It was a strange piece of news that Hanka heard the next morning; one
that made her start up in bed. But Yagustynka luckily caught hold of her
in time, and pressed her down on the pillow.
“Hold ye still! Is the cabin afire?”
“But he says such things!—He must be mad!”
“Nay,” Bylitsa replied, stooping to sneeze after an abundant pinch of
snuff; “nay, I am in my right mind, and what I say I know. Since
yesterday, Mr. Yacek is my lodger!”
“Hear ye? He has quite lost his wits!... Pray look whether they are not
coming home yet: it must be starved, my new-born!”
The old woman went on tidying and sanding the room.
Hanka’s father sneezed so violently that he was thrown back on to a
bench.
“Ye’re loud as the trumpet that tells the time in the market-place.”
“Ah, because it is strong snuff: Mr. Yacek gave me a whole packet!”
It was early. The sun, bright and warm, looked into the cabin; the
orchard trees waved; through the half-open door appeared the straight
necks of geese, with coral beaks at the end; and a whole family of
muddied and noisy goslings tried to scramble over the high threshold.
Thereupon a dog growled: the geese screamed, and brooding hens in the
passage cackled in alarm, and began to flutter out of their nests.
“Please drive them to the orchard; they will have grass to pluck, at any
rate.”
“I will, Hanka, I will, and see that no hawk come nigh them.”
“What are the farm-lads about?” she asked, after some time.
“Oh, Pete is ploughing the potato-fields close to the hillock, and Vitek
harrowing our field of flax.”
“Is that land still wet!”
“It is: clogs stick fast; but it will dry speedily, when harrowed.”
“I may perchance leave my bed, ere the land can be sown.”
“Oh, have a care for yourself just now. Do not fear lest anyone steal
your work!”
“Have the kine been milked?”
“By me! Yagna had set the pails outside the byre, and gone away.”
“She runs about Lipka continually, like a dog: a useless woman on whom
there is no counting.—Tell Kobusova I will let her have the
cabbage-patches. Pete will take her manure, and plough it in; but she
must work four days a week for every field. Half to be done when we
plant the potatoes, and the other half in harvest-time.”
“Kozlova would gladly take the flax-fields on the same terms.”
“She would not do: too lazy.—Let her seek elsewhere: last year she
wagged her tongue against Father all through the village, saying he had
treated her unfairly.”
“Please yourself: yours is the land, do as ye will with it.—Ah! Filipka
came for potatoes yesterday, while you were lying in.”
“To be paid for in cash?”
“No, in work. In that hut there is no money: they are starving.”
“Let her have a bushel now. If she wants more, she must wait till we
have done planting them. I cannot say how much we shall have to spare.
Yuzka will go and measure out a bushel for her.—Though Filipka is but a
poor worker.”
“Whence should she get the strength? Too little food, too little sleep,
and every year a baby!”
“Hard times! Harvest over the hills and far away, and dearth at our
thresholds!”
“Thresholds, say ye? Nay, within doors, and choking the life out of us!”
“Have you let the sow loose?”
“She is lying by the wall.—A splendid farrow, and each one as round as a
roll.”
Here Bylitsa appeared in the doorway.
“I have left the geese among the gooseberry-bushes,” he said.—“Well, who
should come to me at Easter but Mr. Yacek, saying: ‘I will live with
you, Bylitsa, be your lodger, and pay you well’? I thought he was
flouting me, as the gentry are wont to flout the peasant folk; so I
replied: ‘Oh, I don’t mind getting a little money, and I have a room to
spare.’—He laughed, gave me a packet of snuff (prime Petersburg
quality), looked round my place and said: ‘If you can abide here, so can
I; and I’ll fix up your hut so that it will soon look like one of our
houses’!”
“Well, I declare!” said the old woman in amazement. “Such a great
man—own brother to the Squire!”
“So he made himself a bed of straw beside mine—and there you are! When I
went out, he was on the door-step, smoking a cigarette, and throwing
some corn to sparrows.”
“But what will he have to eat?”
“He has some pots with him, and is continually making and drinking tea.”
“There must be something underneath all this. One so high-placed would
not do this without some reason.”
“The reason is that he has lost his reason! All men seek and strive to
better themselves: why should one such as he strive to be worse off?
Only because his wits are gone,” said Hanka, raising her head, for
voices were heard within the enclosure.
They were coming back from the christening. Yuzka opened the march, with
the baby, swaddled in a pillow, and covered with a shawl; then came
Dominikova escorting it, then the Voyt and Ploshkova, the godfather and
godmother; and, last of all, Ambrose limping along after them.
But before entering, Dominikova took up the child, and, crossing
herself, carried it all round the cabin, stopping at each corner
according to some old prehistoric rite, and saying:
“From the East cometh Wind.
“From the North cometh Cold.
“From the West cometh Night.
“From the South cometh Heat.
“And on every side, O human soul, beware of evil, and put thy trust in
God alone.”
“H’m!” laughed the Voyt; “that Dominikova seems such a pious one, but
she’s a famous warlock all the same!”
“Truly,” Ploshkova replied, “prayers do good; but all know that a few
charms thrown in do no hurt.”
They entered all together. Dominikova undid the child, and put it, stark
naked and red as a crayfish, into its mother’s arms.
“O Mother, we bring you a real Christian, who in holy baptism has
received the name of Roch. May he live and thrive and be your
consolation!”
“And may he beget a dozen young Rochs! A roaring fellow he is! No need
was there to pinch him at christening; and how he spat the salt out!”
The little one was wailing and kicking out its legs upon the
feather-bed. Dominikova wiped its eyes and mouth and forehead with some
drops of vodka; and only then did she allow Hanka to take it to her
breast. To this it at once turned, clung ravenously, and was hushed.
Hanka then thanked the godfather and godmother very heartily, kissing
them and the others present, and excusing herself that the christening
was not such as befitted the son of a Boryna.
“Then have another one next year,” said the Voyt, merrily, wiping his
moustache, for the vodka glass was coming his way; “and that one will
make up for this.”
Here Ambrose blurted out thoughtlessly: “A christening without the
father is like a sin without absolution!”
This opened the floodgates of Hanka’s grief, until the women presently
drank to comfort her, and gathered her into their arms with great
compassion. Presently she was soothed, begged their pardons, and asked
them to take something to eat. And, indeed, a great dish of scrambled
eggs and minced sausage was spreading its fragrance through the air.
