path: root/76329-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76329 ***





                              THE PEASANTS
                                 SUMMER




                                  THE
                                PEASANTS

                               A TALE OF
                             OUR OWN TIMES

                                   IN
                              FOUR VOLUMES

                                 AUTUMN
                                 WINTER
                                 SPRING
                                 SUMMER




                              THE PEASANTS

                                 SUMMER

                           FROM THE POLISH OF
                            LADISLAS REYMONT

[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]

                           ALFRED · A · KNOPF
                          NEW YORK      MCMXXV




                         PUBLISHED, JUNE, 1925
                      SECOND PRINTING, JUNE, 1925
                    THIRD PRINTING, SEPTEMBER, 1925
                    FOURTH PRINTING, DECEMBER, 1925

              MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




                            PUBLISHER’S NOTE


_The Peasants_ has been translated from the original Polish by Michael
H. Dziewicki, Reader of English Literature at the University of Cracow.
I wish to make special acknowledgment to Dr. A. M. Nawench of Columbia
University for his invaluable assistance in seeing the work through the
press.

                                                                A. A. K.




                              THE PEASANTS
                                 SUMMER




                               CHAPTER I


Thus did Matthias Boryna die.

With dreadful yelps and howls, and leaps against the door to be let in,
Lapa awoke the sleepers in the cabin, who were enjoying their Sunday
rest; and then he pulled them by their clothes, and ran out a little,
looking back again to see if they followed him, till Hanka took notice.

“Go, Yuzka, and see what that dog would have us do.”

She ran out after him in good spirits, skipping along the road.

He led her to her father’s body.

On beholding it, she uttered such awful shrieks that they all came out
at once, and found him cold, rigid, lying on his face just as when he
had passed away, his arms stretched out crosswise in a last fervent
prayer.

Still attempting to revive him, they bore the body to the hut.

All their endeavours were fruitless: what lay before them was a corpse,
and nothing more.

A bitter lamentation rose up: Hanka rent the air with cries; Yuzka cried
not less wildly, and dashed her head against the wall; Vitek and the
little ones wailed aloud, and Lapa howled and barked outside. Pete
alone, who had been coming and going about the yard, glanced at the sun,
and went back to his bed in the stable.

Matthias now lay on his couch, stiff and stark, as lifeless as a
sun-dried earth-clod or a felled trunk. He still held a little sand fast
in his clenched fist. In his wide-open eyes, gazing afar into some
heavenly region, there was a look of wondering rapture.

Nevertheless, there emanated from that body an effluence of mortality so
sombre, so profoundly sad, that they had to cover it with a sheet.

His death was immediately known throughout the village; and barely had
the sun appeared over its roofs, when visitors came pouring in one after
another, raised the sheet, looked into his eyes, and knelt down to say a
prayer for him. Others, stricken with awe at this example of God’s
dominion over human life, stood wringing their hands in mournful
silence.

Meanwhile the mourners’ lamentations continued resounding unceasingly.

And now Ambrose came, turned away the crowd outside, closed the cabin
door, and, together with Yagustynka and Agata (the latter having crept
in to pray beside the body), set about rendering the last services to
the deceased, which he always did willingly, and in general with plenty
of witticisms; but this time he felt somehow heavy at heart.

“So much for the happiness of any man!” he muttered, as he undressed the
body. “Dame Crossbones, as often as she has a mind, will clutch you by
the throat, slap you in the face; and ye, turning up your toes, are
borne away to the ‘Priests’ Cow-byre’; and is there any able to resist
her?”

Even Yagustynka was grieved, and said, in no merry mood: “Poor man! they
neglected him so in this world that ’twas better for him to die!”

“Indeed? And who, then, did him any harm?”

“Nay, were they so very good to him?”

“And who on earth has all to his liking? Why, even a squire, even a
king, must suffer trouble and pain.”

“He had not to bear either hunger or cold: we can say no more.”

“Ah, good Mother, what is hunger? The heart-ache gnaws far worse.”

“True. I have felt it. And Yagna cut him to the heart: nor did his own
children spare him.”

“But,” Agata put in, interrupting the prayers she was saying, “he had
children that were good, and did him no wrong.”

Yagustynka turned snappishly upon her. “Say your prayers, you! ye were
best. What? will she drone dirges for the dead man, and listen all the
time to the talk?”

“Well, but if his children were bad, would they mourn for him so? Only
hark to them!”

“Had he but left you so much, ye would move heaven and earth with your
lamentations!”

Here Ambrose interfered. “Be quiet,” he said; “here comes Yagna.”

She rushed in, but stood transfixed in the middle of the room, unable to
speak.

They were then attiring the body in a clean shirt.

“What! ... gone?” she said at last, with eyes fixed on him. Fear was
gripping at her throat and her heart; her blood ran cold and she could
scarcely breathe.

“Did they not tell you?” Ambrose inquired.

“I was asleep at Mother’s: Vitek came to call me but now.—Is he dead
truly and indeed?” she asked suddenly, approaching him.

“Surely ’tis for a coffin, not for a wedding, that I am attiring him.”

She could not make it out, and staggered up against the wall; she
fancied herself in a deep sleep, the prey of some nightmare.

Several times she quitted the room, but always returned: to keep her
eyes away from the body was impossible. Now and again she would start up
to go out, and yet stayed on; at times she went out as far as the stile,
and looked far across the fields with unseeing gaze; or she would seat
herself outside, but close to the room and to Yuzka, who was weeping,
tearing her hair, and for ever crying:

“Oh my father, my lost father! lost!”

There was great wailing and sobbing, not only in, but also around, the
cabin. Of the mourners, Yagna alone, though quaking in every limb, and
stirred to the inmost depths of her being, could not shed one tear,
could not utter one cry. She only walked to and fro with eyes gloomily
bright, with an expression of stern awe.

It was a good thing that Hanka presently recovered herself and, though
tearful yet, was able to see to everything, and felt quite calm on the
arrival of the blacksmith and his wife.

Magda wept; the smith asked for particulars, which Hanka gave him.

“’Tis well that the Lord Jesus has sent him so easy a death!”

“Poor man! Running out afield to flee Dame Crossbones’ embrace!”

“Yestereve I went to look at him; he was as quiet as usual.”

“And did he not speak? Not a word?” the smith asked, wiping tearless
eyes.

“Not a word. So I pulled the down covering over him, gave him to drink,
and came away.”

“What? and so he got up alone! Peradventure, then, he might not have
died, had any been there to watch over him,” said Magda, between her
sobs.

“Yagna was sleeping at her mother’s. She always does so, now the old
dame is so very ill.”

“It was to be!—And it has been!” said the blacksmith. “These three
months and over he has been a-dying. Whoso cannot be healed, better let
him die quickly. Let us thank the Lord God that he suffers no longer.”

“Aye, and well ye know how much the physicians and medicines cost us in
the first days ... and all to no purpose.”

“Ah!” Magda lamented; “how good a farmer he was! how able a man!”

“What grieves me is that Antek should not find him alive, when he comes
back.”

“He is no child, nor likely to weep on that account.—Rather bethink
yourself of the funeral.”

“True, true.—Oh, what a pity that Roch is away just now!”

“We can do without him. Be not troubled: I will see to all,” the smith
replied.

He showed a sorrowful face, but was evidently masking some hidden
thought as he set to help Ambrose to fold up the dead man’s clothes. For
a long time he ferreted in the store-room amongst hanks of spun wool and
odds and ends; then he went up the ladder—for the boots which hung
there, he said. The fellow panted as loud as a pair of bellows, pattered
prayers for the dead man louder than Agata, and was continually
recalling the good actions of the deceased. But his eyes were meanwhile
wandering about the room, and his hands gliding about under the pillows,
or groping in the straw of the mattress.

At length Yagustynka said tartly: “Are ye looking for aught in
particular?”

“One cannot find, unless one seeks!” he answered. And then he began to
search quite openly; nor did the arrival of Michael from the organist’s,
in hot haste for Ambrose, hinder him in the least.

“Come at once, Ambrose: four babies wait in church to be christened.”

“Let them wait; I must first of all get him neat and tidy.”

“Nay, ye had better go, Ambrose,” said the smith, who wanted to get rid
of him.

“What I have offered to do, I will do. I shall not soon lay out such
another as he. Take my place in church, Michael,” he added, turning to
the lad, “and let the godfathers and godmothers go round the altar with
lighted tapers: they will drop you kopeks in plenty.—What!”
disparagingly; “ye are to be an organist, yet cannot serve at a simple
christening?”

Hanka now brought in Matthew, to measure Boryna for his coffin.

“Do not grudge him room in this last dwelling of his,” said Ambrose, in
a sad tone; “let the poor man have some comfort, at least after death!”

“Lord, Lord!” Yagustynka whispered; “when he lived, he had not enough
with all his many acres; and now four boards will suffice him amply!”

Agata, interrupting her prayers, here faltered tearfully:

“He was a landowner, and shall be buried as such; but some poor
creatures know not under which hedge they are to die.... May light
perpetual shine upon you! May——” And here she broke down again.

Matthew said nothing, but nodded, and after taking the measure, said a
prayer and went out. Though it was Sunday, he set to work directly. All
the necessary tools were in the hut, and some seasoned oaken planks that
had long been in readiness lay upstairs. He had presently set up his
workshop in the orchard, and was hard at work—and making Pete, who had
been told to assist him, work hard too.

The day had dawned long ago, and the sun was shining with jocund burning
rays. It had been quite hot ever since breakfast-time; all the fields
and orchards were being slowly plunged in a vapour-bath of whitish
simmering air.

In some places, the languishing trees stirred their leaves, as birds
overwhelmed by heat might flutter their wings. The lull of the day of
rest had pervaded all the village; nothing moved but the swallows
darting over the pond, and the carts bearing people to church from some
neighbouring hamlet, with clouds of dust in their wake.... Every now and
then one of them stopped in front of Boryna’s, where the disconsolate
family were sitting, to greet them and sigh heavily, looking in through
the open windows and door.

Ambrose made good speed, and hastened the preparations: soon the bed was
out in the orchard, and the bedding spread on the hedge to air; and now
he called upon Hanka to bring him juniper-berries to fumigate the
mortuary chamber.

But just then she heard nothing. She had wiped the last tears from her
eyes, and was looking down the road, in the hope that she might at any
moment see her Antek.

But, as the hours passed, and he did not come, she wanted to send Pete
to town for news of him.

“Nay,” objected Bylitsa, who had just come in from Veronka’s hut; “he
will bring no news and only tire the horse.”

“But they must know something at the police bureau.”

“No doubt; but it is closed on Sundays. Besides, they will tell you
naught, if their palms be not greased.”

“Alas!” she complained to her sister, “I can bear this no longer.”

“Oh, he will yet be a thorn in your side,” hissed the blacksmith,
darting a glance at Yagna, who was sitting under the eaves. And, his
fruitless search for the money having stirred his bile, he added
spitefully: “His legs must be stiff with the irons he wore; how, then,
can he make haste home?”

She replied nothing, and went to look out upon the road again.

As the Mass-bells were ringing, Ambrose made for the church after
ordering Vitek to grease the dead man’s boots well, for they had got so
dry that they could not be put on him.

The smith, together with Matthew, went off to the village; and now there
remained no one in the cabin but the women and Vitek, busily greasing
the boots, softening them over the fire, and at times casting a look in
the direction of Yuzka, whose sobs were growing fainter.

There was now no movement at all upon the road, the people being in
church; nor was anything to be heard in Boryna’s cabin but the voice of
Agata within, saying the litany for the dead. It rose up like the
chirruping of a bird, along with the volumes of juniper smoke, with
which Yagustynka was perfuming the hut and the passage.

They heard the service begin. Audible in the noonday hush, the chants
wafted from the church, and the sound of the organ came to them in
high-pitched undulations, pleasant and remote.

Hanka could find no rest within doors, so she went to the stile, to get
through her prayers there.

“Dead, dead, dead!” she thought, as the beads slipped slow through her
fingers—But she prayed with her lips only; her brain, her heart, were
full of manifold puzzling thoughts, and not a few misgivings.

“Thirty-two acres. Also pastures. And a bit of forest. And the
outhouses, and the live stock!” She sighed and cast a look of affection
on the broad acres before her.

“If we could but pay them off, and keep all the land together!—And be
just what his father has been!”

Pride and ambition filled her heart; she gazed sunwards, smiled
fearlessly, and went on telling her beads, her bosom swelling with
agreeable hopes.

“No, I will not give up even half the land. Half the cabin is mine, too.
Nor shall the others get a single one of my milch-kine!”

She went on very long in this way, saying her prayers, flinging tearful
glances over those lands, clad with sunshine, as if it were a tissue of
gold, where the rye, in its growing luxuriance, waved its rusty-red
drooping ears; where the darker barley-patches stood shining in the
light, glossy and shimmering; where the bright green oats, thickly
sprinkled with yellow-flowering weeds, stirred and quivered in the
parching heat; where over the blossoming clover that lay spread out on
the hill-slope, like a blood-red kerchief, a great bird was hovering,
balanced on its outstretched wings, and where the broad beans stood,
with their thousands of snowy flowers, keeping watch and ward over the
young potato-plants, and a few plots of flax in the hollows gleamed blue
with delicate flowers—childlike eyes that seemed blinking in the glare.

All was so wondrously beautiful! The sun grew hotter and hotter
meanwhile; and the warm breeze, laden with the scents of the blossoms
that glowed in countless numbers, breathed from the fields with
delicious life-giving might, dilating the souls of men.

“O native soil, O holy soil, most holy!” she said, bending down to kiss
it.

She heard the church-bells tinkling, twittering in the air.

“O my dear Jesus! all’s for Thee—yea, all things in the world!” she
murmured fervently, and again betook herself to prayer.

But close to her she heard a rustling noise, and looked around her
cautiously. Beneath the cherry-trees, leaning against the trellised
fence, Yagna stood, absorbed in unpleasant thought.

“What, never one moment of peace!” Hanka complained; for, at the sight
of her, sharp memories arose—sharp as stinging nettles.

“Yes, there’s the donation made to her. ’Tis a fact! Aye, six whole
acres! Oh, that thief!” She turned her back upon her, but could not take
up her prayers again. Like hounds that not only barked but bit deep, the
wrongs and outrages of former days came back and beset her.

Noon had passed; the shrunken shadows were beginning to creep out once
more from under the trees and the houses. In the corn which bent
slightly towards the sunbeams, the grasshoppers played their faint
shrill music, a beetle hummed by at intervals, or a quail piped. And the
weather was all the time growing more and more intolerably hot.

High Mass was now ended, and the women came out of church to take off
their shoes by the pond, and there was no more solitude for Hanka; the
roads swarmed so with men and wagons that she went home.

Boryna was at last lying in state.

In the middle of the room he lay, on a wide bench, with a cloth over it
and burning tapers around. He had been washed, combed, and clean-shaved,
but his cheek bore a deep gash from Ambrose’s razor, which a bit of
paper concealed. He was arrayed in his very best clothes: the white
capote that had been made for his wedding with Yagna, striped breeches,
and all but quite new boots. In his overworked withered hands he held
the image of Our Lady of Chenstohova.

A large barrel of water stood by to keep the air cool; and upon
earthenware tiles there lay juniper-berries, smouldering and exhaling
their aromatic smoke, that filled the whole cabin with a bluish haze,
through which the awful majesty of death was mistily visible.

So lay, then, in silent state, the body of Matthias Boryna, an upright
and an able man, a thorough Christian, a farmer and the son and
descendant of farmers—the foremost man in Lipka.

He was in readiness, about to depart, to bid farewell to his kinsfolk
and all that knew him, and set out on the Great Journey!

His soul had already passed before the Judgment-seat: it was but his
worn-out body, the empty shell his soul had once inhabited, that lay
there, feebly smiling, amongst lights and smoke-wreaths and unceasing
prayers.

In came the people then, in an interminable procession, sighing, beating
their breasts, musing profoundly, or weeping; and the sounds of their
stifled sobs and faint whispers was like the pattering of autumnal rain.
They came and went without end: all Lipka came, rich and poor, young and
old, men and women.

In spite of the magnificent weather, his death made the whole village
gloomy and wretched; everyone was in deep sadness, everyone greatly
given to moralize over “the unhappy fate of mortal man.”

Many of the dead man’s friends lingered about the hut, and some of the
goodwives remained to attempt consoling Hanka and Magda and Yuzka in
words of homely comfort, condoling and weeping heartily along with them.

To Yagna nobody said one word. Though indeed she cared little for their
pity, she felt nevertheless pained at being so pointedly left alone; so
she went out into the garden, where she sat listening to Matthew at work
hammering the coffin.

“That creature!” the Voyt’s wife hissed after her. “To dare show her
face at all!”

“Oh, let her be!” said another; “it is no time now to think of her
misdeeds.”

“Aye, leave them to the Lord Jesus, who will judge them hereafter,”
Hanka added mercifully.

“And for the bitter things ye say, the Voyt will reward her abundantly,”
the smith remarked, with a sneer, and went away, the miller having sent
for him. Luckily; for the goodwife was swelling with rage like a turkey,
and ready to fly out at him.

He broke into a croaking laugh, and hurried off. The others lingered on
to talk, but the talk flagged, partly through their sorrow, partly on
account of the intense heat. It was indeed so hot that all the flowers
and plants were fading, and the walls shedding tears of resin.

Of a sudden a bellow, long-drawn and plaintive, was heard, and a
peasant, driving a cow, passed by on the farther side of the pond.

He pulled her hard by the rope, while they looked on in dull silence.

“Taking her to the priest’s bull, I suppose,” Yagustynka said; but no
one took any interest in her remark.

The bells rang for Vespers and they took leave of Hanka, who then sent
Vitek to ask the smith to go with her and arrange with the priest for
the funeral expenses. He presently returned, saying that the smith was
in conference with the Squire and the miller, and taking afternoon tea
together; his stallions were outside, pawing the ground in the shade.

“He with the Squire!—How strange!” But she could not wait, and
accompanied by Magda, dressed in her best, she went to the priest’s
house.

He was in the farm-yard, and sent them word he would see them there.

He sat in the shade, close to the fence. In the middle of the yard, not
far from a rather fine cow that a peasant held fast with a rope, a
powerful dappled bull was turning round and round her, kept back with
difficulty by the priest’s farm-servant, pulling at the end of his
chain.

“Valek! Just wait a little: he is not ready yet,” the priest called out.
Then, mopping his bald head, he called the women to him, and asked about
Boryna’s death, and consoled and comforted them with the greatest
kindness. But when they inquired about the funeral fees, he stopped them
short, saying impatiently:

“Of those things later. I am no extortioner. Matthias was the biggest
farmer in the village; he cannot have a mean funeral. No, I tell you, he
cannot,” he repeated fiercely, as was his way.

They embraced his feet, not venturing to insist.

“Ah!” he cried suddenly. “You little blackguards! I’ll give it you! Look
at them, those bad boys!” He was addressing the organist’s sons, peeping
surreptitiously over the hedge.—“Well, and what think ye of my bull,
hey?”

“A splendid beast!” Hanka replied. “Finer than the miller’s.”

“The two differ as much as a bull differs from a wagon! Only look at
him!” And he came nearer with them, and patted the flanks of the animal,
that now was approaching closer to the cow.

“Oh, what a neck! what a back! what a splendid chest! what a dewlap!” he
cried, breathless with enthusiasm. “Why, ’tis no bull, ’tis a bison!”

“Indeed, I never saw so fine a one.”

“No, ye never did. It is a thoroughbred Hollander. Cost me three hundred
roubles.”

“So great a sum as that?” they exclaimed in amazement.

“Not one kopek less. Valek, let him go ... but cautiously now; the cow
is but a puny thing.—She will be mated in an instant.... Aye, the bull
is exceeding dear. But then the Lipka folk—if they want to have a breed
of first-rate kine, will have to pay not less than one rouble, and ten
kopeks for my man besides!—The miller is wroth, but I was disgusted with
the miserable beasts his bull is accountable for.—Now then, run away!”
he said, noticing that the women averted their faces with shame. As they
went, he called after them: “To-morrow we bring the body to the church!”
and set to helping the peasant, who had much ado to hold his cow.

“You’ll very soon thank me for a calf such as you did never yet see in
your life.—Valek, take him away to rest awhile. Though indeed he can
scarcely be in need of any rest at all.... Such a trifle!” he boasted.

The women had repaired to the organist’s, because they had to make a
separate agreement with him. And as they had to take coffee there, and
talk for some time afterwards, the cattle were coming home when they
returned to their huts.

Mr. Yacek puffed at his pipe, standing in the porch with Matthew, whom
he tried to engage to build Staho’s hut, but who seemed hardly pleased
at the offer, and would say nothing definitive.

“As to cutting up the timber, that’s no great affair; but as to building
the hut.... Do I know? I have enough of the country and may be going
somewhere far away.—No, I cannot say for sure.” As he spoke thus, he
glanced at Yagna, who was milking her cow outside the byre.

“Well, well, I shall finish the coffin to-morrow morning, and then we
may talk the matter over,” he concluded, and hurried away.

Mr. Yacek, entering the room where Boryna lay, prayed for him long and
fervently, wiping away many a tear. He said to Hanka afterwards: “May
his sons but resemble him! He was a good man, a true Pole; was with us
in the insurrection; came of his own accord, and did not spare his
blows: I have seen him in action. Alas! it is through us he has
perished!... There’s a curse upon us,” he added, as if speaking to
himself. Though Hanka could not make out well all he said, yet his words
were so full of kindness that she fell at his feet and embraced them out
of gratitude.

“Never do that!” he exclaimed angrily. “What am I more than one amongst
you?”

Once more he cast a look at Boryna, lit his pipe at the taper, and left
the place, without answering the salutations of the blacksmith, just
then entering the passage.

“What, so proud to-day?” the smith cried; but as he was in good spirits
this vexed him but little. Seating himself by his wife’s side, he talked
to her very low:

“You must know, Magda, that the Squire is seeking to come to terms with
our village—and looks for me to help him. Of course I shall make a good
thing of it. But mum! not a whisper of this, wife of mine: ’tis a big
affair.”

And he went off to the tavern, inviting men to come there and confer
with him.

Along the western horizon the sky looked like a sheet of rusted iron,
but a few clouds still glowed above in golden light.

When all the evening duties had been done, the people assembled around
the dead body. More and more tapers were lit about Boryna’s head;
Ambrose snuffed the wicks again and again, and chanted out of a book;
and all present joined in the responses, weeping and lamenting one after
another.

The neighbours came too, but, as it was very close within, stayed
outside, droning out the long sorrowful notes of the Litany as they
knelt.

This continued till late at night, when they retired, leaving only
Ambrose and Agata to watch the body till morning.

This they did, at first chanting in a loud voice. But when all noise and
movement around had ceased, they felt drowsy, and even Lapa, coming in
and licking the grease off his master’s boots, failed to wake them up.

About midnight, all became extremely dark, not a single star shone.
Withal, there was a deep dead stillness, unbroken save by the faint
whispering of a tree, or some eerie far-off sound—neither a shout, nor a
crash, nor a call—remote and fading away in the distance.

No house in Lipka had any light at all now, save Boryna’s, with the
pallid illumination of the tapers, and the dead body just visible in the
yellow flames, only blurred by the smoke of the perfumes, and seen as in
a cloud of bluish fog. But Ambrose and Agata, with their heads pressed
against the body, were both sound asleep and snoring loud.

The short summer night was soon over, as if hurrying to depart before
the first cock-crow. One after another, all the tapers went out except
the largest, which still sent up its long waving flame, like a blade of
gold.

At last the grey mist-clad dawn looked into the room and into Boryna’s
face, who seemed somehow to have awaked from his heavy sleep, and to be
listening to the first twitterings of the nestling birds, and through
discoloured lids eyeing the still remote daybreak.

Now the mill-pond sighed, with drowsy undulations; now the forest began
to loom out darkly, looking like a range of black earth-hugging clouds,
as the fading night grew phosphorescent, and the trees scattered here
and there stood out distinct like tufts of swarthy plumes on the
brightening sky-line, while the first morning breeze sprang up, playing
with the orchard trees and murmuring in the ears of the sleepers outside
the huts.

Few, however, opened their eyes as yet, being somewhat languid, as is
usual after Sunday or a fair.

Then came the day, misty before sunrise, but with the lark chanting his
matins, the waters bubbling their joyful carol, the corn giving forth
its melodious many-sounding voices; and presently with the plaintive
bleating of the sheep, the screaming of the geese, human calls
resounding, gates creaking, horses neighing, and all the bustle and
movement of those rising to their daily work. But everything was still
and quiet yet in Boryna’s hut.

They were sleeping, overcome by the grief that had wrung their hearts so
sorely.

In came the wind through open windows and doors, whistling and blowing
the old man’s hair about, and tossing the flame of the last taper in
every direction.

And he lay still as a stone, no longer ready to rush to work himself,
nor to urge others to toil: deaf to every call how for evermore!

The wind was rising higher, streaming through the orchard with great
force, making the trees shake and rustle and sway and toss, and seem
peeping in through the windows at Boryna’s ashen face. So did the tall
slender hollyhocks, bending and bowing at the windows, not unlike
red-cheeked country lasses. Now and then a bee from the Manor hives
looked in, or a butterfly, glancing in the light; a swallow would dart
in and out with a hesitating twitter; and flies and cockchafers, and
every kind of living creatures came likewise: so that the room was
filled with a quiet buzz and drone and whirring hum—the voices of all
these things, repeating:

“Dead—dead—he is dead!”

The sun rose—a huge red-hot globe, stilling all those voices; and then
it suddenly veiled its glorious all-powerful and life-giving face, now
hidden behind dense-volumed vapours.

The world grew grey; in a minute it began to rain abundantly in warm
tiny drops, and soon their fall was heard through every field and
orchard, pattering continually.

The roads cooled and exhaled the peculiar smell of rain; the birds sang
loud and lustily to welcome it; the world was bathed in its greyish
tremulous spray; and the thirsty cornfields, and the shrivelling leaves,
and the trees, and the rills with their dry parched throats, and the
baked clods of earth—all drank deep and heartily, uttering, as it were,
a silent thanksgiving.

“Thanks, Brother Rain! Thanks, Sister Cloud! We all thank you!”

Hanka, who slept by the open window, was waked first by the rain driving
in her face, and ran at once to the stable.

“Up, Pete! the rain has come—Run and heap the clover in cocks—quick, or
it will mowburn and rot!—And you, Vitek, lazy boy! drive our kine
afield.—All the other folk’s kine are out by now.”—As she spoke, she let
the geese out of the fowl-house, and they hastened to splash joyfully in
the pools of water.

While she was thus engaged, the smith came, and they settled together
what would have to be purchased in town for the funeral feast next day.
He took the money; but on starting in his britzka, he called her and
whispered:

“Hanka, let me have one-half, and I’ll never breathe a word about your
robbing the old man!”

She flushed red as a beetroot, and cried out in a passion:

“Say what ye will, and to the whole world!—Look at that man! He thinks
that all are like himself!”

He glared at her, pulled at his moustache, and drove off.

Hanka was very busy indeed, and her voice was soon heard giving orders
everywhere.

Two fresh tapers having been lit at Boryna’s side, a sheet was spread
over the body. Agata went on praying, and every now and then putting
more juniper-berries on the hot coals.

After breakfast, Yagna came from her mother’s, but was so frightened of
the dead man that she never went in, and only wandered outside, watching
Matthew as he worked at the coffin. He had done hammering now, and was
just painting a white cross upon the top, when he saw her at the
stable-door, silent and looking upon the black coffin-lid with a great
sinking at heart.

“Yagna!” he whispered compassionately, “you’re a widow now—a widow!”

“Yes, yes, I am!” she returned in a sad subdued voice.

He felt much pity for her; so worn, and pale, and unhappy-looking, and
like a child that has been ill-used.

“’Tis the common lot!” he told her, gravely.

“A widow! a widow!” she repeated. Tears welled up to her dark-blue eyes;
a deep sigh burst from her bosom. She ran out into the rain and wept
there so plentifully that Hanka came to bring her within doors.

“Of what use is weeping? We too have much to bear. But to you, forlorn
one, it is in truth a still greater blow,” she said kindly.

Yagustynka, always the same, here observed:

“Weep away! But ere the year be out, I’ll sing you such a new
wedding-song as will make you dance like mad.”

“Such jests are ill-timed now!” Hanka said reproachfully.

“I say true; ’tis no jest! Why, is she not wealthy and lovely and young?
She will need a stout stick to keep the men away from her!”

Hanka, going out to take the pigs their wash, looked along the road.

“What,” she thought with misgiving, “can the matter be? He was to be set
free on Saturday: it is Monday now, and there’s no news of him!”

But she had no time for brooding. Her assistance was wanted to make the
rest of the hay and all the clover just mown into cocks, for the rain
never left off, and was falling in torrents.

In the evening, the priest came with the organist and the Confraternity,
bearing lighted tapers, to lay Boryna in his coffin. Matthew nailed it
down, the priest recited some prayers, sprinkled holy water over it, and
it was taken to church in procession, Ambrose tolling the funeral bell
the while.

How empty, how fearfully quiet the hut seemed on their return! Yuzka
quite broke down. Hanka said:

“He was just like a corpse for so many a day, yet we felt there was a
master amongst us!”

“But Antek will come,” Yagustynka assured her, “and there will then be
another master!”

“Would it were soon!” she sighed.

But as in this rainy weather there was a great deal of work to do, she
dashed her tears away. “Come, good people!” she cried. “Should the
greatest man in the world die, he is like a stone in the depths of the
sea—never to be fished up again; and the land will not wait, and we must
toil and till it.”

Then she took them all to earth up the potato-plants, Yuzka alone
staying at home to take care of the babies, and because the sorrow,
which she had not yet got over, had made her ill. Lapa was constantly by
her side, watching over her, and also Vitek’s stork, that stood on one
leg in the porch, as if on guard.

When the downpour, heavy and warm as it was, had lasted for some time,
the birds ceased from singing, and all the beasts listened in silence to
the purl and gurgle and drumming of the torrential rain. Only the geese
made a riotous noise, swimming merrily about in the frothy pools.

“To-morrow we shall surely have fine weather,” people said, on coming
back from the fields, seeing the sun shine bright at evening, and peer
out with his fiery eye over the country-side.

“Would it might still rain to-morrow! it will be worth much gold to us!”

“Aye, our potatoes were all but destroyed.”

“And how dried up the oats were!”

“Things will look better now.”

“If it could but rain for three days running!”

And so on.

It had kept pouring steadily till nightfall, and the peasants had the
pleasure of standing outside their huts to breathe the cool and
deliciously fragrant air. Meanwhile the Gulbas lads were urging all the
boys and girls to sally forth and kindle the “Sobotki”[1] fires on a
neighbouring eminence. But the weather was far from pleasant, and only a
few bonfires gleamed that evening along the skirts of the forest.

-----

Footnote 1:

  The “Sobotki” correspond to the St. John’s Eve fires.—_Translator’s
  Note._

Vitek wished very much for Yuzka to go with him to the Sobotki. But she
said: “No, I will not. What care I for amusements now ... or for
anything in the world?”

Still he pressed her to go. “We will only light a bonfire, leap over it
... and come home again.”

“No! And you too shall stay at home: else Hanka shall know of it,” she
said, threatening him.

He went notwithstanding—and came back too late for supper, famished, and
most shockingly bespattered with mud; for the rain had been falling all
the time. Indeed, it only gave over the next day, at the time of the
funeral service.

Even then the weather was cloudy and foggy, setting off still better the
bright green of the fields, threaded with silver brooklets everywhere.
It was fresh, cool, pleasant: the lands, all drenched and soaked, seemed
fermenting with intense life.

A votive Requiem Mass was celebrated by the parish priest, who
afterwards, in company with his Reverence of Slupia, and the organist,
seated in pews on either side of the sanctuary, chanted the _Officium
Defunctorum_ in Latin. High on a catafalque lay Boryna, amid a grove of
burning tapers. Around him the whole village knelt humbly, praying and
giving ear to the long-drawn, melancholy dirge, that now sounded like a
cry of terror, making their flesh creep and wringing their hearts; now
gave out subdued murmuring syllables, low thrilling moans, that caused
the tears to start unwilled; and now again would soar on high in
unearthly rapture, like the hymns of angels in everlasting bliss; and
the hearers would wipe away their tears, or burst into uncontrollable
fits of weeping.

This lasted a full hour. At last Ambrose took the tapers out of their
sockets to distribute them amongst the congregation; and the priest,
having prayed before the body, gone round it, swinging his silver
thurible until all the air around was blue with incense-smoke, and
sprinkled it with holy water, walked forward to the door, the cross
preceding him.

Then was there within the church a confused din of cries and wailing and
sobbing, as several husbandmen of the highest standing, shouldering the
coffin, bore it to the cart outside, the basketwork of which was crammed
with straw. Yagustynka (furtively, lest the priests should see and
prevent this superstitious act) thrust under it a big loaf, wrapped up
in clean linen.

The dismal knell burst forth, the black banners were raised and the
lights flared and flickered. Staho having lifted the cross, the two
priests intoned:

  “_Miserere mei, Deus_....”

The dread strains, the chant of death—the dirge of infinite sorrow—began
to sob forth, and they wended their way towards the burying-ground.

In front of the procession, the black flag bearing the skull and
crossbones, fluttered like a bird of horror: following in its wake came
the silver cross, a long line of taper-bearers, and the priests, arrayed
in black copes.

Then appeared the coffin, high in view, and the loudly lamenting
mourners, and all the village in the rear, walking in sad dreary
silence. Even the sick and the crippled had come.

The grey clouds hung low in the sky, almost resting on the tops of the
poplars, and motionless, as if intent on the chants that were sung. When
a breeze arose, the trees shed their tears over the coffin, while the
corn in the fields bent low as though to salute their master, leaving
them for ever.

Floating through the air with the voices of the groaning bells, the
dirge rolled a stillness as of death on the hearts of the listeners;
while the mourners wailed, and the banners flapped, and the cart-wheels
creaked—and the lark sang, far away in the fields.

And once again the _Miserere_ resounded, with a magical effect on the
feelings of those present.

Their hearts were as dying within them; their eyes strayed over the land
and up to the grey sky, begging for mercy. Their faces had grown pale
with the strain on their emotions; trembling had taken hold of them; and
more than one whispered his prayers out of livid lips, with fervent
sighs and beatings of the breast, and hearty repentance of sin. And over
them all loured that heavy sense of irreparable loss, and a feeling of
immense woe, bringing forth most searching desolating thoughts, so that
they could not but give way and mourn aloud.

They mused on the inevitable fate of man; on the fruitlessness of all
his endeavours; on the utter vanity of his life, his joys, his
possessions, his hopes—all mere smoke, dust, illusion, nothingness!—on
his folly in setting himself above any creature whatsoever—he that is a
mere whiff of wind that comes none knows whence, blows none knows why,
goes none knows whither; or the impossibility—were a man lord of the
whole world, and enjoying all imaginable pleasures—of avoiding death:
and wherefore, then, doth the soul of man drag with it this torpid body?
To what purpose doth man live?

Such were the meditations of the people, as they walked in procession,
gazing around upon the verdant fields with looks of sorrow unutterable,
faces set hard and souls shuddering within them.

But nevertheless, they knew well that their refuge—their sole refuge—was
in the infinite goodness and mercy of the Lord.

  “_Secundum magnam misericordiam tuam!_”...

The mysterious Latin words fell upon their hearts like clods of
frost-baked earth; and as they walked on, they bowed their heads
instinctively to the sounds, as men must bow to the inexorable scythe of
death. Now they felt absolutely resigned to all that might come—as
indifferent as those rocks they saw cropping out of the fields close by
them, in their hard grey strength; or the fallows and flowery meadows,
and the mighty trees which may at any time be blasted by the
thunderbolt, and yet which raise their heads to Heaven boldly, with a
silent song of gladsome life!

Thus they traversed all the village, each one so lost in serious
thoughts that he felt as if alone in a boundless desert, and seeing with
his mind’s eye all his forefathers borne to the churchyard, visible
through the great poplar trunks.

And now, to the dreary tolling of the bells, it came in full sight,
rising out of the corn with its clumps of trees, its crosses and its
graves, opening before them that terrible insatiable abyss into which
all the generations were slowly dropping. Peering through the air, dim
with rain, they fancied they could see coffins borne from every hut,
funeral trains crawling along every road, and everybody weeping,
lamenting, sobbing for the loss of some dear one, till the world was
full of mourning, and drowned in bitter tears.

They were already turning off to the churchyard lane, when the Squire
came up with them, got down from his carriage, and accompanied the
coffin on foot—a thing of some difficulty, because the road was narrow,
and planted thickly with birch-trees on either side of the surrounding
cornfields.

When the priests had done chanting, Dominikova, who was led by Yagna,
and walked bent down, almost blind, struck up as well as she could the
psalm: “He that dwelleth...,” which they all sang with great fervour,
relieving their depressed spirits with this declaration of unbounded
trust in God.

And thus they entered the burial-ground.

The foremost husbandman now carried the coffin, the Squire himself
lending a hand to hold it up as they went along the yellow pathway, past
grass and crosses and graves, till beyond the chapel they came to the
tomb just dug amongst hazel-trees and elder-bushes.

At the sight, the wailing broke forth again, and still louder. The tomb
was surrounded with banners and lights, and the people thronged with
sinking hearts to gaze into that empty pit of sand.

Now the priest mounted a heap of sand thrown up, and turned round and
lifted up his voice, saying to the people:

“Christian folk and men of Lipka!”

Every sound was instantly hushed, save the distant tolling of the bells,
and the sobbing of Yuzka, who had put her arms round her father’s coffin
and held it embraced.

The priest took snuff, wiped the tears from his eyes, and spoke thus:

“Brethren, who is it ye are burying this day? who, I ask?

“Matthias Boryna, ye will answer.

“And I will tell you, it is also your foremost husbandman, and an honest
man, and a true son of the Church, that ye are now burying.

“I, who have known him this many a year, can testify how exemplary and
religious his life was, how regularly he confessed and went to
Communion, and how he helped the poor.

“How he helped the poor, I say,” the priest repeated with emphasis, and
stopping to draw a long breath.

As he paused, the crying broke out again more loudly. And now he resumed
in a sad voice:

“Poor Matthias! And he is with us no longer!

“Gone!—Taken by death, that wolf that chooses for himself the goodliest
ram in the flock—in broad day, unhindered by any.

“Like the lightning that strikes a lofty tree and cleaves it in twain,
so the cruel hand of death has struck him down.

“But, as Holy Scripture saith, he has not died altogether.

“For behold him, a wanderer from this earth, standing at the gate of
Paradise, and knocking, and crying pitifully to be let in, till at last
Saint Peter asks him:

“‘Who, then, art thou, and what wouldst thou have?’

“‘I am Boryna of Lipka; and I pray God in His mercy....’

“‘What! have thy brethren tormented thee so that thou couldst live no
longer?’

“‘I will tell thee all, Saint Peter,’ quoth Matthias; ‘but prithee set
the gate ajar, that I may warm me a little in the heat of God’s mercy,
for I am icy cold after my sojourn upon earth.’

“So Saint Peter set the gate ajar, but did not let him enter yet,
saying:

“‘Now speak the truth to me, for there is none whom lies can deceive
here.—Speak hardily, good soul, and say wherefor thou hast left this
earth.’

“Then did Matthias drop down on his knees; for he heard the Angels
singing, and the little bells ringing, as during Mass at the Elevation;
and answered with tears:

“‘I shall speak the truth, even as in confession. Lo, I could not stay
upon earth any more. Men are there like wolves to one another, and
quarrels are rife, and dissensions, and sins against our Lord.

“‘They are not men, Saint Peter, not human creatures, but mad dogs, as
it were.... Behold, they are so evil that I cannot say all the evil they
do....

“‘Gone is obedience, gone is honesty, gone is all mercy as well! The
brother rises up against his brother, and the child against his father,
and the wife against her husband, and the serving-man against his
master. They respect nothing any more—neither old age, nor dignity of
station, nor even the very priesthood itself.

“‘The Evil One now reigns in every heart; under his rule lasciviousness
and drunkenness and spite now flourish daily more and more.

“‘Knaves, ridden by knaves whom knaves drive: such are they all!

“‘Trickery is everywhere, and fraud, and cruel oppression, and such
thieving! Set but down what ye hold in your hand, they will snap it up
at once!

“‘They will graze their beasts, or trample down the grass, on your very
best meadow.

“‘If you possess but a strip of land, they will take it and plough it
for their own!

“‘Let but a fowl run forth from your garden: they’ll instantly seize it!

“‘All they do is to swill vodka, commit uncleanness, and neglect God’s
service. They are heathens, Christ-murderers, and the Jews their
accomplices are scores of times more honest and God-fearing than they.’

“Here Saint Peter interrupted him: ‘Oh, is it thus in your parish of
Lipka?’

“‘’Tis no better elsewhere perchance, but nowhere is it worse.’

“Then Saint Peter smote his hands together, and his eyes flashed. And,
stretching down his fist towards the earth, he said:

“‘Men of Lipka, are ye then such? Such loathsome wretches, heathens
worse even than Germans? Ye possess goodly fields, a fertile soil,
pastures and meadow-lands, and also portions of the forest: and ’tis
thus that ye demean yourselves? O knaves that ye are, waxed fat with too
much bread!—Most surely will I tell our Lord of your misdeeds, and He
will henceforth keep a tighter hand upon you!’

“Matthias, good man as he was, tried hard to plead for his people; but
Saint Peter grew wroth, and cried out, stamping his foot:

“‘Say not one word in their favour: they are villains, all of them! This
one thing do I tell thee: let those sons of Judas repent and do penance
ere three weeks are past ... or if not, I will afflict them bitterly,
with hunger, and fire, and sickness; and the scoundrels shall remember
me well!’”

The priest went on preaching in the same unsparing fashion, and dealing
out menaces of God’s anger against them, with such effect that the whole
congregation burst into sobs of contrition, and beat their breasts in
token of repentance.

Then, after a breathing-space, he again spoke of the deceased, and
pointed out how he had fallen for their sakes. And he wound up with an
appeal to them all to live in concord and avoid sin, since no one knew
whose turn it would be next to stand before God’s awful judgment-seat.

Even the Squire was seen to brush away a tear.

The priest went off with him, when the funeral came to a close. And as
the coffin descended with a thud into the grave, and the sand began to
stream down upon it with a hollow rumbling, there arose such a tempest
of cries, such a din of tumultuous lamentations, as might well have
softened the hardest heart.

Yuzka wept clamorously, and Magda, and Hanka, and all the relations,
near or distant, and even many that were not related at all. But not
less loud than the loudest rang the shrieks of Yagna, who felt something
clutch and tear at her heart, and made her as one beside herself.

“Yes, yes! She is bellowing now: yet what pranks she used to play upon
her husband!” someone muttered aside; and Ploshkova, wiping her eyes,
remarked:

“She would fain find grace in their eyes, and not be expelled from the
cabin.”

“Does she think them such fools that they can be cozened so?” was the
outspoken comment of the organist’s wife.

Yagna was completely unmindful of them all. Stretched out on a mound of
sand, she lay crying wildly, with a feeling as if it were she herself
upon whom those heavy reverberating torrents of earth were now pouring
down, for whom the bells were tolling so mournfully, and over whom the
people were so sorrowfully lamenting.

They now began to disperse: some, as they went, stopping to kneel and
pray for some dear departed, others wandering about the tombs in dreary
meditation, and others again lingering here and there, as they saw Hanka
and the smith giving invitations to the customary funeral feast.

The earth was now beaten down over the grave; a black cross had been
stuck in; and all went to the cabin with the mourners in several groups,
talking low, condoling with them, and at times shedding tears.

The cabin was ready for them, with tables and settles ranged along the
walls; and the company, when seated, was offered bread and vodka.

They drank at first with quiet decorum, and broke a little bread. The
organist read suitable prayers, and a litany was sung for the deceased,
with pauses when the blacksmith went round with drinks, and Yagustynka
with more bread.

The women gathered in the other apartment with Hanka, and took tea and
sweet cakes; and, the organist’s wife leading off, they sang strains so
plaintive and piercing that hens about the orchard began to cackle. Thus
did the company eat, drink, and weep to the honoured memory of him who
had died, and sing pious hymns for his soul, as befitted such an
occasion and such a man.

