On a sudden he made a start to rush after her.
“Whither?” his mother asked grimly, blocking the way.
“Why—why have ye turned her out? Because she was so kind to me? It is
unjust—unjust—and I will not have it.—What wrong thing has she done,
say?” he cried, struggling violently in his mother’s powerful grasp.
“Sit down quietly, or I’ll call Father.... What has she done, hey?—I’ll
tell you at once. You are to be a priest: I will not see you taking a
mistress under my very roof, nor load yourself with such shame and
disgrace that folk will point their fingers at you as you go by! That’s
why I expelled her. And now you know!”
“Lord Almighty!—What is this you say?” he cried indignantly.
“What I know well.—I was aware that you had meetings with her; but, as
God is my witness, I never suspected you of any wickedness! For I
thought that if my son wore a priest’s habit, he would not drag it in
the mud—not make me curse him for ever—not force me to tear him out of
my heart, and break my heart in the tearing!” As she spoke, her eyes
flamed with such holy indignation that Yanek was petrified with
amazement. “Kozlova,” she went on to say, “was the first to open mine
eyes; and now I myself have seen how this drab was trying to inveigle
you!”
He burst into a flood of tears, and brokenly—between fits of sobbing and
complaints of her monstrous suspicions—told her so frankly all about
their meetings that her trust in him was completely restored. She
pressed him to her heart, and wiped his tears, and soothed him.
“Now do not marvel if I feared for you. Why, she is the worst trull in
the whole village!”
“Yagna ... the worst...!” He could not believe his ears.
“It shames me to speak of such things; but for your good I must.” She
thereupon poured forth all the scandalous tales in circulation against
Yagna, sparing him none of them.
Yanek shook with horror, and started up at last, crying:
“This cannot be; I will never believe her so vile.”
“Take heed; ’tis your mother who speaks; these are no lying inventions
of hers.”
“But they must be lies! Were they true, it would be too horrible.” And
he wrung his hands in despair.
“What makes you defend her so stoutly? Answer me that!”
“I must defend anyone—anyone that’s innocent.”
“You’re an arrant fool!” She was losing her temper; his disbelief pained
her deeply.
“If ye think me so—well.—But supposing Yagna so wicked, how could ye let
her come to our house?” he asked, flushing as red as an angry young
turkey-cock.
“I have not to justify my doings to you, a simpleton who could not
understand me. But this I say to you: keep away from her! For if I meet
you with her, I will—aye, even before the whole village, I will—give her
a drubbing she will not get over for a month!—And you too may get a
taste of the same!”
With these words she went out, slamming the door.
Yanek, not suspecting at all why Yagna’s good name was so very dear to
him, remained thinking over his mother’s words, and chewing the cud of
his bitter reflections till his soul was sickened with the nauseous
taste.
“She that kind of woman? She, Yagna?” he groaned, with such stern
abhorrence that, had she then appeared before him, he would have turned
from her with angry loathing. Why, the very thought of such things had
never come to his mind! And now he was forced to ponder them, with
ever-increasing anguish! Many a time he was on the point of running out
to throw all those many sins and wicked deeds in her teeth. “Let her
know what folk say, and clear herself, if she can. Let her declare that
they are all falsehoods!” He went on musing feverishly, now more and
more inclined to think that she was perhaps not in fault.... Sorrow for
her took hold of him; and then there was a secret longing for her in his
mind ... and the memories of their past meetings came back, not without
a certain sense of sweetness.... Then his eyes grew dim with a bright
haze of vague delight; and, with a mysterious pang at his heart, he
sprang up, crying out, as to the whole world:
“’Tis untrue—untrue—untrue!”
At supper, he did not raise his eyes from his plate, shunned his
mother’s glances, and sat speechless, though they were talking of
Agata’s death. Gloomy, fastidious in his eating, tiresome to his
sisters, querulous about the heat in the house, he got up as soon as the
meal was done, and went over to the priest’s. His Reverence, sitting
pipe in mouth in the porch, was busy talking of various affairs with
Ambrose. He kept away from them and walked about under the trees, in
company with his painful thoughts.