It was Yagustynka who served the visitors, for Yuzka was crooning to the
new-born child, rocking it to sleep in the large kneading-trough, for
the old cradle had lost its rockers.
Long did spoon after spoon go tinkling into the dish, nobody speaking
the while.
Children were crowding outside in the passage, and more and more little
heads came peeping into the room; so the Voyt flung a handful of
caramels out into the yard to them, for which they had many a scramble
and fight.
“Why, even Ambrose has lost his tongue,” Yagustynka said, being the
first to speak.
“Ah, he is thinking of a farm for our man-child to run ... and a girl
for him to court!”
“To find the land is the father’s business: to find the girl be ours,”
said the godfather.
“Of them there is no lack at all. They are thrown at your heads, with a
dowry besides for the one ye may choose!”
“I fancy the Voyt’s wife is thinking of another child: I saw her the
other day airing her dead babe’s clothes on the hedgerow.”
“Belike the Voyt has promised her a christening in autumn.”
“And, being such an able official, has surely not forgotten the needful
for its fulfilment.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered gravely; “to be cheerful, a cabin must have a
racket of children!”
“They do indeed give much trouble, but are pledges of hope and comfort.”
“Very fine!” growled Yagustynka.—“But even gold may be bought too dear!”
“True, some children are evil, and set their parents at naught. But ’tis
a hard law: ‘As the dam is, so the lamb is’; and ‘one reaps what one has
sown,’” Dominikova replied.
Yagustynka, feeling the application of the words to herself, was
infuriated.
“Ye may well jeer at others, having such gentle boys, who spin and milk
and wash the pots as well as the best-trained wench.”
“Because they have been bred up in the right way—the way of obedience.”
“And they are as like their father as any picture—even to offering their
cheeks to the smiter! Aye, ‘as the dam is, so the lamb is’: ye have
spoken truly. And I remember your deeds with the lads in your young
days: small wonder, then, that Yagna goes your way, and imitates you so
well. If,” she hissed in her ear, “a wooden post—topped with a man’s
hat, set on it jauntily—should ask her, she were too good-natured to say
No!” Dominikova turned deadly pale and bowed her head down as the words
were spat forth.
Just then Yagna was going through the passage. Hanka called her in to
take a drink. She complied, but, without even glancing at anyone, went
out and into her own rooms.
The Voyt awaited her return, but in vain, and was visibly disappointed.
He had little more to say to the others; and when she came out again and
went into the court-yard, his eyes wandered stealthily after her.
The talk began to flag. The two older ones sat glowering and glaring at
each other, while Ploshkova whispered something in Hanka’s ear. Ambrose
alone was faithful to the bottle, and though no one took any notice of
him, talked on and told of things incredible.
The Voyt shortly took his leave, making as if to go home; but he whipped
round through the orchard into the yard, where Yagna was sitting on the
byre-step, giving a mottled calf her finger to suck.
He peered cautiously round, and putting some caramels into her bosom:
“Take these, Yagna,” he said; “and come to the private bar this evening;
you shall have something still better.”
And without awaiting her reply he hurried back to the cabin.
“Aha!” he cried; “ye have there a goodly bull-calf, I see: ’twill fetch
a high price.”
“No, we keep it for breeding: it comes of good Manor stock.”
“And a splendid profit ye’ll have of it: the miller’s bull is good for
nothing now. How pleased Antek will be to see the money flow in!”
“Ah me! when will he see that? when?”
“In no long time. It is I who tell you so: trust me.”
“We all are waiting wearily from day to day!”
“And any day they may be back—all of them; and I know something of these
matters, I fancy.”
“But the fields will not wait: that is the worst of it.”
“And ah! when I look forward to autumn....”
A cart rattled by. Yuzka peeped out and announced that it was the
priest, along with Roch, bound for somewhere.
“To purchase wine for the Mass,” Ambrose explained.
“And why,” Yagustynka asked with a sneer, “has he rather chosen Roch to
try it with him than Dominikova?”
The latter had no time to retort: just then, in came the smith, and the
Voyt raised his glass.
“Michael, you are late; come and make up for lost time!”
“I shall soon catch you up: here they come to take you from us!”
Even as he spoke, the Soltys rushed in breathless.
“Away, Peter; the scrivener and the gendarmes need you.”
“Mother of a dog! what, not an instant of rest?... Well, duty first!”
“Get rid of them quick and rejoin us.”
“Can it be done? There’s the Podlesie fire business, and they come, too,
about the hole dug here.”
He went out with the Soltys. Then Hanka, fixing her eyes on the smith:
“They will come,” she said, “to take informations. Tell them _all_,
Michael.”
He scratched his moustache, and eyed the child with much apparent
attention.
“What can I say? Just as much as Yuzka could.”
“I shall not send the girl to an official: ’twould be unseemly. But say
to them, you, that, so far as we can tell, naught has been stolen from
the store-room. Whether this be so or not, no one knows but God ...
and....”—She broke off, stroking the feather-bed with a nervous cough,
disguising the mockery she felt visible on her face. He replied only
with a shrug, and went out.
“Oh, the dishonest knave!” she said to herself, smiling softly.
“Because the christening was a poor one, they have broken it up quite,”
Ambrose grumbled, taking up his cap to go.
“Yuzka, cut a piece of sausage: he can celebrate the christening at
home.”
“Am I a man to eat dry sausage?”
“Then moisten your inwards with vodka now, and stop grumbling.”
“They were wise who said: ‘Count the grains of barley put in the pot,
but look not at your fingers when they work, nor count the glasses drunk
at any festival’!”
They continued talking and drinking for a time, till the Soltys came
round to all the cabins, ordering the people to meet the scrivener and
gendarmes at the Voyt’s.
This put Ploshkova in a passion. Setting her arms akimbo, she began to
storm.
“Not one jot do I care for the Voyt’s commands! Is it any business of
ours? Have we invited them to come? Have we time for gendarme-parties,
say? We do not come to heel to the first that whistles: no dogs are we!
If they want to know aught, let them come and inquire.... ’Tis the only
thing to do.... No, we do not go!” And with that she ran out into the
road, shouting to a group of terrified women who had come together by
the mill-pond:
“To your work, neighbours; to the fields! whoso has to do with any
goodwife should know where to seek her!—Let us not wait upon them, as if
we were going to give all up at their command, and sit like dogs at
their doors! The rascals!”—So she screamed, being mightily ruffled in
spirit.