Hanka grudged neither food nor drink, and generously pressed them all to
partake. When, at noon, many of them expected to depart, a dish of
_kluski_ boiled in milk was served, followed by broiled meat with
cabbage and pease.

“Other folk,” Boleslaus’ wife whispered, “have not such dainties even at
their weddings.”

“True; but what a goodly inheritance he leaves them!”

“And no doubt a large hoard of ready money.”

“The blacksmith talked of its having been in the cabin—and vanished
somewhere.”

“Aye, he complains, but knows full well where he has hidden it.”

The organist, who by this time was somewhat flustered, now stood up,
and, glass in hand, set to extolling the late Boryna in such high-flown
terms and such a wealth of Latin quotations that, little as they
understood, they wept copiously, as they did at a sermon hard to make
out.

The noise increased, the faces grew flushed, the glasses clinked in fine
style: some were groping for these with one hand and, with the other arm
round their neighbour’s neck, babbled and stammered pitiably. Some still
attempted to keep up the sad tone due to such an occasion; but no one
paid any heed to them. Each turned to the companions he preferred,
talking with them most affectionately, and drinking to them again and
again.

Ambrose alone was that day unlike his usual self. He had indeed drunk as
much as any, nay, perhaps more, having taken all that he possibly could
get; but he sat moping in a corner now, wiping his eyes and sighing
heavily.

Some of them endeavoured to put him in a gay humour.

“Draw me not out, I am in no mood,” he growled. “I am soon going to die.
To die! Over me there will be only the dogs to whine; or perhaps an old
woman may clink a broken pot for me,” he mumbled, whimpering.

“Yea, I was at Matthias’ christening, and made merry at his first
wedding, and buried his father. Oh, well I remember that day! O Lord!
And how many others I have laid in their graves, and sounded their
funeral knell. Now ’tis time for me to go!”

And getting up suddenly, he went out into the orchard. Vitek afterwards
said that the old man had sat down behind the cabin and wept for ever so
long.

But he was not one to trouble much about. Besides, just as twilight was
at hand, the priest, accompanied by the Squire, came in unexpectedly.

His Reverence consoled the orphans, patted the childrens’ heads, and
drank some tea, made for him by Yuzka; while the Squire, after some
words exchanged with various people, took a glass which the smith
offered him, drank to them all, and said to Hanka:

“If anyone has cause to regret Matthias, it is surely I. Were he living
now, I might come to an agreement with Lipka. And perchance,” he added
in a louder tone, glancing round, “I might even agree to all your
demands. But with whom am I to make terms? With the Commissioner[2] I
can have naught to do, and there is no man amongst you now who can
represent Lipka.”

-----

Footnote 2:

  The representative of the Russian Government.—_Translator’s Note._

They listened with deep attention, weighing every one of his words.

He talked on for some time, and put a few questions; but he might have
spoken to a wall with as much effort. No one thought of letting his
tongue run freely, or so much as opening his mouth.

They only nodded and scratched their heads, and looked at one
another.... At length, seeing that he could not break down that barrier
of suspicious caution, he went out along with the priest, and all the
visitors saw him to the gate.

It was only afterwards that their surprise and bewilderment found
tongue.

“Well, well! The Squire himself coming to a peasant’s burial!”

“He fawns on us; therefore he has need of us,” Ploshka said.

Klemba took his part. “Wherefore should he not have come as a friend?”

“Years have brought you no wisdom. When did ever a Squire come to the
peasants as a friend? Say when!”

“Since he seeks an agreement, there must be something kept back.”

“Only this: that he needs it more than we do.”

“And that we are able to hold off!” cried Sikora, who was tipsy.

“Ye may be able: not all of us are!” angrily exclaimed Gregory, the
Voyt’s brother.

They began to quarrel, each man airing his own view.

“Let him give up both timber and forest-land, and then we’ll come to
terms.”

“We need not do so at all. There will be a sentence, and all will be
ours by law.”

“Mother of dogs! let him go a-begging; ’twill serve him right!”

“Because the Jews have got hold of him, lo, he comes whining to us
peasants for help!”

“And once his only cry was: ‘You peasant! get out of my way, or ’ware my
horse-whip!’”

Here some one quite drunk cried out: “Never trust him, I tell you; he
and his likes only plot the ruin of us peasants.”

Then the blacksmith shouted: “Farmers, hear my words—words of wisdom! If
the Squire wants to make an agreement, make one by all means, taking
what ye can get, and not seeking pears of willow-trees, as the saying
is.”

Gregory seconded him strongly.

“’Tis God’s truth!—Come with me to the tavern, all of you, and let us
talk the matter over.”

And presently they all left the premises together, accompanied (as it
was late) by the gaggling of geese and lowing of herds coming back from
the fields, and many a shepherd, playing on the flute.

They went along noisily, more than one screaming at the top of his
voice, merely to give vent to his satisfaction after the feast and (so
to speak) blow off the steam.

Meantime, at the Borynas’, when the hut had been tidied up, all was
silent and dreary and eerie.

Yagna was bustling about in her own room, like a bird beating its wings
in the cage: but marking how stupefied with grief all the others were,
she went out and said no word to them.

The place then became still as a tomb. Supper over, and the evening
household duties performed, they all felt oppressed with sleep; but no
one cared to leave the big room. Sitting by the fire, they looked into
the dying embers, and gave a timorous ear to every sound they heard. It
was quiet outside; only the wind whistled at times, and made the trees
rustle, the fences creak, and a pane jingle now and again. Or Lapa would
growl, his hair stiffening all down his back with terror; and then the
dull interminable stillness would once more come over them.

There they sat, shivering with ever-increasing fear, and so scared that
more than one crossed himself and said his prayers with chattering
teeth. All felt sure that Something was moving about, walking in the
loft above, making the rafters creak, fumbling at the door, peeping in
at the windows as it passed, rattling at the latch, and going round the
whole cabin with a heavy tread.

On a sudden, a neighing was heard in the stable. Lapa, barking
violently, flung himself against the door, while Yuzka cried out in
uncontrollable anguish: “’Tis Father! O God! ’tis Father!” in an
outburst of affrighted tears.

Thereupon Yagustynka thrust her fingers forth three times, and said
gravely:

“Do not weep. Weeping only keeps a soul longer upon this earth: you
would prevent him from departing in peace. Open ye the door, and let the
wanderer flee away to the fields of the Lord Jesus.—May he go, and peace
be with him!”

They threw the door open, and presently all was as still as death. Only
reddened eyes glanced about in fear, while Lapa smelt in every corner,
with a whine from time to time, and a wag of his tail, as though fawning
on someone ... someone unseen. They felt now, more strongly than ever,
that the dead man’s soul was straying somewhere about in their midst.

At last Hanka thought of the Evening Hymn, and intoned, in a trembling
husky voice:

  “All our actions, done this day,
  At Thy feet, O Lord, we lay!”...

which the others took up heartily, and to their great relief.




                               CHAPTER II


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!




                              CHAPTER III


“Pray, Hanka, may I go home?” Yuzka entreated, laying her head down upon
the pew-seat.

“Aye, do: run about everywhere like a silly calf!” said Hanka, rebuking
her, and looking up from her rosary.

“But I feel so faint, so weary!”

“Do not be so restless: it will be over soon.”

His Reverence was just ending a low Mass for Boryna’s soul, which the
family had retained for the octave of his death.

All his nearest relations sat in the side-pews. Yagna and her mother
alone were kneeling in front of the altar. Somewhere in the choir, Agata
was pattering prayers aloud.

The church, cool and quiet, was dark, except for one streak of light
that shot in through the open door, and lit up the place as far as the
pulpit.

Michael, the organist’s pupil, served Mass, jingling the tiny bells very
loud, as usual, and also as usual continually turning his head about
after the swallows which were darting in and out of the place.

The priest having ended Mass, they all went out to the churchyard; but
as they were going past the belfry, Ambrose called them.

“His Reverence wishes to speak to you.”

And he came up almost at once, with his breviary under his arm, and
wiping his bald crown. Having welcomed them kindly, he said:

“My friends, I want to say how well you have acted in having a Mass said
for the deceased: it will help his soul towards its eternal rest. It
will, I assure you.”

He then took snuff, sneezed violently, and asked them if they intended
dividing the property that day. And, on receiving the answer that this
was the date after the funeral on which the division was usual, he
continued:

“Then I may say a few words about it to you. In dividing the property,
remember to do all things by common consent, and to act justly. Let me
hear of no quarrels, no dissensions. If Boryna knew that you tore—as
wolves tear a sheep—that estate to the prosperity of which he gave his
whole life, he would turn in his grave. Moreover, God forbid that ye
wrong any one of the orphans! Yuzka is but a simple child as yet;
Gregory is far away. Let each have his own, even to the uttermost
kopek!—Also, when making the division, have a care to respect his known
will. His soul, peradventure, sees you at this very moment!... As I am
always telling you in my sermons, concord is the great thing—it upholds
all in the world: naught was ever done with discord—naught but sin and
the transgression of God’s law.—Further, ye should not forget the
church. He was always liberal, and neither for lights nor for Masses,
nor for any other need, did he ever grudge his money. Wherefore did God
bless the work of his hands.”

He continued for some time in this strain. They embraced his knees with
grateful thanks. Yuzka, weeping loudly, fell on her knees to kiss his
hand. He took her to his bosom, kissed her on the crown of her head, and
said soothingly:

“To weep is foolish, little one: the orphan is God’s especial care.”

Hanka, deeply touched, whispered: “Her own father could not have been
more loving.” He was very much moved himself, for he hastily brushed a
tear away, offered snuff to the blacksmith, and changed the
conversation.

“Well, are ye coming to terms with the Squire?”

“We are; five of us go to the Manor this very day.”

“God be praised! I will say a Mass to that intention on my own account.”

“I think the village ought to have a Votive Mass sung with the greatest
solemnity. What! Does not each of us get a new farm—as it were for
nothing?”

“You are right, Michael. And I have said a good word for you to the
Squire.—Now, go your ways, and remember: Concord and justice!”

“And—hist, Michael!” he called after the smith, who was leaving; “come
ye round later to see about my curricle: the right spring is bent and
grazes the axle-tree.”

“Oh, the bulky priest of Laznov has weighed it down; ’tis very like.”

And so they all went to Boryna’s, Yagna the last, going with her mother,
who could scarcely drag herself along.

It being a work-day, there were but few people on the mill-pond road:
only a few children playing about. Though early in the morning, the sun
was hot, but agreeably tempered by the wind, which blew hard enough to
make the orchards toss their branches about, laden with ripe red
cherries, and the corn beat against the fences in boisterous waves.

The huts stood open, and their gates as well; the bedding lay spread
upon the hedgerows, and everybody was out in the fields. Some were
bringing in the last of the hay, which filled the nostrils with aromatic
scent, and left long strips that waved like streaming Jews’ beards, from
the trees the heaped-up wagons passed under.

They walked along, pondering the question of how the property should be
divided.

A ditty rose, wafted on the wind—possibly from the fields where they
were at work on the potatoes; from the mill came the beating of the
water-wheels, mingling with the strokes of a washerwoman’s batlet hard
by.

“The mill is continually grinding now,” Magda remarked.

“Aye, the days before harvest are the miller’s harvest.”

Hanka sighed. “Times are much harder this year than last. Everyone
complains bitterly, and the _Komorniki_ are really starving.”

“And the Koziols,” the blacksmith added, “are prowling about to snap up
anything they can lay hands on!”

“Say not that. The poor creatures keep themselves alive as best they
can. Yesterday Kozlova sold her ducklings to the organist’s wife, and
got some money thereby.”

“They will soon drink it all,” Magda returned. “I will say no word to
their hurt; but ’tis strange that my boy found the feathers of the drake
I lost during father’s funeral, behind their cow-byre.”

“And who was it,” Yuzka asked, “that made off with our bedding that very
same day?”

“When is their suit against the Voyt to come off?”

“Not so soon. But Ploshka is for them, and they will make things hot for
the Voyt and his wife.”

“Ploshka was ever a meddler with other folk’s matters.”

“Our friend, hoping to become Voyt, is currying favour everywhere.”

Here Yankel passed by, dragging and pulling at the mane of a hobbled
horse, that lashed out and resisted with all its might and they laughed
and made merry at his expense.

“Oh, ’tis well for you that ye can laugh! What trouble I have with the
beast!”

“Stuff it with straw, fix a new tail on it, and take it to some fair: it
will never do as a horse, but ye may sell it for a cow!” the smith
bawled. Their laughter became a roar, for the horse had jerked himself
free, leaped into the pond, and, in spite of threats and entreaties,
lain down wallowing in the water.

“A remarkable brute. Bought of a gipsy, no doubt?”

“Set a pail of vodka before it: ye may then perhaps tempt it out!”
joined in the organist’s wife, who sat by the pond, watching a flock of
ducklings, as downy as yellow catkins, while a hen ran cackling along
the bank in dismay.

“’Tis a fine lot.—From the Koziols, I suppose?”

“Yes. But they are always running away to the pond.” And she tried to
call them back, flinging them handfuls of Turkish wheat into the water.

Seeing them, however, making for the other bank, she went after them in
a hurry.

As soon as they had arrived, and Hanka was busy over the breakfast, the
blacksmith set to prowl about every corner of the cabin and all the
premises, even exploring the potato-pits. At last Hanka could not help
observing:

“Think ye any potatoes are missing?”

“I never,” he answered, “buy a pig in a poke.”

“Ye know the place of everything better than I do myself,” she said,
stiffly, pouring out the coffee. “Come, Dominikova! Come, Yagna! Come
and join us!”

For those two had, on arriving, shut themselves up in the opposite room.

No one was at first willing to open the conversation. Hanka, extremely
cautious and guarded, pressed them all to eat, and poured out coffee
abundantly, but kept her eyes carefully all the time on the smith, who
was prying about from his place, darting glances in every direction, and
clearing his throat again and again. Yagna sat louring and mournful, her
eyes glistening as if they had been quite recently full of tears. At her
side, Dominikova talked in whispers. Yuzka was the only one to chatter
freely, which she did just as usual, as she flew from one pot to
another, full of boiling potatoes.

After a long tedious pause, the smith broached the subject.

“Well. How shall we divide the property?”

Hanka gave a start; but she at once recovered herself, and replied with
calm and evidently after having thought it out well:

“How are we to divide it at all? I am here only to watch over my
goodman’s estate, and have no power to decide aught. When Antek returns,
he will see to the division.”

“But when will he come back? And things cannot drag on so.”

“They must! As they did during Father’s illness, so they shall until
Antek’s return.”

“But he is not the only inheritor.”

“But, he being the eldest son, the land comes down to him from his
father.”

“He has not more right to it than any of us.”

“Ye also may have your share of the land, if Antek prefers it so. I
shall not quarrel over this with you: the decision is not mine.”

“Yagna!” her mother urged; “say a word about your claim.”

“Why should I? They know of it well enough.”

Hanka turned a deep red, and kicked Lapa, that had curled up beneath her
feet. She hissed between her clenched teeth:

“Aye, the wrong done to us, we remember it well!”

“As you say. Wild words are of no account here, but the six acres
are—those made over to Yagna by her late goodman.”

“If the deed of gift is in your hands, none can snatch it away,” Magda
growled angrily. She had hitherto been sitting speechless and giving
suck to her baby.

“True; and we have it duly signed and attested.”

“Well, all must wait, and Yagna with the rest.”

“Of course. But she may take away her personal belongings at once: her
cow, her calf, her swine, her geese....”

“No!” the smith interrupted in a hard voice. “All those things are
common property, and to be shared equally by all.”

“By all? Is that your will? No one can take from her my
wedding-present!” And, raising her voice, “Perchance,” she cried, “ye
would likewise divide her petticoats amongst you—and her feather-bed
likewise ... eh?”

“I did but jest; and ye fly out at me at once!”

“Because I know you to the bottom of your heart!”

“But now,” he went on, “to what purpose is all this prating? You are
right, Hanka; we must needs wait till Antek comes back.—And I have
presently to go in haste and meet the Squire: I am stayed for.” And he
rose.

But, having caught sight of his father-in-law’s sheepskin, hanging in
the corner, he offered to pull it down.

“This would be just the thing for me.”

“Touch it not: it is hanging there to dry,” Hanka said.

“Well, then, let me have those boots. Only the uppers are in good
condition, and they too are patched,” he pleaded, trying to get them
down.

“Not one thing is to be touched. Should you take aught, they will say
that half of the household goods have been carried off. Let an inventory
be made first, and officially. Till then, I will not allow one stake to
come out of a hedge.”

“Ha!” said Magda; “but Father’s bedding is gone, and will not be down in
the inventory.”

“I have told you what came to pass. Directly after his death, I spread
it on the hedge to air; and one came by night and stole it.... I could
not see to everything, all alone.”

“Strange that a thief should have been so ready at hand!”

“Do you mean by that I am lying now, and stole it then?”

“Be quiet, Magda, no quarreling.... He that stole it, let him have his
winding-sheet cut out of it!”

“Why, the feathers alone weighed thirty pounds!”

“Hold your tongue, I say!” the blacksmith shouted at his wife, and asked
Hanka to come out with him into the farm-yard: he wished, he said, to
look at the swine.

She went with him, but well on her guard.

“I would fain give you good advice.”

She listened attentive, wondering what it could be.

“Ye must, one of these evenings, and ere the inventory is made, drive
two of the kine to my byre. We can entrust the sow to our cousin, and
stow away all we can at our acquaintances’.—I will let you know with
whom.—Ye will declare in the inventory that the corn has all been sold
to Yankel: give him a couple of bushels, and he will bear witness to
anything. The miller will take one colt, and it may feed in his paddock.
Of the vessels and implements, some may be hidden among the potatoes,
some in the rye-fields.... ’Tis friendly advice I am giving you!... They
all do the same—all that are not fools.... You have been working to
death: ’tis just ye should get a larger share.... To me you need only
give a few crumbs. And fear nothing: I will help you through the whole
business; aye, and make it my affair, too, that ye shall get all the
land for your own!... Only hearken to me: none can give better advice
than I.—Why, even the Squire takes mine gladly.—Well, what say you?”

She answered in slow tones, looking at the man steadfastly and with
scorn:

“Thus much: even as I will give up naught that’s mine, so too am I not
covetous of aught else!”

He staggered as if from a stunning blow—then glared at her in fury and
hissed:

“Besides, I would not breathe a word to anyone of how ye despoiled the
old man!”

“Breathe what ye choose to whom ye choose!—But I will tell Antek of your
advice, and he shall speak to you on the matter!”

He scarcely could swallow down an imprecation. But he only spat on the
ground, and walked off hurriedly, calling to his wife through the open
window:

“Magda, have an eye to all things, lest there be yet more thefts here!”

But as he passed, with what disdain Hanka eyed him!

Maddened by her scorn, he made off, but meeting the Voyt’s wife, who
just entered the enclosure, stopped to confer with her for some time,
angrily and with clenched fists.

She came bringing an official document with her.

“’Tis for you, Hanka: the policeman has brought it in from the bureau.”

“About Antek, perchance!” she thought in great trepidation, taking the
paper in her apron-covered hand.

“I think it concerns Gregory. My goodman is out—gone to the District
office—and the policeman only said there was something about Gregory
being dead, or....”

“Jesu Maria!” Yuzka shrieked, and Magda started to her feet in horror.

Helplessly, seized with overwhelming fear, they turned the ominous paper
about.

“You perhaps, Yagna, could understand it,” Hanka said beseechingly.

They stood round her, choking with suspense and dread; but Yagna, after
a long try at spelling it out, gave up the attempt.

“I cannot read it: ’tis not written in our language.”

“Nor penned in her presence either!” the Voyt’s wife sneered. “Other
things there are, however, in which she is more learned!”

“Go ye your ways,” Dominikova snarled, “and let quiet folks be.”

But the Voyt’s wife would not miss the opportunity to strike a blow at
her.

“Ye are good at rebuking your neighbours. But ye had better have kept
your daughter from lying in wait for other women’s husbands!”

“Peace, peace, good woman,” Hanka interfered, foreseeing what was
coming; but the Voyt’s wife only grew more enraged.

“Oh, I will say my say now, if never again!—Her, who has poisoned my
life so, I never will forgive till my dying day!”

“Well, then, say your say! A cur will bark louder than you can!”
Dominikova growled. She took it coolly, but Yagna flushed red as a
beetroot. Yet, though overwhelmed with shame, she nevertheless took
refuge in reckless stubbornness; and as if to spite the other, she held
her head up, and fastened her eyes upon her enemy with a taunting
expression and a malicious smile.

The look, the smile, infuriated the other, and she denounced her
lubricity in a torrent of invectives.

“Your words are frenzy, you are drunk with hate!” the old dame said, to
draw her anger away; “your husband will answer grievously before God for
my daughter’s misfortune.”

“Misfortune!—Aye, ’tis an innocent young maiden he has seduced!... Ha,
such a maiden that with everyone and under every green bush....”

“Hold your wicked tongue, or—blind as I am—my hands will surely find
their way to your hair!” the old woman cried threateningly, her hand
tightening its grasp on her stick.

“Oh, will you try?—Only touch me! Only dare!” she repeated, with a
defiant scream.

“Ha! will she, who has waxed fat upon wrongs done to her neighbours,
venture now to beset and pester them—as hard to shake off as a bur?”

“Say, you, in what thing have I ever done you wrong?”

“That you will know, when your husband shall be condemned to jail!”

The Voyt’s wife rushed at her with lifted fists; but Hanka caught her
back, and said sternly to them both:

“Women, for God’s sake!—Would ye turn my cabin into a tavern?”

This instantly put a stop to their brawl. Both breathed hard and were
panting. Tears came streaming from under the bandages that covered
Dominikova’s eyes, but she was first to come back to her senses, and
say, sitting down with hands clasped and a deep sigh:

“God be merciful to me a sinner!”

The Voyt’s wife had rushed out in a fury; but, returning, she put her
head in at the window, crying out to Hanka:

“I tell you, drive that wanton from your house! And do so while there
yet is time, lest you rue it sorely! Let her not stay one hour more
beneath your roof, or that hell-born pest will make you go yourself! O
Hanka, defend yourself—and for that, be merciless, be without pity for
her. She is only lying in wait to entrap your Antek.... Don’t you see
what a hell she now prepares for you?” She leant further into the room
and, stretching her fist towards Yagna, shouted with the most intense
hatred:

“Yet a little, yet a little, you devil from hell! I shall not die in
peace, I shall not go to Holy Confession, until I have seen you driven
with cudgels out of Lipka!—Oh, get you away to the soldiers, you drab,
you swinish jade! Your place is with them!”

She was gone, and over the cabin there came a silence like that of the
grave. Dominikova shook with a dumb passion of weeping; Magda rocked her
little one; Hanka, plunged in torturing thought, looked into the fire;
and Yagna, though she still had on her face the same hardened reckless
expression, the same wicked smile, had turned as white as a sheet. Those
last words had cut deep into her soul; she felt stabbed as though by a
hundred knives, each stab streaming with her life-blood: an inhuman
torment that was impelling her to shriek out at the top of her voice, or
even dash her brains out against the wall. But she controlled herself,
pulled her mother by the sleeve, and said in an agonized whisper:

“Mother, come away. Let’s flee this place. And quickly!”

“Right; for I am broken and shattered. But you must return and watch
over what is yours.”

“I will not stay here! I so loathe the place that to stay is beyond
me.—Why did I ever darken these doors? Better have broken a limb than
have ever come here!”

“Were you, then, so evilly dealt with?” Hanka asked quietly.

“Worse than a chained-up dog! Even in hell there must be less pain than
I have suffered here!”

“Strange, then, that you could bear it so long: no one imprisoned you
here. You were free as air to go!”

“So I will. And may the plague choke you, for being—what you are!”

“Curse not, or I may cast my own wrongs in your teeth!”

“Why are ye all—as many as dwell in Lipka—all of you against me?”

“Live rightly: none will say one word of bitterness to you!”

“Peace, Yagna, peace; Hanka bears you no malice!”

“Let her too howl with the rest. Aye, let her! As dogs, dirt to me is
all their howling. And what have I done to them? Whom have I robbed or
slain?”

“What have ye done? Have you the front to ask?” Hanka exclaimed, in
stupefaction, standing up opposite her. “Do not drive me too far, or I
may speak!”

“Speak, prithee! I dare you to speak! What do I care for you?” Yagna
vociferated, now in a towering passion, that spread within her like a
conflagration; and she was ready to do anything—even the very worst that
offered.

The tears had instantly sprung to Hanka’s eyes at the remembrance of
Antek’s infidelity, that rose up before her with a pang so acute that
she could hardly stammer out:

“What have ye done with him—with my husband, say? Ye never would let him
be, but followed him everywhere, like the rampant piece of lust ye
are!”... Her breath failed her, and she broke into sobs.

Like a she-wolf set upon in her den, at bay, and ready to tear anything
she meets with to pieces, Yagna sprang up. Burning with the most furious
hate, and frenzied to the uttermost extreme of rage, she lashed her
adversary with stinging words, that came each of them from her lips like
the strokes of a whip.

“Indeed?—So ’twas I who pursued your man, was it? Yet there is none but
knows how I always drove him from me! How, like a cur, he would whine
outside my door, that he might have but the mere sight of a shoe of
mine!—Yes, and he took hold of me by force, till I was bereft of sense,
and let him do all his will, for my brains whirled.—And now will I tell
you all the truth ... but you will rue the telling! He loved me—loved me
more than tongue can tell! And you he shrank from, even to loathing; his
gorge, poor man! rose at the thought of your love; ’twas in his throat,
as rancid reasty fat, ancient and musty and unbearable; and at the
memory of you, he would spit with sheer disgust! Nay, not to see you any
more, he willingly would have done himself a harm.... You sought the
truth; you have it now!—And, moreover, I will tell you—and do not forget
it—if I should but say the word, when you would kiss his feet, he’d
spurn you from him, and go following me throughout the world!—So weigh
my words, and never dare to think yourself my equal.—Have you
understood?”

Towards the end, though loud and passionate in speech, she had become
mistress of herself, fearless, and more beautiful than ever. Even her
mother listened to her with astonishment, mingled with dread; for now
another woman stood revealed before her, as terrible, as evil, and as
dangerous as the dark cloud that bears the lightning within it.

Her words pierced Hanka, wounded her almost to death. They struck her
without mercy, crushed and trampled her down. She felt strengthless,
mindless, almost as unconscious as a tree that falls struck by the
thunderbolt. She was scarcely able to breathe; her lips grew very white,
and she sank back on a bench. Her anguish, it seemed to her, was rending
her to pieces—nay, crushing her to grains of barren sand: even the tears
had vanished from her face, grown ashy with the throes of that fierce
ordeal, though her bosom still was shaken with deep dry sobs. She stared
out into space as if in terror—into the abyss which had opened suddenly
before her eyes; and she trembled as trembles an ear of corn, that the
wind whirls on to destruction.

Yagna had long ago gone with her mother to the other side of the house;
Yuzka was with the ducklings at the mill-pond; but Hanka still sat
motionless in the same place, like a bird bereft of her fledgelings,
unable to scream out, to defend itself, to flee anywhither, only now and
then stirring its wings, and uttering a mournful cry.

But Heaven had pity on her and granted her a little relief. She came to
herself again, knelt down before the holy pictures, and with abundant
tears made a vow to go on pilgrimage to Chenstohova, if what she had
heard should prove untrue.

She was not even angry with Yagna any more; she only dreaded her; and,
hearing her voice now and then, crossed herself, as if to keep off a
fiend.

Then she set to work. Her experienced hands worked almost as deftly as
usual, little as her thoughts accompanied them; but she never remembered
that she took the children out of doors and set the cabin in order that
day.—At length, having prepared dinner and placed it in vessels for the
field-labourers, she sent it to them by Yuzka.

And now, being quite alone, and no longer agitated, she sat down to
reflect over every word said. Intelligent and kind-hearted though she
was, she could not put from her mind the blows dealt at her self-respect
as a wife; more than once their memory made her burn with indignation,
and her heart writhed under the torment it gave her; more than once the
thought of some awful revenge filled her mind. But at last she came to
this conclusion:

“Truly, as to good looks, there is no comparison between me and her. But
I am his wedded wife; I am the mother of his children”; and her
confidence returned at the thought.

“And should he even go astray after her, he will return again to me!—And
at any rate,” she added to comfort herself, looking out of the window,
“he can never marry her!”

Afternoon was melting into evening, when the thought of a step that must
be taken flashed suddenly across Hanka’s mind. She considered for a
minute or two, leaning against the wall; then, wiping her eyes, she
strode out into the passage, flung open the door of Yagna’s room, and
said, loud but calmly:

“Get out, out!—Out of this cabin instantly!”

Yagna, starting up from her settle, faced her for many seconds with a
steady look. Then Hanka, taking a step or two back from the threshold,
repeated in a hoarse voice:

“Take yourself away this instant, else will I have you thrown out by our
farm-servant!—This instant!” she said once more, with stern emphasis.

Here the old dame would have interfered, eager to bring forward
explanations and excuses; but Yagna merely shrugged her shoulders.

“Not a word to her—to that wretched wisp of straw! We know what she
would have.”

She took a paper out of the bottom of a chest.

“’Tis the donation you’d have back, and the six acres therewith: take
them, eat them, fill your belly with them!”

Flinging the paper in her face, she added scornfully:

“And choke yourself to death in the eating!”

Then, paying no heed to her mother’s remonstrances, she speedily set
about packing up all her things and carrying them outside.

Hanka felt dizzy, as if she had received a blow between the eyes; but
she picked up the paper, and said, threatening her:

“Quicker than that, or I will set the dogs on you!”

Meanwhile, she nevertheless felt overwhelmed with amazement. What! throw
away six whole acres of land as one might cast away a broken pot?—How
could she? The woman must be moonstruck, she thought, and eyed her over
with astonishment.

Yagna, paying no more attention to her, was now taking down her own
pictures, when Yuzka entered with a loud outcry.

“Give up the coral necklaces: they are mine from my
mother—mine—mine—mine!”

Yagna was just unfastening them, but stopped.

“No,” she answered, “I will not. Matthias gave them to me: mine they
are!”

Yuzka shrieked and stormed, until Hanka was forced to silence her. Then
all became calm again; Yagna seemed to have become deaf and dumb. After
having taken all her things out, she hurried away to get her brother’s
help.

Dominikova made no further opposition, but replied to no word either
from Hanka or from Yuzka. Only, when all her daughter’s things were on
the cart, she rose and shook her fist, and said:

“May the worst of all possible fates not pass you by!”

Hanka winced under the curse, but took it quietly, and called after her:
“When Vitek brings the cattle home, he’ll drive your cow to your hut.
And send someone for all the rest in the evening, to drive them home to
you.”

She gazed for a long time upon them as they departed in silence, wending
their way round the pond. She had no leisure for reflection, for the
hired labourers came in presently: so she stowed the deed away carefully
in her chest, under lock and key. But she was subdued and depressed the
whole evening, and it was with but small pleasure that she listened to
Yagustynka’s praises of what she had done.

Then, after the men had returned once more to their work, she took Yuzka
with her to weed the flax, which was in places quite yellow with wild
flowers. She worked with great diligence to shake off old Dominikova’s
menaces from her mind; but unsuccessfully; and she was especially uneasy
about what Antek would say on his return.

“How he will knit his brows when I show him the deed!—Oh, the fool!—Six
whole acres! ’tis all but a farm by itself.”

“Ah! Hanka,” Yuzka cried, “we have forgotten the letter about Gregory!”

“Aye, so we have.—Yuzka, leave off your work: I shall go to the priest
and ask him to read it.”

The priest, however, was not within doors, and when she saw him at a
distance among the field-workers, with his cassock taken off, she felt
afraid he might rebuke her publicly for her act. “For no doubt,” she
thought, “he must know about it by this time.” So she went to the
miller, who was just then trying how the sawmill worked, along with
Matthew.

“My wife told me just how ye have smoked out your stepmother. Ha, ha! Ye
look like a wagtail, but have the claws of a hawk!” Laughing, he set to
read the letter, but at the first glance at it, he cried out: “Oh, what
awful news!—Your Gregory has been drowned.—’Twas as far back as
Eastertide.... They write that ye can get his things by applying at the
District Office.”

“Gregory dead!—So strong a man!—And so young!—He was not over
twenty-six.—And was to have come back this harvest-time.—Drowned! O
merciful Jesus!” she moaned, wringing her hands at the mournful news.

“Well,” Matthew remarked, with bitter animosity, “heritages seem to be
coming your way. Ye have but now to turn Yuzka out upon the world, and
the whole estate will be yours and the blacksmith’s!”

“Are ye already off with the old love of Teresa, and on with Yagna’s new
love?” she interrupted him; and thereupon he was suddenly absorbed in
the machinery, while the miller burst into a loud guffaw.

“Oh, what a good tit for tat!—And what a brave little woman!”

On her way home, she dropped in to tell Magda, who wept copiously, and
uttered many an ejaculation of grief:

“’Tis the will of the Lord.... Ah! a man like an oak-tree.... Few his
equals in all Lipka!... Oh, lot of man, oh, unhappy lot!—Here to-day,
gone to-morrow!... Then his belongings go to his family: Michael will go
to the office to-morrow and fetch them.... Poor fellow! And he so eager
to be home again!”

“All is in God’s hands.... He was always unlucky with water. Remember
how once he was near drowning in the pond, and was saved by Klemba....
Surely it was written that he should die no other death!”

They mourned together, and wept—and parted; for they both, and Hanka
especially, had plenty of work to do.

The news spread about very fast. The men who came back from the fields
were already talking about Gregory and Yagna: all heartily sorry for the
one, but not all for the other: concerning her, opinions were divided.
The women (the older ones in particular) were very decidedly on Hanka’s
side, and violently hostile to Yagna; while the men, though
hesitatingly, inclined to take the other’s part. This even gave rise to
some disputes.

Matthew, on his way home from the sawmill, heard them talk. At first he
merely spat in token of contempt, or let out a curse under his breath;
but, hearing what they said outside Ploshka’s hut, he could not help
crying out indignantly:

“Hanka had no right to expel her: she has property there of her own.”

Here Ploshka’s wife, red-faced and stout of figure, turned upon him.

“Nay,” she cried, “’tis well known that Hanka does not deny her right to
the land. But she has other fears, for Antek may come home any day. Who
can watch a thief living in the house? Was she to sit still and take no
heed of their doings? Was she?”

“Fiddlesticks! all that has naught to do with the case. Your unbridled
tongues are wagging, not for the sake of Justice, but from envy and
spite!”

When you thrust a stick into a wasps’ nest, they all fly out at you: so
did the women at him.

“Oh, indeed! what is there in her to envy, say? That she’s a
light-o’-love and a wanton? That ye all run after her like dogs? That
you long for her, every one of you? That she is a cause of sin and a
shame to all the village? Shall we envy her those things?”

“Perchance ye do: ye are beyond man’s understanding. Worn-out old besoms
ye are, who would hate the very light of the sun! Had she but been like
that Magda, the tavern wench, and done the worst of things, you would
have forgiven her; but simply because she is the fairest of all, you’d
all like to drown her—aye, and in a spoonful of water too!”

This caused such a storm that he was glad to make his escape, crying as
he went:

“Ye foul jades, may your tongues rot in your heads!”

Passing by Dominikova’s house, he looked in at the open window. The room
was lit, but Yagna could not be seen, and he was unwilling to go in; so
he regretfully passed on to his own hut, on his way to which he was met
by Veronka.

“Ah, I was at your home just now.—Staho has dug the new foundations and
made the trunks ready, so that you might cut them into shape now: when
are ye coming?”

“On Tib’s eve perhaps. I am disgusted with this village, and may any day
throw everything up—and go over the hills and far away!” he cried
angrily, as he went past.

“Something,” she wondered, as she went her way to Boryna’s, “must have
stung the man pretty sharply: what can it be?”

Supper was done, and Hanka told her all at leisure. Yagna’s expulsion
interested her deeply; but on hearing of Gregory, she only observed:

“His death will make one the fewer to share the property.”

“It will.—I never thought of that.”

“And with what the Squire has to give for the forest, you will get hard
upon seventeen acres apiece!... To think of it! Even other folk’s death
is a gain to those already rich!” she sighed ruefully.

“What care I for wealth?” said Hanka. But when she went to bed, and
thought the matter over, she felt a secret joy in her heart.

And afterwards, kneeling down for her evening prayer, she said
resignedly:

“Since he has died, it is the will of our Lord.” And she prayed
fervently for his eternal rest.

The next day, about noon, Ambrose came to her cabin.

“Where have ye been?” she inquired.

“At the Koziols’. A child there has been scalded to death. She called me
in, but there is naught needed for it save a coffin and a few clods.”

“Which of them is it?”

“The younger of the two that she brought from Warsaw this spring. It
fell into a tub of boiling water, and was all but boiled.”

“Those foundlings, as it seems, do not get on with her.”

“They do not.—But she is no loser: the funeral expenses are paid.—I came
to you on another business, however.”

She looked at him uneasily.

“Dominikova, you must know, has gone to the law court with Yagna—to
complain of your having turned her out, I suppose.”

“Let her. I do not care.”

“They went to confession this morning, and had later a long conference
with the priest. I could not catch half they said against you, but what
they said made him shake his fist with anger!”

“A priest—to poke his nose into other folk’s business!” she blurted out.
All day long, however, the tidings stuck in her memory painfully; she
was full of fears and evil surmises, and quite at a loss what to do.

At nightfall, a cart stopped in front of her cabin. She ran out,
breathless and terrified; but it was only the Voyt, sitting there behind
his horses.

“You know about Gregory already,” he began. “’Tis a calamity; but
there’s nothing to be said.—Now I have also some good news for you.
To-day—or to-morrow at the latest—ye shall see Antek again.”

“Are ye not beguiling me?” she asked; the news was too good to believe.

“When the Voyt tells you so, ye may believe him. They informed me in the
Bureau.”

“Tis well he comes back; it was high time indeed,” she returned, coolly;
it seemed, with no joy at all. And then the Voyt, after a moment’s
reflection, began talking to her as a friend.

“That’s a bad business ye have made with Yagna! She has laid a complaint
against you, and may make you smart for having used violence and taken
the law into your own hands. Ye had no right to expel her from her own
apartment.—A pretty thing it will be, when Antek comes back, and ye are
thrown into jail for it, both of you!—Now take my sincere friendly
advice: make matters up. I’ll do all I can to get the complaint
withdrawn; but ye must yourself make amends for the injury done.”

Hanka stood erect before him, and told him her mind thus:

“Are you speaking as the defender of my victim, or of your mistress?”

His whip struck the horses so hard that they bounded away at a gallop.




                               CHAPTER IV


Hanka could not sleep a wink that night, after such manifold and painful
experiences. She continually thought that she heard someone creeping
about the premises, along the road, or even close to the cabin. She
listened. All the inmates were sleeping sound. The night was still,
though the trees murmured; but not very dark, for the stars gave a dim
light.

It was stiflingly close within. The ducklings, put to rest under the
bed, smelt unpleasantly, but Hanka would not throw the window open. Her
bed and pillows were hot beneath her, burning hot; she tossed from side
to side, more and more agitated, full of multitudinous thoughts swarming
in her brain, and drenching her with streaming sweat. At last, her fears
growing uncontrollable, she started out of bed, and went out barefoot,
in her shift, and bearing a hatchet that she had snatched up at
random—out into the yard.

Everything stood wide open there. Pete lay sprawling outside the stable,
snoring hard. The horses were munching their provender and clinking
their halter-chains; the cows, that had not been tethered for the night,
either wandered about the yard or lay chewing the cud with moist
dripping muzzles, and lifting towards Hanka their ponderous horned heads
and the dark balls of their unfathomable eyes.

She went back to her bed and lay down open-eyed, listening attentively,
and at times quite sure that she could hear voices and distant steps.

“Peradventure the folk of some cabin hard by are awake and talking,” she
said, attempting to explain matters; but no sooner had the panes turned
grey from black than she rose and went out again, this time with Antek’s
sheepskin thrown over her.

In the porch, Vitek’s stork was standing asleep, with one leg drawn up
under him, and his head thrust beneath his wing; and their flock of
geese, huddled together in the enclosure, formed a dim white mass.

The fields beyond were flooded with low-lying greyish fogs, out of which
only the highest tree-tops surged, like pillars of thick black smoke.

The pond glistened in the darkness like a huge sightless eye, fringed
with lashes of alders that rustled around it, while all the
neighbourhood slept, wrapt in the fog’s opaque invisibility.

Hanka sat down close to the house, leant back against the wall, and fell
into a doze. When she again opened her eyes, she saw with astonishment
that the night had gone; the clouds were all burning red like a distant
conflagration.

“If he has but started early enough, he will be here directly,” she said
to herself, looking down the road. Her short spell of slumber had so
much refreshed her that, to while the time away till sunrise, she took
out the children’s clothes to wash in the pond, while the light grew
stronger and stronger.

The first cock crowed, quickly followed by others, making a loud noise
throughout the village. Some larks too were heard, but at rare
intervals, while the whitewashed walls and the empty dew-drenched roads
gradually became distinct.

Hanka was busy washing, when a sound of stealthy steps drew her
attention; and as she looked around curiously, a shadow passed out of
Balcerek’s enclosure and slung away among the trees.

“Yes—’tis a visitor to Mary! who can it be?” She could by no means make
sure, for the shadow had vanished directly. “Ah! So proud a girl! One so
vain of herself and her beauty—to let in a sweetheart by night!—Who
would have thought it?”

She was scandalized. On looking about her again, she perceived the
miller’s man, gliding by, at the other end of the village.

“He is coming home, no doubt, from the tavern where his Magda
lives!—Those men! like wolves prowling in the night!—What doings, alas!”
She sighed, but a restless feeling quickened her senses now and stirred
her blood. This, however, presently passed away as she went on washing
in the cool water; and in a voice which, though subdued, thrilled with
intense fervour, she began the hymn:

  “Soon as dawn blushes in the sky,
  To Thee, O God, my voice shall cry!”

And the chant rolled over the fallen dew, and made one with the
approaching daybreak.

It was time now to rise: opening windows, clattering clogs, and loud
cries showed that the villagers were awakening.

Hanka spread out upon the fence all the things she had washed, and ran
to wake her people. But they were so heavy with sleep that their heads
but just rose and fell back on the pillow.

To her intense indignation, Pete shouted at her:

“Mother of dogs!—’Tis too early! I’ll sleep till sunrise!” And he
refused to stir.

The babies were crying, and Yuzka whined:

“Yet a little, Hanka dear! I went to bed but a minute ago!”

She then lulled the little ones to rest, drove the poultry into the
yard, waited patiently for a few minutes more, and then—just before the
sun had risen, when the heights of heaven were one mass of flame, and
the mill-pond reddened in the dawn—she returned to the charge, and made
such a din and uproar that the sleepers could not but get out of bed.
And when Vitek came scratching himself drowsily, and rubbing his back
against the corner of the hut, she chastised him well with sharp words.

“You’ll wake up fast enough with a first-rate drubbing!—Aye, and why,
you young hound! why did you not fasten the kine to the mangers last
night? Would you have them gore each other’s bellies in the dark, hey?”

He answered her back, but whipped out of sight in time, for she made a
fierce rush at him. Then, looking again into the stable, she set upon
Pete:

“The horses are mumbling their empty racks!—And you! you are lying abed
even till sunrise! O you idle one!”

“Ye scream as a magpie ere it is to rain,” he growled back. “Why, all
the village can hear your noise!”

“Let them hear! Let them all know what a sluggard, what a lazy drone,
what a dawdler you are!—Oh, but the master will be back now, and he’ll
keep you in order, I promise you!”

“Yuzka!” she now shouted from the other end of the yard. “Spotted One’s
udders are swollen hard: milk her carefully, and let not half the milk
remain, as you did last time.—Vitek! take your breakfast and be off; and
if you let the sheep stray—as you did yesterday—I’ll know the reason
why!”... So she went about, giving orders, bustling everywhere, and all
the time hard at work herself: feeding the fowls, and the swine that
were standing close to the cabin; giving a pail of thin batter to drink
to the calf just weaned; throwing the ducklings boiled groats, and
driving them off to the mill-pond. Vitek received a slap on the back,
and his food in a wallet. Nor was the stork forgotten; she set a pipkin
before him, full of potatoes cooked the day before; and he
_klek-kleked_, plunged his beak in, and ate with a hearty appetite.
Hanka was everywhere, and seeing to everything, and managing all in the
best way.

