“Our boys are returning!”
The news came like a flash of lightning, and spread through Lipka like
wildfire.
Were they, truly? And if so, when?
No one knew.
Only one thing was sure: the constable of the commune had been at the
Voyt’s with a certain paper, and told it to Klembova, who was just
driving her geese to the mill-pond. She had instantly rushed round to
her neighbours; the Balcerek girls had cried the news out to the nearest
huts: and in the space of an “Ave Maria,” the whole place was quivering
with glad emotion, and all the cabins were in tumult.
It was an early May morning, rather dull and rainy, drizzling and
dripping over the blossoming fruit-trees.
“The men are coming back!”—All the cabins rang with a merry peal of joy;
a flame was in every heart, and a cry in every throat.
The excitement grew more and more: doors banging, children rushing
about, women dressing in front of their huts, and looking wistfully out
into the rain through the blossoming trees which concealed the distant
roads.
“All are coming back—farmers, servants, young men: every one of
them!—They are here!—Out of the woods!—Upon the poplar road!” they
cried, one voice after another; and those more ardent sallied forth,
almost beside themselves.
Clogs clattered and splashed through the mud, and they hurried on, past
the church to the poplar road. But on all the length of that long wet
highway, there was nothing to be seen but deep ruts and pools of dirty
water: not a single living being along the whole interminable arcade of
rain-beaten poplars.
Bitterly disappointed, they hastened away to the opposite end of the
village, for the men might also be coming in that direction.
That other road was empty too. Across its width, full of hollows, the
rain beat, forming a mobile veil; its ditches brimmed with clayey water
that overflowed the adjacent furrows and swept down quantities of
drifting foam; and on the blossomy brambles which bordered the green
fields, the flowers seemed shrinking in the chilly air.
They went on a little, till someone, coming out of the charred ruins of
Podlesie, appeared on the road and drew nigh them.
He was a blind old _Dziad_, known to all of them. The dog he held back
by a string barked furiously, straining to break loose and attack them.
The man listened awhile, his staff in readiness; but soon, hearing their
voices, he hushed the dog, greeted them in God’s name, and said gaily:
“Ye are Lipka folk, are ye not? And a good many of you, I think.”
The girls came thronging round him, talking all at once.
“A flock of screeching magpies has beset me, i’ faith!” he grumbled, but
listened the more attentively as they pressed closer.
So they all returned together to the village, the _Dziad_ in their
midst, swinging along on his crutches, his distorted legs dangling
below, and his large sightless face stretched forward above: a somewhat
tubby man, with red puffed cheeks, eyes sheathed with a white film, grey
bushy brows, and a huge red nose.
He listened patiently till he had learned what they were out for, and
then said:
“It was these very tidings I was hastening hither to bring you! A
certain unbaptized one had told me in secret that your men were coming
back to-day; and I hoped to be first here with the good news. Besides,
Lipka is a fine village to visit. Now, who are these around me?”
They told him their several names.
“Why, the very flower of Lipka, I declare!—Oho! ye were out after your
young men ... and found a blind old beggar instead, did you?”
“Nay!” they roared; “each of us was after her father!”
“Dear, dear! Blind I am, but not deaf!”
“We were told they were coming, and went forth to meet them.”
“Far too early. If the goodmen are home by noon, it will be well; the
young fellows may not be here even at nightfall.”
“If set free together, they surely will come home likewise.”
“Oh, but the town and its pleasures! Are the girls there few? What in
the world should draw them hither? Ha, ha?” he said teasingly.
“Let them enjoy themselves! We shall not fret, not we!”
“Right,” said Nastka, sulkily. “There are plenty of wet-nurses in town,
and of Jews’ servants too: for those that like such, ’tis just what they
want.”
“If they prefer the slums and dens of towns, they are not the men for
us!”
“Have you been long away from Lipka, Father?” one of them asked.
“Very long: in fact, since last autumn. I spent the winter with kindly
people, and lived at the Manor all the time.”
“What! at Vola? with our Squire?”
“With the same. I am always welcome there, both to the masters and to
the masters’ dogs: all know me, and treat me well. I had a warm corner,
close to a stove; and all the time I plaited straw-bands and praised the
Lord.... I have put on flesh, and so has my dog.—Ho, ho! the Squire is a
wise man. He’s a friend to the _Dziads_, for well he knows they will
share all they have with him. Ha! ha!” He shook with laughter, and
blinked his blind eyelids as he added:
“But when God sent the springtime back again to us, it irked me to dwell
in their chambers.... I longed for the peasants’ huts and the wide
world.—Ah, this drizzling rain! it is a shower of gold, warm, abundant,
fertilizing; making the young grass smell sweet throughout the land.—But
whither are ye running, girls?”
He heard their footsteps as they scampered off, leaving him close to the
mill, and called them once more, but to no purpose. They had seen women
going by to the Voyt’s, and flown that way.
About half the village was there by this time, eager for some positive
news.
The Voyt, who it seemed had just risen, was sitting in shirt and nether
garments on his door-step, calling to his wife for his boots, and
wrapping his feet in foot-clouts, used instead of socks.
All rushed at him, breathless, greedy, and impatient to the last degree.
He let them talk, put on his grease-anointed boots, washed his face in
the passage, and then, while he combed his thick fell of hair at the
open window, answered them flippantly:
“Want the boys so much, do ye?—Have no fear: they will be home to-day
most certainly.—Mother, hand me the paper the constable brought in; it
is behind the picture.”
He turned it about, and tapped it with his fingers, saying:
“Here it is, as plain as noonday.—‘The Christian inhabitants of Lipka,
commune of Tymov, county of....’—Here, read it yourselves! Your Voyt
tells you they are returning, and return they will.”
The paper he flung them passed from hand to hand, and though no one
could make out a single letter, they knew it to be official, and,
staring at it with joy mingled with dread, passed it from hand to hand
till it got to Hanka, who took it in her apron and returned it.
“Good friend,” she asked the Voyt timidly, “are they all to be
freed—_all_?”
“So it is written, and so must it be!”
“My dear,” said the Voyt’s wife, “come in here out of the rain, you will
be wet through”; but Hanka had no mind to stay, and, throwing her apron
over her head, was the first to withdraw.
She walked slowly, however, being rent with conflicting joy and terror.
“Antek—Antek will be here!” she said to herself, and a strange faintness
came over her, and she was fain to hold to a fence not to fall. She
struggled for breath a long while, and felt weak even to
swooning.—“Antek is coming—coming back!” and she would have cried aloud
with delight, but for a sense of dread, of disquietude, of blind uncanny
fear that surged up within her heart!
Slowly she plodded on, holding to the fences. The whole road was full of
women, flushed with exhilaration, and uttering roars of laughter, and
screams and exultant shouts. Some, heedless of the drizzle, had gathered
to talk outside the huts; some stood by the pond: all were greatly
excited.
Yagustynka met her.
“So, ye know at last?—Well, this is good news. We have been waiting for
it so long that, now it has come, I feel stunned.—Have you seen the
Voyt?”
“Aye; he says it is true; has even shown us the paper.”
“Then—then all must be right!—Glory to Thee, O Lord! the poor men will
come back ... our farmers will return to us!” she said fervently,
clasping her hands.