Now as she was, after Borynova, the foremost goodwife in Lipka, the
women obeyed her, and dispersed in all directions like frightened hens;
and as the most part had already been in the fields since dawn, the
village now seemed empty, except for the little ones playing about the
pond, and the old people basking in the sun.
Of course the scrivener was furious, and loaded the Soltys with a
profusion of insults; but he had to go to the fields all the same. There
he plodded to and fro for a long time, asking each whether they knew
anything about the fire in Podlesie. They told him just as much as he
himself already knew; for what he wants to keep to himself, who would
let a gendarme know?
The whole time till noon was lost in floundering about most villainous
roads, and at times getting dirtied up to the waist with mire; for the
fields were still very muddy here and there.
Their exasperation was therefore at its height when the scrivener
arrived at Boryna’s hut to draw up a statement of facts concerning the
pit dug there. He was swearing like a trooper; and, chancing to meet
Bylitsa in the porch, he rushed at him, shaking his fists and shrieking:
“You hound’s face, you! Wherefore do you not watch, when robbers dig
under your hut, eh?” And he proceeded to mention Bylitsa’s mother, with
the foulest outrage.
“Mind the business you have to do: I am no servant of yours! D’ye hear!”
the old man, grievously offended, broke in.
At this the scrivener roared: “Hold your tongue when you speak to an
official, or I’ll jail you for contempt!” But the old man’s blood was
boiling. He drew himself up, and cried in a hoarse voice, and with
blazing eyes:
“And who are you? A servant of the public, paid by the public! Then do
what the Voyt commands you, and let us free peasants alone!—Look at him!
That scribbling fellow there! He has grown fat on our bread, and now
would fain ride roughshod over folk!—But you have your superiors to
account to, and they can punish you!”
Here the Voyt and Soltys came forward to pacify him, for he had worked
himself up so, that his fingers were twitching for some weapon at hand.
“You! set down a fine for me: I’ll pay it, and toss you a coin for vodka
besides, if I am so minded,” he called out.
But the clerk paid no more heed to him, and was taking notes of
everything, and inquiring into every detail of the occurrence: while the
old man rambled about the place, muttering, peeping into corners, and
quite unable to come to himself. He even gave a kick to the dog!
When all was over, they would willingly have taken a morsel; but Hanka
sent them word that she was just then short of bread and milk: only a
few potatoes remained from breakfast.
They accordingly repaired to the tavern, loading Lipka with all
imaginable maledictions.
“Ye did well, Hanka,” the old man said; “and they can do nothing to
you.—Why, the old Squire, though I was his serf then, and he had the
right, would never, never have insulted me so!”
In the early afternoon, news came that they were still in the tavern,
and the Soltys had given orders to bring Kozlova to him.
“He may as well run after the wind in the plain!” Yagustynka said,
scornfully.
“No doubt she is in the forest, seeking dry firewood.”
“No; she has been in Warsaw since yesterday. She went to get children
from the hospital, and is to bring over a couple. Foundlings, I
suppose.”
“Yes, and let them die of starvation, as she did those she had two years
ago,” said Hanka.
“Poor things! Perhaps it is better so; they will not have to drag out a
long life of misery.”
“Aye, but even a bastard is of human blood, and ’tis no light thing to
answer for their lives to God, as she must.”
“But,” Yagustynka pleaded, “she does not starve them of set purpose: oft
she has not enough for herself; whence can she get food for them?”
“She has not taken them out of charity; she has been paid for their
keep!” replied Hanka, sternly.
“Fifty _zloty_ a head per year is no great sum.”
“It is nothing. She drinks it all at once, and the little ones starve!”
“Not all of them.—Your Vitek, for instance, and another lad now in a hut
in Modlitsa.”
“Oh, but Father took Vitek from her when he could hardly toddle; and the
other was in like case.”
“Am I defending Kozlova? Nay, but only telling you things as I see them.
Something the poor creature must earn, since she has naught to eat.”
“Surely: her goodman is away, and so can steal naught for her.”
“And then she made but a sorry business with Agata. That old thing,
instead of dropping off—what does she do but get quite well again and
leave her? And now she grumbles all over the village that every day
Kozlova upbraided her for living on, to her loss!”
“She will no doubt return to the Klembas: where else should she take
shelter?”
“She is offended with them. Klembova would have kept her because of her
bedding and ready money. But she would not stay, had her locker taken
over to the Soltys’, and is now looking for a hut to die in peacefully.”
“She’ll not die yet. There’s work for her everywhere, if only geese to
tend.—Now, where in the world has Yagna gone?”
“She’s at the organist’s, belike, embroidering a frill for the
daughter.”
“As if there was too little to do here!”
“Ever since Easter,” said Yuzka in a tone of complaint, “she has been
there continually.”
“I’ll give her a lesson she will remember.—Let me look at baby.”
She took it to bed with her, and as soon as dinner was done, sent
everyone off to work. Soon she was alone in the room, listening to the
children playing outside under Bylitsa’s eye, and thinking how old
Boryna lay gazing at the sunbeams that streaked the counterpane, trying
to catch at them with his fingers, and babbling vague incoherent words,
like an infant.
The village was deserted, for—the weather being first-rate—all who could
had gone out to work.
Since Easter, it had been warmer and brighter every day.
And the days were lengthening out: misty at dawn, hot though cloudy at
noon, and gorgeous with burning sunsets: true spring days.
Some, cool, bright, clear, passed by in quiet beauty, with a sprinkling
of yellow dandelions, white daisies, and green buds coming out all over
the willows.
And some were downright hot—burning hot; moist, soaked in sunlight,
smelling of all fresh scents, and pregnant with such mighty power that
when at evening the birds were still and the villagers asleep, one
almost felt the upward thrust of life in the roots and growing corn, the
hushed rustling of the opening buds, and the motions of all the
creatures now coming forth into God’s world.
But there were other days, too, totally unlike these.
Sunless, foggy, of a livid grey, with bellying clouds low down in an air
so dense that it turned the head like strong drink; and the trees tossed
and rocked, and all things swelled with indistinct cravings towards they
knew not what: men only longed to shout, to yawn, to roll about the wet
meadows of lush grass, like the silly dogs around them!
Then there were days of rain, that commenced with dawn, with a hempen
funeral pall over everything, making the roads invisible, as were the
cabins too, buried in their drenched orchards. And steadily it fell, in
regular tremulous grey threads that seemed unwound from an unseen
spindle between sky and earth; while everything bent patiently beneath
the streaming downpour, and hearkened to the many-voiced bubbling of the
rills, white with foam, that ran down the dark-hued fields.
