“Lie still once for all, and trouble me not!” Matthew growled, rolling
over on the other side in a bad temper.
Simon was quiet for a minute; but as soon as ever Matthew was snoring
again, he slipped away behind the corn-bin; for they were sleeping in
the barn, and he fancied he could see the first faint streaks of morning
light.
He got at the tools that had been laid ready the evening before, groping
for them in the dark; and he made such haste that some fell to the floor
with a loud thud, and Matthew swore in his sleep.
Darkness still reigned over the land, though the stars were paling, and
a little light glimmered in the east, and the first cocks were crowing,
flapping their wings.
Simon carried off all his belongings in a wheelbarrow and, creeping
stealthily by the hut, made his way round the pond, where all was still,
save for the bubbling of the water through the lifted sluices.
The roads lay in the shadows of the orchards, so dark that scarcely a
white wall was visible in places, and the mill-pond could only just be
made out by the reflected stars.
As he passed his mother’s cabin, he went slower, listening intently.
Someone was going to and fro in the enclosure, muttering incessantly.
“Who’s there?” He recognized his mother’s voice.
He stood mute, with bated breath, not daring to stir until the old woman
began to move once more, without waiting for his answer.
“She prowls by night, like a tormented soul!” he thought with a mournful
sigh, and glided past in dread.
He could just see her—a shadow gliding on from tree to tree, feeling her
way with her stick, and mumbling some litany as she went along.
“The wrongs she has done me is gnawing, gnawing at her heart!” he said,
with a strange sense of relief at the bottom of his soul, and went out
into the broad road, all ruts and hollows. Once there, he walked on
speedily, as if driven onwards, caring nothing either for ruts or for
holes.
He never stopped till he got to the cross where the two roads leading to
Podlesie met. It was too dark to do anything yet; so he sat down by the
crucifix to wait and breathe a little.
“Plague on the hour, that lets one not distinguish field from wood!” he
grumbled, casting his eyes around him. All about him was palpitating
darkness: only above were there a few pale gold streaks.
Waiting was irksome, so he tried to say his morning prayer, but ever and
anon, laying his hand upon the dew-drenched soil, forgot what words to
say because of the pleasant thought which then would rush in upon
him—that he was now on his own land, his own farm!
“I hold you now, nor ever will let you go!” he thought; and full of the
courage and joy and infinite determination given by love, he let his
ardent glances wander over the dark blurred expanse by the forest, where
the six acres the Squire had sold him awaited his tillage.
“Dear orphan land, I will take you unto my heart, and never, whilst I
have life, will I forsake you!” And as he spoke, he wrapped his
sheepskin closer over his ragged garments. The cool of the night had
been somewhat penetrating: he leaned back against the cross, and soon
fell into a sound but noisy slumber.
When he leapt again to his feet, the fields were just growing visible,
though yet indiscernible from a grey sheet of water, and the corn
dripping with dew had touched him with its drooping wavy ears.
“’Tis broad day!—To work!” he said, stretching his limbs and kneeling
down for a prayer before the cross; but this time not mechanically, as
he usually did, to get it over speedily. To-day it was otherwise, and he
most fervently besought the Lord’s help. With all his soul, embracing
the feet of the Crucified Jesus, he entreated Him, his eyes earnestly
fixed upon that sacred suffering face.
“Help, O merciful Jesus! My own mother has wrought me grievous wrong. I
am Thine, I, a poor destitute orphan: come Thou to mine aid! Yes, I am
sinful; but succour me, O Lord of mercy!—I shall order a Mass to be
said—nay, two! Also I shall bring tapers; and—if I do well enough—will
have a baldachin constructed for Thy service!” So he vowed, pressing his
lips lovingly to the crucifix; and then walked round it on his knees and
kissed the earth humbly—to rise up unspeakably refreshed and fortified.
