It was an ideal summer’s day.
About ten in the morning: for the sun stood half-way between east and
south, and ever with hotter fires. And all the bells in Lipka belfry had
begun to peal with might and main.
The loudest was the one they named Peter. It boomed full-throated: as
when a peasant, somewhat in his cups, goes swaying from side to side of
the roadway, and his deep roar tells all the world how merry he is.
The second, a little smaller, that (according to Ambrose) had been
christened Paul, took up the strain with livelier and more high-pitched
tones, ringing long and clangorously, in ecstasies of joy, like a maiden
in the glow of love on a spring day, who runs out afield and, darting
through the rye, sings from a full bosom to the winds, to the lands, to
the clear sky, and to her own joyful heart.
And the third, the _Sygnaturka_, which announces that Mass begins,
poured out its notes, like a bird, doing all that it could (though in
vain) to outvie the other two with a hurried babbling tinkle.
All three, sounding together, formed a grand orchestra—a roaring
bassoon, a warbling violin, and a jingling cymbal, with shrill quivering
notes: their music was very solemn and very pleasant to the ear.
It was the day of the local Feast—Saint Peter and Paul—and it was for
this that they called the people so joyfully.
In the bright dazzling sunshine and the burning heat, the dealers had
ever since dawn been setting up their shady booths, and the tables and
counters beneath them, on the large open space in front of the church.
And no sooner had the bells sent their merry peals over the country-side
than all sorts of vehicles came rolling in through clouds of dust from
as far as the eye could reach, with great crowds of people on foot. All
the roads, lanes and field-paths were red with women’s dresses or white
with men’s capotes.
Still from the brazen throats of those bells did the notes pour forth,
and they rolled sunward their chants and their loud invocations:
“_Kyrie!—Kyrie!—Kyrie eleison!_”
“Madonna!—Madonna!—Most holy Madonna!”
“To Thee, O God!—To Thee I cry—I cry—I cry aloud!”
All the huts were decorated with greenery; and in the whole aspect of
the village, on this noted day of high solemnity, there was an
atmosphere that lifted up the heart and filled it with rapture.
Every thoroughfare was soon encumbered with foot-passengers, horses and
wagons: the travellers within these gazing about them in wonder at the
scenery, so beautifully adorned by nature for so great a festival.
All the landscape was given over to an inundation of wild flowers. Along
every pathway there reigned a wonderful profusion of soft white and gold
and violet hues. The larkspur and the convolvulus put their perfumed
heads forth from their hiding-places in the cornfields: bluebells and
cornflowers were seen in every patch, and the hollows where water had
been now teemed with forget-me-nots, making the dells look like bits of
blue, fallen from the sky. There were clumps of vetches without end,
buttercups and dandelions innumerable, and the purple flowers of the
thistle and clover, and daisies with camomiles—and countless others, of
which only our Lord knows the names, since they were blooming for Him
alone. And as sweet a perfume came up out of the fields as when his
Reverence in church offers incense to the Holy Sacrament!
The new-comers smelt all those perfumes with intense pleasure, but
nevertheless hurried on, not sparing the whip; for the heat was too
great to bear, and simply overwhelming.
And shortly all Lipka was crowded, even to the skirts of the forest.
Whenever there was the slightest shadow, wagons were drawn up, horses
unharnessed; and as to the space in front of the church, it was all but
impassable.
The pond was lined with women come to wash their feet clean from the
dusty road, put their shoes on, and make themselves fit for church.
Mature peasants were exchanging neighbourly greetings; and the younger
generation—lads and lasses—went together with wistful looks past the
booths, or thronged very thick around a barrel-organ player, on whose
instrument sat a strange little beast from beyond the seas, clad all in
red. It had a snout not unlike the face of an old German, and leaped
about so, and performed such antics, that they all held their sides with
the fun of it.
The music played was so merry, they could scarce hold back from dancing
where they stood. But then it was accompanied by a very different tune
at the same time: the begging hymns droned out by the _Dziads_, who
formed a double row, from the church-porch to the lich-gate, where sat
another of them, a fat man, always led by a dog. He it was who sang most
fervently, and dragged out the words with the slowest drawl of them all.
At the signal for High Mass, the whole assembly rushed to the church
like a torrent in spate; in an instant it was full—so terribly full that
the people felt their ribs crack. There was an awful crush indeed, and
even a few sharp words, and the greater part of those come had to stay
outside, by the walls, or under the trees.
Several priests had come over from the nearer parishes. They at once
took their places in confessionals, set up beneath the trees, and began
to shrive the people.
It was most fearfully sultry weather, the wind having died away, but the
multitudes thronged patiently round the confessionals or swarmed in the
churchyard, seeking in vain some protection against the extreme heat.
Mass had just begun when Hanka came along with Yuzka. But to get even so
far as the church-door was out of the question; so they stood out in the
full blaze, not far from the churchyard-wall.
The organ pealing announced that High Mass was in progress. All knelt
down piously, or seated themselves on the grass to pray. It was just
noon now, and the heat in the still air was tremendous. The sky hung
overhead like a white-hot oven tile, so dazzling that it plucked the
eyes out. The earth, too, underfoot, and the walls around, glared with
heat; and the poor people knelt motionless, hardly able to
breathe—baked, as it were, in the sun’s pitiless glow.
From within came the music of the organ, mingling with the pattering of
their prayers; now and then rose a distant voice from the altar; or the
tiny bells were rung; or the organist sang loud and hoarsely. Then came
long intervals of relative silence in this furnace, while the
incense-smoke came out by the church-door, weaving bluish odoriferous
festoons round the kneelers’ heads.
But in the bright incandescence of the day, this open space and the
churchyard, strewn with garments of many a dazzling hue, had the air of
a great garden of flowers. And so they were—these worshippers, humbly
prostrate at this hallowed hour before their Lord, hidden beneath the
veils of that burning sun, and of the sacred silence which enveloped
them!