As soon as Vitek had gone off with the cows and sheep, she went over to
Pete, whom she could not bear to see idling about.

“Take all the dung out of the byre!” she ordered; “it is bad for the
cows at night, and fouls them all over: they’re as filthy as swine.”

Just then the sun’s red burning eye peeped at them from afar, and the
_Komorniki_ arrived to pay with their work for the flax and
potato-fields they had rented.

She set Yuzka to peeling potatoes, gave suck to her babies, put her
apron on over her head, and said:

“Keep an eye on everything here! And should Antek come, let me know: I
shall be in the cabbage-field.—Come, good folk, while it is still cool
and dewy. We shall first earth up the cabbages, and set to yesterday’s
work again after breakfast.”

As they walked on down by the old disused peat-diggings, a few lapwings
circled over their heads and some storks were wading about the low
marshy ground, stepping carefully, and thrusting their heads forward. In
the air there was a marshy smell, mixed with that of the sweet flag and
the sedges, with clumps of which the old peat-diggings were overgrown.

Then they set to work, beginning their talk (of course with the
inexhaustible topic of the weather) while they earthed up the
cabbage-plants, that had grown well, but were greatly infested with
weeds—towering dandelions, rank duckweeds, and even forests of thistles.

“‘What man needs not nor sows, most abundantly grows,’” said one woman,
knocking the earth from the roots of a weed.

“And all evil things likewise,” said another; “sin is sown by none, yet
the world is full thereof.”

“Because its life is sturdy!” Yagustynka struck in, to air her peculiar
views. “My dear! so long as man lives, sin shall live. Do they not say:
‘If sin you destroy, you kill all our joy’? and again: ‘But for sin
dearly cherished, long ago man had perished.’—It must, then, be good for
something, just as this weed is: our Lord made them both!”

This theology was sternly rebuked by Hanka. “What!... Our Lord make
evil? It is only man that, like a swine, mars all things with his
rooting snout.” And they said no more.

The sun was up in the sky now, and the mists had all disappeared, when
troops of other women came along from the village.

Hanka laughed at them.

“Fine workers! Waiting till the dew shall dry, lest they wet their
feet!”

“Not all are so eager for work as you are.”

“And not all are forced to work so hard,” she answered with a sigh.

“Well, your goodman is coming back: then will ye rest.”

“I have vowed, if he returns, to go to Chenstohova for the day of Our
Lady of Angels. And the Voyt tells me he is coming to-day.”

“The folk at the Bureau must know: so the news will be true.—But what a
number of people are off to Chenstohova on foot this year! The
organist’s wife is to be a pilgrim too, they say; and she tells me that
the priest is to come with the pilgrimage.”

Yagustynka made fun of the idea. “Who will carry his guts for him? He
will never do so by himself.—Nay, ’tis only a promise, as usual with
him.”

“I have been there several times, with the others, and should long to go
every year,” sighed Filipka—she from over the water.

“Everyone longs for a spell of idleness.”

“Oh, heavens!” she went on, paying no attention to the jeer; “’tis all
delight: everything along the road is so pleasant, so sweet to look on!
And ye gaze out upon the world, and hear so much, and pray so much
besides!... And one thinks for a few weeks that one has got rid of all
woes and all cares. One feels as though born again!”

“True, and many have told me the same,” said Hanka. “One is specially
under the loving influence of God’s grace.”

A girl was hastening towards them, slipping along between the bulrushes
and the thick clumps of alder. Hanka shaded her eyes, looked, saw it was
Yuzka, and heard her from afar crying, as she waved her arms:

“Hanka, Hanka! Antek is home!”

She flung down her hoe, and sprang up as if about to fly away like a
bird; but she mastered her feeling, let down her skirt which she had
tucked up, and, in spite of her rapture and her throbbing heart that
made her almost unable to speak, said as quietly as if she had not heard
any news at all:

“You will go on working without me, and come round to the cabin for
breakfast.”

The women looked at one another.

“Her calm,” Yagustynka said, “is only outside, lest folk should laugh at
her for wanting her goodman so badly.—I could not have mastered myself
so!”

“Nor I!—But God grant that Antek do not go wrong any more!”

“As he will now no longer have Yagna at close quarters, it may be that
he will keep straight.”

“O my dear! when a man scents a petticoat, he’ll follow it all over the
world!”

“’Tis a truth. There’s no beast so greedy to its own hurt as some men
are.”

So they talked, letting the work flag and all but come to a standstill.
Hanka meanwhile went on, conversing both with Yuzka and everyone she
met, though she knew but little of what either she said to them or they
to her.

“Has Roch come with him?” she would ask again and again.

“How many a time have I told you yes?”

“And how is he looking?—How?”

“How can I tell you that?—In he came and asked at the very threshold:
‘Where’s Hanka?’ So I told him and ran to fetch you—and that’s all.”

“And he asked after me!—May the Lord...! May he....” She was incoherent,
beside herself with gladness.

From a distance she perceived him, sitting with Roch in the porch, and
as soon as he saw her, he went out to meet her in the enclosure.

She advanced more and more slowly, catching at the roadside fence not to
fall, for her legs were giving way under her. She felt choked with sobs,
and her brain whirled so, she could only utter these words:

“You here!—Here at last!”—And she could speak no more for the tears of
joy that choked her.

“Here at last, Hanka dear!” He clasped her to his breast in a mighty
hug, full of the deepest affection and love. She nestled to his side
with an uncontrollable impulse, while her happy tears went streaming
down her pale cheeks, and her lips trembled, and she surrendered herself
all to him with childlike simplicity.

It was long before she could speak at all; but, indeed, how could any
speech ever express what she felt? She would have knelt to him, kissed
the dust at his feet; and when a word or two burst from her lips, they
were but like flowers falling before him as an offering, fragrant with
happiness, bedewed with her heart’s blood; and these her faithful eyes,
brimming over with illimitable love, would lay down at his feet, with
the fidelity of a dog that lives only in his master’s will and favour.

“You do look poorly, dearest Hanka!” he said, stroking her face with the
tenderest affection.

“No wonder, having suffered so much and waited so long!”

“Poor woman!” Roch here observed; “she has been worked sadly beyond her
strength.”

“Ah! and ye too are here, Roch! How could I forget you so?” And she
welcomed him, and kissed his hands, while he said, with a smile:

“Very easily!—Well, I wished to bring you your goodman home; and now
here he is!”

“Aye, here he is!” she cried, standing up before Antek and eyeing him in
admiration. For he was so much whiter now—so much more refined in his
strength—so beautiful, so lordly—as if he were someone else! She looked
at him in bewilderment.

“Have I changed in aught, that your eyes examine me so?”

“No, not changed ... and yet somehow not the same at all!”

“Oh, when I set to field-work again, I shall soon be once more just as I
was!”

And now, making a dart into the hut, she came out, bearing her
youngest-born.

“You see him for the first time, Antek!” she cried, as she lifted up the
boy, roaring lustily. “Just look: he is as like you as two peas.”

“A fine youngster!” He wrapped him up in the skirt of his capote, and
rocked him to and fro.

“I have given him the name of Roch!—Here, Peter, go to Father,” and she
pushed forward the other boy, who clambered on to Antek’s knee,
prattling childishly the while. Antek caressed him as tenderly as the
other.

“Dear little things! darling mites!—How Peter has grown!—And he talks a
little already....”

“Oh, and he takes such notice, and he’s so clever! Can he but get hold
of a whip, he wants at once to crack it at the geese!” She came kneeling
down beside them. “Peter! Come! Try to say ‘Dad’!”

He indeed said something dimly resembling the word, and continued cooing
to himself, and pulling his father’s hair.

“Yuzka,” Antek said, “why do you eye me askant so? Come hither.”

“But I dare not,” she said.

“Come to me, silly one, come to me!” And he folded her in a kind
brotherly embrace.

“And now you will obey me in all things, even as you did once obey
Father. Fear not: I shall never be harsh to you, and from me you shall
suffer no wrong.”

The girl burst into a flood of tears, remembering her lost father and
her brother who was drowned.

“When the Voyt told me of his death,” Antek said, “I was quite stunned
with grief. How dear he was to me! I never dreamed.... And I had already
arranged how we should divide the land; I had even thought of a wife for
him!” he said, sorrowfully; when Roch, to turn away their thoughts from
so sad a subject, exclaimed, rising from his seat:

“Talking is all very well, but not when the stomach cries famine!”

“Dear, dear! I had forgotten all about that.—Yuzka, just catch me those
two yellow cockerels.... _Tsip, tsip, tsip!_ come along!... Will you not
begin with eggs? Or a bit of new bread, and butter made but
yesterday?—Yes, cut off their heads and scald them in boiling water!...
I shall have everything ready in a moment.... What a ninny I was to
forget!”

“Let be, Hanka; the cocks will come in later. I would have something
more homely just now; something of the country, I am so fed up with town
food: give me potatoes and _barszcz_ of all things!” And he laughed
merrily. “Only get something else for Roch!”

“Thanks heartily; but both you and I have the same tastes as to that.”

Hanka went off to get things ready. But the potatoes were on the boil by
now, and she had only to fetch from the larder a huge sausage for the
_barszcz_.

“This I was keeping on purpose for you, Antek. ’Tis from the pig ye sent
me word to kill for Easter.”

“And a splendid festoon it makes, too; though with the Lord’s help, we
shall get through it!—But where are the presents, Roch, say?”

The old man hauled forward a large bundle, out of which Antek took a
variety of articles.

“Here’s for you, Hanka, whenever you would fare anywhither.” And he
handed her a woollen shawl—just like the one the organist’s wife had!—a
black ground, with red and green chequers.

“For me! O Antek, how good of you not to forget!” she cried, overwhelmed
with gratitude.

“Roch reminded me,” he confessed, “or I should have forgotten. We went
together to make our choices and purchases.”

They had bought a great many things: he had shoes for her besides, and a
silk kerchief for a head-dress: azure-blue, with tiny yellow flowers.
Yuzka got another just like it, but green; also a frill and several
rows of beads, with a long ribbon to tie them. There were gingerbread
cakes for the children, and mouth-organs as well; and there was even
something that he set apart unopened, for the blacksmith’s wife. Nor had
he forgotten either Vitek or the farm-servant.

And how they all exclaimed with admiration at each new marvel as it came
forth, and looked it over, and measured its size! How the tears of joy
ran down Hanka’s cheeks! and how Yuzka caught her head in her hands with
bewildered amazement!

“Well have you deserved all these presents. Roch told me how perfectly
everything has been managed on the farm.—Be quiet now, I did not come to
be thanked!” he cried, for they were all crowding to embrace him in
their gratitude.

“I should never have dreamed of buying any such beautiful things,” Hanka
said, still in the melting mood, as she tried on her new shoes. “They
are a little tight for me, now I go barefoot; but in winter they will be
just the thing.”

Roch asked her about the doings in the village. She answered, but in a
desultory way, being very busy with the food. In a short time she had
set before them a large dish of boiled potatoes, plentifully seasoned
with fat bacon, and another one, not a whit smaller, of _barszcz_, in
which there swam a huge sausage, looking for all the world like a
floating wheel.

And they fell to with an excellent appetite.

“That’s the food I like,” he cried, merrily; “lots of garlic to give the
sausage a taste! After that, a man feels he has something inside him.
But there, in jail ... they fed me so—devil take them all!”

“Ah! poor dear! how famished you must have been!”

“Aye, aye! towards the end I had no taste for anything!”

“The boys told us only a starving dog could eat what they gave them: it
is so?”

“There’s some truth in that; but the worst was staying locked up. In the
cold weather it was still bearable; but when the sun shone warm, and I
smelt the smell of the land—oh, then, how I raged! I even tried to tear
out the window-bars; but they prevented me.”

“Is it true,” Hanka asked in a trembling voice, “that they beat folk
there?”

“No doubt. But then the place is full of such villains, ’twere but
justice to flog them daily.—Oh, no one ever dared to lay a finger on me!
If anyone had ... well, I’d have made short work of him.”

“Yea, in truth! Who on earth could overcome you, you mighty one?” she
said, with eyes gloating over him, and attentive to the least signal he
should give.

They had soon finished their meal, and went out to sleep in the barn,
where Hanka had already carried them beds and pillows.

“I declare,” Antek said, laughing, “we shall both melt away like
dripping in that place!”

She closed the great barn-door upon them, and then gave way to her
feelings: to hide them, she went and weeded the parsley-bed, every now
and then looking around her, while the tears welled up. They were tears
of joy, shed—why? Because the sun beat hot upon her shoulders; because
the green leaves were fluttering over her; because the birds sang, and
fragrance filled her senses; and she felt so happy, so serene, so
blissful within her soul!—As if she had just returned from
confession—perhaps happier still!

“Thou, O Lord Jesus, hast done all this,” she murmured, raising her
moist eyes to Heaven, her soul filled with the deepest and most
ineffable gratitude for the great boon she had received.

“And all things have changed so wonderfully!” she sighed in ecstasy.—All
the time they slept, she remained as in a sweet trance. She watched over
them, as a hen does over her chickens; took the children far out into
the orchard, lest they should awaken the sleepers; and drove all the
animals out of the farm-yard, heedless if the pigs should root up the
new potatoes, or the fowls go scratching over the sprouting
cucumber-plants.

The day was painfully long, but there was no help for that.
Breakfast-time, dinner-time passed: still they slept. She sent all the
people to work, caring little whether they should or should not be lazy,
with her not by, and stood continually on the watch, or continually
tripping between cabin and barn.

And many, many a time did she take out the things he had brought her,
and try them on, and cry out:

“Is there in all the world another man so kind and so thoughtful as he
is?”

At last, however, she sped away to the village; and every woman she saw
she accosted with:

“Do ye know, my goodman has come back! He is sleeping in the barn now!”

Her eyes and face were radiant with smiles; everything in her breathed
such joy and exhilaration that they were all astounded.

“What spell can that jail-bird have thrown over her? Why, she is beside
herself about the man.”

“She will grow proud and stuck-up in a very short time: you will see!”

“Oh, but let Antek go back to his old ways again, and she will be taken
down finely!” So they gossiped.

Of all they said, she heard not one word.—She was back home presently,
and preparing a first-class dinner. But hearing some geese scream in the
pond, she ran out to silence them with a volley of stones; which nearly
brought about a quarrel with the miller’s wife, their owner.

She had scarcely sent the field-labourers their afternoon meal, when the
two men came out of the barn. Dinner was spread for them in the cool
shadow in front of the house. Beer and vodka were not lacking there, nor
even a dessert—half a sieve full of ripe red cherries, brought from the
priest’s house.

“A noble dinner!” Roch said, smiling; “quite a wedding-feast!”

“And should the Master’s return be a second-rate festival?” she
answered, busily serving them, and eating very little herself.

Dinner was hardly over, when Roch went out into the village, promising
to look in again in the evening; and Hanka said to her husband:

“Will you look at the farm?”

“Certainly! My ‘holidays’ are over; I must buckle to work now.—God! how
little did I think I should inherit my father’s land so soon!”

He sighed, and followed her. She took him first to the stable, where
three horses and a colt were snorting and stamping; then to the empty
cow-byre, and the granary, full of new-mown hay. He looked into the
sties too, and into the shed where all the various implements and tools
were stored.

“That _britzka_ must be taken in to the threshing-floor: its paint is
peeling off with the heat here.”

“So I told Pete more than once; but the fellow does not mind me.”

She called the pigs and poultry round her, priding herself on their
numbers; and then she told him about the field-work; what had been sown,
and where, and how much of each crop. When she had finished, he said:

“I can hardly think that you have done all this by yourself.”

“For your sake, I could have done still more!” she whispered, overjoyed
at his praise; and the whisper came hot from her heart.

“You have backbone, Hanka ... and plenty of it too!—I did not expect it
of you.”

“I had to, and needs must when the devil drives.”

After looking about the orchard, with its half-ripe cherries, and the
plots of parsley and onions, and the young cabbage-plants, they came
back; and as they passed the side where his father had lived he peeped
in at the window.

“And where’s Yagna?” he asked, seeing with surprise that the room was
empty.

“At her mother’s. I turned her out,” she replied in a firm voice,
looking him full in the face.

He knit his brows, pondered awhile, then lit a cigarette, and said
quietly and with seeming indifference:

“Dominikova is a bad animal; she will not be ousted without a lawsuit.”

“I hear they both went to lodge a complaint yesterday.”

“Well, well, ‘between complaint and sentence, there is a good long
distance’; but we must consider things well, and not let her play us any
tricks.”

She told him how it had all come about—of course, omitting many a
detail. He heard her out, put no question, and only frowned heavily. But
when she handed him the paper, he gave a sarcastic laugh.

“With that paper ye may as well ... why, ’tis worth absolutely naught!”

“How so!—It is the very same paper your father gave her!”

“What’s the use of a broken stick?—Had she annulled the deed at the
notary’s, that would have been something. It was in mockery she flung it
to you!”

He gave a shrug, took little Peter on his arm, and made for the stile.

“I am going to look at the fields and come back,” he said over his
shoulder, and at the hint she stopped short, much as she had longed to
go with him. As he passed the stack, now repaired and filled with new
hay, he glanced at it from under heavy eyelids.

“It was repaired by Matthew!” she called out to him from the stile where
she stood. “The roof alone required some scores of straw trusses.”

“Good, good!” he grunted in reply, and strode away through the potatoes
along the pathway, uninterested in such trifles.

The fields on that side of the village nearly all bore autumn-sown crops
this year: so he met but few people, and those he met he saluted curtly,
and passed on. But soon he walked more slowly, for Peter was beginning
to feel heavy, and the hot still weather acted strangely upon him. He
stopped to examine almost every field in particular.

“Ha! that weed is simply choking the flax!” he cried, observing the
patches of flax, azure-blue with flowers, but thickly strewn with the
yellow blooms of some weed.

“She bought her linseed unsifted, and sowed it unsifted too!”

Then he stopped close to the barley, stunted, parched and scarce visible
for the thistles, and camomile plants, and sorrels which grew there.

“They have sown in too wet soil.—That swine! he has ruined the field!
The rascal ought to have his neck twisted for tilling the land so. And
how it has been harrowed! Dog-grass and couch-grass everywhere!” He was
much displeased.

But presently he came to a vast expanse of rye, waving in the sunshine,
with heavy billowy ears of corn, sounding and rustling. This was a
set-off: it had grown magnificently, the straw was thick in the stem,
and the ears were full.

“It grows like a forest of pines! Ah, that was Father’s sowing.... Even
the Manor could show naught better!”—He plucked an ear, and rubbed it in
his hands. The grain was full and fine, but soft as yet, liable to be
ruined by a hailstorm.

But where he stopped longest to admire and feast his eyes was over the
wheat. The growth was not quite regular—in clumps here, in hollows
there—but the ears were all glossy, darkish in hue, dense-growing, and
large in size.

“A first-rate crop! And, though on rising ground, it has suffered not at
all from the drought.... ’Tis a harvest of pure gold!”

On arriving at the boundary, he gazed back. Away by the churchyard they
were mowing the clover, and the scythes moved flashing over the meadows,
like gleams of lightning. On the fallows flocks of geese were feeding;
men swarmed about like ants; and higher and farther still he could
descry lonely houses, trees hunched up, gnarled and drooping over the
roads; and again more and more vast lands fading into the distance, as
into a flood of bluish trembling water.

All was hushed in profound silence; the sultry air vibrated; it was, as
it were, an atmosphere of white flame, through which a stork might be
seen walking up and down, or poising itself on dropping wings; or a crow
flying past, with beak wide open, gaping with the heat.

On high there was but the intense dark azure, with a few white clouds
straying across it. But below, the dry burning wind made sport: now
whirling and staggering about like a drunken man; now starting up with a
sudden loud whistle; or, again, lurking somewhere away out of sight, and
then bursting out unexpectedly in the corn, which it teased and dashed
to and fro, and drove hither and thither in lofty billows—to disappear
again as suddenly, no one knew where, while the cornfields murmured in
low voices, as if complaining of its rough behaviour.

Antek, having reached his fallow at the skirt of the forest, had another
burst of indignation.

“Not yet ploughed up or manured! Our horses stand idle, the dung is
wasted in heaps ... and what does it matter to him, the dirty scamp?—May
all....” he swore fiercely, drawing nigh to the cross by the poplar
road.

But here, tired, slightly dizzy, and with his throat full of dust, he
sat down in the shadow of the birch-trees by Boryna’s Cross. Little
Peter had gone to sleep: he laid him down on his capote; and then,
wiping away streams of sweat from his brow, he looked out upon the
landscape, and fell into a reverie.

The first afternoon shadows of the forest were hesitatingly creeping
down to the corn. The tree-tops, glowing in the sun, were conversing one
with another, while the thickets of hazel and aspen below shook like men
sick with an ague. Woodpeckers pecked on incessantly; magpies were
shrieking somewhere unseen. And at times a bee-eater would flash athwart
the old moss-grown oak-trees—a flying fragment of rainbow!

A cool breath was wafted from within the quiet woodland recesses, into
which the sun but rarely shot his keen darts; it came, redolent of
mushrooms, of resin, of pools simmering in the hot blaze.

Suddenly a hawk was seen above the forest, circled over the fields, and,
poising itself for an instant, swooped down into the corn.

Antek sprang forward to balk it, but too late: a stream of feathers was
floating down, and the robber fleeing through the air, while below
partridges piped plaintively, and a terrified hare fled at random, its
white scut bobbing up and down.

“’Twas most featly done! A bold thief!” Antek thought, returning to his
seat. “Well, hawks too must get their food somehow. Such is the law of
the world!” he reflected, as he covered little Peter with his capote;
for there were numberless black wild bees and bumble-bees buzzing around
them.

He recalled those days of the near past, when he was longing so
fiercely, with such insatiable thirst, to be back in his fields once
more.

“How they tormented me, the villains!” he said with a curse. Then he
became quite motionless.—Just in front of him, a few quails, calling to
each other, put their heads timorously out of the rye, but popped back
at once, on hearing a band of sparrows alight upon a birch-tree,
fluttering, bickering, fighting, and flying down into the sand beneath,
with a great racket and hubbub ... when suddenly they all were silent,
as if rooted to the spot.—The hawk flew past again, so near them that
its shadow glided over the field beneath!

“Little brawlers! he has struck you dumb pretty quickly!” Antek mused.
“’Tis just the same with men. How many need only a threat, and are
hushed at once!”

Some wagtails came out upon the road, hopping so near that with a sweep
of his hand he almost caught one of them.

“I but just missed getting one of the silly creatures for the boy.”

And now crows came, one after another, flocking out of the forest,
pecking at anything they could find. Scenting a man, they began,
cautiously and holding their heads awry, to peer about and go round him,
hopping ever nearer and nearer, and opening their gruesome beaks.

“Oh, no! I am not to be a feast for you,” he laughed, throwing a clod at
them; and they, like thieves found out, fled away in silence.

But after a time, while thus gazing out on the country-side, his whole
soul attentive to every one of its sounds and sights, all the creatures
about him began to draw near him boldly. Ants ran over his back,
butterflies again and again settled in his hair, lady-birds walked about
his face, and great green caterpillars of the wood explored his boots
with lively interest; squirrels too, peeping forth from the forest,
their brownish-red tails high in air, seemed deliberating whether they
should not approach him. He, however, noticed none of them, plunged as
he was in a sort of dreamy state, which the sight of the country had
caused in his mind, and that filled him with indescribable sweetness.

He felt as though he were himself the very waft of the wind through the
corn, the very gleam of the soft green fleece of the grass, the rolling
of the streamlets over the heated sands, athwart the meadows redolent of
new-mown hay; he felt himself one with the birds flying high above the
earth, and crying to the sun with the great incomprehensible clamour of
Life: as if he had become the murmur of the fields, the tossing of the
pine-forest, the rush and mighty impetus of all growing things; also the
mysterious potency of that hallowed Mother, the Earth, who brings forth
all in joy and gladness. And he knew himself, knowing that he was all
these things in one—both what he saw and what he felt, what he touched
and understood, and what he could not even seize but by the merest
glimmering—that which many a soul will only see clearly at the instant
of death—besides that which only looms vaguely within the human soul,
and gathers and lifts it up to the unknown region where it weeps tears
of ineffable sweetness, and yet is weighed down as with a stone by an
insatiable craving.

But all these thoughts passed through his mind like clouds: before he
could grasp one clearly, another had taken its place, as absorbing as
the former and yet harder to understand.

He was awake, and yet he had a drowsy sense as of sleep coming to his
eyes; he was led somehow into a land of ecstasy, where he felt as one
feels at the most holy moment of the Holy Mass: when the soul floats
away in adoration, towards some garden where angels dwell, some happy
land—Paradise, or Heaven!

Though his was a hard tough nature, by no means given to sentiment, he
was nevertheless, during those unearthly moments, ready to fall
prostrate on the earth, kiss her with burning kisses, and take her to
himself in the most loving embrace.

“What is it that has wrought upon me so? It must be the change of
air—nothing else,” he grunted to excuse his feelings, rubbing his eyes
and knitting his brows. But indeed an overwhelming Power had seized upon
him: it was by no means possible to crush down that jocund serenity
which now flooded all his being.

He knew himself back in the land—_his_ land—yea, the land of his father,
of his forefathers: was it strange that he should feel his soul glad,
and that every throb of his heart should cry out aloud and joyfully to
the whole world: “Here I am once more, and here do I remain!”?

He pulled himself together, bracing himself to take up this new life, to
walk in his father’s ways and those of his ancestors before him: like
them, he bowed his shoulders to the yoke of heavy toil, to be borne
bravely, unweariedly, until little Peter should step into his place.

“It is the order of things that the young should succeed the old and the
sons the fathers, one by one, continually, so long as it shall be Thy
will, O merciful Jesus,” he thought, in deep meditation.

He bent his head over his hands, bowing it low; for many and various
thoughts had now come into his mind, mournful recollections which the
accusing voice of conscience now brought before him—bitter painful
truths that humbled him in the dust, as he acknowledged his
multitudinous transgressions and sins.

It was a hard thing, this confession of his, and he found it no easy
matter to appease his conscience; but he fought down his stubbornness,
conquered his pride, and looked back on his past life with true
repentance, examining every act with the utmost severity and fairness of
judgment.

“I have been naught but an infamous fool!” he thought with deep sadness,
while a bitter smile writhed his lips. “All in the world must take place
in due order. Aye, my father spoke wisely: ‘When all carts go the same
way, woe to him that falls from one; he will be crushed under the
wheels.’—But every man has to realize this by himself, with his own
reason; and this may cost very dear indeed.”

Sounds of lowing now floated from the wood; the cattle were coming home
amid great volumes of dust; oxen, sheep with their attendant dogs,
careful to keep them away from the corn; squealing herds of pigs, driven
home with many a blow; calves plaintively seeking their lost mothers; a
few herdsmen on horseback, and the others on foot with the flocks,
striking, shouting, and keeping up a stream of noisy talk.

Antek had remained with Peter on one side to let them pass, when Vitek
saw him and came up to kiss his hand.

“I see you have grown pretty well in these last times.”

“I have in truth. The trousers I got in autumn now come but just beyond
my knees.”

“All will be well; be sure that Mistress will give you a new pair.—Is
there grass enough for the kine?”

“Alas! no, it is all sere and drying up. If mistress had not fodder for
them at home, they could give no milk at all.—Pray let me have Peter,
for a little ride,” he added pleadingly.

“But surely he will fall off the horse!”

“Why, no: how often and often have I taken him about on our filly!
Besides, I shall be there to hold him.—How he loves riding and crying
out at the horse!”—He took the boy and set him on an old jade that was
plodding along with drooping head. Peter clutched at her mane with his
tiny hands, smote her flanks with his bare heels, and screamed aloud
with pleasure.

“A fine little fellow! O you dear boy of mine!” Antek exclaimed
admiringly.

And he at once turned off from the road, taking a short cut that led
straight to his barn, as the descending sun painted the sky with gold
and pale emerald-green, and the wind went down, and the falling dew made
the ears of corn to droop.

He walked slow, with many memories at his heels: Yagna among them, as
vivid as in life. He rubbed his eyes to get rid of the vision; but in
vain. In spite of him, she walked on by his side, as she once had done;
and as then, she seemed to shed around her such a delightful glow that
it made the blood rush to his head.

“Peradventure ’twas well Hanka drove her away! She is to me as an ulcer
in the flesh—a rankling ulcer!—But the past will never be again,” he
said, a strange pain gnawing at his heart; and he added, with stern
reproof: “My wild oats are all sown!” as he entered the enclosure.

In the yard they were busy over their evening labours, Yuzka milking the
cows outside the byre and singing a shrill ditty, while Hanka made
_kluski_ in the porch.

As Antek went in to look over his father’s apartments, his wife followed
him.

“After we have set things in order here, we shall remove to this
side.—Is there any lime to be had?”

“Yes, I bought some at the fair, and shall call Staho in to-morrow: he
will whitewash the place.—Certainly, we shall be more comfortable here.”

He peered awhile into every corner, thinking.

“Were you in the fields?” she asked him timidly.

“I was. All is in good order. Hanka, I could not have done better
myself.”

She coloured deeply with the pleasure of hearing him praise her.

“Only,” he went on to say, “let that Pete go and feed swine, not till my
ground! The good-for-nothing oaf!”

“I know him well, and have even been looking out for another
farm-servant.”

“Well, I shall tackle him, and—should he not be obedient—send him
flying!”

Hearing the children cry, she ran to them. Antek went into the yard to
continue his inspection of everything. He was so severely masterful of
aspect, that—though he only threw out a word here and there—Pete felt
alarmed, and Vitek, afraid to come near him, slunk about at a respectful
distance.

Yuzka, was milking her third cow, and bawling ever louder and louder:

  “Still, Pretty One, be still,
        And let me fill
          The pail!”

“Why,” he called out to her, “you screech as if flayed alive!”

She was dumb for an instant; but, bold and daring by nature, she soon
struck up again, though in a less high-pitched key this time:

  “My mother begs of thee
  This evening not to fail:
  Still, Pretty One, be still!”

“Can you not be quiet? Master is present!” Hanka said, reprovingly,
carrying some water for the cow to drink.

Antek took the vessel from her hands, and set it before the cow, saying
with a laugh:

“Screech away, Yuzka, screech away; you’ll drive all the rats off the
premises in no time!”

“I shall do just as I please!” she answered back sulkily, in a mood to
quarrel. But as soon as they had gone by, she ceased her song, though
she still eyed her brother askance, with a resentful sniff.

Hanka, busy with the pigs, carried them so many heavy tubs of mash that
he was sorry for her.

“That is too hard work for you; let the lads carry them,” he said. “And
I shall get you a wench besides; Yagustynka is of no more use to you
than the whining of a dog!—Where is she now?”

“Gone to her children, to make it up with them!—A wench? Well, one would
be handy; but the expense!—I could manage things by myself. But let it
be as you will have it.” It was surprising (so grateful she felt) that
she did not kiss her husband’s hand. In great glee, she added: “And then
I should be able to breed yet more geese, and fatten yet another swine
for sale.”

After revolving the matter in his mind, he came to this conclusion:

“Now we have a farm of our own, we must behave as becomes our condition,
and as our fathers have always done!”

After supper, he went outside the hut, to receive his friends and
acquaintances, who had come to welcome him back with great joy.

“We were looking out for you,” Gregory said, “even as the kite looks out
for rain.”

“Ah, well, they kept me there, they kept me, that pack of wolves! and
there was no getting away from them!”

All sat down in the shadow of the hut. There were lights on every side,
and bright stars overhead; the mill-pond murmured, moaning now and then;
and all around it the people were enjoying the cool of the evening.

Roch interrupted some commonplace talk with: “Know ye that the head
official has decided there is to be an assembly here in a fortnight, to
vote for a school?”

“Is that our business?” young Ploshka cried. “Let our fathers see to
it.”

Gregory took him up sharply. “’Tis easy enough to lay all on our
fathers’ backs, and lie lazily on our own! The reason things go so ill
in the village is that none of us younger men will trouble about them.”

“Let them make over their lands to us, and we will!”

This was an opening for a dispute, when Antek suddenly interposed.

“We certainly do need a school here; but we ought not to vote half a
kopek for such a one as the head official would give us.”

Roch seconded him strongly, urging them all to resist.

“Ye will each vote a _zloty_, and have to pay a rouble.... What about
the vote for the Law-Court Building, eh? They have fattened finely on
your money; their bellies protrude with a vengeance!”

“I am decidedly against the vote,” said Gregory, and, taking up some
books, he went to study quietly by Roch’s side.

There was little further talk after that; even Matthew spoke but few
words, only keeping his eye upon Antek; and they were about to go home,
when the blacksmith appeared. He had but just come back from the Manor,
he said, and fell a-cursing both village and villagers.

“And what ails you now?” asked Hanka, peeping out of the window.

“What, indeed?—I shame to tell it: our peasants here are all louts and
boobies! They don’t know their own mind.—The Squire behaved to them as
to men and landholders; and they, they acted like mere gooseherds. The
agreement had been made: naught was required but to sign it. Then one of
them scratches me his head and grunts: ‘Shall I ... or shall I not?’
Another would fain still consult his goodwife anew; a third sets to
whining for a bit of meadow adjacent to his land, that he wants given
him.—What can be done with such fellows?—The Squire is raging—will not
hear of the agreement any more, nor let any of the cattle from Lipka
graze on his lands, and will make anyone smart that sends them there.”

This unforeseen calamity dismayed them all, and they had no words too
strong for the guilty. Matthew said with sorrow:

“All this comes from the people’s having no leader. We are like stray
sheep!”

“Has not Michael pointed this out to them clearly enough?”

“Oh, Michael! He goes where gain is to be had, and holds with the Manor:
none therefore will trust him. They listen; but as to following what he
says...!”

Here the smith swore he cared only for the public good, even to giving
time and trouble gratis, that the agreement might be made!

“And if ye should swear that in church,” Matthew growled, “they still
would not believe you.”

“Let someone else, then, try,” he retorted; “we shall see how he
succeeds.”

“Yes, someone else ought certainly to try.”

“And who? The priest? Or the miller perhaps?” several men asked
ironically.

“Who?—Why, Antek Boryna! If he cannot bring folk to their senses, we
must give them up as a bad job.”

“I?—I?” Antek faltered, in confusion. “Will anyone hearken to me?”

“All will! You are an able man, and the foremost amongst us.”

“True it is!—Aye, aye!—You and none other!—We’ll follow you!” were the
cries that arose—not much to the smith’s taste, seemingly. He twisted
about, scratched his moustache, and grinned maliciously when Antek said:

“Well, well, they say: ‘Pot-making is for others than saints.’—I can but
try; and we’ll talk the matter over another time.”

Several, as they went away, took him aside, urging him to accept, and
promising their support. Klemba said:

“We must have someone to lead us, who has wits and a strong hand, and
honesty into the bargain.”

“And,” Matthew added, laughing, “who can command, and use a cudgel if
needful.”

Antek now remained alone with the smith; Roch had gone aside to pray
earnestly in the porch.

They talked matters over very quietly and very long. Hanka meantime went
about the hut, shaking up the bedding, providing the pillows with clean
slips, and making her ablutions as for some great solemnity; combing her
hair by the window, and peeping out at the two men with growing
impatience. She listened attentively, too, to the smith, who dissuaded
Antek from taking up such a burden, since he never could manage the
peasants, and the Squire was against him.

“That’s false!” she called out to him through the window. “He offered to
stand bail for you in court.”

“If ye know so much more about it, then let’s drop the matter,” he
cried, surly as a dog.

Antek rose, yawning drowsily.

“But,” his visitor concluded, “I’ll just wind up with this: you are only
at liberty till your trial; and who knows how things will go with you
then? In such a position, how can you meddle with other folk’s affairs?”

Antek sat down again, and was lost in a brown study. The smith did not
wait for his answer, but went home.

Hanka more than once looked out at Antek, but he did not notice her. She
at last called him in a tone of timid pleading:

“Come, Antek, ’tis bedtime; you must be very weary.”

“Coming, Hanka, coming!” he said, rising heavily.

She began to say her evening prayers with tremulous lips, while she
undressed in haste.

But he went in, sorely troubled, and thinking: “What shall I do if I am
sent to Siberia?”




                               CHAPTER V


“Pete, bring firewood in!” Hanka called out from the cabin-door. She was
covered with flour and very untidy with bread-making.

A big fire roared in the baking-oven. She raked the coals to spread them
out, and hastened to roll the dough and shape it into loaves, which she
carried out into the passage upon a board that she set in the sunshine,
for them to rise more quickly. She bustled about in a great hurry, for
the dough was almost overbrimming the big kneading-trough, covered with
bedding for warmth.

“Yuzka! more wood on the fire; one end of the oven is almost black!”

But no Yuzka was at hand, and Pete did not hasten to obey. He was
loading dung on a cart, heaping and pressing it down, keeping up
meanwhile a conversation with the blind _Dziad_, who was occupied in
making ropes of straw outside the barn.

The afternoon sun was so hot that the walls exuded liquid resin, and the
wind blew like the blast from an oven, making every movement wearisome.
The flies, too, hummed in myriads over the cart, and the horses,
assailed, and maddened by them, came near breaking their halters, and
perhaps their legs, in pulling and straining to avoid their bites.

The yard was so flooded with the heat, together with the pungent
effluvium of the dung, that even the birds in the orchard close by could
sing no longer; the hens had lain down half dead under the hedge, and
the pigs wallowed squealing in the mud by the well. All at once the
_Dziad_ fell a-sneezing furiously: a whiff yet more noisomely offensive
had reached him from the cow-byre.

“God bless you, _Dziad_!”

“That’s no incense-smoke, I wot; and used though I am to the smell, it
is stronger than snuff in my nostrils.”

“But use makes all things pleasant.”

“Fool! don’t you think I ever smell aught but dung?”

“I was but repeating what my old grandsire told me when my
drill-sergeant gave me slaps in the face.”

“Ha, ha, ha!—Did you get used to that, pray?”

“I soon had enough of such drilling, and meeting the ruffian one day in
a quiet corner alone, I made his face swell like a pumpkin ... and he
never slapped mine any more!”

“Did you serve long?”

“The whole of my five years! I could not purchase my discharge; so I had
to—shoulder arms.—At first, ere I knew a thing or two, anyone who would
could ill-treat me, and I had to suffer want ... till my comrades taught
me to snap up anything I needed ... or get some maidservant to give it
me, whom I promised to marry. And what nicknames those Russian soldiers
gave me! and how they laughed at my speech and at my manner of prayer!”

“Did they dare laugh at that, the plague-spotted heathen?”

“Aye, till I punched their ribs for them, one after another, and made
them leave off!”

“You must be a strong fighter!”

“Not especially,” he answered with a boastful smile; “but I could drub
any three of them at a time!”

“Have you seen warfare?”

“Of course. Against the Turks. We thrashed them soundly, we did!”

“Pete!” Hanka called out to him; “where’s the wood?”

“Where it was,” he muttered inaudibly.

“Your mistress is calling you,” the _Dziad_ said.

“Let her call! What, am I to wash up the pots for her?”

“Are you deaf?” she shouted, running out of the house towards him.

“I shall not feed the fire; ’tis no duty of mine!” he shouted back.

She began thereupon to rail at him to the best of her ability.

He, on his side, railed back at her, nothing loath, and when she
presently gave him a harder home-thrust, he planted his pitchfork in the
dunk and cried angrily:

“Ye have not to do with Yagna now: your screaming will not scare me
away.”

“But what I will do, you shall see ... and remember!”

She went on scolding the insolent fellow, while she carried the loaves
of dough into the porch, or flung the logs into the oven, or looked
after the children. But the labour and the intense heat were wearing her
out terribly; for it was stiflingly hot within and in the passage on
account of the fire in the oven. The flies, too, that swarmed on every
wall, were so insupportable that she almost wept with rage as she beat
them off with a branch, all streaming with perspiration, exasperated,
and ever more impatient and slower at her work.

She was just patting the last loaf into shape for the oven, when Pete
prepared to drive out of the yard.

“Wait a moment and take your afternoon meal!”

“Whoa!—Yes, I may as well: my stomach is empty enough after dinner.”

“Had you too little to eat?”

“The food is so wretched, it goes through the bowels as through a
sieve.”

“There’s insolence for you! What, you must have meat? And am I munching
sausages in corners, say? No other farmers can at this season give their
men what you get. Look at the _Komorniki_, how they feed!”

She set down in the porch a pot of sour milk and a loaf, and he began to
cram himself gluttonously, now and again flinging a morsel of bread to
the stork, that had hurried in from the orchard, and stood now, like a
dog, watching him eat.

“Poor stuff.—As thin as buttermilk,” he grumbled, when pretty well
filled.

“Naught less than cream would do for you, belike? Wait till you get
some!”

When he could eat no more and had taken the reins to start, she said to
him sarcastically: “Take service with Yagna; she will fatten you!”

“Surely. When she ruled here, no one starved in the hut!” And he gave
the horse a stroke with the whip, and the cart a push with his shoulder,
to set it in motion.

He had wounded her to the quick, but was off before she could find words
to answer him.

The swallows were twittering under the thatch, and a flock of pigeons
alighted cooing in the porch. She drove them away; and then, hearing a
grunt, rushed out, fearing her pigs were at the onion-bed. Fortunately,
it was but the neighbour’s sow, rooting beneath the fence.

“Just put your snout inside our enclosure, and I shall dispose of you in
a fine way!”

But no sooner was she returning to work than the stork hopped on to the
porch, lurked about there for a moment, cocked first his right eye at
the loaves, then his left ... and set to dig into the dough, swallowing
it by large morsels!

Uttering a loud cry, she rushed at him.

He fled away with wide-open beak, making frantic efforts to get the
dough down; but when she caught up with him to give him a beating, he
flew up and alighted on the top of the barn, where he remained for a
long time, rapping out his _klek-klek_ and wiping the dough from his
beak on the thatch.

“O you thief! let me but catch you, and I’ll shatter you to bits!” she
threatened, filling up the hollows the stork’s beak had made.

Yuzka came in then, and all Hanka’s anger was poured forth on her.

“Where have you been, you gadabout?—Always running hither and thither,
like a cat with a bladder tied to its tail!—I’ll tell Antek what a
worker you are!—But get the embers out now, and quickly!”

“I was only at the Ploshkas’ with their Kate. All are afield, and the
poor girl has no one to fetch her water even!”

“What ails her, then?”

“The smallpox, I think; she is flushed and burning hot.”

“And if you have caught it from her, I will take you off to the
hospital.”

“Is it likely? I have sat by a sick-bed already, nor ever got any hurt.
Have ye no mind how I tended you, when you were lying in?” And so she
went on after her fashion, prattling away in her absurdly thoughtless
fashion, driving the flies off meantime and preparing to take the embers
out of the oven.

Hanka interrupted her as she worked: “Ah! you must take the food to the
people in the field.”

“Instantly, instantly!—Shall I fry some eggs for Antek?”

“Do; but take heed not to put in too much fat!”

“Oh, do ye grudge it him?”

“How could I? But it might not agree with him.”

Yuzka loved a run; so she did her work quick, and was off, before Hanka
had closed the oven, with three vessels of sour milk, and bread done up
in her apron.

Hanka cried to her from the window: “See whether the linen spread to
bleach is dry, and wet it on your return: it is sure to be dry before
sunset.”

But the little chit was over the stile by then; the song she was singing
floated back, and her hemp-coloured hair was seen bobbing along through
the rye.

On the arable land, by the forest, the _Komorniki_ were scattering the
dung brought previously by Pete, while Antek was ploughing it in. The
stiff clay soil, though it had been harrowed not long ago, was hard as
stone and baked in the sun; the horses had to pull with such mighty
efforts as to strain their harness to breaking-point.