And then, to the holding he was now entering upon, he cried out
joyfully: “You shall see! Ha! You shall see!” It was situated at the
edge of the wood, one side of it joining the fields of Lipka. But, Lord!
what land! what land! A mere stretch of desolate wilderness, pitted all
over with hollows from disused clay and sandpits, and overgrown with
wild pear-trees, surrounded everywhere with thorns and brambles. On each
eminence, torchweed, wild camomile, and dockweed grew in rank abundance,
with (in places) a scraggy stunted pine-tree, or a clump of alders or
juniper-bushes. On the lower grounds and in the swampy parts, there were
reeds and bulrushes in luxuriant growth. In short, it was a piece of
land that, as the saying is, “a dog might weep over.” Even the Squire
himself had advised Simon not to buy. He, however, had stood firm.
“’Tis just the thing for me! I shall make something of it!”
Matthew too, appalled at the sight of the bleak dreary waste, dissuaded
him from purchasing it. “It was a bit of sterile moorland, fit only for
the farm-yard dogs to celebrate their nuptials upon.”—But Simon held out
stubbornly, and ended the matter by saying:
“I have decided. Any soil is good, when there’s a good pair of hands to
work at it!”
He had taken it because of the low price—only sixty roubles per acre—and
the Squire had promised besides to help him both with timber and
otherwise.
“And what I said then, I stand by now!” he cried, and gazed round with
beaming eyes. Setting the barrow down on the pathway, he walked round
the borders of his territory, marked off by branches stuck into the
ground.
Pacing on slowly, full of deep joy, he settled in his mind the order of
his work: what to do, and with what to begin. It was for himself, for
Nastka, for the whole future race of Paches, that he was about to work,
and he felt as fiercely ravenous to begin as the wild wolf that has just
seized a lamb and tasted its quivering flesh.
He then proceeded to choose carefully the situation of his cabin.
“Best build it over against the village, with the forest close on one
side of it: so, ’twill be storm-protected, and the timber not so far to
bring.”
Having decided this, and marked the place of the four corners with
stones, he threw off his sheepskin, crossed himself devoutly, spat on
his hands and set himself to level the ground and fill the hollows left
by the uprooted trees.
And now the day had risen, golden: cattle bellowed, well-sweeps creaked,
and the fresh breeze, running over the corn, brought with it as usual
the clatter of carts and the hum of voices. To none of these things did
Simon pay any heed, but plunged furiously into his work, only at
intervals stopping to straighten his back for a moment and wipe the
sweat from his forehead.... Then he repeated his onset, with the
clinging and insatiable pertinacity of a leech: all the while, according
to his custom, talking to each object as if it were animated.
If he had to get a rock out of the earth:
“You,” he would explain to it, “have lain and rested long: come, help to
sustain my hut, ’tis high time.”
Cutting down a blackthorn bush, he would remark, with a jeer:
“No use resisting, foolish one: you cannot withstand me. What, should I
leave you standing here to tear my galligaskins?”
And to the wild old pear-trees he would say:
“Ye grow too close together, and must be moved; but ye shall make a
floor for my byre, as good as Boryna’s!”
Sometimes, stopping to breathe, he would gloat over the land with eyes
of love, and whisper to it: “My own—oh, my own!”
For that soil, so weedy and barren, uncultivated and forsaken by all, he
was full of pity, and would say caressingly, as though speaking to a
child:
“Patience, have patience yet awhile: I’ll till you, I’ll make you fat,
and you’ll bear fruit like the other lands around you. Fear not: you
shall be satisfied and rejoice.”
The sun, now rising, shone straight into his eyes.
“Thanks, O Lord God!” he exclaimed, blinking; and added: “We shall still
have dry hot weather for some time!” For the sun rose as red as red
could be.
Far away, the Mass-bell rang, and the chimneys of Lipka were crowned
with plumes of blue smoke.
“Have you a good appetite, eh?” he said to himself, and drew his girdle
tighter, sighing mournfully. “But Mother will never bring you your
breakfast any more!”
Other parts, too, of the Podlesie farm were now swarming with people,
like him at work on their newly bought lands; and he saw Staho Ploshka,
ploughing with a couple of strong horses.
“Oh,” he thought; “dear Lord! if I could but have one of them!”
