, her eyes
sparkle with glee!”
“Pestilent fellows! they have wetted me all over!” Yagustynka growled,
though pleased, and entered the cabin.
“Whom will those rascals spare!” Yuzka grumbled, as she changed to dry
clothes. Yet she could not for all that forbear coming out into the
porch to witness the scene: all the roads alive with noise and tumult,
and the whole place thrilling with the hubbub. The lads, frantic with
delight, ran about in large bands, driving all who came nigh within
range of the great hose, till at last the Soltys, seeing that no one
could leave his hut for them, had to put an end to this merry-making,
and disperse them.
“Are ye no worse for yesterday’s drive?” Yagustynka queried, as she
dried herself by Hanka’s fire.
“I am. It moves within me with continual leaps; I feel nigh swooning!”
“Prithee, lie down, and drink a hot infusion of wild thyme.—Ye were too
much shaken yesterday.”
She was greatly concerned; but, scenting the reek of fried
blood-pudding, sat down to breakfast with the others.
“And you too, mistress, eat ye a morsel: hunger can do no good.”
“I have a loathing for meat now: I’ll make myself some tea.”
“That’s good to cleanse the bowels; but ye’ll be sooner well if ye take
hot vodka, boiled with lard and spices.”
“No doubt: such medicine might even raise one from the dead,” Pete
laughed. He had ensconced himself close to Yagna, following her eyes,
offering her courteously anything she happened to look upon, and trying
to enter into conversation. But she took little notice of him; and so he
presently came to ask Yagustynka about the prisoners she had seen.
“I have seen them all,” she said. “They are not in cells apart, but in
large rooms, as in a Manor, with plenty of light and good floors. Only,
at all the windows there is a sort of cobweb of iron, lest they should
take a fancy to walk out of doors. As for their food, it is none of the
worst.... I tried the pease-porridge they get at noonday. It seemed to
have been boiled in an old boot, and seasoned with axle-grease!... There
was fried millet, too.—As to that, our dog Lapa would not have touched
it, no, nor smelt at it either, but done something else, belike!... They
have to live at their own expense; and if anyone lacks money, let him
pray over his food to improve it,” she wound up in her usual sour
fashion.
“Some, they say, are to come back next Sunday,” she added, lowering her
voice with a glance at Hanka. At this, Yagna started up and left the
room; and Yagustynka set to talking about Kozlova’s expedition.
“They came home late, having quite failed; but they beheld sausages on
every side, and had a good look round at the Manor. They inform us, it
smells otherwise than do our cabins!—But the Squire said he could in no
wise help them; that was the affair of the Commissioner and the
Government. Even were he able, for no man of Lipka would he do aught: he
was the greatest sufferer of all, and because of them!—Look you, he has
been forbidden to sell the forest, and the merchants are now bringing
actions against him on that account.—He swore brimstone oaths, and cried
out that, if he had to be a beggar because of the peasants, he hoped the
plague might destroy them all!—All the morning, Kozlova has been
carrying this news from hut to hut, and threatening revenge.”
“The more fool she. What harm can threats do?”
“My dear, we all know that the very weakest can find a place where to
strike home!”—Here she broke off abruptly, and ran to support Hanka, who
was leaning helpless against the wall.
“Good God!” she murmured in dismay; “is a miscarriage coming on?” And
she put her to bed. Hanka had fainted, her face was covered with drops
of perspiration, and flecked with yellowish spots; she lay scarce
breathing, while the old woman dabbed her temples with vinegar. Then she
put some horse-radish to her nostrils and Hanka opened her eyes and came
to.
The others went to fulfil their several duties. Vitek alone remained,
and when a convenient opportunity offered itself, begged his mistress to
let him take his automaton into the village.
“Well, you may; but take heed to behave yourself, and not soil your
garments. Tie up the dogs, lest they run after you everywhere.—When will
you start?”
“After Vespers.”
Yagustynka then put her head in at the window, and said:
“Where are the dogs, Vitek? I was taking food to them, but neither of
them comes to eat.”
“Aye, and I have not seen Lapa in the byre this morning. Hither, Burek!
come hither!” he cried, running to and fro; but no bark answered his
calls.