Antek, seemingly glued to his plough-handles, drove his way on with
dogged pertinacity, his mind concentrated on his work: now and then
clacking the whip on the horses’ hind quarters, but mostly encouraging
them with a smack of his lips; for the work was really very wearisome.
With a firm steady hand he directed the plough, cutting furrow after
furrow, in long straight strips, such as it is the custom to make for
wheat-land.

Crows hopped along by the furrows, picking up earthworms; and the bay
colt, that had been out to graze on the field pathway, again and again
pressed to its mother’s side, eager to suck her milk.

“Milk at its age! What can have come over the greedy thing!” Antek
growled, striking at its legs with his whip. It ran off, tail in the
air, while he went on ploughing patiently, only at times breaking the
silence with a word or two to the women. He was cross and tired out,
and, when Pete arrived, gave vent to his feelings.

“These women,” he cried, “have been fain to stop working because of you;
and you come on now slow as a ragpicker!—Wherefore have ye stopped so
long at the edge of the forest? I saw you!”

“The ‘wherefore’ is there still; ye can see it; it will wait.”

“A curse on your saucy tongue!—Vee-o, old fellow, Vee-o!”

But now the horses went slower, foam-flecked and worn out. He himself,
stripped to his shirt and drawers, was perspiring profusely, and his
hands too were feeling the stress of the work. So that, on perceiving
Yuzka, he cried out very heartily:

“Good now, ’twas high time ye came; we are all famishing!”

He finished the furrow up to the pine-wood, took the horses from the
plough and turned them loose to graze on the verdant road by the forest:
then, flinging himself down at the border of the wood, ate like a
ravenous wolf, Yuzka all the time chattering away until he had enough of
it.

“Let me be.—I care naught for your tittle-tattle,” he said peevishly,
and she, answering as peevishly back, ran off to pluck berries in the
wood.

The pine-forest was quiet, dried up, aromatically scented, and, as it
were, dying in the sun’s fierce outpour. Only a very little verdure was
to be seen, and out of its depths there blew a breeze laden with
resinous fragrance, and carrying on its wings the warbling of birds.

Antek, stretched out on the grass, lit a cigarette and, looking into the
distance, saw, as through a thickening fog, the Squire on horseback,
leaping across the Podlesie fields; and some men with him, bearing poles
for land-measuring.

Huge pines, with trunks as of red copper, rose above him, flinging down
wavy and slumberous shadows. He would presently have fallen fast asleep,
had it not been for the quick clatter of a wagon—the organist’s servant,
carting trunks to the sawmill—and then the sound of the familiar
greeting: “Praised be Jesus Christ!”

One by one, the _Komorniki_ were coming home from the forest, each with
a load of firewood on her shoulders. At the very end of the file,
Yagustynka dragged herself along, bowed almost to the ground beneath her
burden.

“Rest ye here.—Why, your eyes are almost starting from their sockets.”

She seated herself opposite him, leaning her load against a tree, and
scarce able to breathe.

“Such labour is not for you,” he told her with compassion.

“Yes: I feel quite crushed now,” she replied.

“Lay those heaps closer, closer!” he cried to his farm-servant Pete, and
went on: “Why does not someone take your place?”

She answered only with a surly look, and turned away her red eyes full
of anguish.

“Ye are now so changed!—Ye give way so.... Quite another woman.”

“‘Even a flint will break under the hammer,’” she moaned, hanging her
head. “And: ‘Suffering consumes man faster than rust eats iron.’”

“The present season is hard even for well-to-do farmers.”

“Hard! Let none talk of times being hard, so long as he has wild
marjoram to eat, cooked with bran.”

“Good heavens! come round this evening: we shall find two or three
bushels of potatoes for you still. When harvest comes, ye can work the
price out.”

She broke down in a fit of crying, and could hardly speak to thank him.

“Perchance, too,” he added kindly, “Hanka may have something else for
you besides.”

“Had it not been for her, we should have died of starvation!” she
declared, sobbing. “Yes, I’ll work for you whenever you may want me. May
God reward you! I am not speaking for myself; I am accustomed to hunger.
But my dear little mites are crying out: ‘Grandam, give us to eat!’—and
there is naught for them! I tell you: to feed them, I would cut off my
own arms, or steal things from the altar, and sell them to the Jew.”

“Then do ye live once more with your children?”

“Am I not their mother? Can I leave them in such misery? Every
misfortune seems to have fallen on them this year. Their cow has died;
all their potatoes have rotted (they even had to buy seed-potatoes); the
gale blew their barn down; and, to crown all, my daughter-in-law has
been ailing ever since her last child was born. They are all left to
God’s mercy.”

“Aye, but why? Because your Voytek always reeks of brandy and only cares
for the tavern.”

“If at times he has taken too much, ’twas misery drove him that way,”
she said, eager in defence of her son. “Never, while he had work to do,
did he even look in at the Jew’s. But to a poor man, every glass is
reckoned as a crime.—Alas! the Lord has dealt with them bitterly, very
bitterly.—Is it right He should thus dog the steps of a poor foolish
lout? And for what? What harm has he done?” she muttered, raising to
Heaven her eyes, full of indignant challenge.

“But what! have ye not laid your curse on them?” Antek said, with strong
significance. “Often and often ye have!”

“Ah, was it possible that our Lord should ever have listened to my
senseless outcries?” But she added, in a tone of secret uneasiness:
“Even when a mother curses her children, her heart never really wishes
them evil.—‘Wrath and woe make tongues go!’ Aye, indeed....”

“Has your Voytek farmed out his meadow yet?”

“The miller offered a thousand _zloty_ for it, but I would not allow it.
What that wolf has once got in his grip, not the devil himself could
wrest out of it!—And perhaps someone else might be found with the cash?”

“It is surely a lovely meadow—can be mown twice a year. Had I only ready
money just now!” He sighed, licking his lips with strong desire.

“Matthias would have been glad to get it: it lies so close to Yagna’s
land.”

The name uttered gave him a start. He paused, however, and then
inquired, with an indifferent look, his eyes wandering over the
country-side:

“How are they getting on at Dominikova’s?”

But she guessed what was in his mind, and smiled with thin lips, drawing
closer:

“The place is a hell for them all! All there have funeral faces: they
are chilled to the marrow with the gloom which fills it. They cry their
eyes out, and live on, waiting upon God’s Providence. Yagna
especially——”

And she set to weave him a story about Yagna’s sufferings and miseries
and lonely life—adding all kinds of flattering things besides, to draw
him out. But he remained mute, though such a raging desire for Yagna had
sprung up within him that he was quivering all over.

Luckily Yuzka, coming back from the forest, made a diversion. She poured
out into his hat the berries she had plucked, took up the empty vessels,
and scampered away home. And Yagustynka, without waiting for any
confidences, rose to go away, moaning with pain.

“Pete!” he ordered curtly. “Take her back with you in the cart!”

Once more he grasped the plough-handles and set patiently to cleave the
baked and stubborn clay, bending forward like an ox under the yoke, and
putting his whole soul into the work, but unable to stifle the desire
that surged up.

The day seemed very long to him. Many a time he looked to see the sun’s
height, and measure the length of the fields, of which much still
remained to be ploughed. His trouble of mind increased, and he beat the
horses, and cried furiously to the women to work faster. His agitation,
too, was getting beyond bearing; and his brain swarmed so now with
countless thoughts that his hands could no longer drive the plough
steadily, and it would deflect against the stones. Hard by the forest,
it went so deep under a root that the coulter was wrenched off.

To do any more work was out of the question. He took the plough away on
a light sledge, to which he put one of the horses, and made for home.

The cabin was empty, and everything there untidy and soiled with flour:
Hanka, in the orchard, quarrelled with a neighbour.

“The woman! She has always time enough for brawling!” he growled, on
entering the farm-yard. There he grew still more angry: the other
plough, which he took out of the shed, was quite out of gear. He worked
at it a long time, losing his patience as he heard the quarrel going on,
and Hanka raising her voice to a scream.

“If ye pay for the damage done, I’ll give you back your sow: if not,
I’ll bring an action! Pay for the linen she tore in spring on the
bleaching-ground; pay for my potatoes she has eaten now! I have
witnesses to prove what has been done.—Oh, a clever woman this
is!—Thinks to fatten her sow at my expense, does she? But I will not
give up my rights!”

So she went on, and the neighbour giving her as violent language in
return, the quarrel was waxing venomous, both of them stretching out
their fists over the hedge.

“Hanka!” shouted Antek, heaving the plough on to his shoulders.

She at once ran to him, out of breath, and ruffled like an angry hen.

“Why, what a din you do make! All the village can hear you.”

“I’m standing up for my rights!” she cried out. “What, shall I suffer
another man’s swine to root in my garden? So much harm done—and am I to
say no word?” But he stopped her short, with a sharp sentence.

“Dress yourself, and try to look like a creature of God.”

“What now? Must I dress up for work as for church?”

He eyed her with disdain, for she looked as though someone had swept the
cabin floor with her. Then he walked away.

The smith was busy at work; his hammers were heard from a distance,
loudly and tunefully clinking; and the forge, hot as hell, was
uproarious with the tempestuous streams from the bellows that puffed in
cadence.

Michael himself was working with his assistant, forging long bars of
iron; and his face looked like a blackamoor’s, and he beat on the anvil,
as it were, out of sheer spite against it, smiting unweariedly.

“And for whom are those thick axle-trees?”

“For Ploshka’s wagon. He is to cart timber for the sawmill.”

Antek rolled a cigarette and sat down by the door-step. The hammers went
on with pertinacious fury, smiting rhythmically again and again on the
red-hot iron, slowly changing its shape beneath their strokes, as they
bent it to the will of those who wielded them; and the smithy vibrated.

“Would ye not like to cart timber as well?” asked Michael, thrusting the
bar deep into the flame, and working the bellows.

“I suppose the miller would not be willing. I hear he is the organist’s
partner, and hand in hand with the Jews.”

“But you have horses,” he said with bland friendliness; “horses and all
that is needful. And your Pete does naught but lounge about your
farm-yard.—And they pay pretty well.”

“No doubt a little money before the harvest would be a good thing; but
then, am I to go and beg the miller to do me a service?”

“No: arrange matters direct with the dealers.”

“Whom I do not know!—If you would speak for me....”

“Since you ask me, I am willing—and shall go to them this very day.”

Antek went out hurriedly; for now the hammers were playing, and a deluge
of sparks of fire flew on every side.

“I shall be back this instant, and am only going to look what kind of
timber they are bringing in.”

At the sawmill, likewise, the workers were lively; the logs were being
hewn into shape one after another; the saws rasped harshly through the
great trunks, while the water, pouring out of the wheels into the river,
boiled and bubbled and foamed, swirling along the narrow mill-tail
banks. Rough pine-logs, with their boughs scarcely lopped off, thundered
down out of the carts, till the earth shook; while half a dozen workmen
were busy with their axes, squaring them for the mill; and others were
carrying the sawn boards out into the sunshine. Matthew was foreman
there, and Antek could see him busily engaged, both working himself and
directing the work of the others.

They met with hearty good-fellowship.

“Why, what’s become of Bartek?” Antek asked, looking round him.

“He had enough of Lipka, and is gone from us.”

“Some folk must needs be always on the move!—Ye seem to have work for a
long time in advance, with so much timber here!”

“For a year, perchance, or yet longer. If the Squire come to terms with
all of us, he is going to cut down and sell the half of his woods.”

“Ah! I saw them measuring the land out again on the Podlesie farm.”

“Yes: someone comes to terms every day.—The silly sheep! They would not
make an agreement one and all together, because they hoped the Squire
would offer more. And now they make it apart and in secret from the
others, each one striving to be first!”

“Some men are like donkeys, which, if you would have them go forward,
you have to pull their tails. Yes, indeed, they are silly sheep.—And of
course the Squire makes a good profit out of this state of things.”

“Have ye taken possession of your property as yet?”

“No, it is too soon after Father’s death, and we may not divide the
land; but I have already overhauled the whole property carefully.”

A face just then appeared amongst the alders on the farther bank of the
river. Antek fancied it might be Yagna. The thought made him restless,
and though the talk continued, his eyes wandered a good deal towards the
bank of the stream.

“Now,” he said presently, “I must go and bathe: the heat is unbearable”;
and with that he went away down-stream, making as if in search of a
convenient place. But as soon as he was out of sight, he mended his pace
to a run.

Yes, it was she herself, with a hoe on her shoulder, going out to work
on her cabbage-plot.

He soon reached and greeted her.

She looked round cautiously and, recognizing him as he bent forward
amongst the parted sedges, stopped short, alarmed, bewildered, and
uncertain what to do.

“What! don’t you know me?” he whispered eagerly, trying at the same
time, though unsuccessfully, to pass the river.

“Was it possible not to know you?” she answered low, looking
apprehensively behind her towards the cabbage-plot, on which several
women made red splashes afar.

“Where are you in hiding? I cannot find you anywhere.”

“Where? Your woman drove me from the cabin: I am staying with Mother.”

“Concerning that matter, I desire speech with you. Come, Yagna, and meet
me by the churchyard this evening. I have something to say to you. Do
come!” And he begged her very earnestly.

“Yes?—And what if someone should see me with you once more?—Of what has
been I have enough already!” she answered. But he begged and entreated
so hard that she felt her heart melting, and was sorry for the man.

“What new thing can you say? and wherefore do you call me?”

“Am I, Yagna, so altogether a stranger to you now?”

“No stranger; but yet not mine! I think no more of such things.”

“But come only, and you’ll not rue it!—Do you fear the burying-ground?
Then come to the priest’s orchard.... Have you forgotten where, Yagna?
Have you forgotten?”

Yagna averted her head, for her face was suffused with crimson.

“Talk not foolishly; you shame me!” She was exceedingly confused.

“Come—come—come! I shall be waiting till midnight!”

“Wait, then!” And she turned away and fled to the cabbage-field.

He gazed after her greedily, full of such craving, and burning with such
fire in every vein, that he longed to pursue and seize her in the
presence of all—and could barely hold back from doing so.

“’Tis naught—only the great heat has inflamed me mightily,” he thought,
and undressed quickly to take a bath.

The cool water calmed him down; its chill brought him to his senses, and
he began to reflect.

“How miserably weak I am, for a trifle to upset me so!”

He felt humiliated and looked round, fearing lest someone might have
seen him with her; and then he carefully passed in review all he had
heard said against Yagna.

“A pretty creature you are, indeed!” he thought, in contempt not
unmingled with sorrow. But suddenly, as he stopped beneath a tree, a
vision of her came before his eyes, in all her dazzling and marvellous
beauty. And he cried:

“There’s not another like her in the whole wide world!”

This he said to himself with a groan, yearning terribly to see her but
once again, to gather her in his arms, to press her to his breast, and
take his full of those red lips of hers, and suck her sweet honey to the
very last drop!

“Only, O Yagna! for this one last time! this once, this once only!” he
cried aloud to her as if she had been present. For some time afterwards
he rubbed his eyes, and gazed upon the trees around him, before he could
muster sufficient strength to go back to the forge. Michael was alone,
working at Antek’s plough.

“Will your cart,” he asked him, “be able to bear such a great weight of
timber?”

“Let there be but the timber for it to bear!”

“I have promised: ’tis just as if you had it on your cart already.”

Antek set to ciphering on the door with a bit of chalk.

“I find,” he said with much pleasure, “that I may earn about three
hundred _zloty_ ere harvest-time.”

“It will,” the smith remarked casually, “come in handy for that affair
of yours.”

Antek’s face clouded over at once, and his eyes looked gloomy.

“Say that nightmare of mine! When I but think of it, I feel all broken,
and care no more even for my life.”

“That I can well understand; but not your having failed as yet to seek
some means to preserve yourself.”

“But what can I do?”

“Something must be done. What, man! the calf gives its throat to the
butcher: will you do so too?”

“None can butt through a stone wall with his head,” Antek returned,
sighing bitterly.

Michael went on working with great energy; Antek sat plunged in
disquieting and fearful thoughts, which made his face dark with changing
expressions, till he started up and looked out in dismay. His
brother-in-law let him suffer so for a considerable time, watching him
with eyes full of cunning; but he finally said in a low voice:

“Casimir of Modlitsa found a way.”

“He that fled to ‘Hamerica’?”

“The same. A clever dog!—Aye, and a resolute one: who knew what he had
to do, and did it!”

“Did they ever prove that he slew the gendarme?”

“He did not wait so long. No fool he, to submit to rot in prison!”

“He could flee: he was single.”

“A man saves himself as he can. See, I do not advise you in any wise: I
only say what others have done. But Voytek Gayda of Volitsa came back
from penal servitude only last Eastertide.—Ten years. Well, ’tis not a
whole lifetime, and one can survive it.”

“Ten years! O Lord God!” Antek murmured, clutching at his hair.

“Yes; it was hard labour for that space of time.”

“I could bear anything but that! God! I was there but for a few months,
and came near losing my wits.”

“Whereas ye could be beyond the seas in three weeks: ask Yankel.”

“But it is so horribly far! How can I go—throw up everything—leave home,
children, land, my village, and flee so awfully far—and for ever?”

He was absolutely panic-stricken.

“But yet so many have gone there of their own accord; and none of these
ever dreamed of returning to this Paradise of ours.”

“And I cannot bear even to think of it!”

“True. But take a look at Voytek, and hear what he tells about his penal
servitude: ye will find it still more unbearable to think of. Why, the
man is not forty yet, but quite hoary, and bent, and tottering: he spits
blood, and can hardly move, and all can see he is bound for the
‘priest’s byre’ soon.—But I need say no more: ye have your reason, and
must decide.”

And for the time he was silent; having sown trouble in the man’s mind,
he could safely leave it to grow up in time, and bring forth the harvest
he expected. So, having repaired the plough, he said lightly:

“And now I am off to the dealers. Have your cart ready to carry the
timber.—As for that other business, do not trouble. What is to be—is to
be; and God is merciful.—I shall see you to-morrow evening.”

Antek, however, could not forget his words. He had swallowed the bait of
friendship, and it stuck in his throat, just as a hook sticks in the
poor fish that has taken it and chokes. What pangs he felt—what
sufferings he had to bear!

“Ten years! Ten years! Oh, how can I ever bear ten years!” The very
thought palsied and benumbed him.

Arriving at his home, he trundled the cart into the barn, to have it in
readiness for the next morning; but feeling a deep sense of weariness
come over him—of the utter inutility of all his efforts—he only called
to Pete, who was watering the horses at the well.

“Grease the cart’s axle-trees, and have it in readiness for to-morrow.
To-morrow you’ll have to bring timber from the forest to the sawmill
here.”

Pete, who cared but little for such hard work, swore violently when he
heard the order.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, and do as I tell you.—Hanka, give the
horses three measures of oats for provender to-morrow, and you, Pete,
get them fresh clover from the meadow: they must have plenty to eat.”

To Hanka’s questionings he gave only a mumbled answer, and presently
went round to Matthew, with whom he was now on a very friendly footing.

The latter, who had but just come home from his work, was supping a dish
of sour milk outside his cabin, to cool him after the heat of the day.

Antek could hear, somewhere near, a sort of trickling sound—a querulous
heart-broken wailing.

“Who is making that noise?”

“Who but my sister Nastka? I have enough of her love affair!—Her banns
are all published now, her wedding is to take place next Sunday—and lo!
Dominikova has sent word to us through the Soltys that the holding had
been left to her alone; that she will not let Simon have a single strip
of land, nor even enter her cabin! And the old woman will keep to what
she says: I know her well, that creature!”

“And Simon? What has he to say to that?”

“What should he say? Ever since the morning, he has been sitting in the
orchard as dumb as a post, and says not one word even to Nastka. I am
afraid his mind must have given way!”

“Simon!” he cried out into the orchard. “Come this way. Boryna is here
to see us; perchance he can give some good advice.”

After a minute, he came and sat down, without any word of greeting to
either of them. He looked very much broken down, and as thin as a plank
of aspen wood. Only his eyes burned; and on his thin face there was a
look of desperate resolve, from which nothing on earth could turn him
away.

“Well,” Matthew asked him in a kindly tone, “what have you made up your
mind to do?”

“To take an ax and kill her like a dog!”

“Fool! keep such wild talk for the tavern!”

“As there’s a God in heaven, I will kill her. What—what else remains for
me to do? She drives me off my father’s land, turns me out of my hut,
gives me no money whatever—what am I to do? I am an orphan, cast
destitute on the world; and whither shall I go—whither? My own mother
has wronged me so awfully!” he groaned, brushing away a tear with his
sleeve. Then, suddenly starting up: “No!” he cried out; “in the name of
all mothers of dogs, I will not forgive this, I will not—not if I should
rot in jail for it!”

They quieted him. He sat still, but sombre, and in such a state of dumb
fury that he would not so much as answer Nastka’s sobbing whispers. The
others conferred together, thinking how they could be of use to him; but
they found no means, because Dominikova, with her hopeless obstinacy,
blocked the way. But at last Nastka took her brother aside, and pointed
out a plan to him.

“She has hit on an excellent thing!” he exclaimed in great joy, on
returning. “She says: Let him purchase six acres of the Podlesie farm
from the Squire, to be paid by instalments.—Is’t not a good thought?”

“As good as any, indeed—But ... whence shall the money come?”

“In any case, for the outset, and as an earnest, Nastka has her thousand
_zloty_ of ready money.”

“True; but whence will the live stock come, and the cabin, the
implements and the seed to sow?”

“Whence?—From these!” Simon cried suddenly, springing up and waving both
his arms.

“’Tis good talk, that; but can you accomplish it?” Antek asked, in
doubt.

“Let me but have it—the land to work on ... and ye shall see!” he
exclaimed with great energy.

“Then we have but to talk with the Squire and buy the land.”

“Wait a little, Antek, wait a little; let us consider this in all its
bearings.”

“Ye will see how well I shall do everything!” said Simon, speaking
hurriedly. “Who was it ploughed Mother’s ground? Who reaped for her?—I
alone! And was it work badly done? Am I a sluggard, tell me? Let the
whole village answer—nay, let even Mother bear witness!... Oh, if I only
have the land!... Help me to get that, O ye my dearest of brethren, and
I shall thank you to the day of my death!” he cried, weeping and
laughing by turns—intoxicated, as it were, with the joy of the hope
which had come to him.

As soon as he was a little calmed, they set to deliberate and to talk
over the idea and see what was to be done.

“Provided,” Nastka said, with a sigh of fear, “provided the Squire be
willing to accept instalments.”

“I think he will, if Matthew and I guarantee their being paid.”

Nastka, for his kindness, was ready to kiss his hands.

“I myself have had sufferings, and know how they taste to other folk,”
he said, rising to take leave; for it was dark upon the earth: only the
sky was yet alight, and the evening glowed in the West.

Antek hesitated awhile in which direction to turn his steps, but at last
bent them towards home.

He walked on very leisurely, and at length was close to his cabin. The
windows were open and alight, the children wailing within, Hanka raising
her voice and Yuzka retorting shrilly. He could not quite make up his
mind, till Lapa came joyfully whining and leaping up. Then—following a
sudden impulse of ill humour—he gave the dog a kick and walked back to
the village, going down the lane that led to the priest’s orchard. He
passed along the organist’s premises so silently that not even a dog
gave tongue; and gliding on outside the priest’s garden, he was
presently on the wide field-pathway which divided Klemba’s land from
that of his Reverence.

He was completely hidden in the dark shadow of the trees.

The moon, a sharp thin sickle, already glittered in the shadowy sky.
Stars peeped out in ever greater and greater numbers; and the evening,
though hot, was shedding dew upon the earth. Quails flew out of the rye;
droning beetles whizzed over the fields, and the scent and silence of
the meadows made the brain whirl in a sort of stupor.

Yagna was not in sight.

Instead, about half a furlong away, the parish priest, clad in a white
dust-coat, walked about saying his prayers, and apparently so intent
upon them that he took scant notice how his horses, from grazing on his
own miserable fallow land, had crossed to Klemba’s rich clover meadow,
that rose high and dark, with lush growth and countless flowers, on the
other side of the path.

The priest walked on, now whispering his prayers, now looking up to the
stars, now stopping to listen intently. And whenever he heard any the
faintest murmur in the direction of the village, he would turn round
quickly, in seeming anger against his horses.

“You Grey One, whither have you wandered? Into Klemba’s good clover,
hey? Fond of other folk’s property, are you not? What, shall I baste
your flanks soundly, will you have me do it, hey!” And his voice sounded
very stern.

But the priest’s horses were eating with so good an appetite that he
could not find it in his heart to stop them, in spite of the harm they
were doing: so, looking round him, he reasoned thus with himself:

“Let them take a little, each one of them, poor creatures! I shall put
up some prayers for old Dame Klembova’s everlasting rest—or make the
loss up in some other way!—Oh, the greedy beasts! how fond they are of
that clover!”

And once more he paced back and forth, and said his prayers and kept
watch, never dreaming that Antek was watching him, and listening, and
ever awaiting Yagna more eagerly.

Some time passed thus. At last it occurred to Antek to go and confide
his troubles to the priest.

“So learned a man must surely know some way out of them!” he thought,
slipping away in the shadow of the barn, to appear thence boldly round
the corner, and step out into the field-way, clearing his throat
noisily.

The priest, hearing someone come near, called out to his horses:

“You mischievous creatures! You foul beasts! Cannot I take my eye off
you for one instant, but ye must be at once on my neighbour’s land? O ye
swine!—Off with you, Chestnut!” And plucking up his long skirts, he
drove them away very speedily.

“Oh! Boryna!” he cried, when the man was near enough. “Well, how goes
the world with you?”

“I came to speak with your Reverence, and had been at your house
already.”

“Yes, I had strolled out to say my prayers and look after the horses:
Valek has gone to the Manor house. But those misbegotten beasts of
mine—Heaven save the mark!—I can do nothing with them.—Look how
magnificently Klemba’s field of clover has grown.... Like a forest! And
from the very same seed as my own.... And mine has been so frost-bitten
that there’s naught in my fields but camomile weeds and thistles.” He
sighed heavily, seating himself on a stone.

“Sit down; we’ll talk together. What splendid weather we have!—In three
weeks we shall hear the sickles clinking. I tell you we shall.”

Antek sat down and tried to unburden his mind, while the priest listened
attentively, now shouting at the horses, now taking pinch after pinch of
snuff, and sneezing with great violence.

“Whither! Whither!—’Tis not our land!—Behold what perverse swine they
are!”

But Antek did not make any headway; he stammered and wandered a good
deal in his explanations.

“I see you’re in evil case.—Now tell me—tell me all frankly: it will
ease your heart! To whom can one speak openly, if not to a priest?”

He stroked his head, and offered him snuff; and Antek, encouraged, at
last made a clean breast of it.

The priest heard him out, and then said with a deep sigh:

“For the slaying of the forester, I should have given you only a
canonical penance. You were fighting to save your father; and, moreover,
the man—a libertine and an unbeliever—is no very great loss. But the
courts will not let you off so. Ye will get at least four years of hard
labour! As to escaping.... True, men can live in America. And they get
out of jail likewise.—But, between the two evils, the choice is a hard
one!”

And now he was for Antek’s escaping instantly; now he advised him to
stay and work his time out; and said in conclusion: “One thing is
undoubtedly to be done: have trust in God’s Providence and wait upon His
mercy.”

“But they will put me in irons and drive me to Siberia!”

“Well, men come back thence: I myself have seen some.”

“Aye, but in what state shall I find my farm—after so many a year? How
will my wife be able to keep things going?—All will go to rack and
ruin!”

“With all my heart I wish I could do something for you; but what can be
done?—Wait a little: I shall say Mass for you at the altar of the
Transfiguration here!—Pray drive me these horses into the stable; it is
high time—yes, yes, it is high time to go to bed.”

Antek was so greatly upset that he had forgotten all about Yagna, whom
he did not remember till he left the priest’s yard, and hastened to find
her.

She was awaiting him, crouched in the shadow of the granary.

“Oh, the time has been long—how long!”

Her voice was changed and hoarse ... perhaps with the falling dew.

“How could I slip away from his Reverence?” he asked, with an attempt to
embrace her; but she thrust him away.

“I am in no mood now for that sort of thing!”

“You are so changed, I know you no longer!” Her behaviour hurt him.

“As ye left me, so I am!”

“Were you another, you could not be more different!” He pressed closer
to her.

“Can you marvel, after such long neglect?”

“Never did I neglect you; but could I fly to you out of prison?”

“I was alone—alone with my remorse and with a living corpse!” And she
shuddered with cold.

“And did you never think to come and visit me? Oh, no, your head was
full of other thoughts!”

“O Antek; Antek!” she exclaimed incredulously; “did you ever expect my
coming?”

“Can I say how much?—Like an idiot, I was hanging at the bars every day,
looking out for you.” He stopped, shaken with sudden anguish.

“My God!—And your curses on me—there, beyond the haystack? And your
rancour of old days? And when they took you away, did you speak to
me—look at me even? Ye had a kind word for all, even for the dog—I
marked it well—but none for me!”

“Yagna, I bore you no grudge whatsoever. But a man whose soul is
tortured forgets both himself and the whole world.” They were speechless
awhile, standing shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, the moon shining
straight into their faces. Both breathed heavily; both were torn with
memories that seared them, and their eyes brimmed with unshed tears of
agony.

“Not so did ye receive me, once upon a time,” he said gloomily.

All at once she fell a-weeping with abundant tears, like a little child.

“And how shall I receive you, pray? Have you blasted my life and wronged
me too little as yet, now that all men look upon me as on a dog?”

“I blasted your life?—Was’t through me?” He was hot with anger.

“Yea, through you! On your account did that harridan—that offal—drive me
from your door! And on your account have I become the laughing-stock of
all Lipka!”

“Oh, and do ye no longer meet the Voyt? and the others besides? Ha?” he
broke out grimly.

“All that—all!—came about because of you!” she hissed, pierced by his
words to her inmost heart. “Wherefore did you force your will on me as
on a dog? Had you no wife of your own? I was senseless; you had so
befooled me that I saw no one in the world but you. And why did you
leave me then, a prey to all men?”

But he, in a frenzy of bitterness, muttered between his set teeth:

“Did I constrain you, forsooth, to become my stepmother? And did I force
you to be afterwards the prize of any that cared?”

“Ah! why did you not lift a finger to prevent me? Had you loved me, you
would never have left me to myself, but saved me ... as others would
have done!” Her regret was so clear, so sincere and unfathomably deep,
that he found no word to defend himself. All his former acrimony
vanished from his soul, and he again felt love stirring there.

“Hush, my Yagna, hush, my little one!” he whispered tenderly.

“And this wrong besides have I suffered, that you—you, of all
men!—should rise up against me with the others!” she sobbed, her head
against the barn.

He led her away to the field-path, gathered her to his bosom, fondled
her, caressed her silky locks, and wiped her wet cheeks, and kissed her
trembling lips, and her eyes, welling with briny tears—those dear
sorrowful eyes of hers! He showered every endearment on her, and
presently her weeping grew fainter; she leaned her drooping head upon
his breast, and put her arm round his neck with childlike trust.

But Antek’s blood was by now all on fire; his kisses grew fierce and
stormy, his embraces tightened to a crushing hug.

She at first did not realize what was coming on, nor what was passing in
herself. It was only when she felt completely helpless, and knew again
the power of his hot kisses, that she attempted to break loose, begging
him in terror, almost with tears:

“Let me go! Antek, for God’s sake, let me go!—I shall cry out!”

But escape was impossible: his wild impetuosity crushed all resistance
down, and prevailed utterly.

“For the last—the very last, last time!” he ejaculated, in a hoarse
breathless voice.

And the world turned round them both, and they both went down headlong
into the boiling whirlpool. Both loved passionately, as they once had
loved before—fainting, swooning, near to death.

As once—as of old—as in the past!

They forgot all—all save the tempest of fire that was carrying them
away—all save their own insatiable desire. As the thunderbolt unites
with the tree which quenches its fire and is itself consumed, so they
each destroyed the other’s passion in the tempest of their own. And for
that one short minute of a rapture soon to expire for ever, after this
last exuberant outburst, their former love had revived.

A moment afterwards, they were again seated side by side, feeling their
souls very dark within them. Each glanced at the other by stealth, and
as if in terror: each shunned meeting the other’s eyes that spoke of
shame and regret.

Once more, with lips eager for kisses, he sought her lips, but without
success: she turned away from him with aversion.

In vain he whispered in her ear the sweet names of endearment he had
once given her. She looked up at the moon, and replied not a word. In
him, this bearing of hers aroused resentment, cooled passion down, and
brought petulance and ill humour in its stead.

They sat together, unable to speak, each impatient of the other’s
presence, each waiting for the other to rise and go.

Yagna’s flame was out to the last spark; nothing was there but ashes
now; and she spoke first, with barely concealed animosity.

“In truth, ye did take me like a robber—by sheer might and main.”

“Well, Yagna, and are you not mine—mine?” He would have embraced her
again, but she pushed him violently from her.

“Neither yours nor anyone’s!—Understand that!—No, nor anyone’s!”

She fell a-crying once more, but this time he neither fondled nor
soothed her. After some time, however, he asked her very seriously:

“Yagna, will you flee with me?”

“And whither?” she returned, her wet eyes looking him full in the face.

“Why not to ‘Hamerica’? Would you go, Yagna?”

“But what would ye do with your wife?”

He started as though stung.

“Tell me true: will you give her poison?”

He caught her round the waist, showered kisses over all her face, and
begged and entreated her to run away with him—somewhere—and be with him
for evermore. He spoke a long while of his plans and hopes; he had
suddenly caught hold of that idea—flight with her—as a drunken man
catches at a fence to steady himself. He talked, too, like a drunken
man, for he was carried away by his feverish excitement. She heard him
out, and then said, with frigid scorn:

“Because ye have forced sin upon me, do ye think me such a fool as to
believe this nonsense?”

And though he swore he was but telling her the truth, and swore it by
all holy things, she would not even listen, but shook herself free of
him, and said:

“Not even do I dream of going. Why should I? Am I so ill off, though
alone?” Throwing her apron over her head, she looked cautiously round.
“’Tis late; I must hurry away.”

“Wherefore in such haste? Will anyone come from your home for you?”

“But for you ’tis time: Hanka has made the bed, and yearns sorely!”

The words made him snarl like a dog.

“Of him that is waiting for you down there at the tavern,” he said
venomously, “I do not remind you.”

“Know, then,” she said, with biting emphasis, “that more than one is
waiting: aye, and are ready to wait even till morning! You would have it
you are the only one, forsooth! You are too saucy!”

“Then off with you—go! Go, even to that old Jew!” he almost spat the
words at her.

But she stood there still. They were both together, panting heavily,
staring one at the other out of eyes full of hate, each seeking what
words might wound the other most deeply.

“Ye had something to say to me: say it now, for never will I meet you
again.”

“Fear not: never will I ask you!”

“I would not, were you to come whining at my feet!”

“Without doubt; you are too busy, having to meet so many every night.”

At that, crying: “May you die the death of a dog!” she leaped over the
stile and into the field.

He did not follow, nor call after her, but looked on as she ran through
the fields and disappeared like a shadow among the orchards; rubbed his
eyes, as if only just waking, and grumbled in sullen ill humour:

“My wits are clean gone from me! Lord! how far astray a man can be led
by a woman!”

On his return to the hut, he somehow felt extremely ashamed. He could
not pardon himself for what he had done: it obsessed and haunted him
cruelly.

His bed—made in the orchard, the heat and flies within doors being
intolerable—was awaiting him.

But he could not sleep. He lay looking up at the stars that twinkled
overhead, and listening to the quiet footsteps of the night ... and ...
making up his mind about Yagna.

“Neither with nor without her can I live!” He cursed her under his
breath, and sighed in pain, turning from side to side, throwing off his
covering, and wetting his feet to cool them in the long dewy grass. But
no sleep came, and his thoughts persecuted him as before.

In the hut, one of the children set up a wail, and Hanka murmured some
words. He lifted his head; but soon all was still again. And then his
mind began to swarm with thoughts; the memories of past joys came
floating about him, like fragrant spring breezes. But he was not now to
be their slave any more; now he could resist their charms, and
contemplate them with calm deliberation, and in their very presence take
a firm resolve, as solemn as if he were at Holy Confession.

“This must cease—and for ever!—’Tis a foul offence against God!—Would I
have folk speak about me anew?—Am I not a landed man, a father?—Aye, I
must—I must—end all this now.”

He felt the resolve to be unutterably painful to keep; but he took it
nevertheless.

And a bitter but deep reflection occurred to him: “Let a man but once go
wrong, he may come to cling so to iniquity that even death itself will
not part them!”

It was dawn now, and the sky seemed covered with a mantle of grey cloth,
but Antek was yet waking: and as soon as the daylight had come, Hanka
appeared at his side. He looked at her with eyes full of sadness, but
wonderfully gentle; and when she told him what the smith had called to
let her know late the evening before, he passed his hand kindly over her
unkempt hair.

“If the carting pays, I’ll buy you something at the fair.”

Such gracious behaviour on his part made her radiant with joy, and she
pressed him hard to get her a glazed sideboard, “such as the organist
possessed.”

“And soon ye’ll be thinking of a sofa like those at the Manor!” he said,
laughing; but, promising her all she wanted, he rose early, to put his
neck under the yoke again, and take up the work which waited for him at
all times.

He had a further talk with the blacksmith, and directly after breakfast
sent Pete to cart dung afield, while he himself went to the wood with a
couple of horses.

In the clearing, the work was going on with great alacrity. Many men
were busy shaping the wood cut down in wintertime; the ceaseless strokes
of the axes and rasping of the saws put one in mind of woodpeckers,
tapping everlastingly. In the long grass of the glades, the horses of
Lipka were grazing, and the smoke of their fires curled upward.

He recalled the scene which had taken place there, and, seeing the men
of Lipka now working together in amity with the “nobles” of Rzepki and
the others, he nodded his head.

“Misery has taught them its lesson: a needful one, was it not?” he said
to Philip, Yagustynka’s son, who was squaring a pine-log.

“But who was at fault save the Squire and the farmers?” the man growled
sullenly, continuing to lop off the boughs.

“Rather, much rather, foolish spite and bad blood!” said Antek.

He stopped at the place where he had killed the forester, and swore
softly to himself; for he felt the passion of yore stirring within him
anew.

“The wretch! it is he that has brought me to this!—If I could, I would
serve him worse still!”—He spat angrily, and set to work.

All day long he went on carting timber to the sawmill, working as if for
dear life: yet he could neither drive from his mind the remembrance of
Yagna nor of his impending trial.

A few days after, he heard from Matthew that the Squire was willing not
only to accept instalments, but to let them have other wood in addition
to the big timber; and so Nastka’s wedding had been put off until such
time as Simon should be settled on his own land.

But other folk’s affairs interested him little now; and the blacksmith,
who visited him almost every day, was constantly terrifying him,
speaking about his unhappy position, and promising him pecuniary help to
escape, should he be in sore straits.

Antek was at such moments quite ready to throw everything up and flee;
but again, looking round him at the country-side, and reflecting that
flight would mean leaving all that for ever, he was panic-stricken, and
would have preferred even the worst of prisons.

Yet the thought of a prison, too, filled him with despair.

All these inward struggles weighed him down, made him grow haggard and
bitter, and harsh and fierce with those at home. What had come over him?
Hanka did her very utmost, but to no purpose, to find this out. She had
instantly suspected him of renewing relations with Yagna. But her own
close scrutiny, and that of Yagustynka (whose fidelity was well paid)
and others besides, assured her that the two were quite apart now, and
never met: so she was at ease on that score. And yet, no matter how
faithful a servant she proved herself, giving him the best food with the
most exact punctuality, making the cottage a pattern of neatness and
cleanliness, and the farm stock the very perfection of success—all would
not do. He was always sullen, morose, ready to upbraid her for the
slightest cause, and more than miserly of kind words. And it was worse
still when he went about speechless, dreary, sad as an autumn night—not
angry, not ill-tempered—only sighing deeply; often spending his whole
evening with his acquaintances in the tavern.

She durst not question him openly; and Roch vowed that he was aware of
nothing wrong. It might well be the truth. The old man was now seen at
their cottage only at night. The whole day he was going about with his
books, teaching the peasants to pray to the Sacred Heart of Jesus—a
devotion which the Russian Government had severely forbidden in church.

One evening, all being together at supper, the dogs set to barking
furiously along the mill-pond. Roch laid his spoon down and listened
attentively.

“Some stranger.—I’ll go and see who it is.”

He returned in a minute, very pale, and saying:

“Sabres are flashing along the road.—If I should be asked after, I am in
the village.”

And he slipped away amongst the orchard-trees.

Antek, white as a corpse, started to his feet. Dogs barked outside the
fence; and men, heavily tramping, were heard in the porch.

“Have they come to fetch me?” he faltered, terror-struck.

They were all petrified: the gendarmes appeared on the threshold.

Motionless, Antek glanced at the open doors and windows. Luckily, Hanka
had presence of mind enough to offer them settles and beg them to be
seated.

They answered with civility enough, and at once threw out hints about
supper, so that she had to prepare some scrambled eggs for them.

“Where are ye going so late?” Antek at length made bold to ask them.

“On duty! We have much to do,” their leader returned, with a glance
round him.

“After thieves, no doubt!” he continued, with more assurance, bringing a
bottle out of the store-room.

“After thieves—and others.... Drink to us, goodman.”

He did so. And then they set to upon the scrambled eggs, till their
spoons scraped together the empty dish.

The inmates sat silent, like terror-stricken rabbits.

After cleaning the platter, they took another glass of vodka; and their
leader, wiping his moustaches, said impressively:

“Is it long since ye were let out of prison, say?”

“Surely your Honour can answer that best.”

He stirred impatiently; then, on a sudden:

“Where is Roch?” he asked.

“Which Roch?” was Antek’s reply, who had understood on the spot, and
felt much more at his ease.

“A certain Roch, I am told, is living with you.”

“Can your Honour be speaking of that beggar who haunts our village?—’Tis
true, his name is Roch.”

The gendarme fidgeted again, and said with a threatening look:

“Play me no tricks, he is known to dwell with you!”

“Surely, he had his abode here at times, but elsewhere likewise. Where
he happens to find himself, there he spends the night: ’tis his way. Now
in the cabin, now in the byre, and oft beneath the hedges.—Is your
Honour in any wise interested in the man?”

“I? In no wise: I ask to be informed.”

“A good honest man he is,” Hanka put in here; “nowhere does he trouble
the waters.”

“We know, we know well what manner of man he is!” he grumbled
emphatically, and continued to seek for information about him by various
arts—even going the length of offering them snuff. But they all answered
so that he was just as wise as before; and in the end, finding himself
no farther on the trail, he got up in a rage, crying:

“And I declare that the man dwells in your cabin!”

Here Antek blurted out: “Think ye I have him in my pocket?”

“Boryna!” the gendarme returned fiercely; “I am here on duty: understand
that!”—But he took leave in more friendly fashion, carrying with him as
a present a dozen eggs and a very large pat of fresh butter.

Vitek followed them on their way step by step, and said afterwards how
they had been at the Soltys’s and the priest’s, and had also tried to
look in at several windows yet alight; only they could make no
discoveries for the barking of the dogs, and had gone away as they came.

Now this incident had upset Antek to such a degree that, no sooner was
he alone with his wife, than he told her his trouble.

She did not interrupt him by one single word, until at last he told her
there remained nothing for him to do but to sell everything and go
abroad—even to “Hamerica.”

Then she stood up before him, pallid, ashen-white.

“I will not go!” she cried, with a dark frown. “No, nor let my children
go either, to destruction! Not I! And if you think to force me, I’ll
cleave their skulls with an ax and leap down the well myself. And I am
speaking the truth, so help me, O Lord God!” she screamed, kneeling down
before the holy images, as one does to take a solemn vow.

“Hush, hush, dear!” Antek said. “I never meant it!”

She caught her breath, and continued, with difficulty restraining her
tears:

“You will work out your time and come back. Fear nothing: I will manage
all, and not lose one strip of land. Ye know me not as yet!—No, I will
keep a firm grip on everything. And our Lord will help me to pull
through with this affliction too.” Then she wept silently.

He too was mute for a long while. At last he said:

“God’s will be done! I must await my trial here.”

And thus did all the blacksmith’s scheming and treachery prove a dead
failure.




                               CHAPTER VI


“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!”