But this was a customary thing, to which no one paid heed, all going
forth to work at peep of day, and coming home late in the dusk, having
had scarce time enough to swallow a morsel and breathe awhile.
For whole days, then, Lipka stood abandoned, with only a few old people
to guard it. Sometimes a _Dziad_ would drag his aged limbs along the
way, or a cart jog on to the mill; then all was deserted once more, and
Lipka stood plunged in the ever-thickening greenery of its orchards.
So the days crawled by, full of hard toil, not always warm, sometimes
even snowy. Small wonder if there was no noise or quarrelling in the
place: they had no time for that, and every neck was bent beneath the
heavy yoke of labour.
As soon, then, as morning opened its heavy eyes, and the first lark
piped up, the whole village sprang to its feet with noise and din and
cries of children and screams of driven geese; horses were brought out
and harnessed to the plough, potatoes carted away to the fields in
sacks—and lo! all was silent anew! Even Holy Mass had but a scanty
attendance, and often the organ, played in an empty church, was heard
only by those in the neighbouring fields, and men knelt down there to
say their morning prayers when the tinkling bell announced the beginning
of the service.
All worked hard: yet the land seemed as untouched as when they were not
there. Only a close observer could have descried here and there a
plough, with horses straining forwards along the furrows—a cart moving
on the field-paths—or women, like red caterpillars, digging away in the
vast plain under the bright vault of sky.
Around them, in all the hamlets visible above the orchard-tops—white
walls on a blue-grey background—the air vibrated with roars and shouts
and songs of toilers. To the very hills at the sky-line, the eye could
see hosts of peasants, sowing or guiding the plough, and folk busy
planting potatoes, and pillars of dust rising up on sandy soil wherever
the harrow passed.
The Lipka lands alone, smitten as it were with the scourge of
barrenness, made a mournful exception. There they lay, alas! all but
fallow; for ten women, were they to strive and sweat from daybreak till
night, could not do so much as one single man.
By themselves, for what were they fit? Only for delving or hoeing, to
plant potatoes or flax. Over the rest of the lands the partridges piped
undisturbed, ever bolder and bolder; or a hare would be seen running,
but so deliberately that you could count the white flashes of its scut;
or flocks of crows would fly flapping over slope and hummock.
What though the days were marvellously fine, rising like golden
monstrances dipped in silver light? What though, luxuriant in verdure,
they brimmed over with warm fragrance, and were made melodious by the
voices of many birds, where every ditch was all full of the gold of the
dandelions; where every field-path was transformed into a green ribbon
embroidered with daisies, and the vast plain sprinkled all over as with
a rosy dust of flowers? What though each tree was oozing and dripping
with the most lovely verdure, and the whole world simmered, bubbling
over with the great seething of the spring!
For round Lipka the lands lay untilled, unsown, unmanured, like lusty
young swains basking lazy in the sunshine: and on their rich fruitful
surface, instead of corn, wild marjorams began to peep forth, thistles
grew apace, rusty sorrel plants rose up; the charlock spread amongst the
autumn-ploughed fields, and mulleins and burdocks swarmed in the
stubble. All those parasites of the farmers’ crops, taking courage, were
now creeping on far and wide, and where they had hitherto skulked about
in fear and trembling, they came up boldly and grew fast, invading and
conquering the ground, furrow by furrow.
It was depressing to look upon, that waste and lonely land!
It seemed as though the forests, bending down from the hills they
crowned; and the brooklets that wound timidly through those deserted
plots and patches; and the blackthorn thickets already swelling with
their white flower-buds; and the wild pear-trees, scattered along the
field-paths; and the birds of passage; and the solitary wanderer from
foreign parts; and even the crosses and statues of saints that watched
by the roadsides—as though they were all looking on astounded, and
inquiring of the sunny days and the plots running to waste:
“Whither have the peasants gone? Those songs, those bursts of merriment,
where are they? What has come over Lipka?”
The women’s wailing alone told them all.
So things went on, with no change for the better, rather for the worse;
because the women, unable to get even with the home-work, came more
rarely to the fields.
At Boryna’s, indeed, things went on as usual, though more slowly than
before and not so well, since Pete had never been accustomed to that
sort of work; but they went on somehow, and there were hands enough to
labour.
From her bed, Hanka directed all, and with such shrewdness and energy
that even Yagna was obliged to bear a hand along with the others. And
Hanka took thought for everything—for the live stock—for the sick
man—for the time to plough, for the seeds and where to sow them—and for
the little ones, whom Bylitsa, having fallen ill, had not been able to
care for since the christening. She lay alone all day long, seeing no
one but her people at dinner-time and in the evening, and Dominikova who
looked in once a day. None of the neighbours, not even Magda, gave sign
of life, and Roch was no longer heard of: since his departure with the
priest, he had not come back. She was utterly weary of lying in bed;
and, in order to recover more quickly, she no longer grudged herself fat
victuals, eggs, and meat. She even had a fowl killed to make broth!
True, it was far too old to lay eggs: but would have brought a couple of
_zloty_ in the market, all the same.
In consequence, she got well so speedily that she was on her legs by Low
Sunday, and resolved (in spite of all dissuasions) to have her
“churching.” So she went to church with Ploshkova at once after High
Mass.
She was still very shaky on her legs, though, and had to lean on her
companion’s arm.
“It smells of spring so, my head is whirling.”
“That will pass off in a day or two.”
“Why, a month’s change has come about in a week!”
“Spring rides a swift horse; there is no overtaking it.”
“How green all round is, O Lord! how green!”
Yes: over every orchard there floated a cloud of verdure, and nothing
was seen of the huts except the white tops of the chimneys. Deep in the
thickets, the birds were twittering with all their might; and genial
breezes came up from the fields beneath, made the weeds in the hedges
wave, and the mill-pond ripple and eddy.
“The buds are big on the cherry-trees: soon we shall see the blossoms.”
“We shall have plenty of fruit, unless a sharp frost nips them.”
“There is an old saying: ‘When the harvest is rare, there’ll be fruit
and to spare.’”
“I fear it looks like that for Lipka,” she sighed; and the tears dimmed
her eyes as she glanced at the unsown fields.
The “churching” was soon over; for the baby roared amain, and Hanka was
presently so tired that she had to lie down at once on her return. But
she had not lain a breathing-space, when Vitek rushed in, crying:
“Mistress, the Tsiganes! the Tsiganes are coming!”