Joseph Vahnik was carting stones to lay the foundation of his hut;
Klemba and his sons were digging a ditch round their holding; and
Gregory, the Voyt’s brother, was busy measuring something with a pole
near the highway cross.
“That,” Simon observed, “would be the very best place to build a
tavern.”
Gregory, having driven in stakes to mark off the places he had in mind,
came up to greet Simon.
“Ho, ho!” he cried, his eyes round with amazement; “you’re working as
hard as ten, I see!”
“Can I do otherwise? what have I in the world? One pair of breeches and
these two bare hands!”
He was surly, and would not interrupt his labours to talk. Gregory gave
him some advice and went back to his own ground. After him came others,
some to encourage him, some to gossip, some merely to smoke a cigarette
and have a laugh; but they made Simon impatient, and he ended by flying
out at Prychek:
“Ye might as well do your own work and not hinder others! Holiday-making
on work-days—too much of a good thing!”
So they came no longer, and he remained alone.
It was blindingly bright, broilingly hot; and the sun had wrapped the
world in a shimmering haze of light.
“Oh, but ye’ll not drive me away so easily!” he said, addressing the
sun; and then, perceiving Nastka, who was coming with his breakfast, he
went to meet her, and pounced on the porringer with greedy hands.
Nastka, very far from cheerful, surveyed the fields.
“Why, what can ever grow on such wastes and moorlands?”
“Everything!—As you’ll see. There will even be wheat for you to bake
cakes of!”
“Oh, yes!—‘While the grass grows, the steed starves!’”
“It will not, Nastka. We have our own land now; ’tis easier far for
us.—Six whole acres!” he reminded her, eating away at full speed.
“Can we eat the earth?—How shall we get through the winter?”
“That’s my affair: do not trouble. I have thought it all out, and shall
find means.”
He thrust away the empty pot, stretched himself, and led her off to see
all and hear his explanations.
“This,” he cried out gaily, “shall be the site of our cottage.”
“Our cottage? Built of mud, perchance, like a swallow’s nest?”
“Of wood and branches, and clay and sand, and whatsoever we can get: to
last for a couple of years, till we are better off.”
“Quite a Manor house, I see, you have in mind!” she replied in an
unpleasant tone.
“Better dwell in one’s own hovel than live in another man’s house.”
“Ploshka’s wife desires us to spend the winter with her: she has offered
us a room with a willing heart.”
“A willing heart!—Willing, I know, to do anything to spite my mother,
with whom she is always at odds.—Fear nothing, Nastka; I’ll build you a
hut, with window and fire-place all that is needful. You shall see: in
three weeks from now, had I to work my arms to the stumps, it shall
stand there, like Amen at the end of ‘Our Father’: yes, stand it shall.”
“And, of course, you’ll have to work by yourself?”
“Matthew will help: he has promised.”
“Would not your mother,” she faltered, “come in any way to your aid?”
“I would die rather than ask her!” he burst out; but at once, seeing how
dejected she looked, he felt sorry and, sitting down at her side by a
rye-field, stammered an explanation.
“How can I, Nastka? Me she has thrust out, and you she loads with
curses!”
“But, good God! if she would but let us have one cow! We are like the
very lowest of _Dziads_: with naught in the world! ’Tis fearful to think
of.”
“But, Nastka, there will be a cow: I have one already in mind.”
“No hut ... no cattle ... nothing whatsoever!” she wailed, with her head
upon his bosom, while he wiped her eyes and stroked her hair. All the
time, he felt so sad that it was a wonder he himself could keep back his
tears.—All at once he seized his spade, sprang to his feet, and cried in
feigned anger:
“Woman, fear God! There’s so much work to do—and you do nothing—only
complain!”
She, sorely troubled, rose with him, but care was gnawing at her heart,
and made her say:
“Even should we not quite starve, the wolves will eat us in this
wilderness.”
This time, he felt seriously angry. Turning away to work, he threw her
these sharp words:
“Better stay at home than come here to talk nonsense and whimper!”
She wanted to appease him, but he pushed her away.