                              CHAPTER VII


Yagustynka went to the Borynas’. She had gathered some wild
strawberries, and brought them for Yuzka. Hanka was then milking the
cows outside the hut: so she sat down under the eaves and told her of
all the presents Nastka had got.

“But,” she concluded, “they all do this to spite Dominikova.”

“And,” Hanka corrected, “to help Nastka also.—By the by, I too ought to
take her something or other.”

“If ye have aught that I can take now, I’ll do it willingly,” Yagustynka
told her. And then from inside the cabin was heard a faint voice of
entreaty—Yuzka’s.

“O Hanka, give her my young sow! I know I am going to die, and then
Nastka will say a prayer for my soul!”

The idea struck Hanka as good; she directly told Vitek to drive the
little sow over to Nastka’s, for she did not feel inclined to go
herself.

“Vitek,” Yuzka cried, “tell her the sow is from me. And she must come
quick to see me: I cannot move now.”

The poor girl was very plaintive and querulous. She had been in bed for
a week, sick of a fever, all her body covered with crusts and scales. At
first they had let her lie under the orchard trees, for she had begged
them very hard. But she had grown so much worse that Yagustynka had
forbidden this.

“You must lie in the dark,” she said; “the sunlight drives all the ill
humours inside.”

So, moaning and groaning and complaining feebly that no children nor any
friends of hers were allowed to come in, she lay alone in the darkened
room. And Yagustynka, now constituted her guardian, drove away any that
tried to come in, even taking a stick to them!

Having spoken thus with Hanka, she gave the strawberries to the sick
child, and prepared an ointment for her, made up of pure buckwheat meal,
mixed with much fresh unsalted butter, and many egg-yolks. With that,
she smeared Yuzka’s face and neck, laying it on very thick, and covering
all with wet cloths. The child submitted passively to the treatment,
only asking with some apprehension:

“Will not the sores leave pock-marks on my face?”

“Only do not scratch at them, and they will leave none.—As it was for
Nastka.”

“But they sting me so, O Lord!... Then pray bind my hands fast, else I
shall not be able to bear the pain!” And as she begged very earnestly,
and could scarce refrain from tearing at her cheeks, the old woman,
muttering an incantation over her, fumigated her with the smoke of dried
houseleek, bound her arms to her sides, and went off to work.

Yuzka lay still, listening to the hum of the flies—and another strange
buzzing, too, which ever and anon sounded within her head. She also, as
in a dream, now and then heard someone of the household coming in to
look at her and going away on tiptoe. And then she fancied there were
boughs, laden with rosy apples, that hung very low above her head, but
she was powerless to reach up and snatch them; and then a flock of sheep
came crowding around her, bleating pitifully ... but Vitek came into the
room, and she knew him at once.

“Have you taken to Nastka my little sow?—What did she say?”

“Why, she rejoiced over it so, she came near kissing its tail!”

“Ye naughty fellow! Making fun even of Nastka!”

“But I say true!—And she bade me tell you she will be here to-morrow.”

All at once, Yuzka began to toss to and fro, crying out in dismay:

“Drive them off!—They’ll trample me down!—Baa! Baa! Baa!”

Then of a sudden she collapsed, lying still as in sleep. Vitek went out,
but returned at frequent intervals. Once she asked him anxiously:

“Is it noon yet?”

“Nearer midnight: everybody is asleep.”

“True: ’tis dark.”

“Take those sparrows away: they are chirping like unfledged birds.”

He was just telling her something about their nests, when she screamed
and sat up.—“Where’s Grey One? Vitek, let it not stray, or Father will
thrash you!”

Then she told him to come near her, and talked to him in a whisper:
“Hanka forbade me to go to Nastka’s wedding; yet will I go in despite of
her ... dressed in a dark-blue corset ... and the skirt I wore for the
Indulgence.... Vitek! pluck me some apples; but only let Hanka not catch
you.” Then she was all at once still, as though plunged in swift sleep.

Vitek was for hours at her side, brushing flies away and giving her
water. Hanka had told him to stay at home, and watch over her, while
little Matthias, Klemba’s son, tended Boryna’s cattle along with his
father’s.

The want of the free forest air made itself felt sorely to the boy; but,
deeply affected as he was by Yuzka’s state, he would (as they say) have
pulled the sky down for her, and have done anything to interest her and
make her laugh.

One day, he brought her a whole covey of little partridges.

“Yuzka, stroke them! stroke them, and they will cry _pew-pew_ to you!”

“How can I?” she moaned, raising her head.

He undid her, and she took up the fluttering unfledged birds in those
poor feeble nerveless hands of hers, and pressed them to her face and
eyes.

“Ah, how their souls throb within them! How frightened they are, poor
things!”

“What? I myself caught them, and shall I let them go?” he protested,
unwilling to do so. Yet he did.

Another time, he brought her a leveret, that he placed on the down
coverlet over her, holding it up by the ears.

“Dear little leveret, sweet little leveret, taken away from your
mother!” she whispered, holding it close to her bosom, like an infant in
arms, and stroking and fondling it tenderly. But the animal screamed as
if tortured, and, escaping from her hands, jumped out into the passage
amongst a lot of fowls that took tumultuously to flight, rushed out of
the porch just in front of Lapa, that was dozing inside, and away into
the orchard. The dog was hot in pursuit instantly; Vitek followed,
shouting; and the noise and uproar were so great that Hanka came out of
the farm-yard: while Yuzka laughed almost to split her sides.

“And did the dog get it?” she asked, with anxiety.

“A likely thing!” he exclaimed. “No; he just saw its scut and no more,
when it vanished into the depths of the corn, as a stone disappears in
the water.—A splendid runner it is.—Do not be sad, Yuzka; I will get you
another.”

Whatever he could find, he brought to her: now a lot of gold-besprinkled
quails, now a hedgehog, now a tame squirrel that leapt about the room
the most funnily in the world; or a brood of young swallows, twittering
so very sorrowfully that the parent birds flew after them into the room,
and Yuzka ordered him to restore them to the nest; and many another
curious thing; besides apples and pears, as many as they both could
manage to eat without their elders’ knowing.—But everything at last
wearied her, and she turned away tired and caring no more for anything.

“All this is naught to me! bring me something new!” she would murmur,
turning even from the stork, as it strutted about the room, poking its
beak into every pot and pan, or placed itself in ambush for a sudden
thrust at Lapa in the doorway.—Once only, when he brought her a
rainbow-hued bee-eater, caught alive, did she enjoy the sight a little.

“What a magnificent bird! It looks as if painted!”

“Only take care lest it peck your nose: ’tis an ill bird to tackle.”

“But it does not even try to get away.—Is it tame?”

“No, but I have bound its wings and legs.”

The bird amused them for some time; but it pined away, sat motionless,
and, refusing to eat, died shortly, to the great sorrow of all in the
household.

So the days went by.

Outside, it was slowly getting hotter and hotter still: men could hardly
do anything in the fields by day; nor was the night anything but a
stifling time spent in a vast oven: even out of doors and in the
orchards, it was so. The drought was swiftly becoming a disaster. The
cattle came back to their sheds, lowing and hungry from the
pasture-lands. Potatoes were withering to the size of hazel-nuts; there
were fields wherein the stunted oats rose but a few inches above the
ground; the blades of barley were sere; and the rye, untimely dried up,
was white with grainless ears. In deep trouble, therefore, they would
look, each sunset, in desolate hope, for some indication of a coming
change in the weather. But not a cloud hung in the sky. Above them there
was only a glassy whitish glare; and the sun would go down unveiled by
the faintest shadow of vapour.

Many a one new wept fervently at the altar of our Lord’s
Transfiguration, before the holy images; but unavailingly. The fields
grew ever more parched, more scorched; the fruits fell unripe from the
trees; and so little water now went down the stream that both flour-mill
and sawmill stood closed, silent and dreary: while the people, reduced
to desperation, united, each man paying his quota for a grand votive
Mass, with exposition of the Holy Sacrament!

So heartily and so fervently did they put up their prayers that not even
a heart of stone could have remained untouched.

And indeed our Lord did have mercy on them. True, the next day was so
sultry, so perspiring, so fiercely glowing that birds fell fainting to
the earth, oxen lowed plaintively over the pasture-lands, horses would
not come out from their stables, and men, wearied and worn, crawled
about the dried-up orchards, unwilling to quit the shade. But it came to
pass that—at the very point of noon, when everything seemed about to
breathe its last in that white-hot fiery furnace—there came a sudden
mist, troubling the brightness of the sun and obscuring it, as if a
handful of ashes had been flung over its disk; and shortly there was
heard a sound as of the wings of many birds high in air, and livid
masses of clouds assembled from every quarter, more louring and more
full of grim menace every instant.

Now fear breathed in every bosom; and all were still and hushed, though
thrilled with apprehension.

Many thunders muttered with far-away voices; and then arose a gale, and
the dust got up in multitudinous whorls, close and compact; the sun shed
a sickly glare, of a sandy yellow hue. And then all rapidly grew dark,
and the heavens were filled with swarms of lightnings—as if someone were
cracking fiery whip-lashes in the sky. And with the falling of the first
thunderbolt the people came rushing out of their houses.

Immediately a great tumult sprang up. The sun was now quite invisible,
in the wild confusion of an indescribable whirlwind, in which, amid
entangled masses of pitchy darkness, there poured forth shaft after
shaft of dazzling splendour; thunder, rolling and roaring, came with the
flashes of lightning; then, the rattling downpour, and the howling of
the blasts in the trees.

Thunderbolt followed thunderbolt with blinding brilliancy; the rain fell
in such sheets that all was hid from sight; flaws of hail went passing
here and there.

This lasted for about an hour. The corn was lodged, the roads had turned
to frothy turbid streams by now. Then it slackened a little, and
brightened up; but once more the thunder rattled like ten score carts
trundling over hard-frozen ground—and the rain again poured down, like
water from a tub.

People peered out of their huts in alarm. In some cabins, consecrated
lamps were lit, and the hymn, “We fly to thy protection, holy Mother,”
was sung; while the holy images had been brought out of others, as a
safe-guard against the powers of evil abroad. And, thank God! the storm
passed away, without doing very much harm. Only, when it was nearly
over, and the drops of rain began to fall less frequently, there came,
from a lonely cloud which hung quite at the end of the village, a bolt
of fire that fell on the Voyt’s granary!

At once, flames and smoke burst forth from the building, and people ran
to the place in dismay. There was no hope of saving it, from the very
beginning, and the fire devoured it as it would have done a heap of dry
splinters of wood; but Antek and Matthew, together with the rest, worked
away with frantic energy to save Koziol’s hut and the adjacent
buildings. Happily the roads were streaming with rain-water; for several
thatches had begun to smoke, and from the doomed granary sparks flew
abroad thick and fast.

The Voyt was from home: since morning he had been in town on official
business. But his wife was there, desperate over her loss, grieving and
running about in every direction like a scared hen. And when the danger
had passed, and the people were going home, who should approach her but
Kozlova, with arms akimbo, and mouth full of loud fierce gibes!

“See ye? The Lord has punished ye for the wrong ye did me, Madam Voyt!
Aye, that He has!”

There would have been a fight, for the other rushed at her, with claws
stretched forth; but Antek succeeded (not without difficulty, though) in
parting them. Then he abused Kozlova in such strong terms that she, like
a well-thrashed dog, went back to her hut growling and snarling:

“Yes, Madam Voyt! puff yourself up, do! I shall get my own back, and
with good interest!”

Now by this time the storm had rolled away to the woodlands, and the sun
had come out again. A flock of white clouds moved athwart the blue sky;
the air was cool and fresh, and the birds sang; while the people went
forth to mend the damage done, and open the sluices.

Unexpectedly, and almost close to his cabin, Antek had met Yagna,
carrying a hoe and a basket. He greeted her cordially; she glared at him
like a wolf, and passed on in silence.

“So haughty as that?” he grumbled angrily; and then, seeing Yuzka in the
enclosure, rated her soundly for being out in the damp.

She was indeed so much better by now that they had permitted her to lie
in the orchard all day long. Her sores were healing beautifully, and
leaving no scars, and it was only in secret that Yagustynka continued to
anoint her as before, Hanka grudging so great a consumption of butter
and eggs.

So she lay, getting well slowly, almost all day long by herself, Vitek
now tending the cows again. Only now and then did a girl look in for a
while, or Roch sit with her for a little; or old Agata would come to
say, as usual, that she was going beyond doubt to die in harvest-time,
in Klemba’s cabin, and as a peasant dame should die. But her most
frequent companion was Lapa, that always watched by her side, the stork,
that would come at her call, and the birds which flew down to her for
crumbs.

One day, when no one was in the hut, Yagna came to her with a handful of
caramels; but before Yuzka had time to thank her, she had taken to
flight on hearing Hanka’s voice somewhere, crying over the hedge:

“May they do ye good!”—She had vanished.

She then ran over to her brother’s, carrying something for him.

She found Nastka beside a cow that was drinking water out of a tub.
Simon was building an outhouse close by, and whistling with all his
might.

“What!” she exclaimed, very much surprised; “have you got a cow so
soon?”

“We have: is she not a beauty?” returned Nastka, very proud of her.

“Really, a very fine one: she must be of Manor stock. Where did ye buy
her?”

“Though we have not bought her, yet she is ours! I’ll tell you all—but
you’ll never believe me.—Yesterday at dawn, I was aware of something
that rubbed against the cabin wall, and thought it might be some hog
driven out to the pasture-lands, that was cleaning its sides from caked
mire. So I lay down anew, but was not yet asleep, when I heard a faint
sound of lowing. I went out; and behold, there stood by the door a cow,
tethered, with a bundle of clover in front of her, her udders full, and
her face turned up to me. I rubbed mine eyes, thinking this to be some
dream of the night. But no: ’twas a live cow, lowing and licking my
fingers. Then I felt sure she had strayed from some herd; and Simon too
said they would be coming for her in a trice. Only there was one
thing:—she was tied up. Could a cow tie herself up in any wise?—But noon
came, and no one to take her away, and the milk was oozing from her
udders by then: so I eased the poor beast. I asked through the village;
no one knew anything of a cow lost. Old Klemba said it might well be
some thieves’ trick, and I had better take her to the _gendarmie_. I was
sorry, but what else was I to do?—Then, when noon came next day, Roch
came too, and said:

“‘You are honest and you are needy; therefore hath the Lord Jesus
blessed you with a cow!’

“‘A cow falling from the sky! Not even an idiot can believe that.’

“Roch laughed, and, preparing to depart, said:

“‘The cow’s your own: have no fear! None shall take her from you.’

“Then I thought she was his gift, and fell at his knees to thank him;
but he shrank back.

“‘And if you should meet Mr. Yacek,’ he continued with a smile, ‘beware
of thanking him: he’s a man to lay about him with a stick, for he loves
not to be thanked.’”

“Then ’twas Mr. Yacek who gave you the cow!”

“Is there another man in the world so kind to poor folk?”

“True, it was he gave Staho the timber for his hut, and helped him in so
many other ways.”

“A holy man he is, no doubt, and daily I will pray for him.”

“But take heed lest any should steal her from you!”

“What, steal my cow? I would go over all the world to seek her, and tear
the thief’s eyes out! Our Lord would never permit such a wrong!—While
Simon is building the shed, I’ll have her in to sleep with us every
night. And Yasyek’s dog, Kruchek, will take care of her.—O my dear one,
O my darling!” she cried, taking her round the neck and kissing her pink
muzzle; while the animal uttered a faint gurgling sound, the dog barked
with joy, the fowls cackled for fear, and Simon whistled louder than
all.

“Beyond all doubt, then, ye are blessed of the Lord,” Yagna said,
looking intently at them both, with a sigh of something like
compunction. They both seemed changed beyond recognition; Simon
especially. He had always passed for an incapable fellow, who bore the
blame of all that went wrong; and anyone that cared to wipe his feet on
him could do so.—And now! Able in speech, wise in his acts, and
dignified in his bearing, he was really not the same man!...

After a long silence: “Which are your fields?” she inquired.

Nastka pointed them out to her, telling her what they were going to sow,
and where.

“But whence is the seed to come?”

“Simon says we shall get it; and so we shall. Because he speaks no idle
words.”

“He’s my own brother; but what ye say seems told of someone else!”

“So good, so clever, so hard-working!... There’s none like him, none!”
Nastka declared most emphatically.

“Surely,” Yagna mournfully assented.—“And whose are those fields with
the mounds marking their boundaries?”

“Antek Boryna’s. Not worked at present, though, for they await the
division of the farm.”

“There will be a goodly bit of land for them, and a most comfortable
holding.”

“Oh, may our Lord, for their kindness to us, render them back tenfold!
Antek stood surety with the Squire for our payment of the instalments,
and has helped us in many another way.”

“Antek!... Surety for payment!” She was astounded.

“And Hanka is not less kind: she has given me a young sow. ’Tis only a
sucking-pig now, but of good stock, and will grow up to be of great use
to us.”

“Indeed, you tell me of a marvellous thing. Hanka give you a
sucking-pig? ’Tis simply incredible.”

They returned to the hut, where Yagna, having taken a ten-rouble note
out of her kerchief, handed it to Nastka.

“Here’s a trifle.... I could not bring it before ... the Jew had not yet
paid me for my geese.”

They thanked her very warmly, and Yagna said, on leaving:

“Wait a little; Mother will relent, and let you have some of the
property.”

“I do not want it! Let her take the injury she has done me down to her
grave with her!” Simon burst out, so suddenly and with such vehemence
that she left without one word more, and went home, moody, depressed,
and not a little out of sorts.

“What am I? A dry stick that no one cares for,” she sighed forlornly, as
she went.

About half-way home, she met Matthew. He was going to his sister, but
went back with her and listened attentively to what she said of Simon.

“Not all men are so well off,” he remarked gloomily.

They talked on, but he did not feel at his ease. He was longing to say
something to her, but embarrassed how to say it; Yagna was meanwhile
looking down at Lipka, bathed in the sundown glow.

Then he said: “In this narrow little world, I feel stifled to death!” He
was almost speaking to himself.

She turned to him with a questioning look.

“What ails you? Your face is as wry as if you had been drinking
vinegar!”

On that, he told her how he loathed his life and the country and all
things, and was determined to go away and wander forth into the world.

“Why, if you will have a change, then marry!” she said, laughing.

“Aye, if she of whom I think would but have me!” he cried, staring
eagerly into her eyes; but she, confused and unpleasantly impressed,
looked aside.

“Ask her! Anyone would be glad to marry you: more than one already
expects your messengers.”

“And what if she should refuse me?—The shame—the pain of it!”

“In that case, you’d send your men with vodka to someone else.”

“I am not that sort. I would only have one, and cannot turn to another.”

“Oh, a young man has much the same liking for every girl, and would fain
come to close quarters with them all.”

This he did not deny; but presently, changing his mode of attack:

“Yagna, you know that the boys only wait for your mourning-time to end;
men will at once be sent to you with vodka.”

“Let them drink it themselves! I’ll marry no one of them!” she declared,
with so much energy as to made him think deeply. She spoke her mind: she
cared for none of them; only for Yanek—her Yanek!

The thought of him made her sigh, and she gave herself up to it with
delight, while Matthew, baffled, went back to his sister.

And Yagna looked into vacancy with wandering eyes of unrest, saying to
herself:

“What—what is he doing at this moment?”

On a sudden, someone had seized and was hugging her close in his arms.
She struggled violently.

“Will you not console me for my loss?” the Voyt whispered passionately.

Raging, she tore herself from his clutch.

“Touch me but once more, I’ll tear your eyes out and call the whole
village here to you!”

“Hush, Yagna, hush! See, I bring you a present!” and he pressed into her
hand a necklace of coral.

“Put it...!” Her exasperation may be some excuse for what she said. “All
your gifts are mere rubbish to me!”

“But, Yagna, what—what means this?” he stammered, stupefied.

“It means this much: ye are a hog! And are never to speak to me any
more!”

She broke away from him in a towering passion, and rushed home.

Her mother was peeling potatoes; Andrew was milking the cows, out of
doors. She set herself busily to perform her evening duties, though
still trembling all over with anger and unable to calm herself; and as
soon as the twilight had gathered, she went out to roam again, saying to
her mother:

“I am going to look in at the organist’s.”

Soon she beheld the windows of Yanek’s room, shining bright in the
darkness; there Michael was writing under the suspended lamp, while the
organist and his dame sat outside the house, taking the cool of the
evening.

They greeted her with the news: “Yanek is to be here to-morrow
afternoon!”

The bliss of it nearly made her fall senseless at their feet. Her knees
bent under her; her heart beat so fast that she could scarcely breathe.
Having sat with them a few minutes for courtesy’s sake, she fled away
along the poplar road and towards the wood, swift as a hunted beast....
“Lord! Lord!” she burst out in strange thanksgiving: she stretched forth
her arms, tears gushed from her eyes, and a marvellous feeling of
gladness came over her, so intense that it gave her a longing to laugh,
to scream out, to run like mad, and kiss the trees around her and the
fields beneath, that lay silvery in the moonlight!

“Yanek is coming—is coming—is coming!” she crooned to herself, darting
forward suddenly with the rapidity of a bird, and running on, impelled
by her desires and her anticipations, as if towards the achievement of
her destiny, and towards ineffable delight.

When she got home, it was late. All the village was dark except Boryna’s
hut, where many people had assembled to debate; and as she went, she
thought only of the morrow and of Yanek’s return.

Back in the hut, she could not fall asleep. As soon as she heard her
mother’s rasping stertorous breath, she ceased from tossing on her
pillow, and went to sit out of doors and await there either slumber or
daybreak.

She could now and again catch the sound of voices at Boryna’s, across
the water, and, one side of his hut being lighted, she perceived the
tremulous reflection of the light in the pond opposite her.

Her eyes fixed on this, she forgot about all things ... lost in a
multitude of dreary thoughts that wrapped her about like gossamer
tissues, and carried her away with them into the universe of unsatiable
yearnings!

The moon was down, the country-side of a murky brown tint. Many stars
shone on high; and from time to time one of them would fall with such
swiftness and from so enormous a height as to thrill every limb of her
with dread. Sometimes a faint breeze swept gently by, like the touch of
tender hands: and then the pleasant waft, warm and odorous, coming up
from the fields, made her stretch and stiffen her body in the voluptuous
enjoyment of that fragrance.

Absorbed, entranced in this reverie, of which no words can tell the
sweetness, she remained immobile, like a swelling shoot of some young
plant, gathering within itself hoards of sap and vegetable life.... And
the night passed on, silent and careful, as it were, not to disturb
human nature in its rapturous bliss.

Within Antek’s cabin, the men that held with him and Gregory were
talking of the assembly that was to take place next day at the District
Office, and to which the Voyt had convened all the farmers of Lipka.

There were about a score of peasants there—the whole party of Antek and
Gregory—lighted only by one small candle that glimmered on the penthouse
of the chimney.

Roch, who sat in the shadow, was explaining at length the results of
opening the school in Lipka as proposed; and Gregory was telling each
man in particular how to vote and what to say to the head of the
District.

They laid their heads together for a long time, with many objections and
some opposition; but in the end they agreed entirely, and then separated
before dawn, for they would have to rise pretty early in the morning.

So Yagna remained alone awake outside the cottage, still plunged in the
night of her reverie, still breathing these words, like an invocation of
love:

“He will come—he will be here!”

And she turned instinctively, bowing towards the eastern sky—as if
desirous to know what the coming day would bring, that now peeped grey
over the horizon—and she abandoned herself, with a sense of dread and
yet of exultation, to that which was to be.




                              CHAPTER VIII


It was near noontide, and the heat greater and greater. The people were
all assembled outside the District Office; but the head of the District
had not yet appeared. The scrivener had several times come out upon the
threshold and, shading his eyes, looked down the broad highway, with its
borders of gnarled willow-trees. Nothing was visible but the glittering
pools which yesterday’s shower had left—one cart crawling along, and a
peasant’s white capote fluttering among the trees.

So they waited patiently. The Voyt alone rushed bustling to and fro,
restless and fidgety, now looking out upon the road, now urging forward
the work of the men who were filling up the hollows in the square before
the Office.

“Faster, lads! faster, for God’s sake! He will be here ere ye have done
the work!”

A voice from the crowd called out: “Beware lest ye be so scared that
some accident happen to you!”

“Now, men, stir yourselves! I am here on duty: such jests are untimely.”

“Our Voyt, ’tis known, fears God alone!” said one peasant, a man from
Rzepki.

The Voyt, now furious, shrieked: “If any man speak one word more, I’ll
have him thrown in jail!”—And then he ran round to the cemetery that
stood upon the height on which the District Office was perched.

It was overshadowed by many an ancient tree, through whose branches the
grey church tower was seen; the black arms of the crosses bent over the
stone wall, and above the road that led through the village.

Nothing was to be seen as yet. The Voyt left the Soltys along with the
people, and went into the Office. Here someone was continually entering,
called in by the scrivener, who took occasion to remind him gently of
taxes in arrears, unpaid subscriptions for the court buildings ... and
other things still more important. These reminders were truly very
distasteful to each of them: how could they pay in such hard times, and
just before the harvest? So they only made him a very deep bow, some
even kissing his hand, and some pressing their last _zloty_ into the
man’s outstretched palm. But they all implored him to wait till the
harvest, or till next fair.

That scrivener! he was a cunning blade, a wily crafty old fox! How many
a way he had of fleecing the people! To some he would make no end of
promises, others he wrought upon through fear of the gendarmes; these he
got the upper hand of through sheer flattery, and those, by treating
them with free and easy friendliness. But he always and somehow got
something out of every one of them. He was in need of oats, or he
required a few young goslings for the head of the District; or he
obtained a promise of some straw ropes for binding sheaves. And,
willingly or unwillingly, they promised whatever he wanted. And
then—just as they were leaving—he would take those apart whom he knew
best, and say to them in friendly guise:

“Look ye, vote for the school; for if ye should oppose it, our head may
wax angry, and peradventure cancel your agreement with the Squire as to
the forest.”

“How’s that?” cried Ploshka, in astonishment. “Why, we made the
agreement freely on either side.”

“Aye, but know ye not?—‘But noble with noble is hand in glove; for
peasants, never noble has love.’”

Much dismayed, Ploshka left him; and he continued to call the men in,
frightening each of them in a different way, but pressing them all to do
the same thing.

A good many people were gathered together—more than two hundred—who at
first grouped themselves by villages, each with his own acquaintances:
men of Lipka with men of Lipka, and so on. But now it was known to be
the head of the District’s will they should vote about the school, they
began to mingle together, passing from group to group as it suited them.
Only the “nobility” of Rzepki held proudly aloof, looking down upon the
other peasantry. All the rest had presently mixed together, like lentils
in a dish, all over the square, but congregating mostly in the shadow of
the churchyard trees, or about the wagons.

But it was round the large tavern that they thronged closest. This stood
opposite the District Office, surrounded by a clump of trees, as in a
shady grove; and many a one went that way to refresh himself with a
glass of beer, after standing so long in the hot glare. The tavern being
chock-full, quite a number of groups were lounging about under the
trees, discussing the news and attentively watching both the Office and
the other side of the house, where the scrivener lived, and where the
noise and bustle was greatest.

From time to time, the scrivener’s wife thrust her fat face out of a
back window, screaming:

“Make haste, Magda! O you sluggard! may you break both your legs!”

The girl was heard every now and then rushing about the rooms, the panes
quivering to her tread; a child would squall with shrill vehemence;
somewhere behind, the fowls were cackling in great trepidation, and a
panting constable was hunting chickens in the corn and down the road.

“Belike they are going to feast the head official,” someone remarked.

“They say the scrivener brought in half a cartload of liquor yesterday.”

“Then they’ll get as drunk as they did last year.”

“Oh, they can afford it. Do not the people pay, and is there anyone to
watch what their hands grab?” said Matthew: to whom another cried at
once:

“Be silent! the gendarmes have come.”

“They prowl about like wolves: where they go, and by which ways, who can
tell?”

So they stood mute with fear, when the gendarmes drew up in a line
before the Office, with a number of people round them: amongst whom were
conspicuous the miller, the Voyt, and—at a little distance—the
blacksmith, alert and attentive.

“That miller!—He fawns upon them, like a famished dog!”

“Wherever the gendarmes are seen, look out for the District Official!”
Gregory exclaimed, passing over to where Antek, Matthew, Klemba, and
Staho were talking together. Then they parted to mix with the people,
holding forth and expressing their opinions with much force. They were
listened to in silence; sometimes one or another of their hearers would
groan and scratch his head with an embarrassed air, or cast a glance at
the gendarmes, now drawing closer to one another.

Antek, with his back against the corner of the tavern, spoke curtly, but
with conviction, and an air of authority. In another group, Matthew was
talking humorously and making many a man laugh at his jests, while in a
third crowd, nearer the cemetery, Gregory lectured with much ability,
and as if he were reading out of an open book!

But their speeches all tended in one direction: to oppose the head
official, to vote against the school, and not to heed those who were
always on the side of the officials.

No one else uttered a word, but all nodded assent: even the greatest
fools among them knew well that such a school meant nothing but the
payment of new taxes for nothing: which no one cared for.

The multitude, however, were restless, shifting uneasily from one foot
to the other, coughing and clearing their throats.—They were terribly
afraid of opposing the head official and his satellites.

One man looked at another, secretly troubled what to do; and everyone
noted carefully what the richest among them seemed to think. As to the
miller and the foremost men in the other villages, they appeared to put
themselves forward on purpose to be favorably noticed by the gendarmes
and the scrivener.

Antek went to speak with them; but the miller said rudely: “Any man but
a fool can tell how he should vote!” and turned to the blacksmith, who
was of everybody’s opinion, and always gliding about from group to
group, guessing shrewdly how matters would turn out. He talked to the
scrivener, chatted with the miller, offered Gregory a pinch of snuff—and
kept his own counsel meanwhile so well that to the very end no one knew
on which side he was.

The majority were meanwhile gradually inclining not to vote for the
school. They now dispersed about the square, indifferent to the noonday
heat, and were setting to canvass their views still louder and more
boldly than before, when the scrivener called from the open window:

“Here, some one of you!”

No one stirred.

“Let someone run over to the Manor for the fish. ’Twas to be brought
here in the morning, and we are waiting still.—Come!” he shouted
masterfully; “make haste!”

Here a voice uttered the bold words:

“We are not here as your servants!”

“Let him run thither himself! It irks him to drag his paunch about!” At
this they laughed, for his belly was indeed as big as a drum.

The scrivener swore. But in a minute, out came the Voyt at the back of
the house, who, passing behind the tavern, slipped away to the Manor by
the outside of the village.

“He must have been changing the clothes of the babies at Madam
Scrivener’s, and cleaning them likewise: so he has gone out for a little
fresh air.”

“Ah, yes; Madam likes not her rooms to be noisome.”

“She will soon find other services for him to render her.”

“Strange that the Squire is not yet to be seen,” they said in some
surprise; but the smith returned, with a cunning smile:

“He has too much sense to come.”

They looked at him inquiringly.

“For why,” the smith explained, “should he have to vote for the school
... or go to loggerheads with the District Official? And he will never
vote: fancy what he would have to pay! No, he is wise.”

“But you—are you with us, Michael, say?” Matthew pressed him, eager to
know.

The smith wriggled like a worm trodden upon, but, being in a quandary,
grumbled a word or two, and went over to speak to the miller, who had
come round to the peasants, and was now talking to old Ploshka very
loud, for the rest to hear.

“My advice is: Vote as the officials wish. A school there must be: the
worst is better than none. The one you wish for, ye’ll not get: ’tis no
use knocking your heads against a wall. Won’t you vote?—Then they will
not ask your leave.”

“But,” cried a bystander, “what can they do, if we give no money?”

“You are foolish. They’ll take it. Will you refuse?—They will sell even
your last cow, and send you to prison for mutiny into the bargain. Is
that clear?—For,” he added, turning to the Lipka folk, “ye have to do
now, not with the Squire, but with the head official: a man who is not
to be trifled with!—I tell you, do as they bid, and thank God things are
no worse!”

Such as held his views here chimed in; and old Ploshka, after musing for
some time, said on a sudden:

“Ye say true; and Roch misleads and seduces our folk.”

To this, one of the Przylek husbandmen added with emphasis:

“He is with the Manor folk, and therefore stirs us up against the
Government.”

An outcry arose against him on every side; but he, undaunted, went on as
soon as they let him.

“Those,” he said, looking sagely around him, “those are fools that help
him. If anyone likes this not, let him come forward: I’ll call him a
fool to his face. Such men know not that it hath been so from all time:
the gentry rebel and drive our folk to ruin; but who has to pay, when
payday comes? Why, we peasants! When the Cossacks are quartered in your
villages, who will get the beatings? who will suffer and be sent to
prison? Only we peasants! The gentlefolk will not move a finger for you;
they will slink away and leave you in the lurch, the Judases!—and,
moreover, they will feast the officials in their manors!”

“Ha! What is the people in their eyes that they should stir for them?”
cried one; and another:

“If they could, serfdom would be restored to-morrow!”

“Gregory says,” the former speaker continued, “‘let them teach in
Polish; or, if they will not, let us vote no schools and no money for
them.’—Very fine. But ’tis only a labourer who can say to his master: ‘I
will not work,’ throw an insult in his face, and yet escape a thrashing
by running away. We farmer folk cannot flee, and must needs stay and
take the beating. Therefore I say it will come cheaper for you to build
the school than to resist the officials. True, they will not teach our
language; but they will never make Russians of us for all that: we shall
none of us pray to God or speak among ourselves save as we do now, even
as our mothers taught us!

“Finally, I repeat: Stand up for your own interests only! Let the nobles
tear each other to pieces: ’tis no affair of ours. Let them bite and
fight: these are no more our brethren than those. And a plague upon them
all!”

Here he was shouted down by the crowd that pressed about him. In vain
did the miller and a few others take his part. Those on Gregory’s side
came near using their fists, and things were looking very bad, when old
Prychek cried: “The gendarmes are listening!”

This silenced them and gave the old man an occasion to hold forth in an
angry tone:

“One very true thing he has said: we must look to our own interests!—Be
quiet there! You have said your say, let others say theirs!—These
fellows bawl and bawl, and think themselves great men!—If shrieking
meant thinking, then every loud-mouthed brawler would have a better head
than even our priest himself! You laugh at me; but I say to you: how was
it that year ... when our noblemen rebelled? Remember how they threw
dust in our eyes, and swore that as soon as Poland existed, we should
have our will ... our own lands ... and forests—and everything. And they
made promises and speeches, and every other man of us helped them; and
what have we of it now?—Ye may hearken to the nobles, if ye be fools;
but I am too old a bird to be caught with chaff!”

“Smite him on the mouth, that he may be still!” cried a voice.

He went on nevertheless: “And now I am a noble, as much as any of them
all: I have my rights, and none dares lay a finger on me!”

But his voice was drowned in a torrent of jeers that poured down on him
from all sides.

“You swine that grunt about your delights, and are happy to have a sty
and a full trough!”

“Once fatted, you shall feel the club on your skull, and the knife at
your throat!”

“Did not a gendarme flog him at last fair? And yet he prates about no
one daring to touch him!”

“A great noble he is, and most free to be eaten by lice!”

“Truly the straw stuffed in his boots could teach as much wisdom as he!”

“He knows not to judge a fowl’s worth, yet he comes here to enlighten
us!”

The old man was foaming with rage, but only said:

“Ye scum of the land! ... that cannot even respect grey hairs!”

“What then? Must a grey mare be respected, for that she is grey?”

They roared with laughter at this; but presently their attention was
diverted to the roof of the office, on to which the constable Joseph had
climbed, and, holding to a chimney, was gazing into the distance.

“Joseph!” they cried to him in a merry mood. “Shut your mouth, lest
something fall into it!” For a flock of pigeons was wheeling above his
head. But he only shouted with all his might:

“He is coming ... coming! Has passed the turning from Krylak!”

The assembly now gathered close round the building, and gazed quietly
along the road that as yet lay empty.

The scrivener hastily donned his very best clothes; again the air rang
with his wife’s outcries, and the clinking of plates, and the rumbling
of displaced furniture, and the noise of many feet. In a short time, the
Voyt too appeared on the scene: standing on the door-step, red as a
beetroot, perspiring, breathless, but adorned with his chain of office.
Casting his eyes on the crowd around him, he shouted in fierce tones:

“Silence, men! This Office is not a tavern.”

“Come round here, Peter! I’ll tell you what!” Klemba cried to him.

“There is no Peter here! I am an official,” he answered loftily.

The words were taken up at once and made great fun of, till they shook
with laughter; but, all at once, the Voyt cried solemnly:

“Make way there! Way for the head of the District!”

A coach appeared on the road, jolting over the ruts and hollows, and
pulling up in front of the office.

The head official raised his hand to his cap, the peasants took their
hats off, and silence followed, while the Voyt and the scrivener darted
forward to assist him from the coach, and the gendarmes stood erect at
attention beside the doorway.

He alighted, divested himself of his white dust-coat, turned round to
gaze at the assembled crowd, stroked his blond beard, assumed a severe
look, and nodded his head. Then he entered the scrivener’s dwelling,
into which the latter, bent like a hoop, ushered him.

The coach drove away, and the peasants thronged round the table that had
been set up. They thought the meeting was now about to begin. But it was
a very long while indeed before the head official showed himself: while
from the scrivener’s apartments there came the noise of jingling
glasses, and laughter, and certain fragrant scents that made the mouth
water.

They were weary both of waiting and of the broiling heat, and many a one
tried to slip away to the tavern. But this the Voyt would not have.

“Do not go away!—Whosoever is absent shall be put down for a fine.”

This kept them back, but they uttered many an invective, as they looked
impatiently towards the scrivener’s curtained windows.

“They are ashamed to be seen drinking!”

“Quite right of them: it would only make us more thirsty that we have
but our spittle to swallow!”

From the lock-up, in the same building as the Office, now came the
constable, dragging by a halter a large calf that resisted with might
and main and, making a sudden rush at him, upset the man and set off at
a run, tail in air in a cloud of dust.

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” they cried, laughing.

“Oh, the bold rascal, to break prison so, even lifting up his tail
against my Lord the Voyt!”

They also aimed a good many jibes at the constable, who was not able to
get the calf into the yard without the assistance of all the Soltyses
present. They were not yet fully breathed after their hunt, when the
Voyt ordered them all to cleanse the lock-up thoroughly; he himself saw
that the work was well done, and helped them a good deal, fearing lest
the District Official should make a tour of inspection.

“But, Voyt dear! ye’ll have to burn incense there, or his nose will tell
him who the prisoner was!”

“Have no fear: after a few drams he will scent naught in the world.”

And other gibes were thrown at the Voyt, which he only received with
clenched teeth and glaring eyes.—At last, however, they had enough of
sun, and hunger, and waiting—and could not even jest any longer. So, in
spite of the Voyt’s objurgations, they all made tracks for the tavern
and the trees, Gregory flinging these words at him:

“Ye may cry till nightfall: we are no dogs to follow you to heel!”

Saying this, and glad to be no longer under the gendarmes’ inspection,
he again went about amongst the people, reminding each man apart in what
sense he should give his vote.

“And,” he would wind up, “fear ye not: right is on our side. As we vote,
so things shall be; and what we will not have, no man can force upon
us.”

They had, however, not yet begun to stretch themselves in the shade, or
to eat a morsel, when each village was called by its Soltys, and the
Voyt came roaring:

“Here’s the head!—Come quick!—We are to begin now!”

“The smell of good things has wrought upon him,” they muttered in a bad
temper, walking slowly towards the Office. “We are in no hurry; let him
wait!”

Each Soltys stood at the head of his own village; but the Voyt was
seated at the table, beside the scrivener’s assistant, who whistled to
frighten the pigeons, that circled round above the roof in a white
fluttering cloud.

One of the gendarmes suddenly stood at attention, and cried: “Silence!”
in Russian.

To their disappointment, however, no one came out but the scrivener,
holding some papers in his hand, and edging himself to a seat behind the
table. The Voyt then rang the bell, and said, majestically:

“Good people! we open the meeting.—Be still there, ye men of
Modlitsa!—Our secretary will read you things concerning this school:
only hearken ye diligently, that ye may know all about it.”

Putting on his spectacles, the scrivener began to read, very slowly and
distinctly.

After a short interval of breathless silence, someone exclaimed:

“Why, we understand naught!”

“Read it in our tongue! We cannot make it out!” repeated many voices.

The gendarmes here began to fix a steady glare upon the people.

The scrivener looked very black, but went on with the document,
translating it into Polish.

All now were still, listening to each word with the most concentrated
attention. The scrivener continued deliberately:

“Whereas it hath been decided to found a school in Lipka, the same being
also for the use of Modlitsa, Przylek, Rzepki, and the neighbouring
hamlets....”

The rescript then pointed out how great a benefit education was; how the
Government was night and day only thinking of means to aid the progress
and enlightenment of the people, and to defend it from all evil
influences ... and then passed on to reckon how much would be required
for the ground, for the building itself, and (yearly) for the teacher:
concluding with the estimate that they ought to vote a supplementary
rate of twenty kopeks per acre.—He paused, wiped his spectacles, and
added as an observation of his own:

“The head of the District has assured me that, if ye vote the rate now,
he will allow the building to commence this year, so that next year in
autumn your children will go to school.”

When he ended thus, no one made any remark. Everyone reflected with
heads bent as under the weight of this fresh burden. At last the Voyt
said:

“Have ye heard all that our secretary has read to you?”

“We have indeed! We are not deaf!” several voices replied.

“Then whoso is against this plan, let him step forward and say so.”

No one, however, was so bold as to put himself forward first, or go
beyond glances and nudges.

“Then,” the Voyt proposed, “let us vote the rate directly, and go home.”

“Very well,” the scrivener asked, with solemn formality. “Ye do all
unanimously agree to this plan?”

“No! No!” vociferated Gregory, and about a score of others with him.

“We need no such schools! We will not have them! The taxes are heavy
enough as it is!—No!” and cries of opposition now resounded on every
side, and ever more boldly.

At the sound, the head official came forth and stood in the doorway. At
the sight, the tumult died away. Stroking his beard, he said, with much
affability:

“Well, good husbandmen, how goes it with you?”

“The better that your Honour asks us!” answered the foremost men,
swaying to and fro under the pressure of those behind, pushing forward
to hear the District Official. Now he, leaning against the door-post,
uttered some sentences in Russian; but their effect was impaired by
constant hiccups.

The gendarmes started forward, crying to the people:

“Hats off! Hats off!”

A voice was thereupon heard abusing them roundly: “Get out, ye vermin,
and meddle not with our business.”

But the head official, though he had spoken very affably, concluded in
Polish, and in a tone of command:

“Vote the rate, and at once, for I have no time to spare.”

And he looked on them with an ominous scowl. Fear seized upon them; they
wavered, and low timorous whispers ran through their ranks.

“Ah, shall we vote?—Say, Ploshka, what are we to do?—Where’s
Gregory?—The head commands us to vote!—Come, then, brethren, let us do
so!”

But the tumult swelled to a storm, when Grzela came forward, and
declared fearlessly: “For such a school we’ll not vote half a kopek!”

“We will not! No, we will not!” a hundred voices repeated.

At this, the head official knitted his brows.

The Voyt was terror-struck, and the scrivener’s spectacles fell from his
nose. But Gregory met the great man’s glance without fear, and was about
to speak further, when Ploshka, pushing forward, and louting very low,
said humbly:

“May it please your Honour the District Official if I speak in our
tongue, and think with our own thoughts.—As to voting the school, we are
willing; but twenty kopeks an acre seems to us very much. Times are hard
just now, and money is short. And that is all.”

The head made no reply, and seemed plunged in thought, only nodding his
head at times, and rubbing his eyes. Encouraged by these gestures, the
Voyt spoke strongly in favour of the school, and those of his party
likewise, the miller distinguishing himself amongst them, and scorning
the interruptions of Gregory’s partisans, until the latter grew angry
and shouted: “We are pouring empty vessels into the void!” and availed
himself of an opportunity to step forward and ask boldly:

“We would know what kind of school this new one is to be.”

“Like all the others!” he said, opening his eyes very wide.

“That is the very sort we do not want. We’d vote even half a rouble an
acre for a Polish school, but not a stiver for any other.”