“They must,” he said, “have wandered out some distance.”
No one could think where the dogs had gone. After some time, however,
Yuzka heard a faint whining sound, that seemed to be somewhere in the
yard. Finding nothing there, she went into the orchard, fancying that
Vitek was punishing some dog that had strayed on to the premises. To her
surprise, no one was in sight; the place was now silent, the whining had
ceased. But, going back, she stumbled over Burek’s body. It lay dead
close to the cabin, its head beaten in!
Her cries at once brought the whole household to the place.
“Burek has been killed—by thieves, I doubt not!”
“Surely and indeed, ’tis so!” Yagustynka screamed, seeing a lot of earth
dug out, and a large pit yawning beneath the foundations.
“They have dug through, even to Father’s store-room!”
“Why, a horse might have been dragged through so large a hole!”
“And the pit is sprinkled all about with grains of corn!”
“O Lord! peradventure the robbers are still in there!” Yuzka cried.
They rushed into Boryna’s dwelling. Yagna had gone out; the old man lay
like a log; but in the store-room that was usually dark, there now was
light from the hole which had been dug, and everything within was
plainly visible, strewn about in the greatest disorder. The corn had
been poured out over the floor pell-mell with articles of clothing torn
down from the poles they had been stretched on; and among these, pieces
of wool, unspun or spun into many a yarn and hank, lay twisted and torn
and tangled.—But what had been stolen? No one could tell as yet.
Hanka nevertheless was sure this was the blacksmith’s doing, and
reflected with a hot flush that, had she waited but one day more, he
would have found and taken the money. She bent forward over the pit to
hide from all present her feelings of satisfaction.
“Is naught missing in the byre?” she asked, feigning uneasiness.
By good luck, all was right there.
“The door,” Pete observed, “has been properly locked”; and, striding
over to the potato-pit, he pulled out a big bundle of straw that closed
the entrance, and dragged thence Lapa, alive and whining.
“The knaves thrust it in there, ’tis clear; but how could Lapa let them
do it? So fierce a dog!”
“And how was it no bark was heard last night?”
They sent to inform the Soltys, and the news flew over all the village.
People thronged into the orchard, the pit was as much besieged as a
church confessional: everyone peeped in, looked Burek over, and gave his
opinion.
Roch also came. He calmed Yuzka, who, voluble, excited, and tearful, was
telling them what had occurred; then, going in to Hanka, who had lain
down again, he said:
“I feared lest ye might take this too much to heart.”
“Wherefore? Glory be to God, he has stolen nothing.” She added, in a low
voice: “For he came too late.”
“Have ye any guess who it is?”
“The blacksmith! I’d lay my life on’t!”
“Then—was he searching for aught in particular?”
“He was: but failed.—I name him only to you.”
“Certainly.—Unless he had been taken in the very act, or ye had
witnesses—Well, well! Money makes a man dare awful things!”
“Good friend,” she entreated, “not even Antek is to know of this!”
“I am not one to talk at random, as you are aware. Moreover, ’tis easier
to slay than to beget.—I knew the fellow for a knave, yet would never
have suspected him of that.”
“Oh, he sticks at naught: well do I know him.”
The Voyt, arriving with the Soltys, then set to make a thorough search,
questioning Yuzka carefully.
“Were Koziol not in jail,” he muttered, “I should think it to be his
deed.”
“Hush, Peter,” the Soltys interrupted, nudging him; “there is his wife,
just coming up.”
“They must have been frightened away; nothing has been taken.”
“We must notify the gendarmes, of course.... More work! Satan will not
let a man rest, even in this holy time.”
The Soltys bent down and picked up a bloodstained rod of iron.
“It was with this Burek was done to death.”
The thing passed from hand to hand.
“It is one of those rods out of which they make tines.”
“Perhaps stolen out of Michael’s forge.”
“The forge has been closed ever since Good Friday!”
“They may have stolen it and brought it hither: I, the Voyt, tell you
so. The blacksmith is not at home: what’s to be done? This is no one’s
business but mine—and the Soltys’!” He raised his voice and shouted at
them to go home and not waste time to no purpose.