“And yet, it may be true! Mother could never have invented that!”
From the windows of the house, long streaks of light played upon the
lawn and flower-beds, where the dogs frolicked and snarled in fun. Gruff
voices came to him from the porch:
“Have you seen the barley at ‘Swine’s Hollow?’”
“The stalks are still somewhat green; the grains are dry as pepper.”
“You must air the vestments, they are getting quite ruined with
mould.—And take my surplus and the albs to Dominikova’s for Yagna to
wash.—Who was it brought his cow here this afternoon?”
“Someone from Modlitsa. The miller met him on the bridge and vaunted his
bull, and even offered the use of the beast gratis; but the man
preferred ours.”
“He was right. One rouble will give him a lifelong profit ... and a
first-rate breed of cows.—Know ye if the Klembas are to pay Agata’s
funeral fees?”
“No, she herself has left ten _zloty_ for her burial.”
“She shall be buried, as grandly as any village dame!—Ah! by the way,
tell the Confraternity Brethren that I will sell them my unbleached wax;
the bleached wax they may want they must buy elsewhere. To-morrow
Michael will see to the church; you must go round and tell the reapers
to hurry. The weather-glass stands at ‘Variable,’ and we may have a
storm.—When are they starting for Chenstohova?”
“They have asked for a votive Mass on Thursday.”
This talk getting on Yanek’s nerves, he walked farther away to a low
lattice-work fence that separated the orchard from the apiary, where he
paced to and fro along a narrow path overhung by trees, the apple-laden
boughs coming in frequent contact with his head.
It was a stifling evening, redolent of honey close by, and of the rye
cut down a little farther; the sultry air was saturated with heat. The
whitewashed trunks glimmered in the shadows, like shirts hung out to
dry. From the Klembas’, the dismal moaning of the dirges was heard.
Weary of thinking over his trouble, Yanek was going home, when his ear
caught the muffled sound of persons whispering eagerly together in the
apiary.
He could see no one, but stopped and listened, holding his breath.
... “Get along.... Let me alone, or I shall scream.”
“... foolish ... why struggle?... I am doing nothing wrong ... nothing
wrong.”
... “Someone may hear.... Loose me, for God’s sake.... You’re breaking
my ribs!”
Yanek knew the voices: Pete from Boryna’s and Maryna the priest’s
maidservant were there! He walked away, somewhat amused at their
courtship, but, after a few paces, returned and listened with absorbing
interest. It was impossible to see anything for the thick bushes and the
dark night, but he was soon able to make out their broken words, that
were now more distinct, more ardent, like spurts of flame; at times,
too, there was the sound of a tussle and of deep-drawn breaths.
“... as nice as any of Yagna’s ... you shall see, Maryna ... only....”
“Trust you indeed?... Am I such a one?... For God’s sake, let me
breathe!”
There was a heavy fall upon the ground; the bushes cracked and snapped;
then they seemed to pick themselves up, and whispers and chuckles and
kisses went on as before.
“Sleep has quite fled from me now ... all for thinking of you, Maryna
... of you, O dearest!”
“To every girl you say that!... I waited till midnight ... courting
someone else....”
Yanek trembled like an aspen leaf.—The wind sprung up, making the trees
to rustle faintly, as if talking in their sleep; the heavy scent of
honey from the apiary oppressed him so, he could scarcely breathe; his
eyes watered, a hot thrill went through him, an obscurely pleasurable
sensation pervaded his whole being.
“... as far from me as any star!—’Tis to Yanek she has an eye at
present!...”
Mastering his emotion, Yanek bent over the fence and gave ear, in spite
of his growing excitement.
“True, she goes out to him every night.... Kozlova surprised them in the
wood together....”
Here everything began to turn round, his eyes saw nothing and he almost
fell swooning. Meanwhile, the sound of kisses and low laughter and
whispering continued.
“If you.... I’ll scald your head with boiling water!... Pete!... Pete!”
