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THE PEASANTS
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LADISLAS REYMONT

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ﬁeasants
AUTUMN 1 WINTER
SPRING 1 SUMMER

A TALE OF OUR OWN TIME


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NEW YORK
ALFRED ' A 1, KNOPF ' PUBLISHER


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CRACOW EDITION-
PUBLISHED JUNE 1927
MANUFACTURED IN THE
UNITED STATES OF
AMERICA
Second Edition January, 1928
PUBLISH ER’S NOTE
The Peasants has been translated from the
original Polish by Michael H., Dziewicki,
Readerof English Literature at the University
of Cracow. I wish to make special acknowl-
edgment to Dr. A. M. Nawench of Columbia
University for his invaluable assistance in see-
ing the work through the press.
A. A. K.
THE PEASANTS
AUTUMN
CHAPTER I
“World without endl—What, my good Agatha?
And whither be you wandering now?”
"Out into the world, please your Reverence, into the
wide world!” she answered, with a wave of her staff from
east to west.
The priest mechanically turned his eyes in that direction,
but closed them to the blinding sun in the western sky.
Then he said, in a lower and somewhat hesitating tone:
“Have the Klembas turned you out? Or is it only a
little bickering between you P”
She drew herself up a little and, before answering, cast
her eyes around her upon the bare autumnal ﬁelds and the
village roofs surrounded by fruit-gardens.
“No, they have not turned me out: how could they?
They are good folk and my close kin. And as for bickering,
there was none. l myself saw that I had better leave;
that’s all. ‘Better to leap into the deep than cumber an-
other man’s wagon.’ . . . So I had to go; there was no work
for me. Winter is coming, but what of that? Are they
to give me food and a corner to sleep in while I do nothing
to earn iti> Besides, they have just weaned their calf, and
the goslings must be sheltered under their roof at night,
for it is getting cold. I have to make room. Why, beasts
are God’s creatures, too. . . . But they are kind folk; they
keep me in summer-time at least, and do not begrudge me
a corner of their house and a morsel of their food. . . .
And in winter I go out into the wide world, asking
alms. . . . I need but little, and that little good people
give me. With the help of the Lord Jesus, I shall pull
through till spring, and put something by into the bargain.
u P RAISED be Jesus Christ!”
‘ 3
THE PEASANTS 4
Surely, the sweet, good jesus will not forsake His poor.”
“No, that He will not,” the priest reassured her in earnest
tones, quietly pressing a small silver coin into her hand.
“Thanks, thanks, and God bless your Reverencel”
She bowed her shaking head as low as his knees, while
big tears trickled down her face, a face rugged and furrowed
like newly-ploughed autumn ﬁelds.
The priest felt confused.
“Go, and God speed you on your way,” he faltered, rais-
ing her up.
With trembling hands she crossed herself, took hold of
her wallet and her sharp-pointed staff, and started off along
the broad and deeply rutted road toward the forest, turning
now and again to glance at the village, the ﬁelds where
potatoes were then being dug, and the smoke from many
a herdsman’s ﬁre, wafted low over the stubble.
The priest, who had previously been seated upon a plough-
wheel, now returned to it, took a pinch of snuff, and opened
his breviary; but his eyes would stray now and then from
the red print and glance over the vast landscape slumbering
in autumnal peace, or gaze into the pale blue sky, or
wander to his men leaning over the plough he was guiding.
“Hey, Valek! That furrow is crooked!”' he cried out,
sitting up, with his eyes following every step of two sturdy
grey plough-horses.
Once more he returned to his breviary, and his lips again
moved, but his eyes soon unconsciously wandered to the
horses, or to a ﬂock of crows cautiously hopping, with out-
stretched beaks, in the newly-made furrow, and taking wing
when even the whip cracked or the horses wheeled round:
after which they would alight heavily in the wake of the
plough, and sharpen their beaks on the hard, sun-baked
clods just turned up.
“Valek, just ﬂick the right-hand mare a bit; she is lag-
ging behind.”
He smiled to see her draw evenly after this correction and,
when the horses came to the roadside, jumped up to pat
their necks—a caress to which the animals responded by
5 AUTUMN
stretching their noses towards his face and snifﬁng
complacently.
“I-I'et~—a—-ah!” Valek then sang out. Pulling the silver
bright share out of' the ’furrow, he deftly lifted up the
plough, swung the horses round, and thrust the shining
steel into the earth again. At a crack We whip, the
horses set tugging till the cross-bar creak d again; and on
they went, ploughing away at the great strip of land which,
stretching out at right angles to the road, descended the
slope, and, not unlike the woof of some coarse hempen stuff,
ran down as far as the low-lying hamlet nestling amongst
the red and yellow leaves of its orchards.
It was near the end of autumn, but the weather was still
warm and rather drowsy/ The sun was still hot enough
and, hanging in the south-west above the woods, made the
shrubs and the pearC-(‘ur/ees, and even the hard, dry clods,
cast strong, cold sha ows.
lneffable sweetness and serenity reigned in the air, full
of a golden h ze of sunlit dust over the ﬁelds lately
harvested; wh' e above in the azure heaven, enormous white
clouds ﬂoajzéd here and there like great wind-tormented
snow-drif .
Below, as far as the eye could see, lay the drab-hued
ﬁelds, f rming a sort of huge basin with a dark-blue rim
of for st, a basin across which, like a silken skein glittering
e sunshine, a river coursed sparkling and winding
am g the alders and willows on its banks. In the midst of
the hamlet, it spread out into a large oblong body of water,
then ran northward through a rift in the hills. At the
bf ttom of the valley, skirting the lake, lay the village, with
t 1e sunlight playing on the many autumnal hues of its
fruit gardens. Thence, even up to the very edge of the
I orest, ran the long bands of cultivated ground, stretches of
grey ﬁelds with thread-like pathways between them, whereon
pear-trees and blackthorns grew; the general ashen tint be-
ing in places variegated by patches of gold-yellow lupines
with fragrant ﬂowers, or by the dull silver of the dried-up
bed of some torrent; or by quiet sandy roads, with rows of