Even the _Dziads_ had ceased from their importunate begging. Only from
time to time one of them would wake up from somnolence, say a “Hail
Mary” and ask alms in a louder key.
The heat was now almost that of a conflagration: the fields and orchards
seemed ready to burst into white flames.
The hush, too, was yet more slumber-compelling than before; some nodded,
falling asleep as they knelt; others withdrew, no doubt to refresh
themselves, for a well-sweep was heard to creak.
They only quite woke up when the church rang to the tones of the whole
congregation, singing within; when the banners came out waving, followed
by the priest beneath the crimson baldachin, holding the Monstrance
aloft, and supported only by the Squires of the parish as he went forth
for the procession, with all his parishioners behind him. Slowly, to the
sound of the chants that rose up to Heaven with grand and mighty
fervour, the procession—a river of humanity rolling in full flood—flowed
round the church-walls, resplendently white, and radiant in the sun. And
thereon floated the crimson baldachin, quite hidden in the smoke from
the thuribles: only now and then did a rift in those clouds give a
glimpse of the sun-like ostensory, with its golden rays. The banners,
like huge birds, flapped their wings over the heads of the swarming
multitudes, the feretories, wrapped in mist-like gauze, tottered forward
with their bearers; and the organ thundered, and the glad bells boomed,
and the whole people sang together from the bottom of their hearts,
enchanted, carried away—far away—towards Heaven, towards Him, the Sun of
Righteousness!
* * * * *
The service was over at length. The Squires had come out of church,
seeking in vain a little shade, until Ambrose made room for them under
one of the trees, and brought them chairs for their greater convenience.
The Squire of Vola had also come, but did not sit down with them, and
was perpetually moving about. Whenever he saw a known face of some Lipka
villager, he went up and spoke to him as a friend. Happening to meet
Hanka thus, he pushed his way to her through the crowd.
“Is not your goodman back yet?”
“Alas! no.”
“Ye went to bring him, of course?”
“I went directly after Father’s funeral, but was told he was only to be
released in a week: that is, on Saturday next.”
“And the bail—what of the bail? Have ye paid the money in?”
“Roch is seeing to that,” she replied, with cautious reserve.
“If ye cannot pay, I am willing to vouch for Antek.”
“Thanks, most heartily,” she said, bending down to his feet. “It may be
that Roch can arrange all things by himself, if not, he will be forced
to take other measures.”
“But remember: should need arise, I’ll vouch for him.”
He went farther, and perceived Yagna, sitting close to the wall near her
mother, and deep in prayer; unable to invent any topic or pretext of
conversation, he only smiled at her, and returned to his own people.
Her eyes followed them, she being very much interested in the young
ladies, who were clad in such sort that she could not but wonder,
marvelling also at the whiteness of their faces and the slimness of
their waists. Lord! and they breathed forth such sweet fragrance, sweet
as the perfumed whorls from a censer!
And the thing they flirted to cool their cheeks! why, it was just like a
turkey’s tail!—And how those young Squires came and ogled them! And they
laughed so loud that the people around were shocked!
Then, from the end of the village, perhaps from the bridge near the
mill, there came a sudden clattering and rumbling, while volumes of dust
rose above the trees.
“Come too late for Mass!” Pete whispered to Hanka.
“Just in time to put out the candles!” someone said with a laugh.
Others peeped over the wall to look out on the road that skirted the
pond.
Very soon, in a tempest of noisy barking, a long line of great
white-tilted vans came in sight.
“The Germans! The Germans from Podlesie!” was the cry.
It was true. There were fifteen of these vans, more or less, drawn by
stout draught-horses. Women and children, sitting within, and a complete
assortment of domestic furniture, were visible under the canvas
coverings. Beside these vans marched a lot of burly red-headed Germans,
puffing at their pipes. Great dogs ran by their sides, often showing
their teeth and barking back at the Lipka dogs, which attacked them
furiously.
The people drew near to look at them, several even leaving the
churchyard to see them closer.
They drove by slowly, making their way with difficulty through the
jumble of wagons and horses; but, on passing in front of the church, not
one of them so much as doffed his cap. Their eyes were glaring, their
beards bristling—with hatred, no doubt. And they eyed the people with
murderous looks.
“Ha! ha! Long-Trousers!... Carrion!”
“Ye horse-begotten ones!”
“Droppings of swine!”
And other epithets fell, thick as hail.
“Well?” Matthew called out to them. “Who has won the day, O
Fatherlanders?”
“Who is forced to leave, you or we?”
“Our fists are too heavy; is it not so?”
“Come, stay awhile; ’tis our local feast.—We’ll make merry with you in
the tavern.”
They replied nothing, but lashed their horses to urge them on.
“Not so fast, or your breeches will come tumbling down!”
Here a boy threw a stone at them, and several seized bricks to follow up
the blow, but were stopped in time.
“Let them alone, lads, and allow this plague to go from us.”
“A sudden death carry you off, ye ungodly hounds!”
And a Lipka woman stretched out her fist, screaming after them:
“May all of you perish like mad dogs!”
So they passed by, and vanished on the poplar road, as the clattering of
their carts faded away with the column of dust they had raised.
The people of Lipka were overjoyed, and could pray no more, but came
clustering around the Squire in increasing numbers. This pleased him
vastly, and he talked gaily with them and offered them snuff.
“Ah!” he said at length; “so you have smoked them out and the swarm has
flown, hey?”
Gregory replied, in tone of mock pity: “Our sheepskins do not delight
their nostrils. And then they are too delicate folk to dwell nigh us: if
we come to loggerheads with any of them, why, down he goes straightway.”