He had heard enough. He rushed away, swift as the wind, tearing his
soutane on the way, and reached home as red as a beetroot, perspiring
profusely, and in a fever of excitement. Luckily, no one paid attention
to him. His mother, sitting by the fire-place, was singing under her
breath the evening hymn,
“All our actions of this day,
At Thy feet, O Lord, we lay,”
and spinning the while; his sisters and Michael, who was polishing the
church candlesticks, joined in. His father was in bed.
He went to his room and began to say his hours. But, strive as he would
to attend to the Latin words, his mind was always harking back to the
whispers and kisses he had overheard. At last, dropping his head on the
book, he unconsciously gave way to the thoughts which came over him like
a burning blast.
“So?... Are things so?” he mused, with growing horror, and a thrill that
was nevertheless not unpleasant. “_Are things so!_” he suddenly repeated
aloud; and to get rid of the abominable fancies that beset him, he put
his breviary under his arm, and went to his mother, telling her, in a
low subdued voice, that he was going to pray by Agata’s body.
“Yes, go, dearest; I will come for you later!” she returned, with a
glance very full of love.
Klemba’s cabin was almost empty. Only Ambrose was there, mumbling out of
a book, beside the deceased who lay covered with a sheet. At the head of
the bed, the death-taper burned, stuck in a small jug. Fruit-laden
apple-boughs peered in at the open window; and now and then a belated
passer-by peered in too. In the passage, the dogs growled low.
Yanek knelt down close to the light, and fell to his prayers with such
intense fervour that he never knew when Ambrose got up and hobbled home.
The Klembas had lain down to rest in the orchard.—The first cock had
crowed before his mother, remembering, came to fetch him home.
But no slumber came to his eyelids there. Each time he fell into a doze,
Yagna’s form appeared to him with such lifelike reality that he started
up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked around in horror—only to see that
all the place was quiet, and to hear his father snoring sonorously.
“Ah!... Perhaps ... perhaps _that_ was what she desired?” he thought, as
the memory of her scorching kisses and flaming eyes and husky voice came
back to him. “And I—I thought it but....” He shook himself, overwhelmed
with anger and shame. He leaped out of bed, opened the window wide, and,
seated on the sill, pondered till daybreak with profound sorrow over his
involuntary offences and temptations.
At Mass the next morning, he did not venture to raise his eyes; but he
prayed all the more earnestly for Yagna, in whose great guilt he now
believed entirely, although hatred and disgust for her were beyond his
power.
“What’s the matter?” the priest said to him in the sacristy after Mass.
“You were sighing so hard, you almost put out the candles!”
“My soutane makes me so hot!” he answered evasively, averting his face.
“When you are accustomed to it, ’twill be as easy to wear as your own
skin!”
Yanek kissed his hand and went off to breakfast, picking out the shadows
along the mill-pond, for the heat was broiling. On the way, he met
Maryna pulling the priest’s blind old mare along by the mane, and
singing a noisy song.
His recollections of her stung him to the quick, and he went up to her
in an angry mood.
“What makes you rejoice so, Maryna?” And he gazed at her with shamefaced
curiosity.
“The hey-day in my blood!” she replied, showing her white teeth in a
broad grin; and she went on pulling at the mare’s mane and singing still
more noisily.
“Merry! ... and after what she has done!” He turned away hastily from
the girl—whose skirt was tucked up almost to her snowy knees—and went on
to the Klembas’. There Agata lay in high state and in the centre of the
dwelling-room, arrayed in her best holiday attire, wearing her cap,
deeply frilled over the brows, many strings of beads round her neck, and
a new striped skirt, and shoes laced with bright red laces. Her face
seemed moulded in bleached wax, and full of a marvellous joy. Her cold
stiffened fingers held the holy image, somewhat awry; two tapers burned
at the bed’s head. Yagustynka was brushing the flies away with a bough.
The smoke of juniper-berries was wafted through the room from the
fire-place. Every now and then somebody came in to pray for her soul,
and several children were playing about outside.
Yanek, not without some qualms, looked into the dark room.