Little as they cared for his blustering, it was now time for church; so
the crowd melted away quickly, for parishioners from other villages were
dropping in already, and the bridge was rumbling with carts.
When all had gone, Bylitsa went out to the orchard, to look at his dog,
talk to it softly, and try to coax it back to life.
Hanka remained lying alone in bed, when everybody had gone to church,
and the hut was empty. For a time she prayed and thought of Antek; then,
the old man having taken the little ones out into the road, and all
being very quiet, she fell fast asleep.
Time slipped away, and she was still sleeping when, near noon, the sound
of the organ playing and the people singing in unison came wafted on the
breeze, and the bells tolling for the Elevation made the windows
vibrate. What woke her at length was the noisy clatter of the wagons
driven home at full speed along the road, past holes and ruts; for on
Easter Monday it is the custom to try who will be first home after High
Mass. It was a confused torrent of horses, carts and people, of whips
rising and falling all the way, twinkling athwart the orchard-trees.
They raced so furiously that she felt the cabin tremble, as the wind
bore the clatter and the din of laughter to her ears.
She had a mind to get up and take a look outside; but her people were
home now, and Yagustynka set about getting dinner ready. She meanwhile
related how the church had been so crammed that half the people had to
stand outside; how all the Manor folk had been there; and how his
Reverence had, after Mass, called all the farmers to the sacristy to
confer with them. Yuzka prattled about the way the young Manor ladies
were dressed.
“Know ye that the damsels of Vola wear humps on their hinder parts, and
look like turkey-cocks when they put up their tails?”
“They pad themselves with hay or rags,” the old woman explained.
“But their waists! They are drawn in like wasps. One might cut them in
two with a whip. And where they stow away their bellies, none can say!
Oh, I was close to them, and saw them well!”
“Their bellies? Why, they cram them in under their stays. A Manor
servant, who had once been chambermaid at Modlitsa, told me that some of
those damsels starve themselves, and gird their waists tight while they
sleep, lest they should grow stout! At the Manors ’tis fashionable for
girls to be thin as laths, with only the back parts swelled out!”
“Not so with us; lads laugh raw-boned girls to scorn!”
“They are right. Our lasses should be even as ovens, all rounded out and
full of such heat flowing from them that men feel warm when they come
near,” said Pete, his eyes feasting on Yagna, who then was removing the
pots from the fire-place.
“Why, I declare!” thundered Yagustynka; “that fright! He has just had a
spell of rest and a morsel of meat; and lo, he is at once hankering for
something else!”
“When such a one is at work, it is a marvel her bodice does not split at
every motion!” he went on; and would have served them some further
specimens of his eloquence, when Dominikova, coming in to tend Hanka,
drove him from the room.
They took dinner outside in the porch, where it was bright and warm. The
early verdure quivered and glittered on the boughs, fluttering like
butterflies; and the warbling of birds came to them from the
orchard-trees.
Dominikova forbade Hanka to leave her bed. Veronka came in with her
children immediately after dinner. A bench was placed close to the bed,
and Yuzka brought in some portions of the Hallow-fare, and a flask of
vodka sweetened with honey. Hanka, though not without difficulty,
offered these (according to the dignified custom among peasants on such
occasions) to her sister and to the neighbours who had dropped in to
visit and sympathize, taste the vodka, nibble slowly at the sweet cakes,
and talk of various topics—especially the hole dug to rob the
store-room.
Outside, too, folk had come to chat with the household, and walk to and
fro in the orchard, much exercised in mind at the sight of the hole,
which the Voyt had not allowed to be filled up till the arrival of the
scrivener and gendarmes.
Yagustynka had repeated the whole story for about the hundredth time,
when the lads entered the yard with the automaton cock. Bravely attired,
even to wearing boots and Boryna’s cap (much on one side), Vitek led the
band. After him came the others: Maciek, Klebus, Gulbas, Yendrek, Kuba,
and the son of Gregory the Wry-mouthed. These had sticks in their hands
and scrips on their backs; but under his arm Vitek bore Pete’s fiddle.