From the dim eyes there dropped tear after tear: which made Hanka wonder
not a little.
“Why, I expected ye would be angry about this, as about everything else:
and behold, ye are weeping. Oh, wonderful!”
“What would ye? Can anyone be wroth at such a time? True, now and again,
out of sheer bitterness, I let my tongue wag; but there is something
else at the bottom of my heart that makes me, willy-nilly, rejoice or
grieve with other folk. Nay, one cannot live quite separated from
all....”
Now they were nearing the smithy, where hammers were clinking in
cadence, flames of a peach-red hue flying out of the forge, and the
blacksmith, trundling a red-hot tire, made it shrink in cooling upon a
wheel that lay close to the wall. At the sight of Hanka, the smith
stopped, drew himself up, and fixed his eyes on her face.
“Well, has Lipka cause for rejoicing at last? I hear that _some_ are
returning.”
“Some? nay, but all!” Yagustynka corrected him. “Did not the Voyt read
it so?”
“All? but he never meant felons. No: crimes must be punished.”
Hanka’s brain whirled at those cruel words. She crawled on, struck to
the heart, but said as she passed:
“May your wicked tongue cleave to the roof of your mouth!”
His laugh tore her like the fangs of a wolf, and she hurried forward to
escape from the sound.
She only felt quite recovered at the door of her cabin.
“’Tis wet to-day,” said Yagustynka; “we shall find the ground difficult
to plough.”
She made light of it.
“‘Wet morning weather, and an old dame’s dance, last not long’!”
“Meanwhile we must be planting our seed-potatoes with the hoe.”
“I am expecting the women.—These tidings have delayed them, but they
will come. I sent round to them last night, and they all promised they
would not forget.”
In the cabin the hearth blazed; it was warmer and brighter than out of
doors. Yuzka was peeling potatoes, and the baby screaming for food:
Hanka, kneeling down by the cradle, gave it suck.
“Now, Yuzka, Pete has to cart the dung from Florka’s shed to the field
we have, by Paches’ rye-plots. He can get several cartloads there before
the rain is over.”
“Ye are no friend of the slothful here!”
“Nor am I a sluggard myself!” she returned, as she covered her breast.
“Oh, I had quite forgotten. It is a half-holiday: St. Mark’s Procession,
that was postponed till the octave!”
“Why, the processions are to be only on Rogation Days!”
“He announced one for to-day: we shall go as far as the roadside
‘figures,’ and bless the village boundaries without any Rogation
procession.”
“Ha!” cried Yuzka to Vitek, who entered just then; “and you boys will be
thrashed at the boundaries to make you remember them.”[5]
-----
Footnote 5:
In England and Scotland there was once a similar custom, now become a
mere “perambulation.” See “Chambers’ Encyclopædia,” art. “Beating the
Bounds.”—_Translator’s Note._
“Here are the women; run ye, and see to them. I stay inside, to make
order and get breakfast ready, while Yuzka and Vitek take the potatoes
to the fields.”
So Hanka gave her orders, looking out at the _Komorniki_ who in their
smocks and aprons, with baskets and hoes in hand, ranged themselves
along the cabin-wall, beating their clogs against it to clean them.
Presently they were at work in the fields, two and two, two couples to
each strip, each turned towards her companion, digging hollows in the
ground, throwing in a potato, and covering it with earth again; and so
on across the patch.
Old Yagustynka acted as overseer to prevent idling.
The work went slowly, all the same. Their hands were stiff with cold,
their clogs full of water from the soaked ground; and though the drizzle
was not cold, still it was continuous and drenched them.
Soon, however, the weather changed; the sky became dappled and mottled
with blue; swallows, pioneers of sunshine, began to dart about; and the
crows, leaving the house-tops, came flapping low over the land.
The women, bent down and stooping, delved on, looking for all the world
like heaps of sodden tatters. They did their work leisurely, with long
rests, and talking among themselves. After a time, Yagustynka, who was
sowing haricot beans between the rows of potatoes, called out, as she
gazed around:
“To-day there are but few goodwives to be seen out of doors!”
“Ah, no! their men are coming; ’tis not work they are thinking of!”
“No, indeed: only cooking fat dishes and warming feather-beds!”
“Oh, ye laugh!” said Kozlova; “yet ye are yourselves all of a twitter
because of them!”
“Lipka, without the boys, is no place to live in: that’s sure.—Old as I
am, I tell you plainly—rascals and betrayers and bullies though they
are—let but the ugliest lout amongst them all show himself, the world at
once grows merrier and lighter to bear. And whoso says No to this, is a
liar!”
“Yes,” one of them sighed, “we women have been pining for our men, as
the kite is pining for a rainy day!”
“Ah, more than one will pay dear for her pining; and the lasses most of
all!”
“Before next spring, the priest will have no end of christenings!”
“Old woman, ye are talking nonsense. What did our Lord create women for?
Is it a sin to bear a child?” Thus spoke the wife of Gregory the
Wrymouth, who always contradicted.
“Ever the same, you! What? standing up for bastards!”
“Surely, and till my dying day I’ll tell anyone this to his face:
bastards or no bastards, the little ones are of our own blood, and have
as much right to live as any. And the Lord Jesus will judge them all
justly and only according to the good or the evil they do!”
They shouted her down, and jeered at her; but she only smote her hands
together, and nodded her head.
“God speed your work!” Hanka cried to them from the stile. “How goes
it?”
“Thanks: well, but somewhat damp.”
“Are the potatoes sufficient?” She seated herself on the cross-bar of
the stile.
“Quite; but cut into too few parts, I think.”
“Nay, they are halved; and at the miller’s, all the smaller potatoes are
planted whole. Roch tells me that this gives twice as good crops.”
“That must be a German fashion,” Gulbasova cried peevishly. “Ever since
Lipka has been Lipka, we have always made as many bits as there were
eyes.”
“My good woman, folk are not more stupid now than they were of old.”
“No, indeed! the egg would fain teach the hens, and rule the
poultry-yard.”
“Ye say true. But ’tis also a truth that years do not bring wisdom to
some,” Hanka said, as she left the stile.
Kozlova looked askance after her, and growled:
“Cocksure, as if she were really mistress at Boryna’s!”
“Say no word against her!” cried Yagustynka. “She’s no everyday woman,
but a heart of pure gold. I do not know anyone better and brighter than
her. I am with Hanka night and day; I have eyes to see, and am no fool.
Oh, what that woman has had to endure!”
“Aye, and she will have to endure still more.... Is not Yagna in the
same cabin with her? Trouble and distress will begin once more, when
Antek comes back.”
“I heard,” Filipka bleated, “of Yagna having taken up with the Voyt: is
that true?” But they laughed at her asking what the very sparrows
twittered among themselves.
“Let not your tongues wag!” said Yagustynka reprovingly; “the wind may
hear your words and carry them where it should not.”
They set again to work, with hoes flashing, and at times clinking on a
stone; but they talked on as they worked, sparing no one in the village.
As she walked away to take a look at the farm-yard, Hanka stooped,
passing under the cherry-trees; for the wet boughs, laden with buds and
white blossoms and sprouting leaves, were catching at her head and
sprinkling it with dew.