“The Klembas have gone to town,” Yagustynka whispered. “As she has left
them no small amount, they have to deck themselves out for her funeral.
For is she not their kinswoman? Surely! But the body will be taken out
only this evening; Matthew has not finished the coffin yet.”
The room was close; and, besides, that waxen face with its changeless
smile looked so ghastly that he must needs cross himself and go out
speedily. On the door-step, he met Yagna and her mother entering. She
stopped on seeing him, but he passed her by without a word, not even the
usual “Praised be Jesus Christ!” It was only on nearing the fence that
he inadvertently turned round. She was still standing where he had
passed her, gazing mournfully after him.
Going home, he would take no breakfast, pretexting a headache.
“Go out for a walk; it may pass away,” his mother advised.
“Mother! where am I to go? Ye will directly fancy ... who knows what?”
“Yanek, how can you speak so?”
“Why, Mother, have you not locked me up in our house? Can I go out, if I
must not speak to people?”
His nerves were overstrung, and he made his mother suffer in
consequence.... It all ended, however, in her bandaging his head with a
compress dipped in vinegar, and making him lie down in a darkened room.
She drove the children out of the yard, and watched over her boy like a
hen over her chicken till he had slept well and eaten a good meal.
“And now go for a walk; and go by the poplar road, where ’tis cooler
because of the shade.”
He did not reply, but, seeing that she carefully noted the way he took,
chose the opposite direction on purpose. He strayed about the village,
looked in at the forge and the hammers as they smote with deafening din
on the anvil; he peeped into the mill, entered garden after garden, and
went past the flax-fields and wherever the crimson gleam of a woman’s
dress was to be seen. Then he sat and talked with Mr. Yacek, tending
Veronka’s cows by a field-path, went on to Simon’s cottage in Podlesie,
where they refreshed him with some milk, and came back late in the
afternoon, without having seen Yagna anywhere.
It was only the next day, at Agata’s funeral, that he met her; her eyes
were fixed upon him during all the service. The letters of his book
danced before his eyes, and he mistook his Responses. As the body was on
its way to the churchyard, she walked almost at his side, utterly
indifferent to the fierce glances and loud murmurs of his mother; she
felt herself melting in his presence like snow in the spring sunshine!
When the coffin was lowered into the grave and the customary
lamentations broke forth, his ear caught the sound of her wailing; but
he knew well that those sobs were not for Agata, and that they flowed
from the fullness of a sorely pained and wounded heart.
“I must—I must have speech with her!”
His mind was made up on this point on returning from the funeral, but he
could not get free at once. Many people from the other hamlets, and even
some from neighbouring parishes, had come to Lipka about noon, in order
to join in the pilgrimage.
This was to start the next morning at once after the votive Mass had
been sung; and all were now slowly assembling, so that the road by the
mill-pond was crowded with carts. A great many, too, had gone to the
priest’s bureau, and Yanek had to stay and help his Reverence in
settling many various matters. It was only quite at evening that he
found a convenient time to take his book and slip out behind the barn
and to that pear-tree under which he had once sat together with Yagna.
He never opened the book at all, but threw it somewhere away into the
grass. Then, looking round the fields, he entered the rye; and
stealthily, almost creeping on all fours, he made his way to
Dominikova’s garden.
And Yagna was there just then, digging up new potatoes. She had no
notion that anyone was gazing at her. Now and then she would draw
herself up wearily, look about her with very mournful eyes, and utter a
long and heavy sigh.
“Yagna!” he exclaimed timidly.
She turned suddenly pale as a sheet of canvas, scarcely believing her
own eyes, and well-nigh regarding him as a miraculous vision.
Yanek’s eyes were filled with light, and his heart with the sweetness of
honey. But, mastering himself, he only sat down in silence, gazing upon
her with an irresistible sense of delight.
“I feared I should never see you again, Master Yanek!”
As a scented breeze, blowing up from the meadows upon him, so was the
sound of her voice to his soul, thrilled with inexpressible rapture!