“Those schools are good for nothing!” cried one. “My children learned
there for three years, and do not know their A B C.”

“Be still, good folk, be still!” growled the head.

The sheep were getting lively, and the wolf was biding his time.

“Those infernal talkers! they will talk the people to its ruin!”

And now every man was striving to speak louder than his neighbours, and
the din became deafening, each one maintaining his own view. They had
broken up into small groups, disputing with one another, and getting
ever more and more excited, Gregory’s party especially standing up most
stubbornly against the school. It was to no purpose that the Voyt, the
miller, and the others of that side went about explaining, beseeching,
even threatening awful things that might come to pass: the greater part
of the assembly had got quite out of hand, excited to exasperation, and
talking themselves hoarse.

The District Official, who sat seemingly indifferent to the hubbub,
conferred in whispers with the scrivener, and let them talk their fill;
and when he judged they had enough of that senseless noise, he told the
Voyt to ring the bell.

“Silence there!” thundered the Soltyses of each village. “Silence! and
lend your ears.”

Then, before all was quite still, rose the voice of command:

“The school, look ye! has to be built. Obey, then, and do as ye are
bidden.”

His tone was as hard and stern as could be; but they were no longer
afraid, and Klemba answered him back on the spot.

“We force no one to walk on his head: let others likewise allow us to
speak in our tongue, as God has given it us!”

“Hold your tongue!” shrieked the Voyt, ringing the bell to no purpose.
“Peace, you son of a dog!”

“What I have said, I repeat: in our schools our language must be
taught!”

“Karpenko! Ivanoff!” the Voyt cried to the gendarmes who stood in the
centre of the throng; but the peasants pressed round them directly, and
they heard a whisper: “Let but one of you touch one of us—we are three
hundred—ye shall see!”

Then their ranks opened slowly to let them pass, and closed after them,
surging round the head official, with the dull angry hum of a furious
mob; catching their breaths, cursing low, and one or other of them every
now and then uttering such words as these:

“Every creature has its own voice; we alone are forbidden our own!”

“Always commands, and naught except commands! Obey, and pay, and sweep
the ground with your hat, you peasant!”

“They’ll make us soon ask leave ... to go behind the barn!”

“So mighty a man, let him command swine to sing as nightingales!” Antek
cried. They laughed, and he went on, greatly excited:

“Or bid geese to low like cows! When they do, we’ll vote the school!”

“They tax us, we pay; they recruit us, we go; but beware of....”

“Hold your peace, Klemba!—His Majesty the Czar himself has decreed in
the clearest words that our schools and law courts are to use Polish!
Yes, the Czar himself has decreed it: him shall we obey!” Antek
vociferated.

“Who are you?” the head official said to him, with eyes intently fixed
upon his face.

“Who am I?—It stands there in black and white,” Antek replied boldly,
pointing to the papers on the table, though he felt his heart throb as
he did so. “I am no magpie’s dropping!” he added with bravado.

The head spoke to the scrivener, who after a while proclaimed the fact
that Antek Boryna, not being yet cleared of a criminal charge, had no
right to take any part in the Assembly of the Commune.

Antek flushed angrily, but, before he could utter a word, the District
Official cried out to him: “Get him out!” indicating him to the
gendarmes with a significant look.

“Boys, never vote this school! Right is on our side: have no fear!”
Antek shouted indomitably.

And with slow steps he went out of the village, looking back at the
gendarmes following him yet more slowly still, as a wolf might glare at
a couple of curs.

But the incident had brought disorder into the meeting again. Each man
seemed possessed of a devil—screaming, cursing, quarrelling,
threatening—no one knew why or wherefore!

Their invectives bore, not only on the school and Antek, but on
indifferent and wholly irrelevant matters—just as if a sudden madness
had seized upon them. Gregory and others of his party strove to calm
them, but unavailingly: they were blind and deaf to everything, gobbling
one at another furiously, like irritated turkeys in a poultry-yard.

At last, one of the Soltyses, seeing an empty barrel that stood under
the eaves of the house, had the idea of beating upon it with his stick
so frantically, so madly, and with such loud and hollow bombilation,
that it partly brought them to their senses again.

Thereupon the head official, who was beside himself with rage,
exclaimed: “Enough of this prating! Silence! Silence, when I speak!—Obey
me.—Vote the school.”

All were in a moment struck dumb with fear: a cold thrill went through
them. They looked at one another, without dreaming of defying the man
who stood there, grim and threatening before them, rolling savage eyes
over the terrified multitude.

Again he sat down, while the Voyt and his party once more attempted to
frighten the peasants into obedience.

“Vote for the school!—We must!”

“Have ye not heard? An ill thing is impending!”

Meanwhile, the scrivener read the list of names, and the cry, “Here!
Here!” was heard with incessant reiteration.

This done, the Voyt ordered those who were for the school to pass to the
right and raise their hands.

A good many did so, but the bulk of the assembly would not budge.

The head official then, knitting his brows, ordered the votes to be
taken by name, “that all might be done with strict justice.”

Gregory was dismayed on hearing this order. He was but too sure that the
majority would weaken, and not venture to oppose the vote.

The polling took a long time, for the people were very numerous; but the
result was given at last:

“Ayes, two hundred; noes, eighty.”

Gregory’s party raised a great protest.

“We have been cheated!—Vote again!”

“I said, No! and they put my vote down for the school!” one man, soon
followed by many others, declared persistently; and the more zealous
proposed to tear up the papers and thus annul the voting.

A coach from the Manor then passed by good fortune outside the Office,
and the people had to draw back willy-nilly. The District Official,
having read the list, handed to him by a manservant, declared solemnly:
“It is well; ye shall have a school in Lipka.”

No one spoke a word any more; they all stood gazing at him in silence.

He then, after signing a few papers, got into his coach and drove away.

They all bowed to the ground. He took no notice of them, even by a
glance; but, having spoken a few words with the gendarmes, turned off to
the Manor of Modlitsa by a side road.

Their eyes followed him in silence. At last, one of Gregory’s men said:

“That lamb, so meek and mild, can show fangs that bite deeper than a
wolf’s—aye, and when we least expect it, trample us under his feet!”

“How could they govern at all, unless we were fools and they scared us?”

Gregory breathed hard, looked round, and whispered:

“For to-day, we have lost: it is hard; but the people have not yet
learned how to resist.”

“And that they will hardly learn, so long as everything can frighten
them.”

“My God! what a man! He tramples even the laws underfoot.”

“Aye, they are for us, not him!”

Here a peasant from Przylek came complaining to Gregory.

“I meant to vote for you; but behold! when he fixed his eyes on me, I
could not speak a word, and the scrivener wrote down what he pleased.”

“There have been so many abuses that we might well make an appeal.”

“Come all to the tavern!” cried Matthew. “May a brimstone thunderbolt
smash them all!” Then, turning to the crowd, he shouted:

“Do ye know, my men, that the head has forgotten to tell you one
thing?—That ye are a rabble of sheep and curs. Ye will be well paid for
your obedience; but such idiots as ye are deserve to be flayed alive—not
only fleeced.”

They answered him back, some even abusing him roundly; but their
attention was then drawn off by a cart with a Jewish driver, and Yanek
sitting in it.

Yanek was soon surrounded by a crowd, and Gregory told him what had
occurred. Yanek listened, talked to them for a while, and then drove on.

The others repaired to the tavern, where, after a couple of glasses,
Matthew roared out:

“I tell you, the Voyt and the miller are to blame for everything!”

“Quite true,” Ploshka chimed in; “they were all the time canvassing and
pressing and bullying us!”

“And the head official threatened us, just as if he knew all about
Roch!” someone faltered.

“If he does not, he is sure to be told. We have informers amongst us!”

“What,” Gregory inquired with an uneasy glance, “what has become of
those gendarmes?”

“Gone somewhere in the direction of Lipka.”

Gregory for a short time lounged about the tavern with the others, but
presently he slipped out unnoticed by anyone, making for Lipka by a
short cut across the fields.




                               CHAPTER IX


Antek left the assembly about as willingly as a cat driven away from a
bowl of milk. He was even deliberating whether he had not better return,
when, perceiving the gendarmes following him, he was struck with an
idea. On his way, he broke off a large bough, and set about whittling it
into a stick, leaning against a fence, and eyeing the “Brown-Coats,” who
walked as slowly as they could, but could not help coming up with him
very soon.

“Wither away, my ancient?” he asked the elder of them in a tone of
mockery.

“On duty, Master Farmer.—Are we bound for the same place?”

“It would please me, but I fancy not.”

Looking around, he saw that they were quite alone with him, but still
too near the District Office: so he went with them, walking close to the
hedge, and well on the look-out for a sudden attack.

The “ancient,” cautiously disposed, continued the talk in a friendly
tone, complaining bitterly that he had not eaten since early morning.

“The scrivener,” Antek replied, “has treated the head official most
grandly, so no doubt he had left good things for you, my ancient!—Alas!
in the country there are no such dainties to be had—only _kluski_ or
cabbage!—and what are those things for grand folk like you?” He was
jeering on purpose to irritate them. The younger of the two, a stalwart
young fellow with flashing eyes, growled under his breath, but the
“ancient” made no answer.

Antek, still playing with the men, now stirred his legs so vigorously
that they had much ado to keep up with him, and awkwardly splashed along
after him through pools and stumbled into hollows.

The country-side was quite empty and deserted; a blazing sun burned.
Here and there a peasant stared after them, or a few children peeped out
from shady places: the village dogs alone followed them persistently and
with great clamour of barking.

The “ancient” lit a cigarette, and held it between his teeth as he went
on talking, lamenting over his lot: no rest either day or night with
that everlasting service!

“Indeed? That means it is no easy thing nowadays to squeeze money out of
the peasants!”

The “ancient” flung out a curse at him, with a foul reflection on his
mother. Antek, who had no mind to bandy insults with them, grasped his
stick with a firm clutch, and rejoined, now openly attacking him:

“What I say is the simple truth: your service in the villages only gets
you barked at; at most, some poor fellow’s last _zloty_ may now and then
find its way to your pockets!”

The “ancient,” though he turned green with spite, and clenched his hand
on his sword-hilt, still bore this in silence. It was only when they
were just passing the last cabin in the village that he unexpectedly
sprang at Antek, crying out to his comrade:

“Seize him!”

The surprise failed, however. Before they could touch him, Antek had
sent them both reeling back with a couple of blows. Leaping to one side,
he stood, with his back against the cabin, brandishing his stick,
showing teeth that gleamed like a wolf’s, and uttering bits of
sentences, hoarse and incoherent:

“Go your ways.... Ye’ll never get hold of me!... Even four of you would
be too few!... Dogs! I’ll break all your teeth!... What would ye?... I
have done no one any harm.... Will ye have a fight?—Very well; but first
order a cart to carry your bodies away.... Come on, then.—Touch me.—Let
me see you try!” he growled; and his stick sang loud in the air. He was
in a slaying mood.

Seeing him thus, they both stood transfixed: the man was of such great
stature, expanded to the utmost by the towering passion he was in; and
his stick hissed and hummed and whirled in his hand with so ominous a
sound!—The “ancient” felt that an attack upon him was out of the
question, and attempted to turn the whole affair off as a joke.

“Ha! ha! excellent!... Trapped! Trapped! A splendid joke we have played
off on you!” He burst out laughing, holding both his sides, while they
withdrew several steps (overcome, as it were, with the fun of the
thing); but, continuing to retire, and now out of danger, he suddenly
changed his tone and, shaking his fist, snarled furiously:

“Ye have not seen the last of us, my master: we shall talk with each
other once more!”

He snarled back in reply: “May the plague carry you both off first! Why,
you are afraid lest _I_ should attack _you_; therefore did ye try to
turn it into a jest!—And I too shall talk with you ... but man to man,
and alone!” he growled, as he watched them out of sight.

“Those fellows—to set upon me!” he thought. “The fools! They were the
hounds, I was the hare!”—He mused.—“Because of what I said at the
assembly! Though indeed it could not have been much to his taste.”

He was now near the Manor garden, that lay at some distance beyond the
village, and sat down there to rest awhile and compose himself. The
Manor was seen through the wooden fence, white upon the background of a
larch grove, its open windows staring darkly, like so many grottoes. On
the pillared veranda, there were several people sitting: probably taking
refreshment, for servants hovered about them, and there was a clinking
of crockery. At times the sound of merry laughter was heard.

“They are well off, those folk! Eating, drinking, and caring for nothing
at all!” he thought, making a meal of the bread and cheese that Hanka
had put in his pocket.

As he ate, his eyes roved over the huge lime-trees which bordered the
road, and were now full of blossoms and humming bees, and the soft
steamy fragrance from them filled him with delight. A duck quacked in a
neighbouring pond; there, too, frogs croaked drowsily; the thickets
around him thrilled to the many voices of living things, and from the
fields came the grasshoppers’ concert, alternately loud and faint: till,
after a time, all these sounds were hushed and silenced, as it were, in
the sunshine’s hot downpour. Silence reigned; all animated life hid away
from the desolating heat—all except the swallows, that were darting and
dashing and flashing about evermore.

His eyes ached with the intensity of the heat, and even in the shadow he
felt parboiled. The last pools were drying up, and the blast, which blew
from the all but ripe cornfields and the parched fallow lands, was like
that from an open oven.

Antek, after resting well, walked swiftly towards the neighbouring
woods; but, passing out of the shadow and into the light, he felt a
quiver pass through him, as if he were entering a furnace of white fire.
His capote was off, but his shirt, that clung close to his moist reeking
sides, seemed like hot sheet-iron. He took off his boots as well, and
went on with naked feet crunching the burning sand.

The stunted little birch-trees that grew here and there gave hardly any
shadow yet; the drooping ears of rye bent down over the roadway, and the
flowers also hung their heads in the burning glare.

Sultry silence prevailed: no man was visible; no bird, no living
creature anywhere in sight. Not a leaf, not a blade of grass trembled.
It was as if the Demon of Noontide had swooped down upon the country
and, with husky lips, were sucking all the strength out of the swooning
earth.

Antek walked on, still more slowly, thinking of the assembly: now
furious with anger, now laughing with scorn, now heavy with
discouragement.

“What’s to be done with such men?—The first gendarme who comes by appals
them!... If they were commanded to obey a gendarme’s boot, they
would!—Sheep, silly sheep, all of them!” he thought, with mixed feelings
of bitterness and compassion.

“True, we are all badly off—each one of us wriggling like a tortured
eel! And everyone is so wretched, he can hardly breathe: why should he
trouble about things that concern him less! Ah, poor people, so
benighted, so miserable! They do not so much as know what they need!”
And his heart went out to them, afflicted at the thought of their
misery.

“Swine find it hard to raise their snouts to the sky—and so do men!” So
he thought, sorely troubled, but yet got no profit of his pain, further
than the feeling that he himself was in as bad a case as anyone
else—perhaps worse.

“Only those can live their lives contentedly who never think!”

He waved his hand with a gesture of despair, and then walked on, plunged
in so deep a reverie that he nearly stumbled over a Jew—a
ragpicker—sitting at the edge of a cornfield.

“Resting, are ye? Indeed, the heat is terrible,” he said, stopping for
an instant.

“Heat? We are in a furnace: ’tis a judgment of God!” the Jew ejaculated.
Getting up, he passed a strap over his round old shoulders, and, thus
harnessed to his wheelbarrow, set about pushing it along with infinite
toil. It was chock-full of rags and wooden boxes; above these towered
baskets of eggs and a coop full of chickens; and, the road being deep
with sand, and the weather unbearably hot, he had to struggle along
desperately, and sit down to rest every now and then.

“Nuchim, you’ll be late, Sabbath is at hand,” he soliloquized, chiding
himself with tears. “Push, Nuchim, push on! you’re strong as a horse!
Now, Nuchim!—One—two—three!...” And with a cry of desperation, he would
wheel the barrow on for a score of paces, and then stop again.

Antek was for passing him by with a nod, but the Jew called to him
earnestly:

“Master Farmer, I pray you! Help me, and I will pay you well. I can no
more, in truth I can no more!” And he fell forward against the
handbarrow, breathless and as white as a sheet.

Without a word, Antek turned round, threw his capote and boots on to the
barrow, seized it by the handle and pushed it forward so lustily that
the wheel hummed and the dust flew. The Jew trotted beside him, catching
his breath as he went, and chattering by the way to interest his helper.

“Only as far as the wood: the road is good there. ’Tis not far. And I’ll
give you five whole kopeks!”

“Confound your kopeks! Fool, do I care for your money? But ye Jews think
money is everything in the world.”

“Be not angry, Master, I’ll give you pretty toys for your
children.—No?—Then needles, thread, ribbons peradventure?—No?—Then may I
offer rolls or scones or caramels ... or aught else? For I have
everything—Or would ye, Master Farmer, buy of me a packet of tobacco? Or
may I give you a glass of quite superior vodka? such as I have only for
my very good friends—on my conscience, only for my very good friends.”

And here a fit of coughing made his eyes almost start from their
sockets.... Antek went a little more slowly, and the Jew, catching at
the barrow, managed to drag himself along.

“We shall have a good harvest,” he continued, starting another subject;
“the price of rye is falling.”

“Aye, and when the crop is scanty, it must bring us in less: either way,
it is ill for farmers!”

“But the Lord God has granted us fine weather, and the corn in the ear
is dry.” He rubbed some in his hands and tasted it.

“Well and good; but the Lord Jesus is hard upon us for the barley crop:
it is quite lost.”

From topic to topic, they came to talk about the morning’s assembly. It
appeared that the Jew had special information on this point. Looking
cautiously about him, he said:

“Do ye know? The District Official made a contract as far ago as last
winter with a builder about that Lipka school! My son-in-law acted as
his agent.”

“What, in winter, and before it was voted? What is this ye tell me?”

“Was he to ask anyone for leave? Is he not throughout his District like
a Squire on his estate?”

Antek put him a few more questions, which Nuchim answered, giving many
curious particulars, and finally saying, with tolerant amenity:

“Things have to be so. The husbandman lives on the land he tills, the
tradesman on what he sells, the Squire on his estate, the priest on his
parish ... and the official, on everybody. It must be so, and ’tis well
so. All men should get their livelihood, should they not?”

“To my mind, that one man should fleece the others is not well; but that
all men should live justly, and as the Lord hath commanded.”

“What’s to be done? Folk must live as they can.”

“Oh, I know the saying: ‘Every man peels his own turnip’; but therefore
do things go so badly.”

The Jew nodded, but kept his own counsel.

They at last got to the wood, where the road was less deep in sand.
Antek gave up the barrow, bought a _zloty’s_ worth of sweets for his
children, and, when the Jew wanted to thank him, cried out:

“You are foolish! To help you was but a whim of mine.”

And then he started off at a good pace for Lipka. He was now in the cool
grateful shadow of the trees, with only a tiny strip of sky overhead,
and a thin bright stream of sunshine beneath. The wood—of oak, pine and
birch—was old and tall, and the trees were pressed close, with a thick
undergrowth at their feet of hazels, aspens, juniper-bushes, and
hornbeams, with here and there a few groves of firs, pushing greedily
skywards to get at the sun.

There still were plenty of pools glittering on the road after
yesterday’s rain; plenty of broken boughs, too, and tree-tops scattered
on the ground. In some places, a slender tree had been uprooted, and lay
across the way, which was quiet and cool and darksome, and smelling of
mould and of mushrooms.

The trees stood motionless, lost, as it were, in the contemplation of
heaven; only at rare intervals did they let a few beams slip through,
like golden gossamer threads, on to the banks of moss, and the wild
strawberries, sprinkled about, and red as clotted blood, amongst the
pallid grasses.

Antek was so charmed with the cool and profound tranquillity of the wood
that he sat down under a tree, and fell unawares into a doze, from which
he only awoke at the sound of a galloping snorting horse. It was the
Squire, out for a ride, and he went forward to accost him.

They greeted one another as usual, and in neighbourly fashion.

“Fearfully hot, eh?” said the horseman, soothing his restless mare.

“So it is.—In a week’s time, we shall have to go reaping.”

“In Modlitsa they are already cutting down the rye.”

“The soil is sandy there; but this year they will everywhere be reaping
earlier.”

The Squire asked him about the meeting at the District Office, and
stared to hear what had taken place.

“Did ye actually demand a Polish school?—and so openly, and so firmly?”

“I have said: my tongue tells no false tales.”

“But what daring! To demand such a thing in the head official’s very
presence!—Well, well!”

“It is so written down in the laws, as clear can be; I had the right to
demand it.”

“But how did the idea come into your head to ask for a Polish school?”

“How? Because I am a Pole—not a German, nor of any other nation.”

“But who gave you the idea?” he asked, lowering his voice, and
approaching.

“Untaught, children may learn to think aright,” he answered evasively.

“Ah,” he went on in the same tone, “I see that Roch’s work amongst you
has borne fruit....”

“Who, together with your Honour’s _kinsman_, teaches our folk as he
can.”

Antek had interrupted the Squire, and, laying stress on the word
“kinsman,” looked keenly on him. The Squire, ill at ease, tried to turn
the conversation; but Antek returned to the subject of set purpose,
speaking of the peasants’ many grievances, and their benighted and
friendless condition.

“That’s because they will hearken to no one. I know well how the clergy
work for their good, and how they urge industry upon them ... and how it
is all lost labour.”

“Sermons are no more good for that purpose than a thurible of incense
for a dead man!”

“Then what _is_ good, pray?—You have, I see, learned not a few things in
prison,” he retorted. The taunt made Antek’s eyes blaze and his face
flush; but he answered with calm:

“So I have. And, especially, that the nobility is to blame for the evils
we suffer!”

“Foolish prating! What harm did they ever do to you?”

“Harm?—When Poland was free, they cared no whit for the people, only to
drive them to work with a whip, and oppress them, while they themselves
made merry, and danced the country to ruin: so that we now must build it
all over, from the very foundations.”

The Squire was a hot-headed man, so he lost his temper:

“You insolent peasant! Let alone the nobles and their doings—care rather
to pitchfork your dung—you had better! And keep your tongue between your
teeth, and well inside, or there be those that will cut it out for you!”

And, slashing his mare, he went off down the road at a swift gallop.

Antek was not less offended and indignant.

“That race of hounds!” he muttered angrily. “Great gentlemen, forsooth!
Blood of a dog! So long as he stood in need of the peasants, he was
hail-fellow-well-met with them all! The vermin—himself not worth a roast
louse!” Infuriated, he strode along, crushing the toadstools on his path
in his rage.

On leaving the wood for the poplar road, he heard a couple of voices
that seemed familiar to him, and, peering forward, perceived a britzka
covered with dust in the shade of some birches at the edge of the wood,
and Yanek, the organist’s son, standing with Yagna a few paces off.

He rubbed his eyes, quite sure they must be in fault. They were not. The
couple, not twenty paces from him, stood gazing one at the other, with
faces wonderfully radiant.

Much surprised, he strained his ears to catch what they were saying; but
he could only just hear that they spoke aloud.

She had come out of the forest, and met him driving to the village: a
chance meeting, he thought at first. But at that moment he was swept by
a wave of suspicion, and a rankling sense of bitterness got hold of him.

“No! It cannot be but they have met by agreement.”

Yet once more, scanning the innocent features of the young man, and
seeing the saintly serenity that lighted up his face, Antek grew calmer,
though he was still unable to explain why Yagna had dressed so carefully
to go to the forest, why her azure eyes flashed so brightly, why her
crimson lips trembled so, or why she was so visibly flooded with joy. He
took note of her, his eyes gleaming like a hungry wolf’s, as she, with
swelling bosom, bent forward to offer Yanek a small basket of bark, out
of which he took strawberries, eating some, and putting some in her
mouth.

“... He is almost a priest, and he wants to play like a baby!”

He whispered the words in a tone of pity, and slipped away quickly home,
for the sun told him the afternoon meal was due.

“That ulcer of mine” (he was alluding to Yagna) “hurts me, but only when
I happen to touch it!... Oh, how greedily her eyes were fixed on the
lad! As if she would have devoured him!—Well, let her! Let her!”

But, do what he would, his “ulcer” gave him excruciating pain.

“She flees me as the plague!... This fellow’s new sieve for her
peg.—Fortunately, she will lose her trouble with Yanek.—Ah!” he said,
now more and more wrought up; “some women are of such nature that they
will run after any man who only whistles to them.”

But, fast as he went, his burning memories went with him. He saw no one,
though several men passed by; and he only calmed down at the village, on
perceiving Yanek’s mother, sitting by a ditch, her youngest son rolling
in the sand beside her, and a flock of geese grazing between the
poplar-trees.

“You have come pretty far with your geese, Madam,” he said, stopping to
wipe his face.

“I went out to meet Yanek; he must be here at any minute.”

“I just saw him at the skirt of the forest.”

“Ah, is he, then, so near?” she ejaculated, starting up and chiding her
geese for getting into the rye near the roadside, where they were doing
considerable damage.

“His britzka was standing near the crucifix; he was in talk with some
woman or other.”

“Yes, he must have met an acquaintance and had a chat. Good kind-hearted
boy! he cannot even pass by a strange dog without patting it.—And who
was she?”

“I could not be quite sure, but fancy she was Yagna.” He saw the old
dame purse her lips at the name, and added, smiling significantly: “I
could not tell, for they were slipping away into the thickets. On
account of the heat, no doubt.”

“Saints of the Lord! what has come to your mind? Yanek!—to mix with such
a one!”

“She’s as good as others!” he retorted, suddenly angry. “Better, it may
be.”

The organist’s wife bent over her knitting, and her fingers wagged more
quickly.

“What! Yanek, on the very verge of the priesthood, to have anything to
do with such a woman!” And then she recalled certain tales she had heard
about priests, and dug a knitting-needle into her hair in perplexity,
and resolved to see into this and inquire.... But Antek had gone; and
now there came a great cloud of dust upon the road; and two minutes
later Yanek was embracing her with the tenderest affection, and crying
out from his heart:

“O my dear, my darling mother!”

“Saints of the Lord!—Let go, you young giant, let go: you’re choking
me!” But when he had let go, she fell herself to hugging and kissing,
and gloating over him with eager eyes.

“Poor little mite! How thin they have made you! How pale, poor son of
mine! and how wretched-looking!”

“One does not grow fat on broth of holy water!” he answered, laughing,
and tossing his little brother up in the air, till he crowed with
delight.

“Fear nothing; we’ll stuff you and puff you out in no time,” she said,
stroking his cheeks with affection.

“Well, let us drive on, Mother dear, and we shall be sooner home.”

“Ah, those geese! Lord, Lord! In the rye again!”

He ran to drive them off, for they were plucking at the rye-stalks and
devouring the grain at will. Then he placed his brother in the cart, and
walked on himself along the middle of the road.

“Look there!” his mother cried; “how that brat has smeared his face!”
She pointed to the boy on the britzka.

“Yes he has made free with my strawberries. Eat away, eat away!—I met
Yagna coming out of the wood with them, and she gave me some.” He
coloured bashfully.

“Boryna was just telling me he had met you both....”

“I did not see him; he must have passed at some distance.”

“Child, folk in a village can see things through walls—even things that
have not taken place!” She laid stress on the words, looking down on her
twinkling knitting-needles.

Yanek had apparently not caught her meaning. Seeing a flight of doves
sweeping low above the rye, he aimed a stone at one of them, saying
merrily:

“They are the priest’s: anyone can tell that, so fat they are!”

“Be still, Yanek! Someone else might hear you!” she gently rebuked him,
though her thoughts already saw him a parish priest, and herself
spending her old age by his side, and living the rest of her years in
peace and happiness.

“And when is Felix coming for the vacation?”

“Why, Mother, know ye not? He is in jail.”

“Saints of the Lord! In jail! What was the misdeed?—And I always said
and foretold he would come to a bad end!—Such a scapegrace!—Had he
become a scrivener of low degree—that would have sufficed him—quite; but
the miller wanted him to be a doctor, forsooth!... And they were so
stuck up, so proud of their darling! Now he is in jail—and a pretty
comfort to them!” she said, trembling all over with malevolent
satisfaction.

“But, Mother, it is not that at all: he is in the Warsaw Citadel.”

“In the Citadel? Then” (she lowered her voice) “it is some political
misdeed!”

Yanek either could not or would not tell her any more, and she went on,
in a faltering voice:

“My dear child, remember never to have aught to do with any such
affairs.”

“No! In our seminary, anyone who so much as speaks of them is expelled.”

“You see? They would expel you, and you would never be a priest, and I—I
should die of shame and sorrow! O God! have mercy upon us!”

“My dear mother, have no fear for me.”

“And you are aware how hard we work and strive for the bettering of your
lot; what trouble we have—so many of us, and our gains always growing
less; and how, were it not for the bit of land we have, our priest would
drive us to die of starvation. Aye, he now settles matters directly with
the peasants, both for weddings and for funerals: who ever heard of such
a thing! He says Father takes too much from the peasants—and he becomes
their benefactor at other folk’s expense!”

“But,” Yanek faltered here, “Father really did take too much!”

“What! will ye rise up in judgment on your own father?—Even were this
true, for whom is he greedy? For himself? No: for you all; for you and
your schooling!” She felt deeply hurt.

Yanek was going to ask her forgiveness, but he just then heard a bell
tinkle on the other side of the pond, and cried:

“Hark, Mother! it must be the priest taking the Holy Viaticum to some
sick man!”

“He is more likely to be ringing to prevent the bees from flying away;
they are probably swarming in his garden now. He is more interested in
his bees and his bull than in the church.”

They were just passing the churchyard, when suddenly they heard a
roaring hum, and Yanek had but just time to call out to the driver:

“Bees are coming!—Hold the horses still, or they’ll bolt.”

A huge swarm was flying with a loud drone about the church square,
rising up like a sonorously purring cloud, and wheeling about in search
of a good place to settle upon; at times sweeping low and floating
amongst the trees. Behind it ran the priest, clad only in shirt and
breeches, bareheaded, out of breath, and continually sprinkling the bees
with water from an aspergill. Near him came Ambrose, creeping along in
the shadow of the bushes, ringing and shouting with all his might. They
went twice round the square without slackening their speed; for the
bees, flying ever lower, seemed to want to alight on one of the
cottages, from which the frightened children were already making their
escape; but then, rising a little higher, they made straight for Yanek’s
britzka. His mother, with a shriek, and pulling her petticoat over her
head, ran to crouch down in the nearest ditch; the geese waddled away;
the horses would have bolted, had not the driver covered their eyes with
cloths. But Yanek stood quietly, with uplifted head, while the swarm
swirled on above him, and passed him towards the belfry.

“Water, quick, before they are off again!” bellowed the priest, rushing
after, and, coming up with them, sprinkled them with so copious a shower
that their damp wings allowed them to go no farther, and they began to
settle on the belfry window.

“Ambrose! the ladder and the sieve now!—Hurry, else they are away
again!—Stir your leg and hurry up!—How do you do, Yanek? Get me some
live coals in a thurible: we shall have to quiet them with incense!” he
cried in great excitement, incessantly sprinkling the swarm as it was
settling. Before he could have said a “Hail Mary,” the ladder was there,
and Ambrose tinkling, and Yanek sending up clouds of aromatic smoke as
from a chimney; and meanwhile the priest climbed up and, bending over
the swarm, groped amongst the bees to find their queen.

“Ha! here she is! God be praised; they will not flee any farther
now!—But they are dispersing: Yanek! smoke them from beneath!” he cried,
taking the bees up in his bare hands and pouring them into the big
sieve, the swarm being an exceedingly large one, talking to them all the
while, and not in the least afraid, although they came setting on his
head and crawling over his face.

“Take heed! they are getting excited, and may sting,” he said, warning
the others, as he came down, surrounded by a vast cloud that was eddying
on all sides of him, and buzzing and humming. On reaching the ground, he
raised up the sieve as carefully and as solemnly as though it had been a
Monstrance. Yanek, swinging the thurible, accompanied him; Ambrose
followed, now ringing, now sprinkling the bees. And thus they went in
procession to the priest’s apiary, behind his house, where stood in a
separate enclosure some scores of hives, all humming as loud as if each
of them were about to swarm.

While the priest was getting his bees into their new hive, Yanek, now
very tired and hungry, slipped away quietly home.

They all rejoiced exceedingly to see him, and the noise and fuss made
over him cannot be described. When the first outburst was over, they
made him sit down to table, bringing him all sorts of good things,
enticing and pressing and teasing him to eat, till the whole house
echoed to the din and bustle, all wanting to be by the lad’s side or
doing something for him. In the midst of this hubbub, in dropped
Gregory, the Voyt’s brother, to ask them anxiously if they had seen Roch
anywhere. But they had not.

“Nowhere can I find him,” he said in distress, and, without staying to
talk, went on to another cabin to seek for him. Scarcely had he left
them, when the priest sent for Yanek. He lingered and delayed going as
long as he could, but of course had to go at last.

His Reverence, who was sitting on the porch, embraced him like a father,
and, making him sit down by his side, said with great affability:

“I am glad you have come: we shall say our breviary together.—But do ye
know how many swarms of bees I have this year? Fifteen! And as vigorous
as any of the old ones; some have already filled a quarter of the hive
with honey. And I had more swarms; but I had told Ambrose to watch for
the swarming, and he fell asleep, the blockhead! and where are the bees
now?—In the woods and the forests!—And then the miller stole one from
me; he did, I say! They flew on to a pear-tree of his, and he claimed
them for his own, and would not hear of returning them. Sore about the
bull, he is, and that’s his revenge.... The robber!—What, have you heard
about Felix?... Ah! these wretches, they sting like wasps!” he broke off
all at once, brushing away with his handkerchief the flies that came
settling on his bald crown.

“All I know is, he’s in the citadel.”

“If that were all!... And I warned him so!... The donkey would not
hearken to me; and now he’s in a pretty fix.... The old father is a
loud-mouthed boor; but I’m sorry for Felix; a clever young rogue, and
with his Latin at his fingers’ ends, as well as any bishop!... What is
that saying? ah, ‘Touch not what’s not allowed, and keep yourself from
things forbidden’ ... and: ‘A docile calf thrives as though it sucked
two mothers.’ Aye ... aye ...” he continued his voice growing feebler,
as he went on brushing the flies away. “Recollect that, Jasio, recollect
it.” His head fell back, and he sank deep into his vast arm-chair. But
as Yanek got up to leave, he opened his eyes and murmured: “Those bees
have tired me out!—Come and say the breviary with me of an evening....
And take heed not to be too familiar with the peasants. Note this: ‘He
that mixes with chaff will be eaten by swine!’ Eaten, I tell you—and
there’s an end.”—With these words he threw a handkerchief over his face,
and was asleep in the twinkling of an eye.

What the priest had said, Yanek’s father thought, no doubt; for, when
the farm-servant came home with the horses from the pastures, and Yanek
vaulted upon one of them, the old man cried:

“Get down this instant! It is unseemly for a clergyman to ride
barebacked, or to keep company with herdsmen!”

Dearly as he would have loved a ride, he nevertheless alighted meekly
and, twilight having fallen now, went into the garden to say his evening
prayers. But he could not keep his mind on them. There was a girl,
somewhere about, trilling a song; some women were gossiping in a
neighbouring orchard, and every word came wafted over the dewy grass to
him; children shouted as they bathed in the pond; in another direction,
the sound of laughter struck his ears; and then came the lowing of the
cows, and the metallic cackle of the priest’s guinea-fowls pierced the
air, and the whole place was full of sounds of every kind, and like a
hive of humming bees. All this put him out; and when he had at last
collected himself, and, kneeling down at the edge of a rye-field, raised
his eyes to the starry heaven, and his soul to the Infinite beyond it,
he heard such a sudden din of piercing shrieks and howls and curses that
he ran back to the house, not a little alarmed and shaken, to ask his
mother (who had just come to call him in for supper) what the matter
was, and whether the people there were fighting in earnest.

“Oh, ’tis only Joseph Vahnik, back from the police office a little in
his cups, and he’s fighting his wife. The woman had long stood in great
need of a good drubbing. Do not trouble, she will take no harm.”

“But she screeches as if she were being skinned alive!”

“That’s her way: if he had taken a stick to her, she’d have been quiet
enough. And she’ll get even with him to-morrow, she will!—Come, dearest,
or supper will be cold.”

He went to bed, utterly worn out, and having scarcely touched any food.
But as soon as the sun rose next morning, he was on his legs: going
about the fields, bringing clover to the horses, teasing the priest’s
turkeys till they gobbled at him indignantly, making friends with the
dogs, that tried to fawn on him till they well-nigh broke their chains;
scattering grain to the pigeons, helping his youngest brother to drive
the cattle, and Michael to chop wood; looking whether the pears in the
orchard were ripe yet; frolicking with the colt, going everywhere and
greeting everything he saw with eyes of love, as friends and
brothers—even the flower-dight hollyhocks, the little pigs basking in
the sun, the very weeds and nettles themselves! And his mother,
following his gambols with loving looks, murmured, smiling fondly at the
lad:

“He’s out of his wits—clean out of his wits!”

And so he wandered about, radiant as that July day: smiling, sunny, full
of warmth, and embracing the whole world with intense affection ...
until, the Mass-bell beginning to tinkle, he quitted all to hasten away
to church.

It was a Votive Mass, and Yanek walked out of the sacristy in front of
the priest, in a new surplice, freshly adorned with red ribbons. The
organ pealed forth, and from the choir there came a big bass voice which
made the flames of the altar-lights tremble. Quite a number of
worshippers were kneeling round the altar, when the service began.

Yanek, though serving Mass and praying fervently between his responses
and the acts of his ministry, could not help noticing Yagna and her
gleaming dark-blue eyes, fixed upon him, and the lurking smile on her
parted crimson lips.

After church, the priest took him to his house directly and set him
amanuensis work to do for him till noon, when he was free to visit his
acquaintances in the village.

He went first to see the Klembas, his nearest neighbours, but found none
of them at home. Only, looking through the passage open at either end,
he saw that something moved in a corner, and heard a husky voice:

“Here I am ... I, Agata!” She raised herself up, and lifted her hands in
astonishment. “Lord! ’tis Master Yanek!”

“Pray you, do not rise!... What, are ye unwell?” he asked her kindly,
and, seating himself on a stump that he brought in, looked into her
face, which he could scarcely recognize, so worn and wasted it was.

“I am waiting upon the Lord and expecting His mercy.” Her voice had a
strangely solemn sound.

“What is it that ails you?”

“Naught. But Death is growing ripe within me for the harvest. The
Klembas have only taken me in here that I might die amongst them: so
here I am—praying and awaiting the end ... waiting for Dame Crossbones
to knock and say: ‘Come away with me, you weary soul!’”

“But wherefore are you not lying within—in the cabin?”

“Ah, I would not be in the way till my time comes. As it is, they had to
take their calf hence to make room for me.... But they have promised to
lay me in their dwelling-room for my last hours—on a bed, beneath the
Holy Images, and with the Taper of the Dying lit in my hand!... And to
bring the priest, and dress me in my best clothes, and give me a real
goodwife’s funeral! Yea, and I have paid for everything, and they are
honest folk: perhaps they will not play false with a poor lone old
woman.—I shall not trouble them long; and they promised me this in the
presence of witnesses—of witnesses!”

“But are you not weary of lying here alone?”—His voice sounded tearful
and unsteady.

“Master Yanek, I am very well off indeed here. Through these doorways, I
can see many a thing: folk that go along the road, folk talking one to
another; some look in, some even have a few kind words for me: I might
just as well be going about the village. And when they have all gone to
their work, I can see the fowls scratching in the rubbish-heaps; and
then the sparrows hop into the passage, or the sun looks in for a little
ere he sets, or some naughty boy flings a clod my way; and so the day is
gone by before I know it.... And ... in the night ... they come to
me—oh, many a one!...”

“They? Who, ah! who is’t that comes?” He bent close, and peered into her
seemingly sightless eyes.

“My own folk, who died long ago: kinsfolk and acquaintances.—I tell you
true, young master: they do come!—Once, too,” she whispered with a smile
of ineffable rapture, “once the Virgin Mother herself came and said to
me tenderly: ‘Lie there, Agata, the Lord Jesus will reward you.’ It was
she of Chenstohova: I knew her at once by her crown and her mantle, all
covered with gold and coral beads. And she stroked my hair and said: ‘Be
not afraid, O lone one; you shall be a foremost dame in the court of
Heaven, a lady of high degree.’”

Thus spoke the old woman, chirping feebly, like a bird that is dropping
off to sleep; while Yanek, bending over her, looked and listened; as one
who, gazing into abysmal depths, hears something hidden that bubbles and
gurgles, and sees the glimmer of a mystery that is going on, beyond the
ken of the human mind! He felt terror-stricken, yet could not tear
himself away from that rag of humanity, that withered ear of corn, that
life which, trembling like a ray that goes out in the darkness, was yet
dreaming of its forthcoming renewal and splendour! Never yet had he
beheld so near as this the inexorable destiny of man, and he was
naturally appalled on realizing it. His heart was filled with mourning,
and tears welled up from his eyes; he was bowed down to the earth with
deep commiseration, and a fervent supplication burst convulsively from
his lips.

Old Agata roused herself, lifted up her head, and cried ecstatically:

“O Yanek! O, most holy youth! Dear priest, beloved of my heart!”

He remained for a long time afterwards, standing propped against a wall,
taking in the warmth of the sun, and feasting his eyes on the bright
day, and the life he saw seething round him.

Did it matter, after all, if hard by him a human soul were struggling in
the grip of death?

The sun shone all the same, the cornfields rustled; far, far above, the
white clouds sailed past; children played on the roads; on the boughs,
ripe apples glowed crimson; hammers beat upon the smithy anvil; they
were getting ready a wagon, and tempering a sickle for the coming
harvest; the air was redolent of fresh-baked bread; women were chatting
together, kerchiefs moved along the hedges and fields and enclosures:
humanity went on its way, as usual, as everlastingly, swarming,
bustling, full of cares and little schemes, no one so much as wondering
who would be first to fall into the abyss!

And so Yanek soon shook off his sadness, and went on to the village.

He stayed a little with Matthew, who was now raising the walls of
Staho’s hut to a good height; had a talk with Ploshkova, busy bleaching
her linen; paid a visit to Yuzka, who was still in bed; lent an ear to
the complaints of the Voyt’s wife; looked how the smith at his forge was
hardening scythes and putting a jagged edge to reaping-hooks; and he
looked also into the gardens where women and lasses were at work:
everyone was glad to see him, hailed him as a friend, and looked on him
with no little pride—a child of Lipka—one of them!

Dominikova’s was the last hut he visited. She was sitting outside,
spinning, and he wondered how she could spin with a bandage over her
eyes.

“My fingers tell me if the thread is fine or thick,” she said; and,
greatly pleased that he had come, called Yagna, who was doing something
about the yard.

She came at once, scantily attired in only smock and petticoat; but on
seeing Yanek, she hastily put up her hands and ran into the cabin, as
red as a cherry.

“Yagna, bring us milk: Master Yanek will surely take some refreshment.”

She brought in a full milking-pail, and a mug to drink from. She had
covered herself with a shawl, but was still extremely confused. As she
poured the milk out with downcast eyes, her hands shook, and she turned
pale and red by turns.

All the time he was there, she said not one single word; but,
accompanying him to the gate when he went away, she gazed after him till
he was out of sight.

There was in him something that attracted her irresistibly, and stirred
her up with such power that, in order not to follow him, she flew to the
orchard, caught hold of a tree, and embraced it with all her might,
hugging it in both arms. There she stood, breathless, almost beside
herself, cloaked and hidden, as it were, by the apple-covered branches
that bowed down over her, with eyelids half closed, and a faint smile of
happiness on her lips, though she also felt a vague dread, and a fearful
yet pleasant sense of agitation: something like what she had experienced
when looking at him through the window, that night in spring.

She too attracted him, though he was not aware of any attraction. He
would now and then look in at her cabin for a short time, feeling an
unaccountable gladness at the visit; and, seeing her daily in church,
always on her knees during the whole of Mass, and seeming to be in a
state of fervent, even ecstatic prayer, he could not witness this
without a pleasing emotion. One day he spoke to his mother of that
ardent piety of hers.

“Oh, if anyone stands in need of prayer and pardon, she does!” was the
reply.