“Evil news, in truth! Have we not enough to plague us?—Call Pete; let
him lock all the doors, lest they make off with anything.” And she went
out in great alarm.
In a short time, the whole gang was all over the place: black-avised, in
rags and tatters, with infants carried on their backs, these beggars,
importunate beyond all measure, were running about everywhere, offering
to tell fortunes, and even trying to make their way into the huts by
force. There were but ten of them, but they made as much noise as a
whole village.
“Yuzka! drive the geese and hens into the yard, and take the children
within doors; they might be stolen!”
Down she sat in the porch to watch; and, perceiving a Tsigane woman
trying to enter the enclosure, set the dog on her.
Lapa attacked her with savage pertinacity, and would not be driven off,
though the hag lifted her staff at him and muttered sundry words and
curses of magic might.
“Your curses, they are less than naught to me, you thief!”
“There would be no spells cast on us at all if ye let her come in,” said
Yagna, who looked annoyed.
“No, but our things would be stolen! There is no safety against such a
creature, even should your eyes follow her hands all the time!—and if ye
want your fortune told, why, go ye after her.”
She had shrewdly guessed at the unspoken desire of Yagna, who ran out
into the village, and followed the Tsiganes about all the afternoon.
Unable either to free herself of a vague dread, or to overcome her
curiosity to know the future, she returned to the cabin many a time, and
went out again as often; and it was only when twilight fell, and the
Tsiganes were going off to the forest, that she saw one of them enter
the tavern, followed her in, and, in extreme terror, crossing herself
again and again, had her fortune told, heedless of the bystanders.
At Boryna’s cabin in the evening, Pete told them about the Tsiganes: how
they had a king, who went about covered with silver bosses, and was so
perfectly obeyed that, should he even in jest command one of them to
hang himself, he would do so at once!
“A king of thieves!” whispered Vitek; “a mighty man whom they set the
dogs at!”
“Accursed heathens!” the old woman chimed in; and, drawing nearer,
related how the Tsiganes were wont to kidnap children all about the
villages.
“And, to make them black, they put them in a bath of alder-bark, so that
their own mother would not know them; and then they take a brick and rub
away the flesh—even to the bone—where the holy oil of baptism had been
set: they simply make little fiends of them.”
“And ’tis said,” a girl’s voice piped shrilly, “that they know charms
and incantations awful even to name!”
“Aye, indeed; one would have but to breathe on you, and moustache would
sprout out to a cubit’s length at once!”
“We are told that a man of the parish of Slupia once set his dog on a
Tsigane hag: she only waved a mirror before his eyes, and he was struck
stone-blind!”
“Belike, they can change a man into anything they may choose—into a
beast even!”
“Ha! whosoever drinks overmuch does truly change himself into a swine!”
“But what of that farmer in Modlitsa, who barked and ran on all fours?”
“He was possessed of an evil spirit that his Reverence cast out of him.”
“Gracious Lord! can such things be? It makes my flesh creep to think of
them.”
“Yea, for the Wicked One prowleth on every side as a wolf round the
fold!”
Terror clutched at their hearts; they gathered closer together, while
Vitek, all of a flutter with dread, faltered out:
“But this place too is haunted!”
Yagustynka was down upon him at once: “Don’t be a fool; don’t talk
nonsense.”
“I do not. For I know that Something walks the stable at night, and
shakes out the provender, while the horses neigh.... And then it passes
out beyond the haystack; for Lapa follows it, first growling, then
fawning and wagging its tail: and yet there is no one to be seen.... It
must be Kuba’s ghost,” he added in a low voice, looking round him with
dread.
“Kuba’s ghost!” echoed Yuzka, and crossed herself several times.
All were greatly impressed, and cold to the very backbone. The door
opened, creaking: they all started and cried out. It was only Hanka
standing on the threshold.
“Pete, where do the Tsiganes lie to-night?”
“They said in the forest, beyond Boryna’s cross.”
“This night ye must watch, lest they make off with aught of our things.”
“So near their camp, they would scarcely steal from us.”
“That’s as it may be. Two years since, they lay in that very place, and
went off with a sow of Soha’s,” said Hanka, as a warning. At bedtime,
she saw to it that the byre and stable were well locked; and, returning,
she looked in at her father-in-law’s door.
“Yuzka! run and fetch Yagna: tell her to come at once: this night I’ll
not leave the door unlocked for her!”
Yuzka was soon back. No lights were in Dominikova’s window, and almost
all Lipka was asleep.
“The gadabout!—Well, I’ll not let her in. She may spend the night out of
doors,” Hanka said, as she shot the bolts.
It must have been very late when, awaked by someone pushing at the door,
and going to open it, she shrank back with disgust: it was Yagna,
positively reeking of vodka. Her state was clear by her fumbling at the
door-latch; and then she was heard stumbling over the furniture and
falling like a log on to her bed.
“Had it been a fair-day, she could not have quaffed deeper!—Ah, well!”
The night was fated to bring trouble. Just before daybreak, such a
lamentable cry thrilled through Lipka that all those who still were
sleeping donned their clothes and ran out, thinking the village was on
fire.
Balcerkova and her daughters were running about, with shrieks and
screams. They had just found their horse stolen!
The whole population was instantly outside her cabin, where, in the
utmost disorder of attire, and with many a sob and wailing ejaculation,
they were telling how Mary had gone out before dawn to put provender in
the rack ... to find the door open and the stable empty!
“O Lord, have mercy!—Good people, help me, do something!” the old woman
shrieked, clutching at her own hair, and dashing herself against the
fence.
The Soltys came and sent for the Voyt, who arrived directly, but so
drunk that he scarcely could stand. Utterly incapable, he only stammered
unintelligibly, and ordered the people away, till at last the Soltys was
obliged to remove him.
The calamity, however, was so grievous that few paid any attention to
his state. Everyone was in consternation, going from the road to the
stable and back again, talking one to another, hesitating as to what
course to pursue, and completely dismayed. But suddenly someone shouted:
“This is the Tsiganes’ work!”
“So it is: they are still in the forest, and came round to us but
yesterday.”
“Let us,” cried Gulbasova, “go to them quickly, take the horse back, and
thrash them soundly!”
When the wild uproar that arose at her words broke out, it was just
sunrise. They set to pulling stakes out of fences, and running about
with clenched fists to excite each other, and were ready to set out,
when a fresh development took place.
Up came the Soltys’ wife, all in tears, crying that their cart had been
stolen from them!
The news was like a thunderbolt, and for a time they stood breathless,
staring at each other with panic-stricken looks.