“Yesterday evening, outside the Klembas’ house, ye would not even look
at me!”
She stood before him, flushed like a rose-bush in flower; like a spray
of apple-blossoms, all drooping with desire; full of comeliness and
altogether lovely.
“And I thought my heart would break!” she added, tears standing like
diamonds on her long eyelashes, and veiling the dark azure of the
heavens behind.
“Yagna!” he cried; it was a cry from the core of his inmost heart.
She knelt down in a furrow close by and, pressing close to his knees,
fixed upon him the fiery depths of her eyes—those eyes as clear, yet as
unfathomable, as the sky—those eyes whose looks went to the head like
kisses, or the caresses of a beloved hand—those eyes instinct at once
with subtle temptation and with absolute simplicity.
With a violent effort to shake himself free from the spell she was
casting over him, he spoke to her sternly and recounted all the sins and
evil deeds of which his mother had told him. She drank in all his words
eagerly, her eyes fastened upon him, but scarcely at all understanding
what he said, absorbed as she was in the one feeling and knowledge and
consciousness of his being by her side—he, the chosen of her soul
amongst all!—of his saying something, of his eyes gleaming bright; and
of her kneeling before him as before the image of a saint, and praying
to him with the deep, deep faith of love!
“Say now,” he concluded with energetic entreaty, “say, Yagna, say of all
this: ’Tis untrue!”
“’Tis untrue!—untrue!” she repeated, and with such transparent sincerity
that he could not but believe her. Then she, leaning forward, rested her
breast against his knees ... and in low trembling utterances confessed
her love.... She opened wide her soul to him, as if to a father
confessor, threw herself down before him as a stray worn-out bird might
fall; and with an ardent entreaty, that sounded like a prayer, she gave
herself up without reserve to his love ... to do with her whatsoever he
would.
Yanek trembled like a leaf tossed in a furious tempest, tried to push
her from him and escape; but his mind was dazed, and he could only
whisper faintly:
“Hush, Yagna, hush! say not such things, they are sinful!”
Then she ceased from speaking, being quite exhausted. And they both were
silent; neither did they dare to look into each other’s eyes, but yet
they pressed together so closely that they could feel each other’s
hearts beat, and the hot stifled panting of their bosoms. Both felt
infinite rapture and gladness; tears streamed down their pale cheeks,
but a smile played on the lips of both, and both their souls were
plunged in deep serene beatitude.
The sun had now gone down, the earth was bathed in the after-glow, as
with a golden dew. All was still; all things held their peace,
listening, as it were, to the sounds of the _Angelus_; everything seemed
in orison—a prayer of quietude and thanksgiving for the blessing of the
day that was over.—And they then went forth through the dusky fields,
along the pathways overgrown with wild flowers, across the ripe
cornlands, brushing aside the drooping ears as they walked; on they
went, with eyes fixed upon the western fires, on the vast golden abysses
of heaven, with heaven in their eyes, and heaven in their hearts, and a
heaven-like aureole around them!
Not a word was spoken—not a single one; but at times their looks crossed
like lightning flashes: each, wearied out in self-conflagration, was
unconscious of what the other felt.
Nor were they conscious, either, of the wonderful hymn they were
singing, which, having sprung up within their souls, was flying afar on
every side, over the darkening fields.
Neither did they so much as know where they were, or whither going, or
to what end.
A harsh hoarse voice broke upon their dreams on a sudden:
“Yanek!—Home!”
He was instantly recalled to his senses, and found himself in the poplar
road, his mother standing in front of them both, grim-visaged and
inexorable!—At the sight, he faltered, stammered, and uttered some
unmeaning words.
“Home!”
She caught hold of his unresisting hand, and he followed meekly as she
pulled him along.
Yagna, as if spellbound, was coming after them. The old dame picked up a
stone from the road, and hurled it at her with all her strength.
“Hence!—Bitch, to your kennel!” she shrieked with foul-mouthed abuse.
Yagna looked round, really unaware that the words were meant for her.