The Squire asked with curiosity: “What, have you fought together at any
time?”
“Why, no ... not a fight exactly ... but Matthew here just gave one of
them a tap for not returning his greeting, ‘Praised be Jesus Christ!’
And behold, the fellow was at once covered with blood, and well-nigh
gave up the ghost!”
“They are a soft-limbed people,” Matthew explained blandly. “To the eyes
they look strong as oak-trees; but put forth your fist, ’twill feel as
though it had struck a feather-bed!”
“And in Podlesie they had no chance. Lost their kine, it is said.”
“True, they have not brought even one away with them now!”
“Kobus might tell us something ...” one of them was beginning, when
Klemba cut in sharply:
“They died—as all know—of rinderpest.”
The men shook with suppressed laughter, but kept it down well, while the
smith pressed forward, and said: “If the Germans have gone, we owe it to
his Honour the Squire.”
“Because I prefer to sell my land to my own countrymen, no matter on
what terms,” the latter asserted with great energy; and went on to
assert that his grandfather and great-grandfather had always held with
the peasants.
Sikora grinned to hear this, and said in a lower tone: “Aye, ’tis a
fact, and the Squire his father scored it on my back with a horse-whip
to remember! I bear the marks yet!”
But the other had apparently not heard him, and was telling what trouble
he had had to get rid of the Germans. The peasants listened with civil
assent; but, as to his kind feelings, they kept their own opinion.
“Surely butter would not melt in our benefactor’s mouth,” Sikora
sneered; and Klemba bade him hold his tongue.
Whilst they were thus complimenting one another, a clergyman in
surplice, with a plate in his hand, pushed his way into the group.
“If ’tis not Yanek, the organist’s son!”
It was he, but now wearing the priest’s cassock, and making the
collection. He greeted everyone, and collected with great success; for
they knew him, and it was impossible to let him pass without offering
something. So each man undid the bundle his money was knotted in, and
often a silver _zloty_ jingled amongst the coppers on the plate. The
Squire flung down a rouble, the young ladies of Vola small silver coins
in plenty. Yanek, streaming with perspiration, red as fire, but happy
and radiant, went on collecting indefatigably all through the
churchyard, passing no one by, and saying a good word to everybody. He
met Hanka, and saluted her so cordially that she gave twenty kopeks. But
when he came face to face with Yagna, clinking the money in his plate
before her, she raised her eyes—and was struck dumb with amazement. He
too was so taken aback by her confusion that he at once and without a
word passed on farther.
She had even forgotten to make an offering, lost as she was in the
contemplation of the young man—the very image, she thought, of the saint
painted above one of the side-altars: so young, so slender, so beautiful
to look upon! Oh, what a spell those gleaming eyes of his had cast on
her!... Vainly she rubbed her eyes, and crossed herself again and again
to get rid of it.
Around her ran whispers:
“Only an organist’s son, yet how well he is clad!”
“And his mother is as vain as a turkey about him.”
“Ever since Eastertide, he has been at the school for priests.”
“His Reverence sent for him to make the collection to-day.”
“For his son, at least, the grasping old skinflint is liberal enough.”
“Surely, for will not the glory of the priesthood do honour to him too?”
“Aye, and no small profit will be his likewise.”
But Yagna, following him with fascinated eyes, heard no word of what
they said.
The service being quite at an end, the congregation was now dispersing,
and Hanka was moving towards the gate, when Balcerkova came up to her
with important news.
“Know ye that, between Simon, son of Dominikova, and the girl Nastka,
the banns have just been published?”
“Oh, but what will Dominikova say to that?”
“There will, of course, be another quarrel.”
“She cannot do anything to prevent it: Simon is in the right—and of age
besides.”
“There will be a perfect hell in the hut,” Yagustynka observed.
Hanka sighed: “Are there too few quarrels and sins against God as it
is?”
“Have ye heard,” Ploshkova asked her, “the news about the Voyt?” And she
brought her large belly and bloated face unpleasantly close.
“I have had so much trouble with the funeral, and so many other cares of
late, that I know naught of what goes on in the village.”
“Well, the head man at the office told my goodman that the village
accounts were short by a great sum. And now the Voyt is going about
everywhere and whining to get money lent to him; for there may be an
investigation any day.”
“Father-in-law used to say it would surely end in that wise.”
“Aye, he was puffed up, and proud, and played the great man; now he must
pay for his greatness.”
“Can his land be taken from him?”
“Of course it can; and if it should not suffice, he must go to jail,”
Yagustynka said. “The rogue has had his fling: let him have his
punishment!”
“I could not understand why of late he never showed his face at our
cabin, even for the funeral.”
“Oh, ’twas not Boryna but Boryna’s widow he cared for!”
But Yagna, holding her mother by the hand, was passing by, and they held
their peace. Nevertheless, and though the old dame walked stooping and
with eyes still bound, Yagustynka could not refrain from a hit at her.
“When is Simon’s wedding to be? What we heard to-day from the pulpit was
so unexpected!... Though indeed, now the lad is tired of doing a girl’s
work, it is hard to forbid him his manhood. And,” she added mockingly,
“Nastka will do that work now for him.”
Dominikova drew herself up suddenly, and addressed Yagna in a hard
voice:
“Take—take me away, else that viper will sting me again.”
She went sobbing away, and Ploshka chuckled.
“Blind as she was, she knew well who you were!”
“She’s not so blind but that she can see to tear Simon’s hair out!”
“Ah, God grant she may harm no one else besides!”
There was no more talking; they were in the great crush close to the
gate, and Hanka was separated from the others: not much grieved to be
spared that cruel backbiting they enjoyed so. To each of the _Dziads_
she gave a kopek, and five to the blind one with the dog, saying: “Come
and dine with us, _Dziad_!—At the Borynas’!”