She had scarce been out at all since Easter, having suffered a relapse
after her “churching.” To-day’s tidings had brought her out of bed, and
set her on her legs; and though she still felt very shaky, she peered
everywhere, and with growing vexation.
The cows had been ill cared for, and their flanks were clotted with
dung; the sucking-pigs were in poor condition; even the geese seemed
unnaturally silent, as if they had been badly fed.
“Why,” she cried out angrily to Pete, who was driving off to cart the
manure, “why have you not rubbed down the horse?” But he only went past,
muttering something between his teeth.
A fresh motive for exasperation. In the granary, Yagna’s pig was
devouring the seed-potatoes heaped on the threshing-floor, while the
fowls were pecking at a quantity of inferior corn that ought long since
to have been taken up to the loft. For this she rated Yuzka soundly, and
pulled Vitek’s curly hair till the boy wriggled himself loose and made
off, while Yuzka slunk away, weeping and querulous.
“I am always at work, yet ye scold me continually: Yagna never does
aught, and you let her be!”
“Now, now, be still, silly one! You see but too well all that goes on
here!”
“But how am I to do everything? How can I?”
“Be still, I say.—Now carry them the potatoes, or they will have to stop
work.”
It was no use scolding, she saw. “True, the girl cannot suffice for all;
and as to the hirelings—mercy on us! even ere noon, they are looking
forward to sunset! As well engage a wolf to tend sheep, as think to get
profit out of a hireling. They have no conscience!”
Revolving these bitter thoughts in her mind, she discharged her fury on
the pig, that ran off squealing, with Lapa savagely hanging on to its
ear.
Looking into the stable, she saw, with yet greater annoyance, that the
mare was biting at the empty manger, and the colt, in a most filthy
state, eating straw out of its litter.
“To see this would have broken Kuba’s heart!” she said, putting hay in
the racks for both, and patting their soft warm nostrils.
But here she broke down. A sense of depression took hold of her, and she
felt she must cry; so, sitting down by Pete’s truckle-bed, she gave way,
and wept aloud.... She knew not why.
All her energy had collapsed, her heart felt heavy as a stone. Her fate
was too much for her, and not to be struggled against. Completely alone
in the world and forsaken, her life was as a tree growing in a windy
place, exposed to every evil blast! No one even to complain to; and no
end of her ill fortune in sight: only eternal mortification and sorrow;
only endless trouble, and looking forward to worse things still!
The colt licked her face; and letting her head drop upon its neck, she
burst out crying afresh.
Successful farming—respect paid her by all—what did it signify, if she
had not one instant of internal happiness?
She went back to the hut. The baby was once more screaming for her
breast. Having satisfied it, she looked out vacantly through the window,
dingy with a sweat of trickling drops.
But the baby still whimpered and wailed uneasily.
“Hush you, little one!—Father’s coming, my boy, and will bring you a
toy, and you’ll ride on his knee, because he’s set free, and how happy
we’ll be!” She walked to and fro in the room, singing and rocking him in
her arms.
“Perhaps he is really coming!” she repeated to herself, and stopped on a
sudden.
She flushed, straightened her stooping shoulders, and thought to go to
the store-room and cut him a piece of ham, and then to the tavern for
vodka.... But the smith’s words echoed within her bleeding heart, and
swooped down, tearing it as with the sharp talons of a hawk. She stopped
dead, looking round her as for help: unable to tell what to do, what to
think even!
“O Lord! what if he should never come back?” she moaned, raising her
hands to her head.
As the children were noisy and quarrelsome, she put them out and
prepared breakfast, about which Yuzka, popping her head in more than
once, had been greedily expectant.
Tears and grief had to be thrust back again; the yoke of daily labour,
pressing heavily on her soul, reminded her that her work could not be
put off.
She did her best, though her legs shook under her; only from time to
time she dropped a tear, and looked wistfully out into a dimly seen
world.
“Is that Yagna going to help in potato-planting?” Yuzka cried through
the window.
Hanka left the pot of beetroot soup on the hob, and hurried over to the
other side of the hut.
The old man lay on his side, seemingly contemplating Yagna, who was
combing her long bright hair before a looking-glass, set upon a locker.
“Ye are not at work; is it, then, a saint’s day?”
“I am not going unkempt.”
“Since dawn ye could ten times over have done your hair.”
“I could, but have not.”
“Yagna, I will not be trifled with: beware!”
“Of what?” she snarled back fiercely. “Of being turned out, dismissed
from service, eh? I am not here at your good pleasure, nor in your
house!”
“And in whose then, pray?”
“In my own, and I’d have you remember it!”
“Should Father die, we’d soon see what right ye have here!”
“But while he lives, I can show you the door.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Ye are beyond bearing! I never say one idle word to you, and ye always
quarrelling with me.”
“Thank God, you, that I do no worse!” she said, slouching forward with a
threatening mien.
“Try your utmost! I am alone, with none to help me; but we’d see who
would have the upper hand.”
She threw her hair back: their eyes, full of rage, struck at each other
like knives. And Hanka utterly lost control of herself, and shook her
fists and stormed with all her might.
“What! Do you threaten me?... Set to, then, O innocent thing, O most
injured one!—Aye, aye, all the parish knows of your doings.—More than
once they have seen you in the tavern with the Voyt!—And when the other
night I opened the door to you, home from your dirty pleasures, you were
drunk—drunk as a pig!—Of a truth, who lives noisily will be whispered
about.—Ah! but your power is ending, and neither Voyt nor smith will
protect you then—you!—you!”
She spat the words at her with a shriek.
“What I do, I do: let folk leave me alone ... or beware!” Yagna
vociferated, suddenly throwing back her beautiful flaxen hair over her
shoulders.
Exasperated to the utmost, and burning for a fight, she waved her hands
nervously about her hips, with a glare of hatred that made Hanka quail;
without another word she left the room, slamming the door.
The brawl had overtaxed her strength. She had to sit down by the window
with the child, and let Yuzka serve out the breakfast to the workers.
It was only when they had gone that she felt a little stronger, and
thought to put her work off, and go to see her father, who had been
ailing for some days past. But this also was too much for her, and
half-way there she had to return.
After some time, however, a little strength came back to her, and she
was able to do some manual work mechanically, while her thoughts were
with Antek and far away.
As the weather was improving, they expected the sun to come out about
noon; for the swallows now flew high in air, and flocks of gold-fringed
clouds were sailing by; and in the orchards, snowy with blossoms, the
birds were singing loud.
Lipka began to hum like a hive; its chimneys bore each a plume of smoke:
savoury dishes were preparing within doors. Gaiety spread from hut to
hut with the babble of women; the girls adorned themselves with ribbons
plaited in their tresses. Some hurried away to get vodka; for the Jew,
much pleased that the peasants were to come back, was willing now to
give anything on trust to whoever asked him. And from time to time,
someone went up on the roof with a ladder to inspect all the roads that
led from the town.