“Dear Lord!” he thought. “Indeed, a woman is of the some blood with a
man; but she hath not reason such as a man hath. Wealth falls from
heaven, not by lamenting and wailing, but by working with our
hands.—They are all like children, now weeping, now laughing, or
drooping, or full of malice.—Dear Lord!”
He went on grumbling thus, till his work had absorbed him so that he
forgot all else on earth.
And so things went with him day by day. He would rise at grey dawn, and
go home late in the evening, and many was the day when he exchanged no
word with any living soul. Teresa or someone else now brought him his
meals; for Nastka was working at the priest’s potato-field.
People came to see how he worked; but at a distance, for he disliked
talking. His unwearied activity made them wonder.
“There’s plenty of grit in the fellow: who’d have thought it?” Klemba
grunted.
“And is he not of the seed of Dominikova?” someone replied with a laugh.
But Gregory, who had watched him all along closely, observed:
“True it is, he works like an ox; but we, we ought to make things easier
for the man.”
“We ought,” they assented; “and we must, for he deserves help.” But no
one put himself forward, everyone waiting for him to ask them first.
That Simon would not do, nor had even thought of doing. And so he was
one morning in much amazement, seeing a cart come his way.
It was driven by Andrew, who called out merrily:
“Aye, it is I. Tell me where I am to plough!”
It was some time before Simon could believe his eyes.
“You, to have dared so greatly!—But you’ll get beaten, poor
fellow!—You’ll see!”
“I care not. And if she beats me, I will come over to you for good.”
“Did you get this thought all by yourself?”
“All by myself! For a long time I had been fain, but they watched me at
first.—Yagna too advised me not to come.”
He told him the whole affair in detail, while preparing to work; then
they ploughed all day together; and, on going, he promised to return the
next day.
So he did, with the rising sun. Simon noticed some slight discoloration
on his brother’s cheeks, but only questioned him after the day’s work
was done.
“Did she hurt you very much?”
“Oh, she’s purblind, and cannot catch me easily; and then I do not put
myself in the way of her claws,” he answered, somewhat ruefully.
“And Yagna ... she did not give you away?”
“Indeed no; she is not that sort.”
“Ah, can anyone make out what a woman may take it into her head to do?”
He sighed deeply, and told him not to come again.
“I can manage alone now. Later, at sowing-time, you will help me.”
So he was alone again, working out his days one after another, like a
horse turning a threshing-machine, and heedless both of the dreary
solitude and the heat. For now it was growing hotter than it had ever
been—a glow like hell, a conflagration. Scarcely anyone could work in
the fields: the skies poured down living fire. They were one sheet of
scorching incandescence: no breeze blew, no birds sang, no human voice
resounded, while the sun went steadily on from east to west, raining
down heat and drought.
Yet Simon worked every day just as at the beginning; even sleeping
afield of nights to lose no time in coming over. Matthew endeavoured to
restrain him, but to no purpose. He replied, curtly:
“I shall rest on Sunday.”
On Saturday evening he went home, but was so tired out that he fell
asleep over his meal; and he slept almost the whole of the next day. He
did not rise from his straw bed till the afternoon, when, dressing very
finely, he sat down to a dinner of plentifully heaped-up dishes, with
all the women in attendance about him, as about some grand personage,
attentive to his least sign, and ever supplying him with more and more
to eat; then he, having filled himself to the utmost, loosened his
girdle, stretched his limbs in lordly fashion, and cried merrily: “Many
thanks, good Mother!—And now, let us go and enjoy ourselves in some
measure!”
So he started for the tavern with Nastka; and Matthew went too, along
with Teresa.
Before him, the Jew bowed down to his waist, set vodka on the table
without being asked, and called him “Master!” which puffed Simon up not
a little. He drank as much as behoved him to drink, thrust himself
amongst the foremost men there, and gave his opinion about everything.
The tavern was full, and the band playing to increase the enjoyment; but
dancing had not as yet begun. They only drank one to another, and
complained of the drought, of the hard times, and so on, as usual.
Even the Borynas and the smith and his wife came; but these engaged the
private bar, where they must have enjoyed themselves pretty well; for
the Jew was again and again taking vodka and beer in to regale them.