A horse and cart stolen together! such a thing had never been heard of.
“There’s a curse upon Lipka!”
“And it is heavier every week!”
“Of old, fewer mishaps took place in a year than now in one month.”
“What, oh, what will be the end of it all!” they whispered, stricken
with awe.
They all immediately hastened to Balcerkova’s orchard, wherein the
footprints of a horse were distinctly seen on the dewy grass and the
damp earth; these they followed to the Soltys’ granary. It was there
that the horse had been harnessed and driven round about the path near
the miller’s, into the road that ran towards Vola.
Half the village followed the traces in that direction; but these at
last disappeared near the burnt cornstacks in Podlesie so completely
that no further clue could be found.
This robbery had dispirited them all so that, in spite of the
magnificent weather, few were in a state to work. They went about
dejectedly, wringing their hands, condoling with Balcerkova, and each of
them most anxious for the safety of her own property.
As to the old dame, she stood beside the stable-door as by a catafalque,
weeping bitterly, and pouring out by fits and starts words interspersed
with sighs:
“O my chestnut horse, my only one, my beloved, you the best of all my
servants!—Ah me! he was but in his tenth year; I had bred him from his
foaling! Even as one of my own children he was.... Foaled the very year
my Staho was born!—What shall we do without you now, alas!”
Her complaints were all the more sincere and hearty, because just then,
no men being on her farm, it was as bad to lose both her hands (she
said) as lose her horse.
Of course her neighbours surrounded her with quaint attempts at
consolation, and general praises of her horse’s good points.
“A first-rate beast, still in its prime, and gentle as a child!”
“It kicked my boy, neighbour; but all the same, ’twas a splendid
animal.”
“And though it had a spavin on one leg, it was worth forty roubles any
day.”
“As playful as a kitten, it was! How it used to pull down the bedding
from the fences!”
“We shall not look upon its like soon,” they all agreed, speaking as of
a dead Christian!—And whenever Balcerkova cast a glance at the manger,
her sorrow welled forth afresh, and the empty stable, like a freshly-dug
grave, evoked the remembrance of her loss, and the cruel injury done to
her; and she was only soothed a little when she learned that the Soltys
had taken Pete from Boryna’s, Valek from the priest’s, and, together
with the miller’s man, had started off after the Tsiganes.
“Ye may as well pursue the wind in the plain. ‘They that steal, can
conceal,’” said one.
And indeed they returned very late, announcing that every trace of them
had disappeared like a stone in the water.
The Voyt showed himself at last, and, dark though it was, took the
Soltys with him to report to the police; while Balcerkova and Mary went
to explore the neighbouring hamlets.
They came back with no news, save that thefts had been numerous in other
villages as well. So thus there now came another weighty affliction to
torment the people: anxiety for the safety of their possessions. The
Voyt therefore organized a “Vigilance Band”; and, for lack of young men,
told out two girls nightly to make the round of the village and watch,
together with all the bigger boys: besides which, the lasses were to
sleep in the byres and stables.
All this was of no avail. The very first night, certain thieves went to
Filipka’s hut (over the water), and made off with her sow, just about to
farrow!
The woman’s grief could not have been more violent if her own child had
been stolen. For this was all she depended on to pull through till
harvest-time; and her howls of despair, as she banged her head against
the walls, were frightful to hear. She went with her tale of woe to his
Reverence, who gave her a rouble, kindly promising her a young pig of
the farrow he himself expected at harvest-time.
They were at their wit’s end how to put a stop to these robberies:
everyone was filled with dreary forebodings, and went about in fear of
what the coming night might bring forth.
Luckily Roch appeared in the evening with news simply too good for
belief. On Thursday—the day after next—a whole troop of neighbours was
coming round to help Lipka in tilling the lands!
No, they could not believe it; but when his Reverence came to confirm
the news solemnly, at last their joy burst forth. The same day, when it
had ceased from raining, and the steaming pools glowed scarlet in the
sundown, all the roads swarmed with people. The huts seethed with the
excitement of it; neighbours ran out to talk the news over with
neighbours, and wonder; the robberies were quite forgotten, and the
unexpected assistance rejoiced them so much that but few troubled to
watch that night.
Early the next day, preparations were made to receive their visitors:
the huts were cleaned, loaves baked, carts made ready, potatoes cut up
for planting; and the manure that lay in heaps on the fields was
scattered about over them. In every cabin, too, much trouble was taken
to get food and drink for these unforeseen guests; for it was well
understood that they must be treated well, and as behoved farmers. Many
a fowl and goose which they had meant to sell was now put in the pot;
many a loan, too, was taken from the innkeeper and the miller. In short,
Lipka was, as it were, on the eve of some great festival.
No one was more enraptured and transported than Roch himself. The whole
day he trudged about, hastening the preparations where needful, and so
bright and chatty that, when he came round to the Borynas’, Hanka, who
was unwell and had taken to bed again, could not help remarking:
“Your eyes gleam as if ye were sick with a fever!”
“’Tis with joy they gleam! for I never yet felt so happy. Oh, think of
it: so many peasants coming over to Lipka for two whole days to do all
the most urgent work! How can I help rejoicing?”
“But I cannot make out how this aid is to be—gratis, paid only with a
‘God reward you!’”
“Aye, for those three words they will come to our help, like true Poles
and true Christians. Aye, this has never yet been seen, and therefore
has evil flourished in the country.... Things will grow better still: ye
shall see!—Our folk will gain understanding, and know that we should
look only to ourselves; that none will assist us, unless we ourselves do
so, each helping the other in time of need.—Ye shall see: the time will
come!” he cried, radiant, stretching forth his arms as though to embrace
the whole people and unite it in the strong bonds of love.
But when they asked him who had worked the miracle, he slipped away and
wandered amongst the huts, where the girls were getting ready the
morrow’s dresses—almost holiday attire—in the hope that some unmarried
man might be coming over.
The first rays of morning had but just shone upon the roofs, when the
whole place was in readiness: chimneys sent up their smoke, girls darted
from hut to hut, and little boys climbed up to the ridge-pole to look
out along the roads. All was in solemn silence. The day was not sunny;
sombre rather; but warm, with a touch of melancholy in the air. Birds
chirruped loud in the orchards, but the people’s voices were subdued and
in keeping with the mild dank weather.
They waited a good while, and it was only just before Mass that the dull
beat of the hoofs on the highways was heard, and a procession of carts
appeared coming out of the distant bluish haze.