He lifted his head, and rolled his sightless eyes. “I think ye’re
Antek’s wife.—God reward you!—Surely I shall come ... and speedily.”
Without the gates, the throng was less dense; but there too sat more
_Dziads_, in two parallel rows, uttering various complaints. At the very
end was a young man, with a green shade over his eyes, singing to the
accompaniment of his fiddle ballads about the “kings of olden time,” and
surrounded by a large audience: coins were frequently dropped into his
cap, his performance being a decided hit.
Hanka, who stood close to the churchyard, looking for Yuzka, most
unexpectedly happened to see her father.
He was amongst the _Dziads_, holding out his hands for alms, and begging
with the usual whine of the class!
At first she thought her eyes were mistaken, and rubbed them, and looked
again. No! it was—it was—he himself!
“My father a _Dziad_! O Lord!” She flushed burning red with the shame of
it, drew her kerchief far over her brows, and crept round to him from
behind the wagons by which he was sitting.
“What, oh, what do ye here?” she groaned, crouching behind him lest she
should be seen.
“Hanka!... Yes ... it is I.”
“Come with me!—Come home!—Instantly!—O Lord Jesus, such a disgrace to us
all! Come.”
“I will not ... long have I thought to do this.... Why should I burden
you, if kindly folk will come to my aid?... I will go along with the
others ... see the world ... visit the sanctuaries ... hear about new
things.—Aye, and I will bring money home to you. See, here’s a _zloty_:
buy a toy for little Peter therewith.—Here!”
She seized him firmly by the coat-collar, and almost by main force
dragged him out of the jumble of wagons.
“Home with me this instant, I say!—What, have ye no shame?”
“Unhand me, or I shall be angry with you!”
“That wallet, throw it away! And quickly, lest any behold it!”
“Look ye, I will do just as I choose. Wherefore should I be ashamed?
‘The wallet’s his mother, who has Hunger for brother.’” At those words
he jerked himself free from her, darted away among the horses and carts,
and disappeared.
It was out of the question to think of following him in such a crowd as
there was all round the church.
There the people, though drenched with perspiration, half choked with
dust, half roasted by the heat, were all the same enjoying themselves to
their hearts’ content, in this seething cauldron!
The barrel-organ played lustily, the _Dziads_ cried aloud, the little
ones whistled in the earthenware birds they had bought; horses were
biting each other and squealing, being more than usually tormented with
flies that day; and men talked with their friends, or went in company to
look at the booths, besieged especially by girls, who were swarming
there like bees about a hive.
The articles sold were more or less those on sale at the annual fairs:
pictures of saints, victuals and homely dainties, clothing, ribbons,
beads, etc.; and at every booth there was a great concourse of people,
stopping there on their way from church.
Some went afterwards to the tavern, some straight home. Others, overcome
with sleep and weariness, just laid themselves down under the wagons or
about the orchards and farm-yards to refresh themselves and to rest.
In so intense a heat that they could scarcely breathe, few cared much to
chat, or even to move: many felt stupefied, almost swooning. And as just
then the villagers sat down to their meal, the place grew quieter at
last.
At the priest’s house, they had made a grand dinner for the clergymen
and the Squires, whose heads were to be seen through the open windows,
out of which floated the noise of talk and the clinking of glasses,
together with such delightful aromas as made the mouths of them that
passed by to water.
Ambrose, arrayed in his very best, and wearing all his military
decorations, was continually moving about the passages, and heard
frequently crying out in the porch: “You riff-raff away, or I thrash you
within an inch of your lives!”
But his threats served him in no way; the urchins were like sparrows,
perched all over the fences; and the boldest even crept under the
windows. He could only scold, and threaten them with his Reverence’s
stick.
Hanka, in search of her father, came to him just then, and asked whether
he had not seen him.
“Bylitsa?—Why, ’tis so tremendously hot, he must be asleep somewhere in
the shadow.—Ah! ye little wretches!” he cried, and went stumping after
the urchins.
Greatly upset, Hanka returned home, and told the occurrence to her
sister, who had come to dine with her.
But Veronka only gave a shrug.
“His having joined the _Dziads_ will not cost him a kingdom, and it will
make things easier for us. Better men than he have ended likewise!”
“But, good God! what a disgrace to us, to let our own father go
a-begging!—And what will Antek say?—And the others, our neighbours, will
they not cry out that we have turned him out to beg?”
“Let them yelp as they please! Anyone can wag his tongue; but who will
offer help? No one.”
“And I—I will not allow my father to beg.”
“So high and mighty? Then take him and feed him yourself.”
“So will I!—You, you grudge him a few spoonfuls of food.—Oh, I see
now!... ’tis you that have driven him to this!”
“What? what? is there too much of aught in my home? Am I to take the
food out of my children’s mouths, and give it to him?”
“Yet remember: he has a legal claim to be fed by you for the land he
made over.”
“To give what I have not, I will not rend my bowels.”
“Rend them, but give: Father comes first! He has more than once
complained to me that you starve him, and care less for him than for
your swine.”
“Most true. I starve my father, and live myself like a rich lady! So
stout am I that my petticoat slips off my hips, and I have hardly
strength to crawl.”
“Do not talk so: folk might think ye spoke the truth.”
“But I do! Were it not for Yankel, we should not even get the potatoes
and salt we eat.—Ah, ’tis a true saying: ‘Goodman Bellyful thinks no one
is hungry.’”
She was going on in this way, and growing more and more querulous, when
the blind man, led by his dog, appeared on the premises.
“Sit ye down here by the hut,” Hanka said, and hurried away to get him
his dinner.
Dinner had been already served under the trees, and the smell of the
dishes came to his nostrils.
“Groats and fat bacon: very good indeed. May it profit you!” the beggar
muttered, sniffing the scent of it, and smacking his lips.