“Antek is staring at his wife to-day like a dog at a marrow-bone: he’s
not the same man any more!” Ambrose grunted sullenly, glancing towards
the parlour bar, from whence there arose a pleasant sound of joyful
voices.
Yagustynka’s reply came pat: “Because he prefers his own clog to a boot
that goes on all men’s feet!”
“Aye,” someone returned; “but such boots do not pinch!” And the whole
tavern was in a roar; they all knew well who was meant.
Simon had not heard and did not laugh. Somewhat the worse for liquor, he
was putting his arms round Andrew’s neck, and saying to him:
“And you must now remember what I am, and be obedient to me!”
“I ... I know well,” the other stammered, with maudlin tears. “But then,
Mother commands ... commands....”
“Mother counts no longer! I am a landholder: hearken unto me!”
But now the band had struck up a dancing-tune; and as heels began to
stamp and boards to resound and couples to spin, Simon seized Nastka by
the waist, threw his capote open, set his cap at an angle, and, bawling
“Da dana!” with the best of them, and stamping the loudest of all, he
launched into the dance, whirling giddily and rolling along, blithe,
noisy, clamorous—like a torrent in spate!
But, after a dance of two, he let the women take him home,
where—presently completely sobered—he sat down outside the cabin.
Yagustynka joined him and had a good long talk with him; and it so fell
out afterwards that, although the hour was late, and Simon had thought
of returning, he was no longer in any hurry, but waited, hovering and
dangling about Nastka, and sighing like a furnace.
At last her mother said to him!
“Stay with us, spending the night in the barn: whereunto should you
trudge about by night?”
“I’ll make him a shake-down in the shed,” said Nastka.
“Do not be so hard on him, Nastka!” Yagustynka said with a leer.
“What ... what are ye thinking of? What next, I wonder!” she rapped out,
greatly troubled.
“Hey-day! Is he not your swain? To forestall the wedding a day or two is
no harm.... And then, the poor man, who works for you like an ox, ought
surely to have some reward!”
“Oh, how true! Nastka! Nastka!” he cried, as she fled, and leapt after
her and caught her, with many a kiss and entreaty, and held her fast.
“Would you drive me from you, Nastka darling? drive me away on such a
night?”
Her mother had suddenly something to do in the passage; and Yagustynka
withdrew, saying:
“Forbid him not, Nastka! There’s so little happiness on earth: what
comes—rare as the grain of corn a blind hen finds—pass it not by!”
In the enclosure she crossed Matthew, who, making a shrewd guess, called
out to Simon within:
“I should never have had your patience!”
But next daybreak saw Simon hard at work again, and indefatigable. Only,
when Nastka brought him his breakfast, he was even more greedy for a
kiss from her cherry lips than for the porringer.
“If you do betray me, you’ll be scalded soundly!” But while she
threatened so, she was nestling to his bosom.
“Nastka, mine you are, and never will I let you go!” he bleated
earnestly; and, looking into her eyes, added in a low voice: “The first
must be a boy!”
“A simpleton you are! But who put all these naughty thoughts into your
head?”—And, pushing him away, she ran off, her face all scarlet. Not far
off, Mr. Yacek had appeared, pipe in mouth and violin tucked under his
arm. He came up, “praised God,” and asked him a few questions. Simon,
much elated, bragged about what he had achieved, but stopped all at
once, rolling the eyes of bewilderment. Mr. Yacek had laid down his
violin, taken off his coat, and set to work, stirring and softening a
mass of clay! Simon’s shovel fell and his jaw dropped.
“What is’t ye wonder at?”
“What, shall Mr. Yacek work with me?”
“I shall, and will help you to build your hut. Think you I cannot?—You
will see.”
Henceforth they worked together. The old man had indeed not much
strength, and was little wont to labour; but he had such ingenious ways
that the work went on far better and more swiftly. And Simon obediently
followed all his directions, now and then muttering:
“Heavens! this is unlike anything ever seen! A Squire!”