Now Yanek’s soul was as pure a white as the whitest flower in the world,
and so he failed to catch the real meaning of those words. As, moreover,
she used to frequent their house, where everybody liked her, and he saw
her piety besides to be so great, he really had no suspicion of what she
was. Only he thought it a curious thing that she had not come once since
his return.

His mother answered: “I have just sent for her; there is much ironing to
be done.”

And presently she came, but so finely dressed that he wondered.

“What? are ye off to a wedding?”

One of the girls here cried out: “Rather she has received an offer of
marriage.”

“Let them but dare! I should soon send them flying!” she replied with a
laugh, blushing like a rose, for every eye was upon her.

Yanek’s mother set her to iron at once; his sisters joined her, and
Yanek went with them. In a short time they were all very merry, roaring
with laughter over the merest trifles, and finally the old dame had to
rebuke them.

“Be quiet, ye magpies!—Yanek, better go into the garden. ’Tis not
fitting you should sit grinning here.”

So he had to go out, according to his wont, into the fields away beyond
the village, or even as far as the boundaries of Lipka, where he would
sit reading or meditating.

Yagna knew well those haunts of his, and where to find him, if only with
the mind’s eye; she was for ever flying round him, like a moth round a
candle, and could not help herself; for she was driven towards him, and
now followed her impulse without resistance, giving way with all her
heart and soul to that gentle force, which like the rush of a foaming
current impelled her onward; she never even wondered on what shores it
would land her, nor how it all would end.

Whether she laid herself down to rest late in the night, or rose up at
early dawn, she was continually repeating with every heart-beat:

“I shall see him—see him—see him once again!”

She was often kneeling before the altar, when the priest came out to say
Mass; the organ burst forth with soul-stirring strains, the
incense-smoke poured out of the thuribles, and whispered prayers went up
to the throne of God; but she, with eyes full of worship, gazed only on
Yanek, clad in white, slender, fair to behold, moving with joined hands
amidst the fragrant vapours and the rainbow hues that streamed down from
the stained-glass windows. He seemed to her like a real angel, stepping
out of a picture-frame, and gliding towards her with a sweet smile. And
then all Heaven would enter her soul; she would fall prone in the dust,
kissing the place where his feet had passed, and, carried away by the
force of her passionate emotions, would join with the others to sing the
hymn: “Holy, Holy, Holy!” in a delirium of purely human bliss.

Sometimes Mass was over, and the people had gone home, and Ambrose came
jingling his keys to close the church, while she was yet there, on her
knees, gazing at the spot, now empty, where Yanek had been—plunged in a
hallowed calm, an intoxicating joy, intensified even to pain—shedding
big tears that flowed down clear as crystal.

Now was every day for her like a day of solemn festival, a great day of
indulgence, with the never-ceasing joy of adoration ever thrilling her
soul; and when she looked out upon the country-side, the ripe ears of
corn, the sun-baked soil, the orchards bending under their burden of
fruit, the far-away forests, the passing clouds, and that grand sun,
like the Sacred Host, rising up over the world—all these, with one
accord, sang together in her soul one and the same hymn, which reached
to Heaven: “Holy, Holy, Holy!”

“At a time like this,” she thought, “how strong one feels! One could
wrestle with God—master death—even struggle against one’s fate! To one
in such a pass, life is for ever a joy; even the merest worm is beloved
by him!... Every morning he kneels to thank the Lord, every night he
blesses the day gone by: he willingly would give away all he has, for he
would yet remain rich; and with each of those marvellous days, his power
of loving increases!

“And how his soul rises up—up—far above all the worlds! And how he looks
on the stars as on things close by! how boldly he stretches out his hand
to Heaven and the day of bliss everlasting, seeing clearly that there is
naught to bound his power of loving, and that naught can turn it aside!”

Meanwhile the days glided by as usual, those days of tedious preparation
for the harvest. And she was bustling about and working hard, but as
full of song as any lark; unweariedly joyful, blossoming all over with
gladness, like a rose-bush or an exuberant hollyhock; or rather like
some flower from the garden of Paradise—so winsome to see, so radiantly
alluring with those wonderful eyes of hers, so perpetually wreathed with
beaming smiles! Even the glances of aged men followed her with delight,
and young swains again came flocking about her cabin, sighing with love.
But she rejected every one of them.

“Take root here, if you will; you’ll profit nothing,” she said mockingly
to each.

“We are all scorned by her! She is as haughty as any Manor lady,” they
complained to Matthew. And he only sighed bitterly: he himself, had he
any greater privilege than to talk at dusk with her mother, and eye
Yagna as she hurried about the cabin, and listen to the songs she sang?
He looked and listened, and each time went home in a surlier mood, now
more and more often repairing to the tavern, and on his return thence
discharging his bitterness on everyone around him. Especially on Teresa,
whom he pained so much that life was a burden to her; so much that,
meeting Yagna one day, she could not forbear from a manifestation of
spite—turning her back on her and spitting!

But Yagna, walking by with far-away looks, passed on without even seeing
her.

Teresa, in a fury, said to the girls that were by, washing at the
mill-pond:

“See ye how she stalks past—never looking at anyone, either by day or by
night?”

“And,” cried another, “arrayed as if it were the local feast to-day!”

“Daily she sits combing her hair till noon!”

“She’s always buying ribbons and headgear!” they chimed in, full of
hate. Since some time, whenever she appeared in the village, she was
followed everywhere by the women’s piercing looks—sharp as cats’ claws,
stinging as a viper’s fangs. And on every occasion they would find
something to say against her. The goodwives whispered in Ploshka’s
enclosure, as she passed:

“It is unbearable, the way she sets herself above us all.”

“And dresses like a Manor Lady: whence can the money come?”

“Has she not great favour with the Voyt?”

“Antek also, they say, is very open-handed with her.”

But here Yagustynka interfered. “Oh, no, Antek cares no more for her
than a dog for a fifth leg! ’Tis someone else she has taken up with
now!” And she smiled with such a knowing air that they all pestered her
to know who this was. She would not, and told them:

“I am no scandalmonger! Ye have eyes: find out for yourselves!”

And from that time, a hundred pair of eyes spied all Yagna’s doings
still more closely than ever. So many hounds in pursuit of one hare!

Yagna, thus constantly watched by prying eyes, went her way quite
unconscious; nor would she have cared in any case, having the bliss of
seeing her Yanek daily, and losing her whole being in his eyes.

Almost every day, she would look in at the organist’s, always when Yanek
was at home. Sometimes he happened to sit by her side, and she knew that
his eyes were upon her; and then her face glowed, all on fire, her feet
trembled and her heart would beat like a hammer. At other times, when he
was giving his sisters lessons in the next room, she would listen,
holding her breath, and so extremely attentive to the sweet sounds of
his voice that the old dame once asked her why she gave ear so eagerly.

“Because Master Yanek teaches in such learned wise that I cannot
understand anything at all!”

“And are ye so fain to do so?” she replied with a smile of pity. “My son
has learned in no mean school!” she added with pride, and continued
expatiating on her Yanek for some time. She was fond of Yagna, and liked
her to come; the girl was handy at every sort of work, and besides very
often brought something—pears, wild strawberries, whortleberries,
sometimes even a pat of fresh butter.

Yagna listened with eager attention to all she said; but when Yanek left
the house, she would presently hurry away—to her mother’s, she said. She
loved to gaze on him from a distance; and at times, too, hidden in the
rye or behind a tree, she would gloat over him for a long time, and with
such tender emotion that the tears would fall in spite of her.

But her joy was greatest in the short warm clear summer nights. As soon
as her mother was asleep, she carried her bedding out into the orchard,
where, lying on her back, she looked up at the stars scintillating
through the tree-tops, and dreamed sweetly of the “world without end.”
The sultry night-winds swept over her face and the stars looked down
into her wide-open eyes; the voices out of the fragrant darkness, the
breathless whispers of the leaves, the broken rustling of the creatures
slumbering around—feeble sighs and dull stifled calls and timid
chuckling sounds—melted within her into a weird music, penetrating her
with a hot thrill that made her catch her breath, and quiver, and fall
down, rolling on the cool dewy sward on which she lay like a fruit
fallen from the tree. There she would remain, prone and powerless, in
the clutch of the almighty force of Nature, as did the ripening fields,
the fruit-burdened branches, the broad yellow wheat-lands, ready for the
sickle, the birds, the blasts, or for any fate that awaited them,
indifferently expecting all!

Thus did Yagna spend the short warm clear nights and the burning days of
July: they passed by her like a delightful dream, repeated again and
again, and always more desirable.

And she moved about, too, as in a dream, scarce knowing whether it was
day or night.

Dominikova noted that something unusual was taking place in Yagna, but
she knew not what: only she was rejoiced at her unexpected and most
fervent piety, and would often say:

“Yagna, I tell you: whoso seeks God, to him doth God come!”

And Yagna would then smile a quiet humble smile of expectant happiness,
but said nothing.

And one day, quite unawares, she came upon Yanek, sitting by the mound
that was the village landmark, book in hand. She could not take to
flight, so stood there stock-still, confused and blushing deeply.

“Why, what are you doing here?” he said.

She stammered something, fearing lest he had guessed how matters stood
with her.

“Sit down; I can see you are hot and tired.”

As she hesitated whether to comply, he took her by the hand and seated
her by his side; she, with a quick motion, hiding her bare feet under
her skirt.

Nor was Yanek at his ease; he seemed embarrassed and troubled, and
looked about him in perplexity.

No one was near. The roofs and orchards of Lipka rose like far-away
islands out of a sea of corn, which rolled its waves in the breeze;
there was a warm scent of wild thyme mingled with that of the rye. A
bird was sailing high above their heads.

To break the awkward silence, he said: “It is terribly hot.”

“And it was pretty hot too yesterday,” she replied, in a voice so husky
with joy and fear that she could hardly get the words out.

“Reaping will begin soon.”

“Aye, it will,” she assented, her eyes glued to his face.

He smiled and, attempting a free and easy tone, said to her:

“Why, Yagna, you are growing prettier every day!”

“I pretty? No, indeed!” she faltered, turning very red, while her
dark-blue eyes shot flames, and a smile of secret delight trembled on
her lips.

“But tell me true, Yagna, do ye not mean to marry again?”

“Never! Am I not happy, single as I am?”

“And is there no one for whom ye care at all?” he asked, growing bolder.

“No one, no one!” She shook her head, fixing full upon him her dreamy
eyes that told of blissful thoughts. He bent forward, and looked into
their azure depths. In her glance there could be read a prayer, full of
sweet and most profound trust—like the fervent outcry of an adoring
heart at the most sacred instant of the Mass. And her soul stirred
within her, as a sunbeam passing over the fields, as a bird winging its
way, singing far above the earth.

On a sudden he shrank back, strangely perturbed, rubbed his eyes, and
rose to his feet.

“I must be going home.” He nodded farewell to her, and set off towards
the village through the fields, opening his book to read as he went. His
eyes happening to wander off it, he looked round, and stopped short.

Yagna was following, only a few paces behind him!

“This,” she said, timidly excusing herself, “is the shortest way home
for me too.”

“Then let us walk abreast,” he answered, gruffly, not much pleased at
having her company; and on he went, reading the book to himself half
aloud.

“What does it tell of?” she inquired, with a glance at the open pages.

“I’ll read you some, if you wish.”

There was a spreading tree not far off; so he sat down in its shade to
read, while Yagna, squatting down and facing him, her hand propping her
chin, listened very eagerly, drinking in all his being with greedy eyes.

“How do you like this?” he asked after a while, raising his head. She
blushed, looked away, and blurted out bashfully:

“Can I tell?—It is not a story about kings, is it?”

He looked annoyed and read on, but slowly and distinctly this time,
laying stress upon every word. He read about fields and cornlands ...
about a manor that stood in a grove of birches ... about the son of a
Squire who came home ... and a damsel who sat in a garden with the
children! And all that was set down in verse, exactly as in the books of
pious canticles, and they sounded like a hymn given out by a priest from
the pulpit. And she felt a wish to sigh and cross herself and shed
tears, the words impressed her so.

But the place where they were sitting was fearfully hot. All around them
stood the rye, spoiled by tangles of cornflowers and vetches and
morning-glory flowers, forming a dense wall, through which no breath of
air could pass to cool them. The silence was broken only by the rustling
sound of the dangling ears of rye, by the chirping of sparrows in the
boughs, and the drone of some passing bee. Yanek’s voice sounded very
sweet and melodious; but Yagna, though her eyes were fastened upon him,
as upon a most beautiful picture, and her ears did not miss one word he
said, yet could not help nodding from time to time, for she felt so
drowsy she had much ado to keep awake.

Fortunately he left off reading then, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Say, is it not truly beautiful?”

“Aye, very beautiful; very like a sermon!”

His eyes flashed and his cheeks flamed, as he held forth to her about
the poem, and quoted many a passage, describing the fields and forests.
But she broke in:

“Why, every infant knows that trees grow in the woods, that water flows
in the rivers, and that men sow the fields; wherefore, then, put such
things in print?”

Yanek started, astonished and displeased.

“I,” she went on to say, “care only for tales of kings, of dragons, of
spectres—tales which make one’s flesh creep to hear them, and the heart
within one burn like a live coal.... Such tales Roch tells us sometimes:
I could listen to him all day, all night!—Have ye any books on such
matters?”

“Who would read them? Mere trash, mere fables!” he ejaculated,
scornfully, and very much put out.

“Fables? Why, Roch has read them to us: they are in print!”

“Then he read you falsehoods and senseless things!”

“What, are all those marvellous tales only falsehoods and made-up
stories?”

“Nothing more!”

“And those about the noonday phantoms too? And those about the dragons?”
she asked, more and more disappointed.

He was losing patience. “I tell you, all that is mere falsehood!” he
said.

“But is all false too?—About the Lord Jesus, journeying with Saint
Peter?”

He had no time to answer her; for suddenly, as if risen out of the
ground, Kozlova appeared, standing in front of them and looking on the
pair with a wicked smile.

“Master Yanek,” she said in soft tones, “they are seeking you throughout
Lipka.”

“What can the matter be?”

“Three carts, full of gendarmes, have come to the village.”

He started up, greatly upset, and made off as fast as was seemly.

Yagna too returned to the village in deep trouble, Kozlova walking by
her side.

“I fear I have interrupted you two ... in your prayers!” she hissed.

“By no means. He was reading to me from a book with certain tales done
into verse.”

“Oh. I fancied something very different indeed. His mother had begged me
to seek him.... Coming this way, I look around: there is no one.... Then
I think of giving a look under this pear-tree ... and behold, there are
my turtle-doves, cooing one to another.—’Tis a very convenient spot ...
quite out of sight!—Aye, aye!”

Yagna broke away from her in a rage, screaming: “May your filthy tongue
be struck dumb for ever!”

And Kozlova cried after her: “And ye’ll always have someone to shrive
you!”




                               CHAPTER X


On entering the village, Yagna at once could see that something out of
the ordinary was going on. The dogs in the farm-yard were barking in
great excitement; the little ones, hiding in the orchards, peeped out
from behind the trees and hedges; the people, though it was yet far from
sunset, were fast coming in from the fields; women were whispering
together in groups; every face bore an expression of disquietude, and in
every eye there was a look of alarm and suspense.

“What has come about?” she asked the Balcerek girl, peering round the
corner of her hut.

“I cannot say; belike soldiers coming from the forest.”

“Jesu Maria! Soldiers!” And her knees trembled with terror.

“Young Klemba,” added the Prychek girl, as she ran by, “says they are
Cossacks from Vola.”

In great dismay, Yagna hurried on to her cabin, where her mother,
sitting on the threshold, and spinning, was in earnest talk with several
women.

“We have both seen the same thing—the men sitting in the porch, and
their leader with the priest inside the house.”

“And they have sent the organist’s lad Michael to fetch the Voyt.”

“The Voyt! then it can be no trifle. Ho, ho! something is in the wind!”

“It may be they have only come to collect the taxes.”

“With such a number of men? No, they come surely for something more than
that.”

“Perhaps; but, mark my words, they are here for no good!”

Yagustynka came up. “I,” she said, “can tell you why they have come.”

All crowded round her, stretching their necks out like so many geese.

“They have come to take us women into the army!” she cried with a
croaking laugh that no one took up; and Dominikova remarked sourly:

“Ye must always be making some wretched joke!”

“It is you that are always making mountains of molehills! You quake so,
your teeth are well-nigh falling out of your heads; yet all are greedy
to hear that something is to hap! Much do I trouble about the
gendarmes!”

Thereupon Ploshkova, pushing forward her portly figure, began telling
them how “something had come over her as soon as she saw those
carts....”

“Be quiet! Here comes Gregory and the Voyt, running at full speed
towards the priest’s house.”

Their eyes followed the two moving figures on the farther side of the
pond.

“Aha! Gregory too is wanted!”

They were wrong. Gregory only pushed his brother in, but stayed himself
to look at the carts drawn up there, and to question the drivers who
were sitting in the porch. Then, in great distress, he ran to Matthew,
who was working at Staho’s cabin, and sitting astride on one of the
roof-beams, while cutting hollows in it to fix the rafters.

“Not gone yet?” he asked, cutting away as before.

“No; and the worst is, we cannot tell for whom they have come.”

“Some evil thing is certainly at hand,” old Bylitsa stammered.

“Perchance they come about our meeting. The District Official threatened
us then, and the gendarmes have been to and fro, seeking to find out who
it is that eggs on the Lipka folk,” Matthew said, slipping down to the
ground.

“Then they are likely to have come for me!” Gregory rejoined, suddenly
breathless with apprehension.

“No, I think they mean to seize Roch!” Staho asserted.

“True, they have inquired about him once already: how could I let that
slip my memory?” He felt relieved for himself; but at once said, in
distress for the other’s fate:

“No doubt, if they have come for anyone, ’tis for him!”

“Well, but shall we let him be taken?” shouted Matthew. “Him, that is so
truly a father to us all!”

“Alas! we cannot resist them, it is not to be thought of.”

“Let him hide somewhere—and first let us warn him instantly.”

“But peradventure,” Staho remarked diffidently, “they may have come on
some other errand—the Voyt’s business, for instance.”

“He must at all events be warned,” cried Gregory; and, rushing out into
the rye, and working around several gardens, he soon reached Boryna’s
hut.

Antek was sitting in the porch, putting jagged edges to some sickles on
a small anvil. On hearing what the matter was, he started up in alarm.

“He has only just come in.—Roch!” he cried. “Here, we want you.”

“What is it?” the old man asked, putting his head out of the window; but
before they had time to speak, in dashed Michael, the organist’s lad,
panting very hard.

“Know, Antek, that the gendarmes are coming to you now, and are already
at the mill-pond!”

“For me!” Roch bowed his head with a sigh.

“Jesu Maria!” Hanka shrieked from the threshold, and burst into tears.

“Oh, be quiet!” Antek whispered; he was thinking very hard. “We must hit
upon something.”

“Roch!” vociferated Michael, breaking off a large branch and looking
daggers. “I’ll shout the news through Lipka, and we will not give you
up!”

“No fooling!—Roch! Get behind the haystack and into the rye this
instant. Wiggle into some furrow, hide yourself well, and stay till I
call you.—Quick! ere they are here!”

Roch snatched up some papers he had in the room and handed them to
Yuzka, who was in bed:

“Hide them under yourself, do not give them up,” he whispered.

And just as he was, without hat or capote, he darted into the orchard
and vanished like a stone in the waters: they could just see the rye
undulating slightly beyond the haystack.

“Now, Gregory, off with you! Hanka, to your work! Go, Michael—and not a
word of this!” Antek commanded, sitting down again to his interrupted
labour. Again he set to notching the edges of his reaping-hooks, evenly
and calmly as before. Now and again he would hold the edge up to the
light, glancing the while in every direction about him; for the barking
of the dogs was growing louder, and in a little he could hear the heavy
tread of the approaching gendarmes, the jingling of their sabres, and
the sound of their voices.

His heart was palpitating, his hands were shaking; yet he managed to go
on, notching evenly, regularly, with rhythmical strokes, never raising
his eyes till the men were standing before him.

“Is Roch in your hut?” asked the Voyt, mortally afraid.

Antek looked around at the group, and replied with great deliberation:

“He must be in the village, I suppose: I have not set eyes on him since
this morning.”

“Open your doors!” thundered the commanding officer.

“Why, they are open!” Antek growled, getting up from his bench.

The officer and some of his men went in, while the others watched the
orchard and outhouses.

About half the village was now outside in the road, looking on in
silence, while the cottage was searched and ransacked thoroughly. Antek
had to point out and open everything, while Hanka sat by the window with
the baby at her breast.

The search was of course fruitless; but they sought everywhere, and were
so careful to overlook nothing that one of them even peered under the
bed!

Some little books, strapped together, were lying on the table. The
officer pounced upon them, and set to examine them with the utmost care.

“How have ye come by these?”

“Belike Roch has left them there ... and there they lie.”

“The mistress here cannot read,” the Voyt explained.

“Can anyone amongst you read?”

“No,” Antek returned; “they teach us at school so well that now no one
is able even to spell out the words in our prayer-books!”

The officer handed the little books to a subordinate, and passed round
to the other side of the hut.

“What’s here?—A sick child?” he said, taking a step towards Yuzka.

“Yes. She has been lying there for a couple of weeks: smallpox.”

He retired hurriedly into the passage.

“Was Roch a lodger in this cabin?” he asked of the Voyt.

“In this or any other, according as it struck him: ’tis the _Dziads’_
wont.”

They peered into every hole and corner, even looking behind the holy
images; while Yuzka followed their movements with eyes full of dread,
trembling all over. One of them having approached her, she cried out
wildly:

“Oh, have I hidden him under me? Seek him then here, do!”

When they had done, Antek went over to their officer, and said very
humbly, with a deep bow:

“Has Roch stolen aught, I should like to know?”

The other, putting his face close to Antek’s, replied with a stare, and
laying stress on each word:

“Be it but found that you have concealed him, and ye shall go on a
journey together, both of you!—Do you hear?”

“I hear indeed, but cannot think what all this means.” And he scratched
his head, as if much perplexed.

The officer shot an angry look at him, and left the cabin.

They went round to many another, looking here and there, asking
questions of many a one, until sundown; when, the roads filling with
home-driven cattle, they went back empty-handed.

Now the village breathed freely, and people began telling of the
searches—at the Klembas’—at Gregory’s—at Matthew’s—and how each had seen
things better than anybody else, and had not been frightened in the
least, but had annoyed and bantered the gendarmes to the utmost!

But Antek, once alone with Hanka, said to her, dropping his voice:

“This is a wretched business, I see: there will be no keeping him in our
cabin any longer.”

“What, turn him out? So holy a man? One that does so much good?”

“A curse on it all! I am sick of it!” he cried, unable to find any way
out of the quandary. But Gregory came presently, along with Matthew, and
they held a consultation, locked up together in the barn: the cabin,
continually full of callers for news, was no fit place.

When they came out, it was quite dark. Hanka had milked the cows, and
Pete was back from the forest. Antek got the britzka and directly, while
Gregory and Matthew went out, ostensibly to look everywhere for Roch, in
reality to mislead the people of the village.

They were indeed all surprised at the quest, having made sure that Roch
lay somewhere concealed on Boryna’s premises. But the two friends gave
out that he had left Boryna’s directly after dinner and had not been
heard of since.

“Lucky for him, or he would be journeying in chains ere now!”

So it became generally known (as they had planned) that Roch had not
been seen in Lipka since noon.

People were glad, and said amongst themselves: “He guessed what was
awaiting him, and is off ‘to the land where pepper grows.’”

“Let him not come back, I say; we do not want him,” old Ploshka growled.

Matthew snarled back at him: “Is he in your way? Has he wronged you in
aught?”

“He disturbed the peace and troubled Lipka not a little. We all may yet
suffer on his account.”

“Then why not seize on him, you, and give him up?”

“Long ago we should have done so, had we any understanding!”

Matthew uttered a curse, and would have flown at him; they held him
back, but with difficulty. And then, it being late, they went each man
to his own cabin.

Antek was awaiting this moment, when the roads were deserted, and
everybody was supping at home, and the scent of fried bacon was wafted
abroad with the sound of merry talk and the tinkling of spoons in the
dishes; then he brought Roch to the room where Yuzka lay; but he would
not have a candle lit.

The old man snatched a hasty meal, put on what clothes he had left in
the hut, and said farewell to the women. Hanka fell at his feet, and
Yuzka wept and wailed piteously.

“God be with you! we may meet once more!” he said in a tearful voice,
pressing them paternally to his breast, and kissing them on the
forehead; but, Antek urging him to make haste, he once more blessed the
women and children, crossed himself, and went out to the stile by the
haystack.

“The britzka is waiting at Simon’s hut in Podlesie, and Matthew will
drive for you.”

“But I must still pay a visit here in Lipka.—Where are we to meet?”

“At the crucifix by the forest, whither we are going at once.”

“That’s well, for I have yet many things to speak of with Gregory.”

And presently he was unseen and inaudible.

Antek put the horses to, placed a bushel of rye and a whole sack of
potatoes in the britzka, conferred for some time apart with Vitek, and
then said, for all to hear:

“Vitek! drive over to Szymek’s hut with the cart, and then come back: do
ye hear?”

The lad’s eyes blazed, and he started off at such a pace that Antek
called after him:

“Slower, you rogue, or you’ll lame the horses!”

Roch had meantime crept stealthily to Dominikova’s, where he had left a
few things, and shut himself up in the inner room.

Andrew was on the watch by the roadside, and Yagna every now and then
looked out into the enclosure, while the old woman, sitting in the front
room, listened, trembling all over.

It took him some time before he came out to talk a little with
Dominikova by herself; then he wanted to take up his bag and start off.
But Yagna insisted on carrying it for him, at least to the forest. He
agreed, and, taking leave of the others, went out into the fields, and
slowly along the narrow pathways, with noiseless caution.

The night was clear and starlit; the lands lay hushed in slumber, with
only now and then a sound of fitful barking.

They were nearing the forest, when Roch, coming to a standstill, took
Yagna’s hand.

“Hear me, Yagna,” he said in a kindly tone, “and take to heart what I am
going to say.”

She lent an ear, though agitated by an unpleasant sense of foreboding.

Then, just as a priest might speak in confession, he talked to her of
her doings ... with Antek ... with the Voyt ... and most of all with
Yanek.

She listened in deep humiliation, with averted face covered with
blushes; but when he named Yanek, she raised her head defiantly.

“With him I have done no evil whatsoever!”

He pointed out gently to her the temptations to which they were exposing
themselves ... the sins and scandals to which the Evil One might give
occasion thereby.

But she hearkened to him no longer; her mind was full of Yanek only:
unconsciously her bright red lips were murmuring with ardent and
frenzied love:

“Yanek, O Yanek!”

Her glowing eyes gazed afar, and circled in fancy over his adored head.

“Oh, I would go with him to the ends of the earth!” she declared, not
knowing what she said. At the words, Roch shuddered, cast one look at
those wide-open eyes, and held his peace thenceforward.

At the edge of the wood, just by the crucifix, several capotes were seen
to glimmer white. Roch stopped, full of misgiving:

“Who is there?”

“Only we—your friends!”

“I am tired, and must rest awhile,” he said, sitting down amongst them.
Yagna gave up the bag to him, and seated herself not far off, at the
foot of the crucifix, in the deep shadow of the branches.

“Well, may your troubles at least come to an end here!”

“The worst of all will come,” said Antek, “now that you go from us.”

“But it may be, it well may be, that I shall return one day!”

Here Matthew exploded. “Blood of a dog!” he cried; “to hunt men down so
... as if they were mangy curs!”

Gregory moaned. “And why, Lord God, why?”

“Because,” Roch declared with solemn emphasis, “I want truth and
righteousness for the people!”

“Hard is every man’s lot; but that of the righteous is harder!”

“Do not mourn, Gregory; evil will be changed into good.”

“So I think; ’tis hard to fancy that all we do is in vain.”

“While we’re awaiting the summer, the wolves will eat up our horses,”
Antek sighed, peering into the darkness at the white blot which was
Yagna’s face.

“But I say unto you: ‘Whoso plucks up the weeds and sows good seeds,
great riches shall win, when harvest comes in!’”

“And if he fail?—Such things have been.”

“Yea, but he that sows, sows in the hope of gathering in a hundredfold.”

“Surely, for who would care to lose his toil?”

And they pondered these things deep in their hearts.

The wind was up now, the birch-trees murmured above them; a rustling
sound came out of the forest, while the voice of the waving corn rose up
to them from the fields. The moon floated along a pathway in the sky,
made up of a double row of white clouds; the trees flung shadows mingled
with patches of brightness; goatsuckers passed over their heads with a
noiseless circling flight. Their hearts were very full of sadness.

Yagna shed tears in silence: she could not have said why.

“Wherefore do you sorrow?” he asked, laying his hand paternally on her
head.

But the others too, all gloomy and cheerless, sat with their eyes fixed
upon Roch, whom they now held for a man of God. He was sitting beneath
the cross, from which the Crucified seemed to bend forward to bless his
white weary head.

Then he spoke these words to them, full of hope and confidence:

“Fear naught for me. I am only a unit—one blade of corn in a fruitful
field. If they take me, and I perish, what of that?—So many more
remain!—each of us ready to die for the Cause!... And the time cometh
when there will be thousands of them, from town and country, from
cottage and from manor, all incessantly giving up their lives, one after
another, piled and heaped together, the stones that are to form into the
Holy Church of our desire! And that Church, I say unto you, shall stand
and last for ever; and no power of evil shall prevail against it,
because it will be built up completely with blood and loving sacrifice!”

Then he told them how no drop of blood, nay, not one single tear, would
fall in vain, nor any endeavour be without its fruit; and how on every
side, as from a soil abundantly manured, new forces, new defenders, and
new victims would spring forth, until that blessed day should dawn—that
sacred day, the day of resurrection and of justice and of truth for all
the nation!

He spoke with glowing enthusiasm; often, too, of such high matters that
they could not understand all that he said; but his fire inflamed them
also, and their hearts leaped up and were exalted by his words in mighty
faith and longing. Antek said at last:

“O God!—Be ye our leader: I will follow you even to death!”

“We all will follow you and trample down whatever may resist us!”

“Who can withstand us and prevail? Let him but try!”

So they all spoke, till he was forced to hush their violent words and,
drawing them still closer, and whispering, say what that longed-for day
would be, and how its coming would be hastened by their labours.

He told them many a thing they had not dreamed of, and they listened
breathless, full of dread and joy at once; and every word of his gave
them the thrill of faith which one feels at the Communion Table. He
opened heaven before them, and made Paradise appear visibly to their
eyes; their souls fell prostrate in deep ecstasy, their eyes beheld
ineffable wonders, and in their hearts the sweet, sweet hymn of Hope was
heard.

“And it is in your power to realize all this,” he ended, when quite
tired out. The moon was just eclipsed behind a cloud; the sky was grey,
the landscape murky; the woods gave forth their inarticulate utterances,
and the cornfields rustled and shook as if with fear. Afar there was a
noise of dogs that barked. And still they sat there, silent and subdued,
listening in rapt attention, inebriated with the words he had said, and
feeling as one who has just taken some great vow may feel.

“It is time: I must go!” he said, and, rising, embraced each of them,
pressing them to his heart. They could hardly keep back their tears when
he knelt down, said a short prayer, and prostrated himself with both
arms on the breast of that holy mother—the land which he might perhaps
never see again. Yagna sobbed aloud, and the others were struggling with
deep emotions.

Such was their parting.

Antek alone went straight back to Lipka, along with Yagna; the others
disappeared in the shadows at the edge of the forest.

They long walked on in silence. Then he said: “Beware and say naught to
anyone of that which you have heard.”

“Am I, then, a pedlar of news from hut to hut?” She was offended.

“And,” he added, with stern significance, “God forbid that the Voyt
should hear anything of this!”

She answered only by hurrying on; but he would not let her go, and
strode on by her side, again and again glancing at her indignant face,
bedewed with tears.

The moon shone out again, silvering the narrow pathway where they walked
abreast, and throwing across it the black distorted shadows of the
trees. Suddenly his heart throbbed fast; his arms quivered with a sense
of greedy desire, and he took a step nearer to her side.—He might have
gathered her to his breast with a sweeping grasp. But he did not—he
durst not. Her stubborn and disdainful silence held him back, and he
only said to her bitterly:

“You seem as if you wanted to get away from me.”

“Because I do! Someone might see us together, and tongues would wag.”

“Are you in a hurry to fly to anyone else?”

“I am. What is to prevent me? Am I not a widow?”

“They say (no idle talk, I see) that you prepare to keep house for a
certain priest.”

Swift as the wind, she rushed away, her tears falling in torrents down
her cheeks.




                               CHAPTER XI


On the lighter soils, they were beginning to reap already; on the
heavier, they were preparing all things for the harvest that was about
to take place.

It was but a few days after Roch’s flight. Lipka was getting the wagons
ready for use, cleaning out the barns and airing them with wide-open
doors; in the shadow of the orchards, people were busily twisting bands
of straw; and within doors the women were busy baking loaves and cooking
food for the reapers. All this caused so much racket and turmoil that
the village looked as though on the eve of some great festival.

Moreover, a great many people had come over from the neighbouring
hamlets, and the roadways to and from the mill, in particular, were as
crowded as on a fair-day. Most were taking their corn to be ground; and
as if to thwart them, the water ran so low that only one of the falls
would work, and even that very feebly. But everyone awaited his turn
patiently, because all wanted the corn in their barns ground before
harvest-home.

Many besides had come to the miller’s to get meal, or groats; some even
loaves.

The man himself was ill in bed; but he still directed everything. He
would cry out to his wife, sitting outside by the open window:

“Not a kopek’s worth on credit for the Rzepki folk! They have patronized
the priest’s bull: let the priest help them now!”

He was inexorable to all prayers and entreaties: no one that had
“patronized” the animal in question was lent even half a quart of flour.

“They prefer his bull to mine,” he shouted; “let them get flour out of
him now!”

His wife, who was a poorly-looking querulous thing with a bandaged face,
would shrug her shoulders; and, when possible, she made loans by stealth
to many a one.

Klemba’s wife came to ask for half a quart of millet groats.

“Cash down! I’ll not sell her one grit on credit!”

This was very embarrassing to her; she had brought no money.

“Your Thomas is hand in glove with the priest: let him lend the groats
ye want!”

At this, Klembova took offence, and answered defiantly:

“Aye, he holds with the priest, and still will hold; but never shall he
set foot in here again!”

“‘Slight the plight, brief the grief!’ Go elsewhere for your meal!”

She withdrew, but in sore perplexity, for there was not a kopek in the
house. However, meeting the smith’s wife, who sat by the closed forge,
as she set to complain to her about the miller’s behaviour, the latter
returned, with a smile on her face:

“His power, let me tell you, will not last long.”

“Alas! who can resist so rich a man?”

“When there’s a windmill close by, we shall be able.”

Wide-eyed with bewilderment, Klembova stared at her.

“My goodman,” she explained, “is building a windmill. He has just set
out with Matthew to the forest for timber; it will be put up in
Podlesie, close to the crucifix there.”

“Well!—Michael build a windmill! I never dreamed of such a thing....
Well, well!—But ’twill serve that extortioner right: he has waxed too
fat.”

Her feelings much relieved, she was hastening home in good spirits,
when, seeing Hanka outside her cabin at the washing-tub, she went to
tell her that same unexpected bit of news.

Antek, working at a cart just by, overheard her, and said:

“Magda has told you the truth. The smith has purchased a score of acres
in Podlesie, close to the crucifix.... The miller will go mad with rage!
But he has treated us all so that none will pity him.”

“Any tidings of Roch?”

“None whatever,” he replied, turning away quickly.

“That, methinks, is strange. ’Tis the third day we have no news of him.”

“Ah, how often has he disappeared so, and yet come back again to us!”

“Is any one of you,” Hanka queried, “going to Chenstohova?”

“Yes: Eva and Matty.—A good few make the pilgrimage this year.”

“I too am going; the linen I am washing now is for the journey.”

“There will be many from the other villages too, I expect.”

“And a good season they have chosen—just when the work is hardest!”
Antek grumbled; but he would not forbid Hanka, knowing well to what
intention she was making this pilgrimage.

Yagustynka joined them.

“Know ye?” she cried; “John came home from the army about an hour ago!”

“Teresa’s goodman! And she was saying he would not be back till autumn!”

“I have just seen him; very well clad ... and dying to be once more in
his home!”

“A good fellow, but a very headstrong one.... Is Teresa at home?”

“No, at the priest’s, pulling up flax-plants. She has no idea of what’s
coming.”

“There will be trouble again in Lipka. Of course they will tell him all,
and at once.”

Antek was attentive and much interested, but said nothing. Both Hanka
and Klembova were sincerely sorry for the woman, and feared the worst
might come to pass. Yagustynka broke in on their talk, saying:

“A fig for the justice of it all! That man of hers leaves her for years
and years all alone; and if aught happens to her, poor creature! he is
ready to kill her! Where’s the justice of that? He may do as he pleases,
play the goat as he likes: no one will breathe a word against
him.—Things are outrageously ill-managed in the world!—Why, is a woman
not a human being just as much as a man is? Is she a block of stone or
wood?... If she must be punished, then let him who has sinned not a whit
the less, be punished likewise. Wherefore is he to have it all
enjoyment, while she bears all the punishment?”

“My dear,” Klembova observed, “from the beginning it has been so, and so
it will be even to the end.”

“Yea, so it will be—to the people’s hurt, and to the delight of the Evil
One; but I would fain have things ordered otherwise. Whoso took his
neighbour’s wife should be forced to keep her always ... and if not—a
stick for his back, and to jail with the wretch!”

Antek was tickled by her zealous ardour; but she swooped down upon him
like a fury.

“Ye find it a laughing matter, do you? _For you it is!_ O poisonous
villains, to whom every girl is your best-beloved—till she’s yours!...
And after that, ye make a mock of her!”

“A magpie when rain’s at hand makes less din than you!” Antek retorted,
somewhat out of temper.

She left them, only to return in the evening, weeping bitterly.

“What ill thing has befallen?” Hanka inquired in alarm.

“What ill thing? I have tasted of human sorrow, and the draught has made
me faint.” She again burst into tears, and said, sobbing all the while:
“Kozlova took John in hand and informed him of everything.”

“Ah, well, had it not been she, it would have been someone else: no
doubt of that.”

“But I tell you, that cottage will see some fearful deed done! I went
there once: no one was in. Just now, I looked in again. There they sat,
both of them—weeping. On the table lay the presents he had brought for
her—all open and unpacked. Lord! a shudder went through me; I felt as
when one looks down into a grave. They are saying naught, only weep.
Matthew’s mother told me all: it made my hair rise.”

“Do you know,” Antek asked, “whether he said anything about Matthew?”

“He cursed the man most horribly. No, no! he never will forgive him!”

“Do ye think Matthew will whine to him for pardon?” Antek answered in a
surly tone, and hurried off to warn his friend at Nastka’s hut.

He found her brother deep in talk with her, took him a little down the
road, and told him all.

Matthew took in his breath with a hissing gasp, and uttered an oath.

They returned to the village together, Matthew looking gloomy and
downcast, and more than once heaving a sigh.

“I see,” Antek said, weighing each word, “that you are grievously
troubled in mind.”

“For her?—Not I! She was sticking like a bone in my throat. No, ’tis
something else that perplexes me.”

Antek felt surprised, but did not like to ask questions.

“To sorrow over each particular girl of mine the time would not suffice
me. She came within my grasp; I took her: who would not have done so?
But truly, mine was but the joy of a dog fallen down a well; she has
wailed and lamented for ten women. I fled her; she came after me, just
like my shadow. Let John now rejoice with her!—I no longer crave for
love affairs, but something very different.”

“True, it were time for you to take a wife.”

“Nastka just now was saying so to me.”

“Our village girls are plentiful as poppies, and you have an ample
choice.”

Matthew blurted out the thoughtless answer: “It was made long ago.”

“Then ask me to be your proposer, and have the wedding after
harvest-home.”

Somehow the idea displeased him; he asked for more particulars about
John, talked of Simon’s farm, and let out—inadvertently, it seemed—the
information that, according to Andrew, Dominikova meant to bring an
action against Antek for Yagna’s rights as old Boryna’s relict.

“But no one denies that Father made a settlement,” Antek said. “I’ll not
give the land up, but will pay her its value to the full. The
quarrelsome hag does this for sheer love of a lawsuit!”

“Did Yagna really give the title-deed back to Hanka?”

“Yes, but what of that? she took care not to annul it at the notary’s.”

This greatly relieved Matthew, who—now unable to conceal all he
felt—dropped several words in Yagna’s praise.

The whole manœuvre was soon plain to Antek, who only said with a mocking
smile:

“Have you heard what they are saying about her now?”

“Oh, those old women are always her enemies!”

“It seems she is running after Yanek, the organist’s son. And most
shamelessly,” he added for greater effect.

Matthew flared up, hot with anger.

“Did ye see that?”

“Nay, I am no spy on her: what is she to me? But those there are who
daily see her go out to meet her Yanek ... in the forest ... or amongst
the corn....”

“A good beating for one or two of them would soon put an end to such
tales!”

“Try, try; ye may perchance frighten them,” Antek responded
deliberately, though horribly tortured with jealousy at the thought of
Matthew possibly becoming her husband: it bit him with all the venom of
a mad dog’s fangs.

To what the latter said, though his talk was not infrequently hostile
and even offensive, he made no reply, lest he should reveal what he was
suffering; but, when they parted, he could not help saying with a
malicious smile:

“Whoso marries that woman will have plenty of ... connexions....”

And they parted, not on very friendly terms.

When Matthew had gone a little way, his face grew brighter.

“She is keeping him off; that’s what makes him talk so!—Let her run
after Yanek!—’Tis but a child; and she cares far more for the priest
than for the man.”

His thoughts were so extremely lenient, because, having heard from Antek
all about the title-deed and the settlement, he had made up his mind to
marry Yagna. He slackened his pace to calculate how much he would want
to pay off Andrew and Simon, and have the twenty acres all to himself.

“The old woman will be no treat, but she’ll not last for ever.”

The recollection of Yagna’s pranks, indeed, disturbed him, but he said:

“What is over is over; and if she tries new tricks, I’ll soon make her
give them up!”

Outside the hut, his mother was awaiting him.

“John is back!—He knows all.”

“Glad of it! I shall not have to lie.”

“Teresa has been in here more than once: talks of drowning herself.”

“Indeed, indeed ... she might do so!”—The thought gave him so fearful a
pang that he could not touch his supper, but sat listening for any
sounds from John’s orchard, which was only separated from theirs by a
pathway. His disquietude increasing, he pushed the dish away, and smoked
cigarette after cigarette, striving in vain to overcome the fit of
trembling that agitated him. He cursed himself and the whole race of
women; he tried to jest at the silly business: all would not do. His
terror grew more and more, tormenting him past all bearing. He had got
up several times to go out and seek company—and yet there he was,
remaining in the hut, and he knew not why!

Night had fallen, when he heard steps approaching, and then, coming in
with a rush, Teresa had thrown her arms round his neck.

“O Matthew, save me, save me!—O God! how I have been waiting and looking
out for you!”

He set her down by his side, but she clung to him like a little child;
and with streaming tears she called upon him in the extremity of her
despair.

“He has been told all! It never entered my mind that he would really
return!... I was at work in the priest’s flax, when someone came and
told me.... I had like to fall dead on the spot, and went home with
death in my heart.... You were out.... I went to seek you, but could not
find you in all Lipka.... I wandered about very long, but at last had to
go in.—He was standing there, white as a sheet; he leaped at me with
closed fists ... and asked for the truth. The truth!”

Matthew, shaking in every limb, wiped the cold sweat from his face.

“So I told it him: of what use would a lie have been?... He seized hold
of an ax, and I thought it was my last hour.... I cried out to him:
‘Kill me! You’ll make all right for both of us!’ And he did not even
touch me—only flung me a look, sat down by the window, and wept.... And
now, what am I to do, wretched one? whither shall I go?... Save me, you,
else I leap into the well, or kill myself in some wise!... Save me!” she
shrieked, falling on the ground at his feet.

“Poor woman ... how can I ... how can I?” he stammered, humbled in the
dust; and she started up with a fierce cry of mad fury.