They strutted out in procession, first of all to his Reverence, as the
young men had done in past years, entered the garden boldly and formed
up in line in front of the house, with the cock trundling before them,
Vitek scraping his fiddle the while. Gulbas then, having wound up the
machine, began to crow, and they all, stamping and striking the ground
with their sticks, began singing in a shrill tone certain doggerel
lines, winding up with an appeal for a present.
They sang for a long time, and ever louder, till his Reverence came
forth, admired the cock, gave each of them a five-kopek piece, and sent
them away delighted.
Vitek was sweating with fear, lest his Reverence should say something
about the stork. But he seemed to have passed him over amongst his
companions, and after he had retired, sent the housemaid to them with
some pieces of sweet cake. Loud they raised their song of thanks, and
then went on, first to the organist’s, then all through the rest of the
village, where they had much ado to protect their machine from rough
handling and the pokes of inquisitive sticks.
Vitek, their leader, had an attentive eye to everything, stamping for
them to commence singing, and signalling with his bow when to raise and
when to drop their voices. In short, the whole _Dyngus_ was performed
with such life and spirit that their strains filled the place, and
people wondered to see such mere urchins already playing so well the
part of grown-ups.
It was near sunset when the big dame Ploshkova, having first gone in to
see Boryna, came also to call upon Hanka.
“As ever, as ever! O Lord!—I spoke to him: no word in reply. The sun is
shining on his bed, and his fingers catch at the beams, as if to play
with them: just like a little baby. Ah, I could have wept to see what
such a man as he has come to!” So she said, seated by Hanka’s bedside;
but she drank the vodka and reached out for the cake as willingly as
any.
“Does he eat anything now? He seems to have put on flesh.”
“Yes, he can take a little: maybe he is getting better.”
Yuzka rushed in, screaming: “They have taken the cock over to Vola!”
but, seeing Ploshkova there, turned and ran out to Yagna.
Hanka called after her: “Yuzka, you must see to the kine: it is time
now!”
“Yes, yes,” said Ploshkova. “‘A holiday is a holiday, but the belly must
have its dues alway!’—The lads came to me likewise. A clever fellow that
Vitek of yours, and a keen-sighted one too!”
“But ever first to play and last to work!”
“My dear, servants are never good for much. The miller’s wife told me
she could not keep a single girl for six months.”
“They get too much new bread there—and go wrong in consequence.”
“That’s as it may be; but they have the journeyman to help them that
way, or the son—him at school—who looks in at times; aye, and the miller
himself will let none of them alone, they say.... ’Tis true that our
servants grow bolder daily. My own herdsman, now the goodman is away,
treats me shamefully and insists on milk in the afternoon! Who ever
heard of such a thing?”
“Oh, I know their humours, I have a man myself. But must agree to all he
wants, else he would leave me when work is heaviest; and on such a large
holding, what could I do without him?”
“Have a care they do not take him from you!” she said, lowering her
voice warningly.
“Do ye know of anything intended?” Hanka exclaimed, greatly alarmed.
“Something I heard of—a rumour, peradventure a lie: I cannot say.—But I
talk and talk, and forget what I have come for. Several have promised to
come to my cabin for a chat. Do you come too. All the best folk will be
there: young Boryna’s wife must not be away.”
This was flattering; but Hanka had to excuse herself, for she felt too
unwell. Ploshkova, much annoyed, went to invite Yagna. She too pretexted
a previous engagement with her mother.
From outside the hut, Yagustynka’s mocking voice was heard:
“Ye would fain have gone, Yagna, but ye are hankering after the lads,
and there’s no one at Ploshkova’s but old fogies like Ambrose. No
matter: they wear hose just the same as young men!”
“You! every word you say is a stab—as usual!”
“For I,” she jeered, “being merry, would that all might have their
desires!”
Trembling with rage, Yagna left the house, staring vacantly in front of
her, and scarce able to choke down her tears. _It was true_; the longing
she felt was intolerable.
What though the very air told of the feast-day, and folk swarmed to and
fro, and the village resounded with shouts of laughter, and echoed to
the songs of women seen far away, crimson against the grey sown fields?
She laboured none the less under a deep oppression, an unbearable
sadness of craving, which she had been suffering ever since the morning.