Few went afield, so busy were they with preparations. They even forgot
to drive the geese out, letting them gaggle and scream in the yards; and
the children, left to their own devices, went about playing very naughty
pranks. The bigger boys, armed with poles, climbed the poplars, and
knocked down the crows’ nests; while the parent birds, looking like
great smuts in the sky, wheeled about, croaking distressfully. The other
youngsters found a mischievous pleasure in chasing the priest’s blind
old horse, which had been harnessed to a water-tub on runners, and which
they tried to drive into the pond. It managed to resist its tormentors
for a while, but at last, taking fright at the smell of fire in its
nostrils, bolted into Boryna’s enclosure, knocking down the gate and
getting entangled in the bars: of which they took advantage to come to
close quarters and beat it.
It might have broken a leg in its plunges to escape; but luckily Yagna
came up, drove the urchins away and extricated the poor animal; then,
seeing they were still lying in wait for it, she led it back to the
priest’s.
This took her down a lane between his garden and the Klembas’, just as
the organist’s britzka came up. Yanek was bidding his family good-bye on
the door-step, and his mother had taken her seat already.
“I am bringing back the priest’s horse,” she said demurely; “a lot of
urchins were ill-treating it.”
“Father, call Valek to take it,” cried the organist’s wife; then, as
Valek appeared, “You lout you! to let that horse go alone! It might have
broken its leg!” she added.
Yanek, seeing Yagna, glanced at his parents, and held out his hand to
her.
“Yagna! God be with you!”
“Going back to school?”
His mother answered with pride: “I am taking him to begin studying for a
priest.”
“A priest!”
She raised her eyes and looked at him in admiration. He sat down on the
foremost seat, but with his back to the horses.
“By this means, I shall see Lipka awhile longer!” he exclaimed, casting
a fond glance on the lichen-covered roof of his house, and on the
orchards around, all bathed in dew and overladen with blossoms.
The horses trotted off.
Yagna went after the britzka, Yanek once more bidding farewell to his
sisters in tears in front of the house, but gazing only on those moist
azure eyes, wonderful as the sky on a May day, which looked into his; on
that fair head, crowned with braided locks that went three times round
and ended in curves about her ears; and on that face, so white, so
dainty, so ... just like a wild rose!
She walked along, fascinated by the look in his bright eyes. Her lips
were quivering so, that she could not close her mouth. And how her heart
was beating! and how humbly she followed him with her eyes, almost
swooning for the marvellous sweetness that flooded her! A strange drowsy
feeling came over her, and a soporific fragrance seemed to be blunting
her senses....
It was only after the britzka had turned off to the poplar road, and
their eyes could no longer meet, that she awoke with a shock to the
dreary emptiness of all around her, and ceased to follow him. Yanek had
waved a last farewell with his cap, and they had disappeared in the
shades of the poplars.
She rubbed her eyes, waking as it were from a dream.
“Lord, Lord!” she ejaculated; “such eyes might draw one down to hell!
“An organist’s son!... And looks like a young Squire!... A priest, a
priest!... Perchance he will be sent to Lipka!”
Again she looked round; but the britzka, though not yet unheard, was no
longer in sight.
“Such a mere stripling! Almost a boy!... And yet, when he looks at me, I
feel it like an embrace, and grow dizzy.”
She shivered slightly, licked her scarlet lips, and stretched herself
stiff, with voluptuous zest.
Suddenly she shuddered. Her head and feet were bare: she noted it only
now. And she was almost undressed—only in her smock, with a tattered
shawl on her shoulders!
She blushed for shame, and started for home by the most unfrequented
paths.
“Know ye that the lads are coming?” girls and women and children called
out to her from within their enclosures. They were all breathless with
the gladness of the tidings.
“Coming or not, what is the difference?—The fools!” she murmured,
annoyed at the mad joy they all felt at their husbands’ return.
She looked in at her mother’s. Only Andrew was at home. That day he had
left his bed for the first time, and his broken leg was still in
bandages. He was sitting on the door-step, weaving a basket, and
whistling to the magpies that hopped about.
“Yagna, do you know? Our folk are coming home!”
“All day long naught else have I heard!”
“And Nastka is simply crazy over Simon’s return!”
“Why?” Her eyes flashed sternly; they had her mother’s steely glance.
“Oh, for no reason!... My leg is hurting me again,” he faltered,
frightened to have betrayed a secret. “Be quiet, plaguy ones!” he
vociferated, throwing a stick at a number of cackling hens.
Then he pretended to rub his leg, and looked with anxiety into her
strangely louring face.
“Where is Mother?”
“Gone to the priest’s.—Yagna! About Nastka ... I ... I said ... what I
should not....”
“You ass! To think none knows of that!—They’ll marry, and there’s the
end of it.”
“But—will Mother let them? Nastka has but one acre.”
“If he asks, she will refuse. But he is old enough to know what to do,
and how to do it.”
“He is, Yagna. And if he fall out with Mother and be disobedient and
marry in despite of her, then he will take his share of the land, and
settle down on it.”
“Talk ye and gabble as much as you like; but take heed lest Mother hear
you.”
She felt out of temper. What! that Nastka! she too, to have a sweetheart
and rejoice with the others! Each one was returning to his own darling
to-day: she raged at the thought.
“Yes, yes, they all are coming back!”
But then a sudden thrill of excitement filled her mind!—Leaving Andrew,
who remained in great awe of her, she went straight back to her cabin,
to smarten herself up like the others for the home-coming, and like
them, too, to await the freed prisoners with feverish anxiety.
She made her toilet with great care, singing the while for joy and
longing, and running out at times to look down the road towards which
they all were turned.
“And whom are your eyes seeking?” was the unexpected question put to her
by someone.
Her arms dropped to her sides, as a bird’s broken wings, and a cruel
agitation fluttered her heart.
Truly, whom had her eyes to seek? No one was hastening back to
her.—“Only Antek, peradventure!” she murmured low, and heaved a sigh,
while remembrances rose up in her mind, as of a wonderful dream, but
dreamt, ah! so long ago!
“Yet the smith told me only yesterday that he would not be set free with
the others, but lie in prison for many a year.”
“But if perchance he is freed—what then?” She said the words again, as
if her soul were bent on expecting him. Nevertheless, it was not with
joy or exultation: rather with a lurking sense of distaste.
“What though he comes?” she said, pettishly; “he is nothing to me now!”
At that moment old Boryna gabbled inarticulately. It was, she knew, his
way of asking for food, but she turned her back on him with aversion.
“Die and have done with it!” she said with a sudden burst of spite, and
went out into the porch not to see the man.
Down at the pond, there were batlets beating the linen, and
washermaidens showing crimson through the green boughs. A dry breeze
just moved the willows. Now and again the sun peeped from behind a veil
of white cloud, making the little pools glitter, and golden rimples
dance about the pond. The rain-mists had gone; and above the low grey
stone walls rose the orchard-trees, with their blossoming tops, like
immense nosegays, wafting fragrant odours and twittering notes through
the air.
“And perhaps, too, I may see him!” she thought dreamily, turning her
face towards the wind and the dews which fell dripping from the drying
blooms and leaves.
“Yagna!” shouted Yuzka from the yard; “are ye going to help in the
potato-field or not?”