His dog sat close to the house-wall, panting with wide-open jaws, and
tongue lolling out; for the heat was so great as to melt them all to
nothing. In the hot sleepy stillness, only the scraping of the spoons
was heard, with (at times) a swallow twittering under the eaves.
“Oh, how cooling would a little dish of sour milk be!” sighed the
_Dziad_.
Yuzka answered at once: “Be easy, I shall fetch you some.”
“Well, has your whining brought you in much to-day?” Pete asked, tapping
the dish lazily with his spoon.
“Lord have mercy on all sinners, and remember not their ill-treatment of
the _Dziads_!—Brought me in much, quotha!—Whoso sees a _Dziad_ must
needs stare into the sky, or turn down another road. Or, drawing forth
some miserable small coin, he will wish he had change for a five-kopek
piece. We shall die of starvation!”
“But,” Veronka objected, “this year the hard times before harvest press
sorely on all of us.”
“They do; but for all that, no man goes short of vodka.”
Yuzka here put a porringer in his hands, and he began to sup it eagerly.
Presently he said: “They tell us the Lipka folk are to come to terms
with the Squire to-day: is it so?”
“They may do so,” Hanka said, “if they get their rights granted.”
“And do ye know,” Vitek put in, “that the Germans have gone from amongst
us?”
“Oh, may the plague stop their breath!” the _Dziad_ burst out, clenching
his fist with fury.
“Have they, then, injured you too?”
“I went to them last evening: they set their dogs at me!... Scum of the
earth, dog-begotten miscreants!... I hear the men of Lipka have made it
too hot for them to stay.... Ha! I would flay them alive, leave not a
rag of skin upon any of them!” he said, as he emptied the porringer,
and, after feeding his dog, prepared to depart.
“’Tis your harvest now, and ye must go and gather it in,” Pete said
sarcastically.
“I must, indeed. Last year we were only six in all here; now we are four
times as many, and my ears tingle with the din we make.”
Yuzka said: “Pray spend the night with us.”
“May our Lord give you health, O you that remember the poor starveling!”
“A fine starveling indeed! With such a belly that he can hardly drag
it!” sneered Pete, seeing him waddle ponderously in the middle of the
road, groping for obstacles with his staff.
And then they all went out again: to hear Vespers, and enjoy the sweet
tones of the organ, and weep their fill in church, and then visit the
booths once more, were it only to feast their eyes on the splendours
they displayed.
Simon had bought a string of amber beads for his Nastka, and ribbons,
and a bright scarlet kerchief: all of which she immediately put on. And
then they went from booth to booth, arms round waists, overflowing with
gladness and intoxicated with joy.
Yuzka followed them, trying here and there to cheapen some article for
sale, and ever more ruefully counting her money—only one wretched
_zloty_ in all!
Yagna, not far from them, affected not to see her brother, and walked
alone, sorrowful and forlorn. All those fluttering ribbons now failed to
rejoice her; and the barrel-organ’s tunes, and the crowd and the hubbub,
failed too.
She walked along, carried on by the multitudes, and stopping where they
stopped, knowing neither why she had come nor whither she was drifting.
Matthew glided up to her, and whispered softly:
“Do not drive me away from you!”
“And have I ever done that?”
“Once surely. And with words of upbraiding!”
“Because you had said what you should not—and I had no choice.—Someone
had——”
She broke off suddenly; Yanek was slowly pushing through the crowd
towards her.
“He’s here, then?” whispered Matthew, pointing to the young cleric,
whose hands people wanted to kiss, and who smilingly refused the honour.
“He behaves like the son of a Squire! And how well I remember him, not
so long since, running after the kine!”
“He, tending kine?—Never!” she exclaimed, hurt by the very thought.
“I have said. I recollect perfectly how the organist thrashed him one
day for letting the kine graze in Prychek’s oat-patch, he asleep under a
pear-tree the while.”
Yagna left him, and timidly made her way towards the young cleric, who
smiled at her, but (finding himself the observed of all observers)
turned his eyes away at once; and having purchased some tiny engravings
of saints at a booth, he set about distributing these to anyone who
cared to get them.
She stood rooted to the spot, gazing on him with ardent eyes. And to her
vermilion lips there came a smile—bright, calm, and very sweet, like
honey.
“Here is your holy patron, Yagna,” he said, handing her a picture of St.
Agnes.—Their hands just touched, and fell apart, as from the smart of a
burn.
She, shaking all over, durst not utter one syllable. He added a word or
two, but she remained speechless, her eyes drowned in his.
The crowd drove them asunder. She placed the engraving in her bodice,
and looked about her for some time. He was not visible any more, having
entered the church, where another service was going on. But still she
saw him in fancy.
“How like he is to that saint above the altar!” she said, uttering her
thoughts aloud.
“And that’s why all the girls stare at him so!—They are foolish. ‘Not
for dogs, I’m afraid, are sausages made.’”
She looked round quickly: Matthew was by her side!
Murmuring some inarticulate words, she tried to get away from him, but
in vain; he followed her step by step. It was some time, however, before
he ventured on putting this question:
“Yagna, what says your mother about Simon’s banns?”
“What can she say? Let him marry, if he choose: his will is his own.”
He made a wry face, and asked hesitatingly:
“But tell me, will she make over to him his portion of land?”
“How should I know? She has said naught to me. He can ask her himself.”
Simon and Nastka then joined them, with Andrew, who appeared suddenly,
the five thus forming quite a group. Simon spoke first:
“Yagna, do not take Mother’s part; she would do me an injustice.”
“No, it is your part I am taking.—But, good heavens! how you have
changed in these last few days!... ’Tis wonderful!” And, indeed, the
brother she now saw before her was quite a dashing young
fellow—clean-shaven, straight-backed, with a hat tilted on one side, and
a snow-white capote!