To drive it off, she had gone round to her acquaintances, taken long
walks along the roads and meadows, even changed her clothes twice or
thrice: all would not do. Still, and yet more intensely, did she pine to
go somewhere, do something, seek ... she knew not what!
And now she wandered out upon the poplar road, gazing at the huge red
disk, slowly descending and throwing streaks of light and shadow athwart
the highway.
The cool of twilight soon began to envelop her, though the still warm
breath of the plain filled her with a thrilling rhythmical sense of
pleasure. The noises of the village came faintly to her ears, and the
fiddle, wailing mournfully, smote upon her heart-strings.
On she went: whither and urged by what, she could not say.
She sometimes moaned heavily, sometimes motioned with her hands as she
roved, sometimes stopped short, helpless, darting fiery glances round
her. And then she walked on farther, weaving thoughts as subtle and
impalpable as gossamer, or those threads of light upon the water which
disappear at the touch of the hand. She looked sunwards, and
saw—nothing: the rows of poplars before her seemed blurred, and as if
seen in memory only. But she was mightily conscious of her own Self, and
of something possessing that Self, making it smart and cry out and shed
tears; of something that was carrying her away, making her wish she
could take the wings of the birds she saw flying westward, and sail with
them whithersoever they went. She felt in the grip of a Power instinct
with burning tenderness, that forced tears from her as well as
flames.... And on her way she plucked at the poplar-shoots, to cool her
parched lips and her eyes that shot fire!
Now and again she would sink down beneath some tree, rest her chin upon
her hands, and fall into a day-dream....
All this was the spring, singing, as it were, its glowing hymn within
her, pervading all her being, working in it as it does in the fruitful
fields, in the trees swelling with young sap that burst into a song of
life as soon as the sunbeams warm them.
She tottered along, her eyes tingling, her fainting limbs barely able to
support her any more. And a new desire came over her: to weep aloud, to
dance, to roll amongst those soft fleeces of growing corn, cool with
pearly dews; and then again she craved to leap in among the brambles,
dash through the thorny copses, and feel the sweet wild tearing pain of
wrestling and of strife!
Suddenly she turned back, and, hearing the sound of a violin, went in
that direction. Ha! how everything was seething wildly within her, and
brimming over with such abnormal excitement that she had a mind to leap
about, to revel in some close-crowded tavern, even to drink herself to
death—what did she care?
Upon the way from the churchyard to the poplar road, now quite drowned
in the ruddy rays of sundown, someone was coming along, book in hand,
and had stopped beneath a clump of silver birches.
It was Yanek, the organist’s son.
She tried to get a glimpse at him through the trees, but he caught sight
of her.
She was minded to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground, and her
eyes were fixed on him as one fascinated. He came forward smiling, and
showing white teeth between rosy lips: a tall stripling, slender, and of
milk-white complexion.
“Did ye not know me, Yagna?”
His voice struck a chord that resounded somewhere within her.
“How could I fail to?... But yet ye are somehow different, Yanek, not
quite the same.”
“Why, of course, as we grow, we surely must change.—Have you been to see
someone at Budy?”
“Nay, only wandering about: ye know, Eastertide does not end till
to-morrow.”—Touching his book with her hand, “Religious, is it?” she
asked him.
“Not in the least. ’Tis of far-off lands and the seas that surround
them.”
“Heavens! of the seas? What, then are not the pictures ye have there
images of the saints?”
“See!” He opened the book before her, showing the illustrations. With
heads bent down, touching almost, they stood there, shoulder to
shoulder, hip to hip, inadvertent. Now and then he explained some
picture; and she was enraptured, raising her eyes to admire him, not
daring to breathe for emotion. Now they pressed closer still, for the
sun was under the forest, and it was hard to make out the pictures.
All of a sudden, a shudder went through him; he shrank back a little,
murmuring: “Twilight has fallen; ’tis time to go home.”
“Let us go, then.”
So they went on in silence, and almost unseen in the shadows. Now the
after-glow had faded, and dusk was trailing its bluish haze over all the
fields. That day no gorgeous sunset blazed in the western sky, but
through the tall poplars the daylight was seen to die away in a bright
expanse of gold.