“Wherefore, then, did you take me? wherefore entice me? wherefore lead
me on to sin?”

“Hush, hush! All the village will be here!”

Once more she fell on his breast, embraced and kissed him frenziedly,
and exclaimed with all the might of her love and terror and despair:

“O my only one, my chosen one amid a thousand! Slay me, but repel me
not!—Do you love me, say? do you love me?—Then comfort me this once, for
the last time; gather me in your arms and leave me not to agony and
ruin!—You are all I have in the whole wide world; yea, all! Let me but
stay with you.... I’ll serve you as faithfully as any dog ... aye, I’ll
be your slave!”

Such were the words of passion she sobbed out, wrung from the bottom of
her broken heart.

Matthew was as one held in a vice, and squirming and writhing to get
free. Avoiding a straightforward answer, he strove to soothe her with
kisses and caresses and words of affection, agreeing to all she said,
and all the while looking around with impatience and dread; for he
suspected that John was sitting on the stile just outside.

A moment later, the true state of things flashed suddenly on Teresa’s
mind: she thrust him from her, with words that struck him like blows:

“Liar and cur! You have always lied to me, but never shall you deceive
me any more!... You are afraid—afraid lest John beat you; and therefore
you turn and twist now, like a trodden worm! And I trusted to him as to
the best of men? O Lord, O Lord! And John, who has been so good to me!
The presents he has brought—presents for _me_!—Never yet did I hear him
speak an unkind word; and how have I repaid him? By giving my trust to a
traitor, to a villain!... Go your ways to Yagna!” she shrieked, rushing
towards him with clenched fists. “Go—and may the hangman wed you both!—A
well-matched pair—a wanton and a thief!”

And with an awful shriek, she fell fainting to the ground.

Matthew stood beside her, at a loss what to do; his mother sat
whimpering by the wall.—Then John strode in from the orchard to his
wife, and spoke to her ... words of tender sorrowing consolation.

“Come to my home, forlorn one, come! Fear me not; I shall do you no
hurt! Oh, no! you have suffered enough as it is.—Come, my wife!”

He took her by the hand, and helped her over the stile; then, turning to
Matthew, he thundered:

“But the wrong you have done her, never will I forgive—never while
there’s life in me!—So help me God!”

Choked with shame, Matthew answered never a word. His soul was full of
such bitterness, such grinding torments, that he flew to the tavern and
drank all night long.

The event was at once known throughout the village, and all were full of
admiration and respect for John’s conduct.

“There’s not another man in the world like him!” the women said, moved
even to tears; but at the same time they blamed Teresa with the utmost
severity; all except Yagustynka, who took her part with great zeal.

“Teresa is not in fault!” she cried, when hearing her spoken against in
orchards and enclosures. “She was all but a child when John’s military
service began. Alone and childless as yet, she wanted some loving friend
about her. And Matthew, like a hound, caught up the trail; and he
flattered and fondled her, and took her out to hear the band play ...
till the poor silly girl’s head was turned!”

One of them said with a sigh:

“Why is there no law to punish such deceivers?”

“He has some grey hairs already, yet runs after women as ever!”

“But how’s a wretched bachelor to live, unless he takes another’s
property?” objected the young men, jeering.

“If she’s not to blame, no more is he,” said Staho Ploshka; “where
there’s no giving, there’s no taking.” For which ribaldry he was
well-nigh assaulted by the women.

But the matter was not discussed very long: the harvest was at hand, the
weather magnificent. On the uplands, the rye was, as it were, asking to
be reaped; the barley was not much behind, and they went daily to
inspect it. Already reapers were being engaged by the richer peasants.

The organist opened the harvest with a dozen or so of hired women
reapers; his wife and daughters too took a hand in the work, while he
superintended them all most watchfully. Yanek came only after Mass to
help, and did not enjoy the fun long; his mother sent him home as soon
as the noonday heat set in, fearing lest the sun might give him a
headache. Kozlova grumbled:

“He’s going to find shade at Yagna’s—that’s his game!”

At home, however, it was not only very hot, but very troublesome because
of the pitiless attacks of the flies there: So he went out into the
village, passing outside the Klembas’. There he caught the sound of
moans, issuing from within the wide-open cabin door.

It was Agata, lying in the passage, close to the threshold; everybody
else had gone a-reaping.

He carried her into the room, laid her on a bed, gave her to drink, and
revived her, so that, after a time, she opened her eyes.

“’Tis the end coming, young master,” she said with a childlike smile.

He would have run for the priest, but she caught at his soutane to
prevent him.

“To-day the Blessed Virgin said to me: ‘Be ready for to-morrow, weary
soul!’ So there is time still, young master!—To-morrow!—Thanks, thanks,
O most merciful Lord!” she faltered, and her voice trailed away into
silence. A smile flickered on her lips; she clasped her hands and,
looking far away, sank into a state of profound mental prayer. Yanek,
now sure that her last hour was drawing near, went to fetch the Klembas.

It was only in the afternoon that he came back there again. She lay on
her bed, completely conscious. Her open locker stood beside her on a
bench, and her hands, now very cold, had taken out of it all the effects
she had provided for the present occasion: a clean sheet to be placed
under her body; fresh bed-linen; holy water and a sprinkler still in
good condition; a long piece cut off from a death-taper; an image of Our
Lady of Chenstohova, to be put in her hands after death; a new chemise,
a beautifully striped skirt, a cap deeply frilled about the forehead, a
kerchief to bind over it, and a pair of shoes that had never yet been
worn. This complete funeral outfit, got together by begging during the
course of her life, she had now spread around her, delighted with every
article and praising its quality to those about her; she even peeped
into a looking-glass, and whispered with great pleasure:

“How grand it will be! I look quite like a notable goodwife.”

She directed them to dress her in all that splendid clothing at early
dawn on the morrow.

No one opposed or thwarted her: everyone went about to make her last
hours as happy as could be.

Yanek sat beside her bed till dusk, reading prayers aloud, which she
said after him, smiling faintly now and then.

When they sat down to supper, she asked for scrambled eggs; but she only
took one or two mouthfuls, pushed the dish away, and then lay still all
the evening, only calling old Klemba to her before she went to sleep.

“All is well,” she said anxiously; “I shall not trouble you long ... not
long!”

Next morning, clad as she had desired, she was laid on Dame Klemba’s
bed, but with her own bedding. She saw that everything was properly
arranged, and with her own trembling hands smoothed down her thin
feather-bed, poured out the holy water and placed the sprinkler in the
basin; and then, all being ready, she asked for the priest.

He came, bringing our Lord, and, having prepared her for her last
journey, desired Yanek to stay by her side till the end.

This he did, and sat saying his hours there. The Klembas too remained
within doors, and Yagna soon came round and ensconced herself quietly in
a corner. All were very still, and moved about like shadows, with eyes
anxiously fixed upon Agata, who lay, rosary in hand, and still quite
conscious, bidding farewell to all who came in. To some children that
peeped in at the door and window, she distributed a few kopeks.

“That’s for you,” she whispered cheerfully; “but say a prayer for
Agata.”

Thus she lay in state, “as behoved a goodwife,” on a bed, with holy
pictures above her—and just as it had been the dream of her life to die!
She was in a state of serene elation, of unspeakable happiness, and
tears of joy were rolling down her cheeks. Her lips moved in faint but
rapturous smiles as she gazed into the depths of heaven, on the vast
expanse of fields, dotted with ringing and glittering scythes, and
heaped with sheaves of rye, heavy and ripe—and into those farther
abysses, visible only to her departing soul.

Now, as the day was just drawing to its close, and the red glow of
sundown flooded all the room, a violent shudder came over her; she sat
up, stretched out her arms, and cried in a loud changed voice:

“Now my time has come—it has come!”

And she sank back.

A loud and mournful sound of wailing burst forth; all knelt down beside
the bed, and Yanek read the Prayers for the Dying. Klembova lit the
death-taper; Agata, grasping it, said the prayers after Yanek; but her
voice, feebler and feebler, died away; her eyes, wearied by life, grew
dim like that closing summer day. The greyness of everlasting twilight
spread over her face; she dropped the taper and died.

So passed away that poor beggar-woman—as if she had been the foremost
dame in Lipka! Ambrose, who had come in that very instant, closed her
eyes; Yanek said a fervent prayer for her soul, and the whole village
flocked round her body, to pray—to lament—and to wonder, not without
envy, at so blissful a death, so peaceful an end.

But Yanek, gazing on those lifeless eyes, and that face, furrowed by the
claws of death, and in hue like frost-stiffened clay, felt so terribly
panic-stricken that he took to flight and, running home, flung himself
on his bed, pressed his head upon the pillow, and wept aloud.

Yagna had followed close on his heels. She was herself unnerved and
broken down, but set herself to comfort him and wipe the tears from his
eyes. He turned to her as to a mother, laid his aching head upon her
bosom, threw his arms round her neck, and burst into a tempest of sobs:

“O my God!” he cried; “how awful, how horrible death is!”

And at that moment his mother came in, saw and was filled with rage at
the sight.

“What’s this?” she hissed, rushing at them, and scarcely stopping
half-way. “Look at her, this tender nurse of ours! Pity—is it not?—that
Yanek needs no nurse now, and is old enough to blow his own nose!”

Yagna raised her eyes, brimming over with tears, and in great
perturbation set to telling her about Agata’s death. Yanek also came
forward, eager to explain the whole affair, and say how upset and
overwhelmed he had been. But his mother had already been much nettled by
the gossip she had heard, and cut him short.

“You’re a silly calf! Best say naught, lest an evil thing happen to
you!”

Then, striding to the door, she threw it wide open, and vociferated:

“As to you, woman—out!... And never set foot here any more, else I set
the dogs at you!”

“But what evil have I done?” Yagna stammered, beside herself with shame
and mortification.

“Off with you this instant, or I’ll have the dogs loosed!—I do not mean
to weep because of you, as Hanka and the Voytova have wept! You minx,
you baggage! I’ll teach you—I’ll teach you to come love-making here—and
ye shall remember the lesson!” she screamed at the top of her voice.

Yagna, bursting into tears, fled out of the room ... and Yanek stood
thunderstruck.




                              CHAPTER XII


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?”...




                              CHAPTER XIII


Life was fast becoming impossible at Dominikova’s. Yagna was always
straying about like someone distraught, heedless of everything in the
world. Andrew did his work in a slovenly way, and his absences at
Simon’s grew more frequent. The farm had fallen into complete neglect.
Sometimes the cows were driven unmilked to the pastures, and the pigs
were squealing for food all day long, and the horses gnawed at their
empty racks. The old dame could not do all by herself, having to grope
about with her stick, half blind and her eyes bandaged. No wonder if she
almost went mad with trouble and mortification.

She hired a _komornitsa_ for the work, and did all she could, both by
herself and by her influence over her children. But Yagna seemed deaf to
all entreaties and remonstrances; and Andrew, when threatened, would
answer back insolently:

“Ye have driven Simon away: work ye by yourself. He wants you not, is in
no trouble, has a hut, has money, has a wife, has a cow—and is an
out-and-out good farmer!”—But, saying these words, he took good care to
keep out of her reach.

“Aye, aye,” she answered, with a dreary sigh; “truly, that unnatural
wretch has contrived to succeed in all things.”

“Yes, and he manages so well that even Nastka is astonished!”

“I must” (she spoke her thoughts aloud) “hire someone to work regularly,
or take a farm-servant.”

Andrew scratched his head, and said with some hesitation:

“But why take a stranger, when Simon is there, if ye’ll but say the
word?”

“Do not meddle when you’re not asked!” she snarled; but all the same,
she felt—and it was a bitter pill to swallow—that she would sooner or
later have to give way and come to terms with Simon.

But what made her most anxious was Yagna’s state. From her she could get
no clue; and she went on piling surmises on surmises, unpleasant fancies
on fancies not less unpleasant, till at last, one Saturday afternoon,
she could bear it no longer, and—bearing a large duck with her as an
offering—groped her way to the priest’s house.

She came back only at evening, in great agitation, crying and wailing
like an autumn wind at night; but, until she was alone with Yagna after
supper, she spoke no word.

Then, “Do you know,” she said, “what tales are afloat concerning you and
Yanek?”

“I am no lover of gossip!” her daughter answered unwillingly, raising
her eyes, that shone with a feverish glow.

“But you have to know this ... and to learn, too, that there’s no hiding
things from neighbours’ eyes.—‘What’s done in silence is spoken of
aloud.’—They say most fearful things of you.”

Then she told her every particular that she had gleaned from the
organist’s wife and from his Reverence.

“... That very night they held judgment upon him; his father gave him a
beating; the priest added some blows from his long pipe-stem; and he has
been sent to Chenstohova, to protect him from you!—Do you hear that? Oh,
think what you have done!” she cried indignantly.

“Jesu Maria!—Yanek beaten!—Beaten!—O God, O God!” And she started up
with a mad idea of doing something ... but sat down again and hissed
between her teeth:

“May their arms wither, may their hands rot off! And when the plague
comes, may they not be spared!” She then wept bitterly, with the tears
streaming from her swollen eyes, like blood from a freshly opened wound.

Careless of her agony, Dominikova still continued to lash her with her
tongue; and each word was a blow. She reminded her of all her many sins
and transgressions, omitting not a single one, and pouring out before
her all the bitterness that she had endured in silence for ever so long.

“Can you not see that all this must come to an end? that you cannot live
on any more in this wise?” she cried, more and more pitilessly, though
she herself was weeping, and the tears fell under her bandage down her
cheeks. “Shall you be held the lowest of the low? Shall all men point
their fingers at you now?—Oh, what a shame for my old age, good Lord!
Oh, what a shame!” she murmured despairingly.

“Ye too, I hear, were no whit better in your youth!”

This silenced Dominikova effectually.—Yagna set to ironing some frills
for the next day. It was a windy evening, with whistling sounds in the
trees. The moon was sailing athwart a sky flecked all over with
cloudlets. Away in the village the lasses were singing, while someone
scraped a jerky accompaniment on a fiddle.

They heard the Voyt’s wife talking as she passed by.

“He went to the Police Bureau yesterday; since then, no news of him.”

“Yesterday evening,” Matthew’s voice returned, “he went to the District
Office; and the Soltys says the head official had sent both for him and
for the scrivener.”

After they had passed on, the old woman spoke again, but less harshly
this time.

“Wherefore did you drive Matthew away from us?”

“He was displeasing to me; why, therefore, should he sit here? I seek no
man, nor do I need any!”

“But ’tis time—aye, high time—to provide yourself with a goodman! Folk
would then no longer attack you so. Even Matthew—he’s not to be
disdained; a clever fellow, and an honest.”

For some time, and very earnestly, she held forth on this theme, but
Yagna, busy with her own work and full of her own sorrows, made no
reply. So at last her mother gave over, and took up her rosary. It was
late in the night. All was quiet, save for the tossing trees and
clattering mill; the moon was now quite hid behind dense clouds, though
their edges were silvery, and a few sheaves of light shot out between
them.

“Yagna, you must go and confess to-morrow. You’ll feel more at ease,
when rid of your sins.”

“To what purpose?—No, I’ll not go!”

“Not go to confession!” Her mother’s voice was stridulous with horror.

“No. Quick to punish, slow to help: that’s what the priest is.”

“Hush, lest the Lord God punish you for those wicked words!—And I say to
you: Go to confession, do penance, beg God’s forgiveness; do so, and all
may yet be well!”

“Penance indeed! Is mine slight? And for what wrong that I have done,
pray? No doubt, because I love, and because I suffer, I am rewarded
thus. For me, the worst that can be has already come to pass!” And she
went on bewailing herself in her sullen mood of exasperation.

Alas, poor thing! she had no foreboding—no, not the slightest—of the
chastisement which was about to overtake her: a chastisement far less
foreseen, and far harsher still!

For on the next day, which was Sunday, a rumour spread round the village
before High Mass—the incredible rumour that the Voyt had been arrested
for a deficit in the village accounts!

At first no one would believe it, and though fresh and more dreadful
particulars came in hourly, they were hardly taken in earnest by anyone.

The graver members of the community only said: “The idle love inventing
stories and spreading them for a pastime.”

They believed, however, when the blacksmith, home from town, bore out
every word, and Yankel told the whole village:

“’Tis all true! Five thousand roubles of the community’s money are
wanting. His farm will be seized for the sum, and should it not suffice,
Lipka will have to make up the rest!”

Thereupon a furious storm of protest arose. What! when they all were in
such straits, and misery cried aloud everywhere; when there was nothing
more to eat, and many had to borrow, that they might pull through till
the harvest was over: was it now that they must pay money for a thief?
That was beyond human patience; the whole place went mad with rage, and
curses and threats and foul names flew about like hail.

“I was no partner of his: therefore will I not pay in his stead!”

“Neither will I! He had revelled and caroused and had his pleasure: must
I suffer now, paying for the pranks he has played?” So said many a one,
in sore trouble, and hardly able to keep back his tears.

“Long have I had mine eyes upon the man, and foretold all that has now
come to pass. Ye would not hearken then; and now, here you are!” old
Ploshka said, not without ulterior intentions; and his wife, like a
worthy helpmeet, echoed his words about the place, repeating them to any
that would listen.

The tidings were so overwhelming that but few went that day to church,
but talked the matter over at home. As the grievance was common to all,
so they all complained together in huts and orchards, but especially
along the mill-pond banks. What puzzled them most was, where the man
could have wasted so much money.

“He must have hidden it somewhere; he never can have spent such a sum!”

“Nay, he has trusted in the scrivener’s uprightness, and we know well
how far that goes.”

“Poor man! he has wronged us all, but himself more than anyone,” some of
the graver villagers remarked: when Ploshka’s wife thrust her portly
figure amongst them, and came forward wiping dry eyes, and with assumed
sympathy:

“And I say, poor wife!—she that was such a grand and haughty dame—what
will she do now? Both land and house will be taken from her, and the
poor wretch will have to go into lodgings and work for others! ’Tis not
as if she had got some pleasure out of all that money spent!”

“Oh, but she has enjoyed herself very well as it is!” Kozlova bawled,
attacking her like Ploshkova, but in a different fashion. “They have
both lived like lords, the merry villains!—meat every day, and half a
potful of sugar in her coffee! And they both of them drank their rum
neat and in tumblers! I myself have seen them bring all sorts of good
things from town—half a cartful! What else made them so big-bellied? Not
fasting, at any rate!”

She was listened to in grave silence, in spite of the arrant nonsense of
her closing words. But it was the organist’s wife who decided the
attitude of the people. She happened (it seemed a hazard at least) to be
passing among them; and, listening to their talk, she observed, with
apparent indifference:

“Why, do ye not know on what the Voyt has spent so much?”

They closed round her, and insisted on her telling them.

“’Tis clear enough: on Yagna!”

This was a surprise, and they looked at one another in bewilderment.

“Since last springtime, all the parish has been talking of naught
else.—I shall not say a word; but go ye, ask anyone, even down in
Modlitsa ... and ye shall hear the truth!”

Seemingly unwilling to say more, she made as to leave them; but they
followed her and literally drove her into a corner. Then she told them,
as a secret that was to go no farther, how the Voyt had bought Yagna
rings of the purest gold, kerchiefs of the finest silk, and given her
lots of coral necklaces and quantities of ready money into the bargain!
All these were of course glaring fabrications, but they believed her
implicitly. All but Yagustynka, who cried out in a passion:

“Great saints, Snuffle and Cant, pray for us!—Have you seen all this,
madam?”

“Yes, I have! And I can swear, even in church, that it was for her he
has stolen: aye, and very likely at her instigation too! Ah, but she is
capable of any crime; naught on earth is sacred to her, that shameless,
that conscienceless one! The lewd beast, for ever prowling about Lipka,
bringing shame and disgrace wherever she goes!... Why, she even
attempted to seduce my own Yanek, that innocent lad, as pure as a child!
But he escaped from her and, coming, told me all! Only think of it: the
wanton will not even leave a priest alone!” She stopped, out of breath,
for her bitter spite had made her speak at a great rate.

These words had the effect of a spark on gunpowder. All the former
grudges against Yagna now sprang into life again—all the feelings of
envy and rivalry and hatred; all present gave utterance to what they had
to accuse her of, and the tumult became indescribable. Everyone tried to
shout down everyone else, and with louder and louder shrieks.

“How can our Christian land support such a monster?”

“And who caused Boryna’s death? Have ye forgotten?”

“So she has even attempted to entice a priest! O merciful Jesus!”

“Ah, how much drunkenness and quarrelling and iniquity are all owing to
her!”

“She is an ulcer that infects the whole village, and because of her,
Lipka is despised by all!”

“So long as she’s amongst us, there will ever be sin and wickedness and
lechery! To-day the Voyt robs us for her sake; another may do the same
to-morrow!”

“Drive her out! Out—like a leper—to the woods and the forests!”

“Drive her out!—There’s no help for it! Drive her out!” they yelled,
infuriated, and now wrought up to any extremity. On the proposal of the
organist’s wife, they all went in a body to the Voyt’s. They found his
wife bathed in tears, and so wretched, so miserably dejected, that they
embraced her and wept over her, and condoled with her with the utmost
tenderness.

After a while, Yanek’s mother mentioned Yagna.

“Ah, ’tis God’s truth,” the other lamented in despair. “She is the cause
of all.... Oh, may she, for the wrong she has done, die like a dog in a
ditch, eaten of worms for this my shame, for this my misery!” And she
fell back on a settle, torn with fierce agony, and wrestling with a fit
of sobs.

They sorrowed and wept over her for a long time; but as the sun was
going westward, they at last went home. Only the organist’s wife
remained; and the two, shut up together, took counsel and talked over a
certain measure to be taken. They then both went from cottage to
cottage, canvassing the village, and preparing the secret enterprise on
which they had entered.

They were joined by the Ploshka women and several others, who embraced
their cause, and with whom they visited the priest. He, however,
stretching out his open hands before him, said:

“With these doings I will have naught in common. I cannot prevent them;
but I want to know nothing about the whole business, and shall be going
to Zarnov to-morrow for the whole day.”

The evening was noisy with quarrels and contradictions and secret
plottings: when night fell, all those in the plot repaired to the
tavern, where the organist stood treat to them all. There they once more
set about debating and deliberating: the foremost farmers and nearly all
the married women in Lipka were there. They had been conferring together
for some time, when Ploshka’s wife shouted:

“Antek Boryna, where is he? All are assembled here, and he is the
foremost amongst us; no decision we took without him would be valid.”

“Yes, we will send for him; he must come!” they shouted; “we can do
nothing till he is here.”

“What if he take her part?” said a voice.

“Would he dare to oppose us—us, the community? For we are
determined—all, all, all!”

Antek was in bed, but the Soltys woke him up.

“Ye must go and speak your mind. If you will not, then they’ll say you
are for her, and fly in the face of our assembly! And your trespasses in
the past will never be forgiven by the women!—Come now; we must put an
end to all this!”

He went indeed, for he could not choose but go; but with a heavy heart.

The tavern was full to bursting, and resonant with a loud droning sound.
The organist then got up on a bench, and made a speech like a sermon.

“... Nothing else is to be done! The village is like unto a house, from
which, if a thief shall take away one of the foundation beams, another
will greedily seize upon the rafters, and a third a log from the walls;
and presently the house itself must fall, and crush all the dwellers
therein! See then: if amongst us everyone shall be free to rob and slay
and do all manner of wrong, behaving lewdly, what will become of the
village? I say to you that it will be a village no longer, but a shame
and a disgrace to every honest man! that all men will shun it from afar,
and cross themselves when it is named! Aye, and I say that sooner or
later a judgment of God must fall on such a village, even as on Sodom
and Gomorrah! Yea, it will fall, and on all of us; for we shall be
guilty, both those that do evil themselves, and they that permit the
evil to increase! For what says Holy Scripture? ‘If thy hand offend
thee, cut it off; if thine eye hath trespassed, pluck it out and throw
it to the dogs.’—Moreover, I say to you, Yagna is worse than the plague,
worse than any pestilence; for she sows seeds of scandal, sins against
all God’s commandments, and draws down upon us the wrath and terrible
vengeance of our Lord. Drive her out, then, while it is not yet too
late! The measure of her iniquities is full; the day of reckoning has
come at last!” he concluded, bellowing like a bull, with purple face and
eyes starting out of their sockets.

“Yes, yes! It is time!—We, the people, have power both to punish and to
reward!—Drive her from the village!” they all shouted, their excitement
now waxing greater and greater.

Gregory and others spoke too, but were hardly listened to: the
organist’s wife was telling of the affair with Yanek, the Voytova
pouring her grievances into everyone’s ears; and, others joining in to
swell the hubbub, the whole place was roaring with the noise.

Antek alone said not a word. He stood close to the bar, gloomy, his
teeth set hard, pale with the torments he endured, and at times assailed
with a wild craving to snatch up a bench, beat the whole shrieking mob
to a jelly and trample them under his feet: so odious they were to him!
But he kept himself in hand, though drinking glass after glass of
liquor; only he spat on the ground, and swore under his breath.

Ploshka addressed him after a time, and said aloud, for all to hear: “We
are at one to drive Yagna from the village: come, Antek, speak your mind
on the matter.”

A great silence fell upon the multitude; every eye was fixed upon him:
they felt sure he would be against them. He, however, drew a deep
breath, threw back his shoulders, and answered in a ringing voice:

“I, living with the community, am of one mind with the community. Will
ye expel her? Do. Will ye exalt her? Do.—To me ’tis all one.”

He pushed the crowd apart and left the place, without even a glance at
anyone.

They continued the debate a long time, even till the morning light; but
in the end it was quite decided that she should be expelled.

But few took her part; those who did were shouted down. Matthew alone
fearlessly dealt curses around upon them all and, reviling the whole
village in the utmost paroxysm of fury, left the place at last, and went
to beg Antek to save Yagna.

“Do ye know what has been decided?” he asked him at dawn, pale as death
and trembling from head to foot.

“I know. Law and custom are on their side,” he replied curtly, whilst
washing his face at the well.

“To hell with such laws! It’s all the work of the organist and his
wife.... Shall we put up with such injustice?—In what has she been to
blame? All their accusations are mere lies!... Lord! are they to hunt
her from our midst, like a mad dog?”

“Would you, then, resist the assembly of the people?”

“Ye talk as if ye were on their side!” Matthew cried, in a tone of sharp
reproach.

“I am on no one’s side. She is no more to me than a stone.”

“O Antek, rescue her!—Do something, for God’s sake! I shall go mad—mad!
Think of it: what can she do? where can she go?... Ah, those villains,
those sons of dogs, those wolves!... I will swing my ax, and smite, and
spare no one!”

“I will not help you in any wise. They have decided: what is one man
against them all?—Nothing!”

“Aha!—You have a grudge against her!” Matthew suddenly flashed out.

“Grudge or no grudge, that concerns none but myself!” Antek replied
sternly, and leaned back against the well-cover, looking into vacancy.
His passion for Yagna, suppressed but not less active, was now raging
within him, together with bitter jealousy: both tossing him to and fro,
like a tree that groans in the blast.

He looked around him. Matthew was gone. The village seemed a strange
place to him—loathsome and blatant exceedingly.

And in the very weather of that memorable day, too, there was something
odd and abnormal. The huge swollen disk of the sun shone pallid in the
sky; the heat was of a sultriness beyond all that had yet been; the sky
was clouded with low-hanging hideous-looking vapours; the wind every now
and then sprang up in fitful gusts, and the dust rose in thick whorls
and spirals. A storm was at hand; far away, there were flashes along the
wooded horizon.

Now had the fermentation amongst the people risen to the highest pitch.
They ran about wildly; brawling was heard in almost every hut; women
fought together on the mill-pond banks; the dogs were howling all the
time. Scarcely anyone went to work in the fields. The cattle, left at
home, lowed plaintively in the byres. Nor was there any Mass on that
day, the priest having left the place at daybreak. And every minute the
feeling of unrest increased in every mind.

Antek, seeing that the people were gathering on the organist’s premises,
shouldered a scythe and went off to one of his fields that was close to
the forest. The wind hampered his work, waving the corn to and fro, and
blowing into his eyes; but he stood his ground firmly and reaped away,
listening—now more calmly—to the distant sounds he heard.

“Perchance they are about it at this instant!” was the thought that
flashed through his brain, making his heart beat like a hammer. A wave
of rage swept over him: he drew himself up and was on the point of
tossing his scythe away and running to the rescue of Yagna; he only
mastered himself just in time.

“Whoso has done evil must suffer the penalty!—So be it! So be it!”

The rye bent in ripples round his knees, like the waves of a stormy
lake; the gale blew his hair about, drying the sweat of agony on his
face. He could barely see anything, for he was in spirit at Yagna’s
side—all of him but his arms, with hard trained sinews working
instinctively, wielding the scythe and laying the rye low, swath by
swath!

Once, however, there came upon the wings of the wind a shriek, loud and
long-drawn-out, that came from the village!

He flung the scythe on the ground and sat down in the corn that rose
like a wall around him. He grovelled close to the earth, and clung to it
with a mighty effort, and held himself down with an iron grasp. And he
kept himself fast, and did not weaken, though his eyes wandered away to
Lipka; though his heart cried out aloud in terror; though an awful fit
of trembling shook him from head to foot.

“All things must take their course: they _must_! We plough to sow, we
sow to reap; and if anything hinder, we pluck it out like an evil weed!”

Thus spoke within his soul an inexorable immemorial Voice.—Whose?... Was
it not that of the earth and its inhabitants?

He still felt himself rebelling, but now listened to it with more
willing obedience.

“Even so. Everyone has the right to defend himself against a wolf....
Everyone!”

A few last regrets, a few idle thoughts, came still like stinging gusts
of wind, wrapping him in darkness, and urging him to rise and act.

But he started to his feet, whetted his scythe, crossed himself, spat on
his hands—and set to work with a will, laying low swath after swath with
such furious energy that his scythe-blade hissed through the air, and
the walls of ripe grain around him resounded to his strokes.

In the village, meantime, the fearful hour of judgment and chastisement
had arrived. What took place there can scarcely be related. All Lipka
was as in the delirium of a high fever; the people seemed to have gone
stark staring mad. Those of more sensible natures kept within doors, or
fled to the fields. The others were gathered on the banks of the pond,
and so drunk (if we may say so) with rancour that, before wreaking
revenge on Yagna, they had begun to wreak their fury on one another,
with spiteful words of hate....

But in a minute the whole multitude had set out to Dominikova’s, like a
foaming torrent in spate. The Voytova and Yanek’s mother led them on,
and a howling infuriated rabble followed.

They burst into the cabin like a tempest. Dominikova blocked the way—she
was trampled down in an instant. Andrew sprang forward to her aid, and
was knocked down at once. Lastly, Matthew, standing in front of the
inner door, strove to keep them back; but in spite of the club he
wielded with all his strength, not half a minute elapsed before he was
lying close to the wall, unconscious and with a broken head.

Yagna had locked and bolted herself up in the alcove. When they burst
the door open, she appeared, standing with her back to the wall; but she
neither made any defence nor uttered any cry. White as a corpse, with
wide-staring eyes, she shook all over in expectation of death.

A hundred hands shot out to seize her in their greedy clutches, ravenous
with hatred; she was whirled away like a bush torn up by the roots, and
dragged out into the enclosure.

“Bind her, else she may give us the slip and escape!” the Voytova
commanded.

By the roadside stood a cart prepared for her, filled to the very top
with hogs’-dung, to which cart a couple of black cows had been yoked.
Into the dung they tossed her, bound fast and unresisting; and then, in
the midst of a deafening uproar—laughter, foul invectives,
imprecations—each a stab of murderous intent—the procession set out.

It halted at the church, and Kozlova bawled:

“Let her be stripped here, and whipped in the porch!”

“Aye,” screamed another; “creatures of her kidney were always flogged
outside the church.”

“Let her be whipped until the blood spurts out!”

But Ambrose had bolted the lich-gate, and stood close to the wicket, the
priest’s gun in hand; and when they stopped, he bellowed at them:

“The first that breaks in here—as I hope for mercy, I’ll shoot him!...
I’ll kill him like a dog!” And he looked so grim, so formidable, with
his gun ready to fire, that they forbore, and turned aside to the poplar
road.

They hurried on, for the storm might burst at any moment. The sky had
grown still more gloomy; the tall poplars tossed to and fro in the gale;
clouds of blinding dust flew up beneath their feet, and far-off thunder
rumbled.

They cried: “Faster, Pete, faster!” They looked skywards ill at ease,
less noisy now, and walking by the roadside, for the middle was deep
sand; and only now and then did one or another of her bitterest enemies
draw near the cart and shriek:

“You swine! You wanton! To the soldiers!—Go, you plague-spotted harlot!”

Pete, Boryna’s servant, was driving the cart, for no one else would do
so. He walked beside and flogged the cows, and spoke a few words of pity
to her, when he could speak them unnoticed.

“’Tis not far ... your wrong shall be avenged: suffer now in patience!”

Thus did Yagna, bound, on a bed of dung, the blood oozing from her
beaten limbs, disgraced for all her life, unutterably degraded, and
supreme in wretchedness, lie neither hearing nor feeling anything around
her; but the tears streamed down her bruised cheeks. At times, too, her
bosom rose as if to utter a cry—but the cry never came. It stopped
within her, petrified.

“Faster, Pete, faster!” they exclaimed, hurrying him along, and
impatience partly calming their madness, they now came on at a quick
trot, nearing the mounds which were the landmarks of Lipka.

Here they pulled out one side of the cart, made of loose boards, and
shot her out, along with the dung, like loathsome offal. A loud thud was
heard; she fell on her back, and remained motionless.

The Voytova came forward, and spurned at her with her foot, hissing:
“Return to us again, and we’ll hunt you away with dogs!” and, lifting up
a clod as hard as a stone, and striking her cruelly, she added: “This
for the wrong you have done my children!”

Another struck her a second blow: “This for the shame you have brought
on Lipka!”

“May you perish for ever and evermore!”

“May you never lie in hallowed earth!”

“But die of hunger and of thirst!”

With these invectives, there rained upon her clods and stones and
handfuls of earth; while she lay motionless, looking up into the trees
that waved over her.

Then it grew dark, and a dense rain began to fall.

Pete delayed over “something to arrange about the cart,” so the people
did not wait for him, but returned in bands, much depressed and subdued.
About half-way back, they met Dominikova, covered with blood and with
torn clothes, sobbing and groping her way with a stick. On finding out
whom she was passing, she shrieked in a fearful voice:

“Murrain and plague and fire and flood—let them not pass you over!”

At the words, they hung their heads, and fled panic-stricken.

                  *       *       *       *       *

It was a great storm. The sky had grown liver-coloured, the dust flew in
bellying clouds; the poplars, with sobbing soughing sounds, were bowed
and shaken to their roots; the winds howled, wrestling with the corn,
and rushed roaring away to the quivering and murmuring forests. Twisted
masses of hail-cloud, slate and copper-hued, hung low in bulging piles
and airy hummocks here and there, cloven by streaming thunderbolts of
wonderful brightness; though indeed the hail fell only in scanty
showers, beating down a few leaves and boughs.

This, with few intervals, lasted all day long and till evening set in,
followed by a black, cool, refreshing night.

And the next day it was splendid weather again; a sky without a stain,
and the land sparkling all over with dew.

Everything in Lipka was now on its former footing. As soon as the sun
was well above the sky-line, they all, as by common consent, sallied
forth together to reap; the field pathways and roads were alive with
rolling carts.

And as the Mass-bell tinkled from the church, each man stood up in the
fields to listen to the sounds: those nearest could even catch the faint
notes of the organ. Some knelt down to say their morning prayer, even
aloud; some uttered a pious ejaculation, in which he found spirit and
strength to work; everyone at least crossed himself ... and then fell to
work with the utmost energy.

Thus did it go on all day: a Divine Service of hard and ceaseless and
most fruitful work. Scarcely anyone remained at home. All the doors of
all the huts stood wide open; even the children went afield, the aged
and the invalids; and even the dogs, breaking loose from the ropes that
bound them, darted off to the harvest-making.

No one was indolent, no one stood eyeing his neighbours’ crops; they
all, bowed over the furrows, and with untiring diligence, worked hard in
the sweat of their brows.

Dominikova’s fields alone remained unreaped—forgotten, as it were. The
corn dropped grain by grain to the ground, the ears withered up with
drought: no one went there, and the passers-by averted their heads not
to see the desolation. More than one felt compassion, and cast wistful
glances at his neighbours; but he would then fall to work again more
diligently than before: it was no time for them to stand contemplating
ruin and devastation.

For harvest was now in full swing: day succeeded day, full of the
hardest toil, most joyfully supported.

And at last, the weather continuing magnificent, they bound the cut corn
into sheaves, setting them up on the fields by clusters of eight, to be
brought home to Lipka at their convenience. Now did the ponderous wagons
roll along, on every field, through every lane, to every barn in the
village. The gathered billows of golden corn flowed out along the ways
and in the yards and on to the threshing-floors; a few stalks even
floated in the pond, or dangled aloft from the roadside trees, with
their yellow bearded stalks; and all the country-side was redolent of
the reaped straw and the fresh ripe grain.

On not a few threshing-floors the flails were beating already, for the
people were in a hurry to get their corn made into bread. Without, on
the vast expanse of stubble, multitudes of geese were gleaning the
remaining ears, and flocks of sheep and herds of oxen grazed there too.
There, too, some fires had been kindled; and all day long the lasses
sang and made a joyful noise, that mingled with calls and rumbling of
carts, and made the merry sunburnt faces of the villagers shine still
brighter.

The rye was not yet all cut down, before the oats on the uplands were
more than ready for the sickle, and you could almost see how quick the
barley ripened, and the wheat daily grew of an ever rustier gold. There
was no time to rest, not even to eat at one’s leisure; they were all so
tired, so worn out, that many would fall asleep over their meals; and
yet, when they came home in the evening, Lipka thrilled to the merry din
of talk and laughter, of music and songs.

Yes, the hard times that came before the harvest were over and gone; the
barns were full, there was corn in abundance, and everyone, poor as he
might be, held up his head proudly, and looked forward in confidence to
the future and the happy times he had so long desired.

On one of these golden days of harvest, when they were bringing in the
barley, the blind old _Dziad_, led by his dog, passed through the
village. The heat was intense, yet he would not rest anywhere, being in
haste to get to Podlesie. This was hard work for him to do, dragging a
heavy stomach upon twisted limbs; and he could but move slowly along,
stretching out his neck, and listening attentively to each sound he
heard. Stopping sometimes near the reapers, he would “praise God,” offer
them snuff, and—if a coin dropped into his palm—mumble a few prayers,
and ask, as it were indifferently, for news about Yagna and the affairs
of the village.

He got little information on the first point, however; they answered him
unwillingly, and told him no matter what came to their heads.

But at Podlesie, on getting to the crucifix, he happened to meet
Matthew, who was not far off, putting the timber for the smith’s
windmill into shape.

“Please take me to Simon’s hut,” the _Dziad_ asked him, swinging forward
on his crutches.

“Ye’ll have but little comfort there, where is naught but weeping and
sorrow!” Matthew replied.

“Is Yagna still ailing? They told me something in her brain had gone
wrong.”

“Not at all.—But she is always in bed, and has well-nigh forgotten all
things in the world. Her state would move a heart of stone.... Oh, what
creatures men are!”

“Aye, to ruin thus the mind of a Christian!... But I hear her mother
intends bringing an action against all Lipka.”

“She cannot win. The decision was taken by the whole assembly: they were
within their rights.”

“Oh, the wrath of the multitude is a fearful thing!” The _Dziad_
shuddered as he spoke.

Matthew flared up hotly. “Fearful, yes; but senseless and spiteful and
unjust exceedingly!”

He brought him close to the hut, and went in himself. Only for a minute,
however, to come out again wiping a tear away.

Nastka was spinning under the eaves. The _Dziad_ sat down by her, and
produced a blue flask.

“See, ye must sprinkle Yagna with this thrice a day, and also rub the
crown of her head therewith; in a week, all trace of hurt will be gone.
The nuns in Przyrov gave it me.”

“May God be your reward! Already a fortnight has gone by, and she
continually lies there unconscious. Only, from time to time, she makes
as though she would flee somewhither ... and laments ... and calls upon
Yanek.”

“And Dominikova, how is it with her?”

“She too is like one dead, save that she is always sitting at her side.
Ah, she’ll not last long!”

“So many ruined lives, O Lord!—And where’s Simon?”

“At present, always in Lipka. He has a great burden on his shoulders
now, having to take care of two farms.”

She put a five-kopek piece in his hand, but he would not take it.

“’Twas for my own pleasure I brought her the flask ... and will add a
prayer for her besides at the altar of the Transfiguration!—She was ever
most kind-hearted, and cared for the poor as but few care!”

“Truly and indeed, her heart was very kind ... else she might
peradventure have had less to suffer.”

The sound of the Angelus rose up from Lipka, with the clatter of carts,
the ringing of scythes on the whetstone, and some far-off snatches of
song: while the dust, golden in the western air, now began to blur the
outlines of cabins and fields and woods.

The _Dziad_ got on his crutches, drove the dogs away, set his wallet
straight, and started off, saying:

“Dear folk, may God be with you evermore.”




                                THE END




                         A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN
                         WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET

         _This book is set_ (_on the Linotype_) _in Elzevir
         No. 3, a French Old Style. For the modern revival
         of this excellent face we are indebted to Gustave
         Mayeur of Paris, who reproduced it in 1878, basing
         his designs, he says, on types used in a book which
         was printed by the Elzevirs at Leyden in 1634.
         The Elzevir family held a distinguished position as
         printers and publishers for more than a century,
         their best work appearing between about 1590 and
         1680. Although the Elzevirs were not themselves
         type founders, they utilized the services of the best
         type designers of their time, notably Van Dijk,
         Garamond, and Sanlecque. They developed a type
         face which is open and readable but relatively narrow
         in body, permitting a large amount of copy to
         be set in limited space without impairing legibility._

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                          Transcriber’s Notes

  1. Italic text in the original is delimited by underscores.

  2. Bold text in the original is delimited by equals signs.

  3. Footnotes originally appearing at the bottom of a given page have
     been moved to directly below the paragraph in which they appear.

  4. Hyphenated words were silently joined across lines and pages when
     the intended word was clear.

  5. The following table notes the other material changes made to the
     printed text, in order to correct apparent printing errors
     (punctuation, spelling, quotation marks, repeated words), and to
     standardize spelling and hyphenation for identical words to the
     more common usage across all four volumes. Changes are denoted in
     [brackets].

      =Page= =Text=                                   =Operation=
      18     red as a beet[-]root, and                Removed
      28     shall remember me well![’]”              Added
      35     bluebells and corn[-]flowers were seen   Removed
      56     those bare[-]backed ones, who            Removed
      60     into the lamp[-]lit circle               Removed
      63     choir, Agata[,] was pattering            Removed
      66     Yesterday Ko[s/z]lova sold her           Replaced
      71     red as a beet[-]root. Yet,               Removed
      92     go to Father[”;/,”] and                  Replaced
      94     but green;[,] also a thrill              Removed
      96     even a des[s]ert—half                    Added
      105    to his [h/b]arn, as                      Replaced
      109    to following what he says...![”]         Added
      115    The small[-]pox, I think;                Removed
      118    said, with strong signifi[c]ance.        Added
      121    cart timber for the saw[-]mill.          Removed
      140    round him at the country[-]side, and     Added
      158    for in broad day[-]time and              Added
      165    plaintively over the pasture[-]lands     Added
      167    with arms a[-]kimbo                      Removed
      184    red as a beet[-]root, perspiring,        Removed
      199    over a Jew—a rag[-]picker—sitting        Removed
      208    breeches, bare[-]headed, out of          Removed
      211    clergyman to ride bare[-]backed, or      Removed
      220    ribbons and head[-]gear                  Removed
      228    mountains of mole[-]hills! You           Removed
      231    couple of weeks: small[-]pox.            Removed
      241    “Teres[k]a’s goodman!                    Removed
      243    than once heaving a [h/s]igh.            Replaced
      256    stands at ‘Variable,[”/’] and we         Replaced
      257    home as red as a beet[-]root,            Removed
      286    though she would flee somew[h]ither      Added



*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76329 ***