“Because I am my mother’s drudge no longer.”
“And are you better off in your freedom?” she inquired, pleased at his
spirit.
“Ask the bird you let go out of your hand: ye will see!... Did you hear
the banns published?”
“And when is the wedding to be?”
Here Nastka answered, nestling tenderly to his side, and passing her arm
round his waist:
“In three weeks, before harvest-home.” And she blushed deeply.
“And the wedding shall take place, were it in the tavern: I will not beg
to use Mother’s cabin.”
“But have you a place for your wife?”
“Certainly; I shall remove to the side of our cabin opposite Mother’s. I
shall not seek lodgings amongst the villagers. Let her but give me the
land that’s my due—I shall do well!” he said, swelling with
self-confidence.
“And we,” Matthew declared, “are not going to send Nastka away
empty-handed. She will get one thousand _zloty_ in cash!”
Here the smith came up, took him aside, whispered a word, and hurried
away.
They went on talking, and filling up imaginary details. Simon thought
with sparkling eyes what a good farmer he would be, once come into his
own, and how he would settle down to work. Oh, they would soon see what
a man he was!—Nastka gazed on him, open-mouthed in wonder. Andrew talked
in the same sense; Yagna alone was absent-minded, hearing barely half of
what they said. It did not interest her.
“Yagna!” Matthew cried. “Come over to the tavern; the band will be
playing.”
“I care no more for such amusements,” she replied, sadly.
Her eyes were dimmed. He shot a glance into them, pulled his cap down,
and rushed off, jostling those in his way. In front of the priest’s
house he met Teresa.
“Whither away?” she asked him timidly.
“To the tavern. A meeting has been called by the smith.”
“I should go with you gladly.”
“I neither thrust you aside, nor is there lack of space. But take heed
lest they speak evil of you for the glances of your eyes!”
“They speak as it is, and tear me to pieces, as dogs tear a dead sheep.”
“Then wherefore give them occasion?” he asked, now growing impatient.
“Wherefore? Well, you know wherefore!” she replied in a husky voice.
He walked forward, and so fast that she could hardly keep up with him.
Suddenly turning round on her, “Now then!” he cried; “there ye are,
shedding tears like a calf!”
“Nay, nay! ’twas but a little dust in mine eyes,” she returned.
Unexpectedly, he moderated his pace, and, walking by her side, spoke to
her with much gentleness:
“Here is a little money: purchase something for yourself at one of these
booths.—And come ye to the tavern: we will dance together.”
She would fain have fallen at his feet to thank him.
“For the money I care not; but your kindness, how great it is!” she
faltered, her face red as fire.
“Well, come then; but later. Until the evening I shall be much engaged.”
And with a farewell smile on the tavern door-step, he went in.
There were plenty of people there, and it was stifling hot. The great
room was full of people, drinking and chatting with one another; but the
private parlour contained the best youth of Lipka, with the smith and
Gregory, the Voyt’s brother, at their head. There were several of the
older farmers, too: Ploshka, the Soltys, Klemba, and Adam, cousin to
Boryna. Even Kobus, though uninvited, had found means to enter.
When Matthew came in, Gregory was speaking very earnestly, and writing
with chalk on the table.
By the proposed agreement, the Squire promised to give four acres of the
Podlesie farm for each one of the forest they made over to him; also to
let them have as much more land, to be paid by instalments. Moreover, he
was to give them timber on credit for building the huts.
All this Gregory set forth, article by article, calculating in figures
how the land should be divided, and how much each was to get.
“‘A promise is a toy made to give fools joy!’” grumbled Ploshka.
“But this—this is a fact, not a promise. He is to sign everything at the
notary’s—and do not forget it! So much land for us folk! Each family in
Lipka will have an additional holding: think of that, my masters!”
The blacksmith here repeated what the Squire had directed him to say.
They listened attentively, in silence, looking hard at the white figures
on the table, and reflecting.
“’Tis all right—a golden opportunity; but will the Commissioner give his
consent to it?” asked the Soltys, first to speak, and running his
fingers through his shock of hair.
“He must!” Gregory thundered. “When our assembly has decided, we shall
ask no official’s leave: he cannot help himself! We will have it so!”
“Leave or no leave, there’s no need to shout so loud. Will one of you
see whether the policeman is not listening, close outside the wall?”
“I saw him drinking at the bar this minute,” Matthew affirmed.
“And when,” someone asked, “has the Squire said he would sign?”
“To-morrow, if ye will,” was the answer. “Let us but accept, he will
sign at once, and we can measure the ground out afterwards.”
“Then, directly after harvest-home, we might enter into possession?”
“And give it proper tilling in autumn?”
“Ah! splendid!... How the work will go on then!”
All began talking excitedly together. They were full of joy; their eyes
shone with the consciousness of success, and they stretched their arms
forth as if to seize upon the long-wished-for holdings.
Some fell to humming tunes, some to calling on the Jew for vodka, out of
sheer gladness. Some talked no little nonsense about the division of the
portions they were to have, and everyone had visions of the new lands
and riches and happiness that were to be theirs.
They were like men drunk: they babbled, they drummed on the table with
their fists, on the floor with their feet: the uproar was tremendous.
“Ah! then—then the local feast at Lipka will indeed be a grand affair!”
“And how many weddings we shall have every Carnival!”
“Why, all the Lipka girls will not suffice!”
“We shall send to town for more, hey?”
“Be quiet, boys!” old Ploshka exclaimed, thumping on the table for
silence. “Ye make such a hullabaloo as do the Jews in their synagogue on
the Sabbath.—What I would say is this: is there not some trick in the
Squire’s offer?”
They all became silent suddenly: it was a bucket of cold water thrown
over their enthusiasm. At last the Soltys spoke:
“I too can in no wise understand what makes the man so very lavish.”