“Is it true, what they print there?” Yagna inquired of him, stopping
awhile.
“’Tis true: every word true!”
“Lord! such vast waters, such wonderful countries! ’tis hard to believe
it.”
“Nevertheless, ’tis the truth, Yagna,” he whispered, and looked kindly
into her eyes, and so close that she held her breath, and a shiver
passed through her frame. She bent forward with a gesture as of one who
yields all, expecting him to embrace her, pressed to the hole of a tree
hard by, and was opening her arms to him, when he suddenly started back,
saying: “I must be off: it is late. Farewell, Yagna!” and vanished.
Many minutes elapsed before Yagna could move from the spot.
“What! has the boy cast a spell on me? What is this that I feel now?”
she wondered, as she dragged along slowly, with her brain in a whirl,
and strange tremors running all through her.
Passing the tavern, she caught the muffled sounds of the music and
conversations. She looked in at the window. Mr. Yacek, standing in the
middle of the room, was sawing away at his violin. Ambrose, reeling
close to the bar, was talking loud to the _Komorniki_ and from time to
time reaching out his hand for a glass.
Someone caught her by the waist unexpectedly: she screamed and tried to
wrench herself loose.
“I have you now, nor will I let you go.—Come for a drink with me!” It
was the voice of the Voyt, who held her firm in his grasp; and they both
went by a side-door into the tavern parlour.
No one had seen them, for few were out in the road, and it was very
dark.
Now the village was quiet: all the outside sounds were hushed and the
crofts were empty and silent. Everybody was at home. Eastertide, that
dear time of rest, was nearly over; and the toilsome morrow was lurking
outside on the threshold, already baring its sharp fangs for them.
Lipka therefore was rather melancholy and subdued that evening: only at
Ploshka’s was there a numerous party. Her neighbours had come together
and were conversing with dignified mien. The Voyt’s wife sat in the
place of honour: by her side Balcerek’s wife, stout and loud-mouthed,
was maintaining her opinion: close to her sat Sikora’s dame, raw-boned
as heretofore; Boryna’s cousin, much given to babbling; and the
blacksmith’s wife, her babe at her breast; and the Soltysova, talking in
low devout tones: and, in short, all the foremost women in the village.
As they sat there solemnly, stiff and formal of mien, one was somehow
reminded of a lot of brooding hens with ruffled plumage. They wore their
best holiday attire: kerchiefs let half-way down the back
(Lipka-fashion), and great frills standing higher than their ears, with
all their possessions in the way of coral beads hung over them. They
enjoyed themselves, however, after their slow fashion, and their good
humour increased little by little, as their cheeks grew flushed. And
presently, tucking up their petticoats carefully, lest they should
crumple them, they edged nearer and nearer to one another, and soon were
engaged in more than one wordy tussle.
But after the smith, who said he was but just back from town, had joined
them, they waxed merrier still. The fellow was a rare talker; and being
rather tipsy, he began to humbug them with such comical mystification
that he made them hold their sides with laughter. The whole room was in
a roar, and he himself laughed so loud that they could hear him at
Boryna’s.
The party lasted a long while, and Ploshka had to send three times to
the tavern for vodka.
At Boryna’s they sat in the court-yard. Hanka had risen and joined them,
with a sheepskin coat over her shoulders to protect her from the chill
night air.
So long as there was light enough, Roch read to them; but when darkness
had fallen over the land, he went on to tell them many a thing of wonder
that they were most curious to hear. The dusk soon became so deep that
the party were barely outlined on the white cabin-walls. It was cool
outside, and no stars shone; a dull stillness, broken only by the
bubbling waters and barking dogs, pervaded the place.
They all were together in one group—Nastka and Yuzka, Veronka and her
babes, Klembova and Pete, seated almost at Roch’s feet: Hanka was
sitting on a stone, a little apart.
He told them much about the history of Poland, and also many a holy
legend, and tales of the wonderful things in the world, of which he
related so many a marvel that no one could remember all he said.
They listened motionless and hushed, drinking in those honey-sweet words
of his, as the parched earth drinks in the warm raindrops.