Mr. Yacek only smiled, and then, entering into talk with him, told him
such wonderful things about this world of ours that Simon, had he only
dared, would have fallen at his feet in wonder and gratitude. And in the
evening, he ran to tell Nastka all about it, concluding:
“Folk call him silly: yet he is as full of wisdom as any priest!”
“There be some that talk wisely, yet act foolishly. What, would he come
peradventure to aid ye if he had all his wits? And would he tend
Veronka’s kine?”
“That, indeed, I cannot make out.”
“Save by saying he has lost his senses.”
“At any rate, he is the best man in the world.”
Simon was immeasurably grateful to him for his kindness. Yet, for all
their working together, and eating from the same vessel, and sleeping
beneath the same covering, there was nothing of familiarity in their
fellowship.
“He always belongs to the race of the Squires,” Simon said to himself,
with profound respect and thankfulness. With his help the hut rose up,
even as a loaf rises which has been leavened; and when Matthew had
likewise come to assist them, and Adam, son of Klemba, brought all they
required from the forest, the building was soon to be seen distinctly
from Lipka, so splendidly did it get on. Matthew worked hard for nearly
the whole week, directing the others’ toil; and when (on Saturday
afternoon) it was quite finished, he put up a cluster of green boughs on
the chimney-top, and went off to some other work of his own.
Then Simon whitewashed the cottage, and swept the shavings and rubbish
away. And Mr. Yacek came with his violin under his arm, saying with a
smile:
“The nest is ready: bring the mother-bird!”
Simon answered: “Our wedding is to-morrow after evensong,” and fell at
his feet to thank him.
“Oh, but I have not worked for nothing! When they send me away from the
village, I come to lodge with you!” And, lighting his pipe, he strolled
away to the forest.
Simon, though all was finished, still pottered about the hut, stretching
his weary limbs, and gazing upon it with an unexpected intensity of joy.
“Mine! Aye, mine!” he repeated; and, apparently not believing his own
eyes, he would touch the walls, walk round, peep in at the window, and
sniff the raw pungency of the whitewash and the clay. It was late in the
evening when he returned to Lipka to get ready for the next day.
Everybody knew about his wedding, and Dominikova had been informed by a
neighbour, though she made out not to have caught what was said.
Early on Sunday morning, Yagna several times slipped away from her
mother’s hut, carrying various articles in bundles quietly out through
the garden, and taking them over to Nastka. The old dame, though quite
conscious of what was going on, did nothing at all to prevent it, but
went to and fro in silence, with so sombre an air that Andrew only
ventured to approach her after High Mass. Which he did with great
caution, and not very close.
“Mother, I am going out.”
“Better drive the horses to clover!”
“Know ye not?... ’tis to Simon’s wedding.”
“Praised be to God, ’tis not yours!” she answered bitterly. “——Well, but
only get tipsy, and you’ll see what I’ll do to you!” With that threat,
she groped her way out to a neighbour’s, while the young man put on all
his finery.
“Yes, I will!... I will get tipsy, if only to spite her!” he growled,
scurrying fast to Matthew’s cottage, just as they were all setting out
for church. But it was a very quiet wedding: neither songs nor shouts
nor music. In the church, too, there were only a couple of tapers:
Nastka shed many a tear of shame, and Simon shot angry challenging
glances round him at the few that were present. Luckily, when it was all
over, the organist played them out with such a strain of music as almost
set their feet a-dancing, and made their souls within them merry and
jocund.
The wedding over, Yagna went back at once to her mother, and only looked
in from time to time; Matthew performed on his fiddle, Pete accompanied
him on the flute, and another beat the kettle-drum for them with fierce
energy. They began to dance, even within the little cabin, and so many
of the guests as felt inclined tripped it also to and fro outside,
amongst the tables that had been set up. There was some eating, some
healths drunk and conversation enough. All was quiet, though; for in
broad day-time and with unflustered heads, they felt in no mood for
noise.
Simon clung close to his wife, taking her into corners and kissing her
so violently that they made fun of him; and Ambrose, in a bad temper,
grunted:
“Poor fellow! enjoy yourself to-day; to-morrow you shall have to pay
your score.” And as he spoke, his greedy eyes followed the glass as it
went round.