“Here they come, from Vola!—From Rzepki!—From Debitsa!—From Przylek!”
With these shouts, they ran towards the church, in front of which the
first carts had stopped. Presently the whole space was thronged with
horses in harness, and with men. Gaily dressed peasants leaped out of
the carts, saluting the women who came crowding in on every side: while
the little ones, as usual, bawled a noisy welcome to the strangers.
The service was beginning; so in they went to hear Mass first of all.
As soon as it was over, the villagers grouped themselves round about the
belfry, the goodwives foremost, and the girls on either side of them, a
little behind; while the _Komorniki_ stood apart in a heap, unwilling to
appear too bold in the presence of his Reverence, who soon appeared,
gave all a hearty greeting, and, in concert with Roch, settled who
should work on each farm, taking care that the wealthiest peasants
should work on the best farms.
Half an hour had not elapsed before all were distributed; there only
remained in front of the church a few _Komorniki_ in tears, who had
vainly hoped that some worker might fall to their share. And now every
homestead was in motion, benches set out in front of the huts, and
breakfast laid on the tables; while nips of vodka were tossed off “to
their better acquaintance.” The lasses served with alacrity, for most of
the visitors were unmarried men, and clad almost as though they had come
rather to a betrothal than to a long spell of toil.
There was no time for conversation. Nor did they linger much over
breakfast; for, as they politely remarked, “they had not yet deserved
hospitality.”
So they speedily made for the fields, under the goodwives’ guidance.
And now arose a day of high solemnity along that country-side. Waste
and, as it were, palsied erewhile, it took up a new life now. Wagons
rolled out of every farm-yard, ploughs moved forth on every road; all
the field-paths were alive with people, hailing each other with merry
cries across orchards and enclosures; horses neighed, dogs gave tongue,
running wildly after the colts; a strong lusty joy of life, filling all
hearts, went brimming over into the very fields! And on potato-patch and
barley-plot, free space and weedy fallow, there arose a din full of
gladness and excitement and racket, as in a ball-room just before the
dance.
And then came silence, broken by swishing whips, and tinkling harnesses;
the horses pulled amain; the ploughs, still rusty, cut deep into the
soil, turning up their first black glossy furrows. And the people,
drawing a long breath, crossed themselves, cast their eyes over the
fields, and stooped down with a will to labour and to toil.
It was like a huge church in which the service had just begun. With what
piety did they bend over the glebe! with what profound devotion and
trust in Mother Earth did they cast forth the sacred seed, that was to
bring forth much fruit on the morrow!
Like a swarm of bees, they beset the odoriferous soil—a multitudinous,
laborious, silent crowd: while the lark sang overhead, poised upon
unseen wings, and the wind, blowing by, rocked the trees, tumbled the
women’s garments, stroked down the rye-blades, and then fled away with a
laugh to the forest.
For many long hours they worked on at a stretch, only from time to time
straightening their bent shoulders just for a breathing-spell. Even at
noonday, they did not quit the scene, but sat down in the field-paths to
rest awhile and eat the food brought in pots from the cabins. But no
sooner had the horses done their meal than the men returned to the
ploughs again without a moment’s lingering. Only the falling twilight at
last put an end to their labour.
And now the village shone bright, and every cabin blazed through open
door or window: within they were all busy getting supper ready. Louder
grew the noise and uproar: children clamoured, horses whinnied, gates
swung rasping rustily, calves bleated, geese gaggled, driven home from
their pastures: all Lipka effervesced with commotion and uproar.
With the evening meal there came a hush. The visitors were invited to
table, and offered the first places, as honoured guests: they were
pressed to eat of all that was best: meat was plentiful, and vodka
flowed freely.
Through the open doors and windows, the circle of heads round the tables
could be seen, spoons were heard scraping the platters, and far into the
roads came the savoury scent of fried bacon.
Roch passed from hut to hut, sowing the seed of good words, as a thrifty
farmer, full of care for his lands—yet at the same time not less happy,
perhaps happier, than anyone else in the village.
At Hanka’s, too, the day of joy was felt. Though they needed no
assistance, yet they had, in order to be of service, invited to supper
two men from Rzepki, who had been working at Veronka’s and at Golab’s.
These she had chosen because the Rzepki community claimed to be of noble
blood.
In Lipka, indeed, people laughed that claim to scorn; but no sooner had
they come in than Hanka was aware of a subtle distinction that stamped
all they did.
They were undersized, thin, wore black well-fitting capotes like
townsmen; their moustaches, of the colour of hemp, stood out stiffly;
their looks were dignified, their manners courteous, and they spoke
after the fashion of gentlemen. Very well-behaved folk they were,
praising all they saw with courteous grace, and so pleasing of speech
that the women felt mightily flattered.
Hanka paid such attention and had such an eye to all their needs that,
during the plentiful supper she had had prepared and laid out over a
clean white cloth on the table, her folk were continually dancing
attendance on them. As to Yagna, who had made a first-class toilet for
the occasion, she was in the seventh heaven, her eyes simply glued on
the younger of the two men.
But when Yagustynka whispered: “He has only his own ladies to think of;
a barefoot lass is of no account to him!” she turned very red, and
hurried out to her own room.
It was then that Roch came in to take a look at the table.
“How amazed our men will be,” he said, “to learn that the Rzepki folk
have come to help them!”
“If we fought you in the wood, it was no private concern of ours:
therefore do we bear no grudge,” the elder of the two replied.
“Whenever two men come to blows, a third is sure to gain thereby!”
“Roch, ye say true. And if these twain make friends, may not that third
have to smart for it?”
“He may. Sir, you speak most wisely.”
“What Lipka must bear to-day, may be Rzepki’s burden to-morrow.”
“Every village must be a prey to the foe, my good sir, if they wrangle
amongst themselves, instead of uniting. Wise friendly neighbours are as
sure a defence as walls and palings: no swine can pass to root in their
fields.”
“We, Roch, know that; but our young men do not as yet, and there’s the
pity of it.”
“Ah, but the time is coming, honoured sir: they become wiser!”
And thereupon they went out into the porch, where Pete was playing on
his fiddle for the girls who had gathered to hear him.
The night was quiet, with but little wind; white mists were hovering
over the lands, the lapwing piped in the morass, and the cluttering of
the mill-wheels went on as ever. But Lipka was noisy for a long while,
with laughter and merry whispers, and walks and talks by the mill-pond,
men and girls together; while their elders, sitting in front of their
cabins, chatted with the older guests, and enjoyed the rest and the cool
air.