Yes; she did not mind. She even willingly obeyed an order that took her
away from herself and her incertitude: though she was still under the
influence of a melancholy which brought tears to her eyes. But she set
to work with such goodwill that she had presently distanced all the
hired workers; and so she kept on, paying no heed to Yagustynka’s taunts
and gibes, nor to the eyes of the other women, that followed her every
movement with the air of surly dogs ready to bite.
At times, indeed, she would straighten herself for a moment, as does a
pear-tree after bending to the blast, showering its scented blossoms on
every side, and (perhaps) remembering the past storms of winter.
She thought of Antek sometimes, but more often of Yanek’s glowing eyes,
and of Yanek’s cherry lips; and the sound of Yanek’s voice echoed in her
ears. And she clung with all the force of her will to those yearnings of
her memories: they made such sunshine in her heart! For her nature was
that of the wild hop, that for its growth and blossoming and life, must
needs twine round some other plant; else, left without support, it falls
and perishes.
The _Komorniki_, having flung whispers about to their hearts’ content,
were now taking kerchiefs and aprons off their heads, because it had
grown warm; they talked louder among themselves, and stretched their
limbs, yawning and longing for the noonday rest.
“Kozlova, ye are highest: pray look whether no one is coming along the
poplar road.”
She stood on tiptoe, but answered: “No one in sight!”
“They cannot so soon be here; the way is long: they will come at dusk.”
“Besides,” Yagustynka added, after her bitter fashion, “there are five
taverns by the way!”
“Poor things! what do they care for taverns?”
“They have had so much to bear all this time!”
“Oh, indeed! they have had to bear warm beds and plenty to eat!”
“Of fare no better than nettles and chaff!”
“Also, freedom with a potato is better than the very best jail!”
Gregory’s wife said.
“A strange thing,” Yagustynka mused, “is that same freedom, that we
relish so: freedom to starve without paying a fine, nor being taken by
the gendarmes.”
“Very true, my dear; but captivity is captivity all the same.”
“And a dish of pease and bacon is not a broth made of aspen pegs!”
Yagustynka replied, mimicking her voice so that they all burst out
laughing.
She followed up her success by abusing the miller, who “lent rotten
flour to borrowers and gave short weight when paid in cash”; and then,
in concert with Kozlova, set to running down everybody in Lipka, his
Reverence not excepted.
Gregory’s wife tried to stand up for some: which made Kozlova cry:
“Ye would fain defend even church-robbers!”
“For we all have much need of being defended,” she answered gently.
“Especially Gregory, when ye lift your hand-mangle against him!”
“Right and wrong have naught to do with you, you wife of Bartek Koziol!”
she returned in a hard voice, drawing herself up to her full height.
All were fluttered, and expected the two would come to blows at once;
but they went no further than a defiant glare. And then Vitek came to
ask them to dinner, and to take their baskets, the afternoon being a
half-holiday.
At dinner, which Hanka served out to them outside the cabin, they talked
but little. The sun was shining bright, and everything looked beautiful,
with snowy blossoms scattered all about.
The day continued fine, and the breeze moved the tree-tops as gently as
the hand of a mother caressing her little one’s cheeks.
No more field-work, then, was done that day. Even the cattle were driven
home: only a few of the poorest villagers led the hungry cow (their
food-giver) by a rope to graze along the field-paths, or about the
ditches.
When the sun had begun to throw somewhat longer shadows, the people
gathered in front of the church, conversing in tones as low as the
chirping of the birds within the lofty maples and lime-trees that spread
their branches, scarce covered as yet with leaves, above the
church-roof.
As usual when it has rained in the morning, the sun was hot. The women,
in holiday garments, stood together in groups, some of them looking
eagerly over the wall towards the poplar road; and the blind _Dziad_ sat
with his dog at the lich-gate, droning hymns in a singsong whine,
listening attentively to every sound he heard, and holding out a platter
to the passers-by.
In a little, his Reverence came out, clad in surplice and stole, but
with uncovered head, his bald crown glistening in the sun.
Pete carried the cross, for the way was too far for Ambrose; the Voyt,
the Soltys, and some of the strongest girls bore the banners, which
waved and flapped and gleamed resplendent with many a hue. Michael, the
organist’s pupil, swung the holy-water stoup and brandished the
sprinkler; Ambrose distributed the tapers; and the organist, book in
hand, took his place by the side of his Reverence. So they started off
in silence, through the blossom-sprinkled village; and as they went
along the pond, its still waters reflected the whole pageant.
On the way, many more women and children joined them; and finally the
miller and the smith pressed in by the priest’s side. Last of all,
lagging far behind, came Agata shaken with her churchyard cough, and the
blind old _Dziad_, swinging along on his crutches; but the latter turned
off at the bridge, and made for the tavern.
They lit the tapers only on passing the mill: the priest donned his
biretta, made the sign of the cross, and intoned Psalm XCI: “He that
dwelleth....”
The whole procession took it up with fervour, and on they went by the
riverside, through the meadows where there was still many a pool, and
they had more than once to go ankle-deep in mud. Shading the tapers with
their hands, they wound on by the narrow footpath, the women’s skirts
forming a long red line like the beads of a rosary.
Shimmering in the sunbeams, the river purled and meandered through the
verdurous meadows, spangled with white and yellow flowers.
Overhead the banners waved, as birds flapping wings of red and gold. In
front, the cross lumbered along, and through the still transparent air
rose the slow voices of the singers.
On the river-banks, thickly studded with marsh-marigolds, the waters
splashed on as a gentle echo of the psalms, rolling towards the distant
sky-line on which every eye was fixed, and towards the hamlets seen on
the far-off heights; now scarcely visible through the bluish haze, amid
the whitely blooming orchards in which they nestled.
Walking with his assistants immediately behind the cross, the priest
sang with the others.
“What a multitude of wild ducks!” he whispered, glancing to his right.
“They are widgeons,” the miller answered, looking down to the riverside,
overgrown with last year’s withered reeds and alders, out of which
flocks of wild ducks flew out at times on heavy wings.
“There are also more storks than last year.”
“They find plenty to eat in my meadows: so they come here from all
parts.”
“Ah! mine is gone: it left me about Eastertide.”
“Gone off, belike, with a flock of others flying by.”
“What have you there, on those muddy stretches?”
“I have had an acre of land sown with maize: the soil is rather damp,
but they say the summer will be dry; so I may make something by it.”
“May it not be like my last year’s maize! the crop was not worth
gathering.”
“Except by the partridges. It fed many a covey,” said the miller, with a
chuckle.
“Aye, the partridges were for the Squire’s table, and my poor beasts had
nothing to eat.”
“If mine succeeds, I’ll send your Reverence a cartload.”
“Many thanks: my last year’s clover was but a poor crop, and, should we
have a drought, things will go ill for me!” He sighed, and continued the
psalm.
They had just come to the first landmark, a mound so overgrown with
flowering blackthorns that it rose up clad in beauty, arrayed in white
blossoms and sonorous with swarms of bees.
They surrounded it with a circle of flickering lights; the cross towered
aloft; the banners dipped and unfurled themselves; the people knelt
around, as before an altar whereon the hallowed majesty of spring stood
revealed amid flowers and the hum of bees.
The priest then read a prayer that no hail might fall, and sprinkled
holy water to the four cardinal points, over the trees, the earth, the
water, and the heads of the humble worshippers.