And he, barely seen in the gloom, spoke in a low solemn voice words such
as these:
“To all who await spring in prayer and toil and readiness, it surely
cometh at the end of winter....
“In the end, the oppressed ever triumph: therefore have ye trust....
“Man’s happiness is a field to be sown with blood and sacrifice and
labour: whoso has sown it thus shall see the crop grow and shall reap
the harvest....
“But he that careth only for daily bread shall not sit at the table of
our Lord....
“Who only complaineth of evil, and doth no good, he maketh the evil
worse.”
He spoke long, but in words of wisdom hard to bear in mind; in a voice
ever lower and more loving he spoke, until the darkness quite swallowed
him up. Then it seemed as though some holy being were speaking from
beneath the ground: as though the dead ancestors of the Borynas,
graciously permitted to revisit the earth at this sacred Eastertide,
were now uttering words of solemn warning to their descendants, out of
those crumbling walls, those bent gnarled trees, that thick dense gloom
around.
Over all these utterances their minds pondered deeply; like a bell in
the depth of their hearts they resounded, arousing within them dim
emotions—strange, eerie, unaccountable desires.
They did not so much as remark that all the dogs in the village had set
to barking, nor that the feet of many people were running fast.
“Fire! Podlesie is burning!” a voice cried to them from beyond the
orchard.
It was true. The farm buildings of the Manor domain of Podlesie were on
fire, and crimson-red bushes of flame were growing in the night.
“Heaven save the mark!” Yagustynka ejaculated, as the memory of
Kozlova’s threats flashed through her brain.
“A judgment of God upon him!”
“For the wrong he has done us!” many voices cried in the dark.
Doors slammed; the folk, half clad, ran out, and crowded more and more
numerous on the bridge by the mill, from where the conflagration could
best be seen. In a few minutes the whole village was there.
The farm stood on a hill-side close to the forest, a few versts away
from Lipka, whence the increase of the fire was plainly visible. On the
black background of the wood, the fiery tongues now multiplied, and
dark-red rolling volumes of smoke burst forth. There was no wind, and
the conflagration leaped straight up, higher and higher: the buildings
burned like bundles of resinous firewood; and a ruddy flickering blaze
swept up into the shadows of the night, with pillars of dark, towering
smoke.
The air was soon rent by the sound of agonized bellowing.
“Their cattle-shed is on fire: they can save but few, for there is but
one door!”
“Ah, the cornstacks are burning now!”
Others cried out, in consternation: “So are the barns!”
The priest, the smith, the Soltys, and the Voyt (though in his cups, and
barely able to stand) came on the scene, crying out to the people to
rush to the rescue.
No one hastened to move. A savage growl ran through the multitude:
“Let our lads be freed, and they will save the farm!”
Imprecations, threats, and even the priest’s tearful entreaties, were
all of no avail. They stood gazing stolidly on the fire with sombre
looks, and remained immovable.
Kobusova even shook her fist at the Manor servants she could see. “Those
sons of dogs!” she shrieked.
Only the Voyt, the Soltys, and the smith drove over to the fire at last;
and that without any appliances, the peasants refusing to let them take
so much as a bucket with them.
“The dirty scoundrel who touches one of them shall be cudgelled to
death!” they all shouted in chorus.
The whole village was there in a close-packed crowd, down to the
youngest, busily soothing the cries of infants in arms. Few spoke. All
looked on, greedily feasting their eyes and hearts, enjoying the thought
that the Lord had punished the Squire for the wrong done them.
It burned on far into the night, but no one went home. They waited
patiently till all was over, till the whole farm was one sea of fire,
and the burning thatches and shingles flew up and came down in a red
rain, and the vermilion reflections from the great sheets of fire waving
in the dark, tinged the tree-tops and the mill-roof, and threw a faint
glimmer on the pond, strewn as it were with dull glistening embers.
Rolling carts, men’s shouts, the din of bellowing, and fearful threats
of destruction, echoed through the village: and still there the people
stood like a living wall, feeding their eyes and souls with vengeance.
But there arose from outside the tavern old Ambrose’s husky drunken
voice, continually singing the same unvarying song!