Everybody was afoot the next day, almost ere the sky had begun to redden
in the East.
The day was clear, and, as the night had been frosty, made the landscape
gleam like silver out of the cold shadows of the chilly morning. Birds
were screaming, trees murmuring, waters gurgling; and the gale that
shook the thickets carried away with it rattling, bawling, roaring
sounds, and the songs of the lasses as they went to work.
For some time, the fields lay frosted under the dawn, lost in sound
sleep, pregnant with swelling life; but the workers soon pressed in on
every side upon those slumberous strips of land, now drowned in
sun-soaked dust-clouds, and silently attacked every patch. And now, from
the soil, and the trees, and the grey-blue distances; from the
glittering reaches of the brooks, and the red-hot disk in the skyey
vault—from all these spring was pouring itself forth with such
intoxicating might that one held one’s breath for very joy, and a
blessed feeling came and made the tears to start, the knees to bend, the
bosom to heave, in the presence of that holy miracle of Life, visible in
the meanest blade that tossed in the spring breeze.
Therefore did the people gaze around with long looks of awe, and cross
themselves, and, having said their morning prayers, set to work in
silence, so that the Mass-bell had not yet rung when everyone was at his
post.
The mists soon dissolved, and all the fields shone in sunlight. As far
as the eye could reach over the village lands, divided by long green
strips of autumn-sown corn, they were swarming with red skirts, flashing
with ploughs, broken up with harrows (pulled by farm-girls), and hoed by
ranks of potato-planting women. Often, too, along the narrow stretches
of dark soil there would pass a peasant, with a great piece of canvas
round his loins; who, slightly bending forward, would with a reverent
motion of his opening hand fling the corn down upon the expectant soil.
All toiled zealously, scarcely noticing his Reverence, who appeared
directly after Mass beside his farm-servant, ploughing close to the
road; and their amazement was extreme when they saw him coming round to
the corn-plots, hailing his parishioners jovially, offering them snuff,
and, after some friendly words, patting the children’s heads, joking
with the younger women, seizing a bough to drive a flight of sparrows
from the barley, blessing the first handful of seed to be sown, or even
sowing a handful himself: all the while urging the work on so
energetically that no overseer could have done better!
He visited them again, too, immediately after dinner; for though (as he
told the women) it was St. Mark’s day, the procession was not to take
place till the octave, on the 3rd of May.
“We must not interrupt our work, for our helpers will no longer be here
to-morrow.”
He stayed on in the open till the very end, with cassock tucked up, and
leaning on a stick, as he was a corpulent man; yet going about
unweariedly, and only now and then sitting down to wipe the perspiration
from his bald forehead.
They were most pleased to see him; and somehow the work seemed to go on
faster and easier under his eye: moreover, the peasants felt vastly
pleased at his Reverence’s kindness in coming to superintend the work.
The red sun was rolling forestwards, and they were already finishing the
more urgent work in haste, because they were anxious to be home ere
dusk.
Several of them would not even stay to sup, but departed after
swallowing a mouthful of food; others quickly stowed away the contents
of the dishes offered them; for their horses were harnessed and waited
in front of the cabins.
The priest went round again with Roch, thanking every man, and
especially those of Rzepki, for their friendly assistance.
“What you give to the needy you give to Jesus Himself. Aye, and though
ye are not liberal in your offerings for Masses, and forget the wants of
the church, and though I have for a whole year pointed out to you that
your pastor’s roof lets in the rain—still I shall always remember you in
prayers for your generosity towards Lipka.” So he spoke, moved even to
tears, and kissing each man’s head as it bent before him.
They were then close to the blacksmith’s, and on their way to the
farther end of the village, when they were stopped by a crowd of weeping
_Komorniki_, headed by Kozlova.
“Excuse us, your Reverence; we have come to ask whether these people are
not going to help us too,” she said boldly, in a loud tone of voice.
“We were waiting for our turn to come.”
The others chimed in here: “Are we poor wretches to remain without any
help?”
The priest, much embarrassed, grew exceedingly red in the face.
“What am I to do?” he said; “there were not enough workers for all....
As it is, they have kindly given us their toil for two whole days ...
and ... and....” he stammered, looking from one to another.
“Yes,” sobbed Filipka, “they have helped—but whom? Why, the landowners
... the wealthy men only!”
“For us, pestilent creatures, no one has cared or thought at all!”
“No, not even for a furrow or two, driven through our potato-plots!”
they muttered gloomily.
“But, good women, they are leaving now ... and ... yes, something will
be done for you. Truly, I know it is hard ... your husbands are in jail
with the others.... Yes, I assure you, something shall be done!”
“And for that something,” cried Gulbasova, “how long are we to wait? If
we cannot plant our potato-patches, we may as well seek a rope at once!”
“But something shall be done, I tell you! Ye shall have my horses—aye,
even for one whole day ... but pray do not tire the poor beasts.... And
I will be the miller too: and the Borynas may also give help
perhaps....”
“Perhaps!” roared Kozlova. “While the grass grows, the steed
starves!—Come away, women!—Everything is for the farm-owners, and we,
miserable starvelings, may eat stones and drink our tears!—This shepherd
only cares for the sheep he can shear: we have no wool for him!”—But
here the priest stopped his ears and took to flight.
They stood huddled together, sore and angry. Roch did all he could to
pacify them, promising sincerely he would procure assistance, and
succeeded in getting them away from the road, along which the friendly
helpers were now going home in their noisy carts, with cries of
gratitude from every threshold.
“May our Lord be your reward!”
“Health and happiness!”
“We’ll be quits some day!”
“Remember and see us every Sunday: we’re kinsfolk now!”
“Greet your parents! Bring your wives when you come!”
“Should you ever need aught, count on us!”
“God prosper you, dear ones!”
So they cried, caps and hands waving.
The lasses and all the children escorted them out of the village.
It was evening now, and the after-glow was still red upon the waters
here and there; silence came down with the mists of night, but the frogs
fell a-croaking in concert.
They went with them as far as the crossways, and parted from them with
shouts and laughter, one of the girls striking up a song as they drove
off.
“Yasio, will you wed me now?
Father’s wagon comes, I trow,
Rattling on the way—
Da dana!
Rattling on the way!”
To which the lads answered, turning round in the carts:
“Now, ’tis cold and we should freeze;
Whom can frosty kisses please?
Let us wed in May!
Da dana!
Let us wed in May!”
And the fresh young voices echoed over the dewy grass and rolled on and
afar.