The people then struck up another chant, and went forward.
This time, turning somewhat to the left, they crossed the meadows up a
gentle slope. But the children stayed behind a little; and the sons of
Gulbas, aided by Vitek, and according to the immemorial custom, here
thrashed several boys so soundly that there was a great uproar, and the
priest was obliged to intervene and quiet them.
Farther on, they came to a wide place of pasturage at the parish
boundaries, dotted over with little thickets of juniper, growing at the
border. This pasture land wound hither and thither, like a green river,
with waves of grass, and so full of flowers that even the old cart-ruts
abounded in daisies and dandelions. In places, too, there were large
trees, so fenced about with brambles that there was no approaching them;
and then came wild pear-trees, all in bloom, sung to by myriads of bees,
and towering aloft, most beautiful and godlike of shape; one felt ready
to fall down and kiss the ground which had brought them forth!
And then, the birch-trees! How they arched their lovely trunks, attired
in silvery bark, quite over-canopied with green braids and tresses, and
reminding you of a young maiden, intensely quivering with pure emotion,
who goes to her first Communion!
Little by little, they trended uphill, circling Lipka from the north,
and along the miller’s fields, lush with rye: first the cross, then the
priest, afterwards the girls and younger women, then the old folk
straggling by twos and threes abreast, and, last of all, Agata, hobbling
and coughing.
When they were out on the plain, the hush deepened. The wind had fallen;
the banners hung limply down, and the procession lengthened out to the
extent of a furlong, the women’s bright dresses set off by the
surrounding greenery, and the taper-flames trembling and fluttering like
golden butterflies.
And, high above, the sky was quite blue, except for a few woolly clouds,
white sheep on the immensity of those azure fields, through which the
huge hot sun rolled on, bathing the world in heat and splendour.
The chants now grew louder, resounding from full throats and hearts with
such deafening clamour that the birds flew frightened out of the trees
that stood near; and sometimes a partridge rose in alarm from under
their very feet, or a leveret went bounding away.
“The autumn-sown lands are getting on well,” the priest whispered.
“I have seen corn already in the ear there,” said the miller.
“Whose is that field, so badly tilled? The furrows are half full of
dung!”
“Some poor _Komornik’s_ potato-patch: it looks as if ploughed with a
cow!”
“Probably his Reverence’s farm-hand has ploughed it, then,” the
blacksmith put in with quiet malice.
His Reverence turned angrily upon him, but said no word, and set once
more to singing along with the people; now and then casting his eyes
over the vast expanse of fields, swelling out here and there like the
breasts of a mother giving suck, and seeming to heave gently, as if she
would gather together and feed all who came to her bosom.
Sunset was gilding the corn, and the trees in bloom were throwing
lengthier shadows; the mill-pond shone dazzlingly in its lovely frame of
orchards, snowy with fallen blossoms. The village lay beneath them as at
the bottom of an enormous dish, and so compassed about with trees that
the grey barns were but seldom visible. The church alone lifted its
white walls up above all the huts, its golden cross gleaming bright in
the sky.
“How still it is! I hope it will not rain to-night,” said the priest.
“It will not; the sky has emptied itself out, and there’s a cool
breeze.”
“In the forenoon it was raining; and now, not a trace of water!”
“In spring the water vanishes quick,” the blacksmith chimed in.
Now they had come to the next mound, that formed a landmark of the
commune. It was very large: they said that men lay under it who had been
slain in “The War.” It was topped by a small cross of shaky timber,
adorned with last year’s images and garlands, and draped with many a
scarf. Close by stood a willow with forked and rotten trunk, that hid
the fissures of old age under the new shoots that it bore. The place was
drearily waste and sinister: no birds made their nest near it. Fruitful
lands extended on every side; but among these the mound lifted up its
barren flanks, with yellow streaks of sand, and abounding only in
houseleeks that spread here and there in patches like a foul tetter,
along with the dried stalks of last year’s mullein and nightshade.
They recited the prayers against the plague, and, quickening their pace,
turned on again to the left, beyond the poplar road, following a narrow
and deeply rutted cartway.
But Agata stayed behind a little to tear off some bits of scarf from the
cross. These, as she once more went after the procession, she buried one
by one in the field-paths, for some superstitious purpose of hers.
The organist now began the litany, which, however, was taken up but
feebly, only a few of the people responding.
Meanwhile, the priest, now much exhausted, was wiping his bald head,
looking round on the neighbouring lands, and conversing with the Voyt.
“I see the pease have come out finely here.”
“An early crop, no doubt, and well-prepared soil.”
“I sowed some before Holy Week, and yet mine are only just peeping out!”
“Because your Reverence’s land lies low and is exposed to the north.”
“Why, the barley here sprouts up as regular as if sown with a drill!”
“The Modlitsa folk are good husbandmen, and till their lands like the
Manor people.”
“Ah, but how wretchedly our fields have been tilled, God forgive us!”
the priest ejaculated mournfully.
The blacksmith laughed sneeringly. “Tilled by charity! One must not look
a gift-horse in the mouth!”
“You little rascals! If you don’t leave off, I’ll pull your ears!” the
priest cried out to some urchins who were shying stones at partridges.
The conversation ceased, for the organist began to chant, the smith
accompanying him, and the women’s voices rising up in a dolorous chorus;
and the litany floated across the land like a bevy of birds that, tired
by a long flight, sink slowly down towards the ground.
On they pushed through the green plots, and the men of Modlitsa, and
even those farther away, stopped work to take off their caps or even
kneel down in the fields, while the cattle raised their horned heads and
lowed.
They were about a furlong away from the third mound and the poplar road,
when someone gave a loud shout:
“There are peasants, coming out of the wood!”
“Our own people, perchance!”
“Our own! our own!” they cried, and there was a rush forward.
“Stay!” the priest commanded severely. “God’s service first!”
They obeyed indeed, but stamped on the ground with impatience. All now
crowded together behind the priest, who, though he kept them back,
hurried his steps himself.
A breeze had sprung up, putting the tapers out, waving the banners, and
making the rye, the brushwood, and the trees in bloom to bow before the
procession as it passed. The people sang more loudly, and were almost
breaking into a run, peeping the while between the roadside trees to
make out the peasants’ white capotes.
“They will not run away from you!” the priest said, reprovingly, for
they were pressing close, treading on his heels.
Hanka, who walked in the ranks of the goodwives, cried out aloud on
perceiving the white capotes. And though without hope to behold Antek
with the others, the sight filled her with the most intense delight.
Yagna too, who was walking by her mother’s side, felt impelled to run
forward. A fever of desire had taken hold of her, and her teeth
chattered so that she could not clench them. Nor were the other women
less eager to meet their loved ones. More than one of the lasses and
lads could not hold back any more, and, though called back, ran on by a
short cut to the road, their legs twinkling as they ran.
The procession was soon at Boryna’s cross, just in front of the mound
which formed the boundary between the Lipka territory and the Manor
lands.
And there, under the birches that overshadowed the cross—there they
stood all—their goodmen—their sweethearts! On seeing the procession,
they had uncovered their heads, and all the women could see the
long-desired faces of their husbands and fathers and brothers and sons:
emaciated and haggard, but shining with joy!