There was really no great life in the party; besides, no considerable
merry-making could be expected, since many, having taken a little and
sat for some time, as the rules of good breeding demanded, retired to
their homes as soon as sundown set the sky on fire. Matthew, however,
was very blithe and jolly, playing, singing, pressing girls to dance
with him, and passing the vodka round; and when Yagna showed her face,
he was her constant companion, ogling her, and talking, and utterly
careless of the tears that glistened in Teresa’s eyes.
Yagna, indifferent to the man, had no reason to hold off. She merely
listened patiently to him, while on the watch for the coming of the
Borynas, whom she wished not to meet. Fortunately they did not come;
nor, indeed, did any of the first-class landholders. These,
nevertheless, not having refused the invitation, had (as was proper)
sent various presents in aid of the wedding-feast. Their absence being
remarked upon, Yagustynka made a characteristic reply:
“Had there but been dainties in plenty, and a cabin all reeking with
vodka, there would have been no keeping them out, even with a stick! But
dry tongues and empty paunches please them not.”
She was by this time somewhat elevated and mischievous: so, having
noticed Yasyek Topsy-turvy sitting in a corner by himself, sighing
miserably, wiping his nose, and eyeing Nastka from a distance, she drew
him out to address her and so make sport.
“Dance with her, and take what may be had! Your mother would not let you
marry her; but frisk around her now she has a goodman, and she may
requite your love!”
Then she poured forth such talk as made the ears tingle; and when
Ambrose, having got enough to drink by now, began to wag his tongue
likewise, they set the ball rolling together, and made everybody shake
with mirth, till the short summer night, spent in fun and frolic, came
unexpectedly to an end.
And now no one remained but the family (and Ambrose, bent on draining
the very last drop left in the bottles). The young couple decided to
start at once for their new home. Matthew wished them to stay a little
longer; but Simon, who had borrowed a horse and cart of Klemba, would
not hear of it. So he bundled lockers and vessels and bedding into the
cart, seated Nastka in state on the top, knelt down for her mother’s
blessing, and, with a kiss for his brother-in-law and a profound salute
to the others, crossed himself, whipped up the horse, and started off:
the whole family accompanying him.
They walked on in silence, till, close to the mill, a couple of storks
were seen circling high in air above their heads. The old dame clapped
her hands at the sight, and said:
“Knock on wood! Here’s the best foreboding for you, and ye shall have
children in plenty!”
Nastka, reddened slightly; but Simon, who was pushing behind the cart,
whistled jauntily, and threw exultant glances around him.
When at last they were alone, Nastka, looking at her new home, burst
into tears at the sorry sight. But Simon cried:
“No crying, silly! Other folk have still less: they are envying you!”
He was very much worn out, and somewhat in his cups. So he flung himself
down on some straw in a corner, and was soon snoring loud ... while she,
sitting near the window and looking down at the white cottages of Lipka,
went on shedding tears.
This melancholy state of mind did not, however, last very long. All the
village folk seemed to have plotted together to come to her aid.
Klemba’s wife came first, with a hen under her arm, and a brood of
little chickens in a basket. It was a good beginning; and almost daily
one of the goodwives looked in, and never a one of them empty-handed.
Their kindness touched her heart.
“Dear people,” she said, “how can I ever repay you?”
“A word of hearty thanks will do,” replied Sikora’s wife, who had
brought her a piece of linen cloth.
“When ye are at your ease, ye can pass it on to someone that is also in
want,” added Ploshkova, producing a goodly piece of bacon from under her
apron.
So many presents did she receive that she had enough for a long, long
time. And one evening, at dusk, Yasyek Topsy-turvy brought her his dog
Kruchek, which he tied up close to her hut, and then took to his heels,
as if in fear of some harm that might come.
They laughed heartily, as they told Nastka about this; but she curled a
disdainful lip.
“At the noonday rest, Nastka, he had been gathering berries for you; and
his mother took them away from him!”