When they had disappeared, she wandered about the lanes for a long time,
and when all the lights were out, she went and sat outside her cabin
till it was again broad day.
The hours passed by; the villagers one by one rose and went to their
daily duties; and she still sat plunged in day-dreams of her Yanek; of
his speech with her, of their mutual glances—and so near together! of
their having gone somewhere and sung something ... something she could
not remember.... And always, always the same dream, endlessly repeated!
Her mother woke her to reality; but Hanka did the waking yet more
effectually. She came, dressed for her journey, and timidly stretched
out her hand to make peace with them.
“I am going to Chenstohova. Pray forgive me if I have sinned in aught
against you.”
“Your words are kind, and I thank you,” the old dame growled; “but what
ye have done, ye have done.”
“Let us not go into that!—I entreat you most sincerely to pardon me.”
“I bear you no malice in my heart,” Dominikova returned, sighing
heavily.
“Nor do I, though I have suffered not a little,” Yagna said gravely; and
then, as the Mass-bell was ringing, went to dress for church.
“Do you know,” Hanka said, after a pause, “that Yanek, our organist’s
son, is coming with us to Chenstohova? His mother told me herself that
he has insisted on making the pilgrimage.”
Hearing these words, Yagna rushed out half dressed.
“In the company of our little priest, we shall journey better and more
respectably.... And so, farewell!”
They parted on friendly terms, and she went on to church, telling her
news as she went. Everybody was surprised, and old Yagustynka shook her
head, saying:
“There’s more in this than meets the eye! If he goes, it is not
willingly. Not he!”
But there was no discussing the matter now: half the village was in
church, and the Pilgrimage Mass had already begun.
Yanek was serving, as usual; but his face looked paler, and bore an
unusual expression of pain. Then his eyes were discoloured, and still
brimmed with tears, through which he saw, as through a mist, the church,
and Teresa lying on the pavement all the time with outstretched arms,
and Yagna’s terrified glances, and his mother, sitting in the Manor pew,
and the pilgrims coming up to receive Holy Communion: all these were
dimly seen through his tears, while pang after pang rent his heart,
overwhelmed with mortal anguish.
From the altar, the priest took leave of the pilgrims, and, as they
pushed their way out of the church, sprinkled them with holy water, and
gave them his blessing. The banner was raised, the glittering cross
opened the way before them, a hymn was struck up—and they set off upon
their journey.
Yagna accompanied them, along with her mother and the rest of the
village. She looked very ill, and her soul was quivering in the grip of
agony. Swallowing down her bitter burning tears, she kept her eyes fixed
on the boy who was all in all to her; but now she viewed him from afar,
because his mother and brothers and sisters crowded jealously round him,
and she could not even see him properly, much less have speech with him.
Matthew, her mother, and several others addressed her, but she paid them
scant attention. She thought of this only: that her Yanek was going away
for ever; that never, never should she see him more!
They accompanied the pilgrims as far as the crucifix at the edge of the
forest; these continued their march, singing until they were out of
sight, and only a cloud of dust told vaguely of their whereabouts.
“Why is this?” she moaned, dragging herself wearily back to the village.
“I shall fall down, I shall die!” What she felt within her she really
took for the coming of death, so completely had the agonies she had
endured shorn her of her strength.
“What, oh, what shall I do now?” she said, looking out upon the day, so
desolate for her, so hateful with its dazzling light.
She longed, how intensely! for the silent hours of night; but they
brought her no consolation. Until dawn, she went wandering about the
premises, along the road, even as far as Podlesie and that cross where
she had for the last time seen Yanek; and with eyes that smarted with
the strain, she looked up the long wide sandy track, as though seeking
some trace of his footsteps, the place where his shadow had passed—a
clod of earth his foot had touched.
Alas! there was nothing—nothing for her anywhere—no more love—no more
hope!
Even her tears failed her in the end, although her eyes, full of awful
desolation and despair, glittered like fathomless fountains of sorrow.
Now and then, when she prayed, there would burst from her lips the
bitter complaint: “O my God! wherefore, whereto, is all this
suffering?”...