“The Ploshkas!”—“The Sikoras!”—“Matthew!”—“Klemba!”—“Poor dear
ones!”—“Our best-beloved!”—“O Lord Jesus!”—“O Holy Mother!”—Invocations,
cries, whispers of love filled the air: every eye blazed with gladness,
every hand was stretched forth, every mouth uttered shouts of
exultation. But the priest silenced them all with a word, and, advancing
towards the cross, he calmly read the prayer: “From fire....” But he
could not read fast; he was unable to help looking very frequently aside
to cast compassionate eyes on those poor worn faces.
And when he had done, he sprinkled holy water over their bowed heads,
and cried with all his might:
“Praised be Jesus Christ!—O my dear people, how is it with you all?”
They answered him in chorus, pressing round him as sheep round their
shepherd, some kissing his hands, some embracing his knees. He strained
each of them to his heart, stroked their thin cheeks, and asked about
their health with the kindest attention. At last, quite wearied out, he
sat down under the cross, wiping sweat from his brow and tears of
fatherly love from his eyes.
Around him, his people gave way to all the impetuosity of passionate
tenderness.
Then arose a tumult of laughter and of kissing, of happy tears,
childlike prattle, words of fire, ardent whispers, and cries that burst
out like songs from their rejoicing hearts. Women took their husbands
apart, men stood swaying about in a ring of women and children, and
speech and weeping rose in blissful confusion. All this lasted many
minutes, and would have lasted longer, but that the priest saw it was
getting late, and gave the signal to depart.
So they went on to the last mound on the road by the forest, skirted
with young junipers and pine-saplings.
The priest intoned: “O most beloved Mother!...” which all took up as one
man with a great cry, their hearts brimming over with bliss; and the
hymn, like a spring tempest, burst forth and smote on the forest with
darts of fiery jubilation.
And the forest bent its head over the road, looking down on them, waving
its tree-tops in the evening sun, but within its depths so hushed and
calm that the very tappings of the woodpeckers were clearly heard, and
the cuckoo’s call, and the twittering of the field-birds.
In places, their way led them along upon the verge of the tilled lands;
and the peasants, silently passing in serried ranks by the road-ditches,
stooped down to cast their eyes over the green expanse; to gaze on the
blossoming trees, all on fire in the sundown, and the long strips of
cornland lying prostrate before them, and those fields, covered with
long waves of winter-corn, that seemed rolling up to their feet with a
jubilant murmur. And how their eyes gloated over that land, their true
foster-mother! Some even saluted it with doffed caps; all knelt down in
spirit, mutely and fervently worshipping Her, the Hallowed, Her, the
Much-desired!
After these first salutations came more noisy chat and freer rejoicings
of heart. Many a one, too, would fain have run into the wood and shouted
himself hoarse, or lain down to shed tears of pure happiness in the
fields.
Hanka alone felt herself cut off from them all. Around her everywhere
and before her, the men went about, loud in talk, and women and little
ones crowded about them, enraptured and, as it were, pressing together
under their wings. She alone had no one there who cared for her. All
were boisterous with uncontrollable delight, and she, though in their
midst, drooped and pined—as she had seen trees surrounded with lush
underwood, but dying away, wherein even the crow would not build its
nest, and whereon not a bird would alight! Few troubled to greet her. Of
course; each was hastening to his own people.—And so many of them had
been sent home! even that Koziol, after whose return they would again
need to watch the store-rooms and lock the sties! The ringleaders too
were back: Gregory, the Voyt’s brother, and Matthew. Only Antek stayed
in jail: perhaps never again to be seen by her!
Those thoughts were fast becoming unbearable: they were oppressing her
so that she could hardly walk. And yet walk she did, with head erect,
and apparently as brave and high-spirited as ever. When they sang, she
joined in with a firm voice: when the priest offered up prayers, she was
first—though with pallid lips—to repeat them after him. It was only in
the intervals of silence, hearing round her whispers of ardent love,
that she had to fix her eyes upon the glittering cross, and march on,
careful lest her tears—those traitors making their way beneath her
reddened eyelids—should let them know what she felt. She refrained even
from asking after Antek, fearing to break down and show what she
suffered. No—no! she had borne so much, and she could go through yet
more, and suffer all patiently.
One other suffered also with her. Yagna was no better off than Hanka.
She walked along, moving amongst them shyly, like some startled animal
of the woods. She had at first been so transported with joy that she had
run first of them all to greet the men; but no one had come forward, nor
gathered her into his arms, nor kissed her! She had seen from afar
Matthew, towering above the others, and her flashing eyes had glanced
towards him, instinct with sudden long-forgotten desires; and she had
pushed through the throng. But he had, it seemed, failed to recognize
her; and before she got there, his mother had her arms about his neck,
his sister Nastka and the other children were embracing and hugging him
on every side; while Teresa (the soldier’s wife), bathed in tears and
careless who might see her, was grasping his hand!
Her fire was quenched at once, as with a stream of icy water. How
intense had been her wish to feel herself one of that crowd, part and
portion of the crush; to join in that thrilling tumult of salutes, and
enjoy herself like the others! For indeed, like them all, her heart had
glowed with enthusiasm, and been ready for every transport of
tenderness: and now she found herself isolated, out of it all: just like
a mangy dog, she thought!
It was very, very bitter for her, and she barely refrained from tearful
complaints, as she moved on, louring as a dark cloud that may at any
time pour down a torrent of rain.
More than once she had thought to slip away home, but could not: it was
too hard to leave the procession! So she remained with the others, but
as bewildered as Lapa seeking his master in a crowd. She felt no
inclination to go either with her mother or with her brother Simon, who
had purposely slipped away with Nastka among the juniper-bushes on the
road.—All these things had finally made her so furious that she would
have liked to stone all the lot of them, with their silly grinning
faces!
She was somewhat relieved that they had now left the forest on one side.
The last mound stood by the crossways, one of which ran straight down to
the mill.
The sun had set, and a chilly wind blew from the lower levels. The
priest, for whom Valek was waiting with a britzka, now hastened the
service. They still went on singing, but with tired voices; the men
asked in whispers about the farm which had been burnt at Eastertide, and
whose blackened ruins they saw quite near; and they also gazed with
curiosity at the Manor lands close at hand.
There the Squire was to be seen, riding about the fields on his sorrel
horse; also some men who appeared to be measuring the ground with long
rods. Close to the cross, just where the roads forked, and over against
the burnt cornstacks, a large yellow britzka was to be seen.
“What may this mean?” someone asked.
“They are measuring the land, but do not look like surveyors.”
“Tradespeople, I dare say: they have not the air of farmers.”
“Of Germans, rather.”
“Aye, aye: dark-blue capotes, pipes in their mouths, and long trousers.”
They stared and whispered with great curiosity, not unmixed with a vague
sense of uneasiness; and they were so taken up that they did not notice
the blacksmith who quietly slunk away, crawling by the ditches until he
got to the Squire.
“Are they buying the Podlesie farm, by any chance?”
“I certainly heard them say at Easter that the Squire was looking out
for purchasers.”
“But Heaven protect us from such neighbours as the Germans!”