“Aye,” one of the older men chimed in; “there must be something wrong
about it: else how could he give up so much land almost for nothing?”
Gregory flew into a passion, and cried out:
“This I say: ye are a lot of drivelling fools!”
And once more he set to explain everything, till he was all in
perspiration. The blacksmith, too, put things as strongly as he could:
but there was no convincing old Ploshka. He only wagged his head and
smiled sceptically, till Gregory leaped at him with fists clenched and
trembling with restrained fury.
“Say your say, then, since you think ours to be worthless!”
“So will I.—Well do I know that set of hounds; and I tell you: believe
naught till ye see it down in black and white. They have from all time
grown fat by wronging us; and now they mean to make money by some other
wrong.”
“If ye think thus, ye may withhold your vote; but do not prevent the
others!” Klemba cried.
“And you—you, one of them that went up against him to the forest: do you
now take his part?”
“As I went then, so will I go once more, if needful! I take not his
part, but am only for a just agreement that shall advantage us all. Only
a fool cannot see that such a contract is for the good of Lipka. Only a
fool will refuse what is offered him.”
“’Tis ye that are all fools! Ye would sell your breeches for a pair of
braces.—Aye, and doubly fools! for if the Squire will give so much, he
will perchance give yet more.”
They went on disputing, while others took Klemba’s part, and the noise
grew so deafening that Yankel came in, putting a bottleful of vodka on
the table.
“Come, come, good farmers all!” he cried. “Here’s to Podlesie—a new
Lipka!—And be ye all masters there!” And he passed the vodka from one to
another.
This caused a still greater din; but everyone was now in favour of the
agreement—except old Ploshka.
The smith—he must have been well paid for his good offices—spoke the
loudest of all, extolling the Squire, and his honourable intentions; and
he stood drinks to the whole company—now vodka, now beer, now rum with
so-called “essence.”
They had thus enjoyed themselves a good deal—some indeed too well—when
suddenly Kobus, who had hitherto not uttered one single word, started up
and attacked them all with a savage onslaught of abuse.
“And where do we _Komorniki_ come in?” he shrieked. “Are we mere
cat’s-paws? We all who are not landowners stand up against this
agreement. What, shall one have a belly so great he can hardly walk, and
another die of starvation? The lands must be meted out equally to
all.—Ye are all of you carrion and Squires!—Look at them, those
barebacked ones, who yet hold their heads as high as if they sneezed at
us all!” He screamed so loud, and with such foul language, that they put
him out of doors; but outside the tavern he still continued his
invectives and imprecations.
They then separated, some to go home, and some to enjoy the dance, for
the music had just struck up.
Evening was falling now. The sky, all in flames, tinged the orchard
tree-tops and the ears of corn with crimson and gold. A soft damp wind
had sprung up, and the croaking of frogs and the piping of quails
resounded; the grasshoppers’ shrill notes were heard in the fields,
mingling with the everlasting rustling of the cornstalks, the rumbling
of the carts driving off, and now and then the drunken song of a man on
his way home.
These noises gradually subsided. The villagers sat outside their huts,
enjoying the quiet and the cool of the evening.
Boys were bathing near the mill, splashing and bawling; in the
enclosures, the lasses were singing country songs.
There was next to no one at the Borynas’. Hanka had gone out with the
children; Pete had absented himself somewhere, and Yagna had been away
since Vespers.
Only Yuzka, busied with the evening household cares, was there with the
blind _Dziad_. He, sitting in the porch, inhaled the cool breeze and,
while mumbling a prayer, lent an attentive ear to the approaches of
Vitek’s stork, that was sidling up for a surprise attack on his legs
with its beak.
“Ah, you villain, a murrain on you!—How hard it pecks!” he grumbled,
drawing his feet under him, and waving his long rosary. But the stork
only retreated a few paces, and again, with its long stretched-out beak,
advanced in another direction.
“Oh, I hear you well! You shall not get at me this time.—A clever fowl,
though!” he muttered. But just then he heard someone fiddling in the
yard; so he drove the stork away with several cuts of his rosary, in
order to listen with more pleasure to the sounds.
“Yuzka, who is it playing so featly?”
“Only Vitek! He has learned to play from Pete; and now he is for ever
playing, till one’s ears tingle.—Vitek, have done, and give the colts
their clover now!” she called to him.
The fiddle was silent. But a thought had struck the _Dziad_ and when
Vitek came in, he said to him in a most friendly tone:
“Here’s for you. Such good playing is well worth a five-kopek piece.”
Vitek was immensely gratified.
“Can you play pious tunes as well?”
“Whatsoever I hear, I can play.”
“Ah, but ‘every fox praises its own tail.’—Now, prithee, play this air.”
And he bleated out something in his professional line, shrill, slow, and
quavering.
Vitek brought his fiddle before the _Dziad_ had done, and after first
imitating him exactly, then repeated the tune with such variations as he
had heard in church. The _Dziad_ was astounded.
“Why, lad, you could even become an organist!”
“Oh, I can play anything—from the music heard in the Manors to the songs
they sing in the taverns.” So Vitek boasted, and went on playing
snatches of what he had heard, till the fowls at roost set to cackling,
and Hanka, who had come back, sent him off to help Yuzka with her work.
Hanka then sat down in the porch, suckling her little ones, and
conversing with the _Dziad_, who spun incredible yarns for her all the
time; which she did not call in question, but listened, with sad eyes
looking out into the night.
Yagna was not back yet. She had gone out to see some girl friends; but,
agitated by the spirit of unrest, she could stay nowhere. Again and
again she had felt forced to leave their huts, and in the end she
wandered alone about the village. She gazed long upon the waters, now
dark, yet visible as they trembled to the breeze; on the gently stirring
shadows; on the cottage lights that shot over the surface of the pond
and died away in the distance. Then, impelled onward, she cast a glance
beyond the mill at the meadows, wrapped in warm white mist, while the
lapwings flapped about, flying over her head.