The procession was now over. The priest got into his britzka and drove
off with the organist; while the people broke up into small parties,
trudging slowly home, some by the road, some along various pathways and
in Indian file, each taking the nearest way to his dwelling.
The dusk was gathering over the land and the carmine of the sunset sky
passing higher up into a pallid green. From beyond the mill white
vapours came rolling up in flocculent masses. Through the stillness now
descending over the country-side, the _klek-klek-klek_ of the stork
resounded loud and sharp.
No human voices were heard there any longer, for the procession had
quite melted away in the fields.
But soon the village became filled with sounds: on every side, they were
coming noisily in. Every man made the sign of the holy cross on the
threshold that he had quitted so long since; many a one fell prostrate
before the holy images, sobbing for very fullness of heart.
And now there were fresh greetings, and the chattering of women and the
prattle of infants, and many a narrative begun, interrupted by hot
kisses and bursts of laughter. The women, flushed and blowzed, set the
dishes before the poor sufferers, offered them food in plenty and
pressed it on them with the utmost eagerness.
And so happy were they to be back again and with their families, that
this made them forget all their past injuries, and the long months of
their separation, and they again and again hugged their dear ones to
their bosoms, asking them questions without end.
Then, after supper, they went out to look at the farm-yard; and though
it was growing dark, still they managed to go about the orchards and
outhouses, patting their live stock, or stroking the heavy blossom-laden
boughs, as though they were the heads of beloved children.
But it is quite impossible to describe the raptures of Lipka that
evening.
With the exception, indeed—and a great one—of Boryna’s cabin.
The place was well-nigh deserted. Yagustynka had gone home to her
people; Yuzka and Vitek had found some other hut where there was more
company and greater merriment. Hanka remained apart in the dark
dwelling, nursing her wailing child, and yielding at last to her anguish
with bitter burning tears.
She was not, however, quite by herself. In the next room sat Yagna, in
prey to the very same tortures, and like a bird beating its wings
against the bars of its cage.
A strange fate it was that had fallen on both alike!
Yagna had arrived sooner than the rest, and, though sombre and black of
looks as night, had set to work at once; had milked the cows, watered
the calf, even fed the swine; and Hanka wondered, and could hardly
believe her own eyes. But Yagna, indifferent to everyone, worked away
with a sort of fury, as if to drown her misery in fatigue.
It would not do. Her arms dropped with lassitude, and she thought her
back would break, but the tears welled up all the same, and trickled
down her cheeks, and her distress and desolation only grew more and
more.
Her eyes were so dim, she noted no one around her, not even Pete, who
had been at her heels ever since she came home, eager to help, following
her everywhere with his eyes, and often approaching so close that she
unconsciously moved aside. And at last, when they were both in the
granary heaping cut straw into a basket, he caught her by the waist,
pushed her close against a partition wall, and sought her lips with a
muttered ejaculation.
Engrossed as she was, and unsuspicious of anything more than the rough
horse-play of a farm-hand, perhaps rather pleased, too, at finding
herself not so absolutely neglected, she suddenly saw his intent when he
threw her down on the straw, and pressed his moist hot lips to hers.
With the fury of a whirlwind she started up, and cast him from her like
a truss of hay; and he measured his length on the threshing-floor!
“You foul eyesore!” she gasped, catching hold of a rake. “You
plague-spotted beast! you swineherd, you! Only dare to lay a finger on
me again, and I’ll break every bone in your body! I’ll teach you to make
love, and a bloody lesson it will be!”
In a few minutes, however, she thought no more of him, got all her work
done, and went into the cabin.
On the threshold she met Hanka. Out of eyes glazed over with weeping and
sorrow, the two exchanged glances—and then passed each other by in a
moment.
But the doors of both rooms stood open, and the lamps had been lit, so
that they happened every now and then to look at each other.
Later, too, when getting supper ready together, they came closer
perforce; though neither breathed a single word. Each well knew what the
other had to endure, and they often flung mutual glances of deep
rancour, and their dumb set mouths said with silent malice:
“It serves you right—right—right!”
Yet at certain other instants they felt a sort of compassion one for the
other, and might have conversed kindly if either of the two had chosen
to begin. They even lingered near each other with side-glances of
expectation: their hates seemed lulled, and their common hard fate and
loneliness were drawing them nearer. But it went no further. Something
held them back—now a wail from the little one, now a sense of abasement,
now the sharp memory of wrong suffered. And after a time they fell apart
again, their resentment awake once more, and their souls sweltering
spite afresh.
“It serves you right!—right!—right!” each of them hissed in thought,
with flaming eyes, ready for a quarrel, aye, and even for a fight,
whereby they might discharge their mutual detestation.
Luckily, it did not go so far; for Yagna went out to her mother’s
directly after supper.
A warm dark night. In the sombre depths of the sky a few stars twinkled.
Upon the marshes lay a thin white film of haze; and there the frogs set
up their croaking, and the stray piping of affrighted lapwings sounded
now and then. The slumbering trees stood out against the sky, the
orchards loomed grey, as though lime-sprinkled, and wafted fragrance as
from censers: cherry-blossoms, half-open lilac-buds, water, dew-drenched
soil—all breathed perfumes; each particular flower gave out its own
sweet scent, all mingling in a deliciously intoxicating aroma.
There were still a few sounds of talk within the village, on the
door-steps, about the dwellings now plunged in shade; and people swarmed
in the roadways, overshadowed by the trees, and only traversed in places
by streaks of light from the windows.
Yagna’s intention had been to call on her mother, but she turned aside
towards the mill-pond, stopping very frequently; for at every step she
met couples, arm about waist, conversing eagerly and in subdued tones.
There were her brother and Nastka, embraced and kissing passionately.
She also came unintentionally upon Mary Balcerek and Vavrek, standing
close to a hedgerow, kissing tenderly and forgetful of everything in the
world.
There were others whom she knew by their voices. From every shadow about
the pond or the fences came whispers, words softly breathed, burning
sighs, and sounds of rustling and struggling. The whole village seemed
boiling over with tender passion; and even flappers and mere boys were
playing at love-making down in the lanes.
A sudden feeling of disgust came over her, together with the resolve to
go on at once to her mother’s. On the way she met Matthew face to face,
but he took no more notice of her than of a tree-stump. He was walking
with Teresa, in rapt conversation, both clinging close together; they
passed her by, and she still heard their voices and smothered laughter.
Turning back brusquely, she took to her heels as if pursued by a whole
pack of dogs, and ran for her cabin.
The evening meanwhile flowed on tranquilly, redolent of spring, instinct
with the gladness of all these meetings and all the unearthly serenity
of immense happiness.
Far away in the night, either among the sweet-smelling orchards or out
in the fields, a flute was twittering a love-tune—the accompaniment, as
it were, to all those murmurs and kisses and raptures.
And in the marshes the frogs had set up a grand croaking concert,
interrupted at times, while others replied to them from the mist-covered
pond with long slumberous snoring croaks, fainter by degrees; and the
youngsters who played about the lanes caught up their song, vying with
them with doggerel mimicry.
“The stork’s bad, bad, bad:
May he choke, choke, choke!
He shall croak, croak, croak,
And be glad, glad, glad!”