There she gave ear to the waters that rolled through the sluices down
the river’s murky throat, beneath the lofty slumberous alder-trees; and
she fancied the sound was a mournful call—a tearful melodious complaint.
From one end of Lipka to the other she wandered, lost like those waters
that can find no outlet, and beat for ever sadly between impassable
rocky walls.
Something was gnawing at her heart. It was not sorrow, not yearning, nor
the sensation of love. Her eyes were burning with an arid glow, and she
felt an awful sob swelling her bosom as if about to tear it asunder.
Now, after a time—she knew not how—she found herself close to the
priest’s house. A carriage and horses were outside the porch; she heard
them pawing restlessly. There was a light in one room only, where the
visitors were playing at cards.
On all this she gazed idly to her heart’s content; then passed along the
fence between Klemba’s lands and the priest’s large garden. She slipped
close to the quickset hedge, in great nervous agitation: the overhanging
boughs dashed the dew from their leaves into her face. On she moved
mechanically, never thinking where her steps were leading her ... till
the organist’s one-storied house rose up barring the way.
The four front windows were all open and lighted.
She crept along, hugging the shadow of the hedge, till close enough to
look in.
A lamp hung from the ceiling; under it the father and mother were taking
tea with their children; but Yanek was walking about the room, and
talking to them.
She could catch every one of his words, every creak of the boarded
floor, the ceaseless tick of the clock, and even the organist’s heavy
breathing.
Yanek was speaking of things so much beyond her that she could not make
out one word.
But, fixing her eyes on him as on the picture of some saint, she drank
in every sound of his voice, sweeter to her than the sweetest honey. As
he walked, he at times was unseen, towards the end of the room: then
again he reappeared, coming into the lamplit circle. Several times he
stopped by the window, and she shrank back, fearing to be seen; but he
always looked only up into the star-besprinkled sky, saying a few
pleasant words that brought a laugh to the others’ lips and bright looks
into their eyes. At last he sat down by his mother’s side, and his
little sisters climbed upon his knees, clinging to his neck, while he
hugged them fondly and caressed them, and played with them till the
cabin echoed to their innocent laughter.
The clock struck. His mother rose, saying:
“You are for ever chattering, but ’tis bedtime; and you have to start by
daybreak to-morrow.”
“True, Mother dear.—Alas! how short this day has seemed to me!” he
complained.
Yagna’s heart was wrung so sorely that the tears welled up to her eyes.
“But,” he added, “our vacation is nigh; and the Rector has promised to
let me go home sooner, if his Reverence will but write to ask him.”
“I shall beg him to do so; fear naught, he will write,” said his mother,
who was making a bed for him just opposite the window.
Their farewells were long and loving; his mother held him to her breast,
as she kissed him.
“To bed now, my dearest, and sleep sound.”
And now at last he was alone!
Yagna saw how they walked on tiptoe in the other rooms, and spoke in
whispers, not to disturb him. They closed the windows, and soon the
whole house was noiseless, that Yanek might sleep more soundly.
Yagna too would have gone home, but for something that kept her rooted
to the spot; and she stood spellbound, staring into that last open
lighted window.
Yanek read for some time out of a great book; then, kneeling down by the
window, he crossed himself, clasped his hands in prayer, raised his eyes
to Heaven, and began in an impressive whisper.
It was dead of night. Silence reigned; the stars were twinkling in the
heights of heaven. A warm fragrant breath came from the fields, and at
intervals there sounded the rustling of a bough, the faint warbling of a
bird.
Yagna was now growing more and more beside herself. Her heart throbbed
madly, her eyes glowed with fire, her full lips were burning hot.
Instinctively, she stretched her arms out to him; though at the same
time she was shrinking back within herself, she felt a strange
resistless agitation take hold of her, and had to lean against the fence
that creaked again to her trembling.
Yanek looked out of the window and around, then went on with his prayer.
What then took place within her, she was never able to understand. Such
a fire ran through all her limbs, and with such penetration, that she
was ready to cry aloud with the delicious pain of it. Shudders came over
her like swift lightning flashes; she felt a burning whirlwind rushing
away with her; wild cries, impatient to break forth, thronged all her
being, tense with an unspeakable longing. She wanted to crawl towards
him—nearer—nearer—but only to lay her lips on his white hands—kneel to
him—gaze on him close at hand—pray to him as to some holy image! Yet she
held back, deterred by a feeling of mystic dread, and the vague fear of
some horrible evil.
“O Jesus! O merciful Jesus!” escaped her lips in a stifled moan.
Yanek rose, bent out of the window, and said, as though he had perceived
her:
“Who is there?”
In mortal alarm, she held her breath. Her heart stopped beating, she was
paralysed with a sort of sacred terror. Her soul, as it were, fluttered
in her throat, as it fluctuated in the throes of suspense—and rapturous
disquiet!
But Yanek saw nothing save the fence. He shut the window, undressed
quickly, and put out the light.
Then the night fell upon her. She still remained there a long time,
gloating upon the blackness of the silent window. The chill of the
darkness struck through her, sprinkling its silver dew over her hot
desires, quenching the ardour in her blood, and shedding over her a
sense of unutterable happiness! A sweetly solemn calm pervaded her
soul—the calm of the flowers which dream before sunrise—and she burst
forth into a wordless prayer of bliss—the marvellous sweetness of that
ecstasy which the mind’s unsullied dreams bring forth—unspeakable joy
like that of a spring day which dawns—and with it came glad tears in big
beads—beads from the rosary of thanksgiving offered to the Lord!