THE PEASANTS 6
tall poplars overshadowing them, reaching upwards to the
hills and woods.
The priest was suddenly roused from the contemplation
of this scene. A long, mournful lowing was heard at no
great distance, making the crows take wing and ﬂy away
obliquely to the potato-diggings, their dark ﬂuttering
shadows following them over the partly sown ﬁelds. Shad-
ing his eyes with his hand, he gazed in' the direction of the
sun and the forest, and beheld a little girl coming towards
him and leading a large red cow by a rope. As she ap-
proached, she said: “Praised be Jesus Christ!” and would
have gone out of her way to kiss the priest’s hand, but the
cow jerked her away and fell a-lowing anew.
“Are you taking it to market?” the priest asked.
“No, only to the steer at the miller’s.—Be still, you pestl
Are you possessed?” she cried, out of breath, and striving to
master the animal, which, however, dragged her along till
both disappeared in a cloud of dust.
Presently there came along the sandy road, trudging
heavily, a jewish ragpicker, who trundled a barrow so
loaded down that he had to stop for breath every now
and then.
“What news, Moshek?" cried the priest.
“What news? Good news to those it may concern.
Potatoes, God be praised! are plentiful; there’s a good crop
of rye, and cabbages will be abundant. It’s all very well
for such as have potatoes and rye and cabbages.”\ He
kissed the priest’s sleeve, adjusted the barrow-strap, Xand
went on more lightly, his way now leading down a gentle
slope. In his wake, along the middle of the road and in the
haze of dust raised by his dragging feet, came a blind beg-
gar, led by a well-fed dog at the end of a string. Then
a lad carrying a bottle approached from the side of thb
wood. The latter, catching sight of the holy man on the
road, gave him a wide berth and made for the village tavern
by a short cut through the ﬁelds.
A peasant from the next hamlet, on his way to -the mill,
and a jewess driving a ﬂock of geese, then also passed by.
7 AUTUMN
Each praised God; the priest exchanged some kind words
and friendly looks with them, and they went on their way.
By this time the sun was low. The priest got up and
called to Valek: “You will plough as far as the birches,
then home. The poor beasts are quite tired out.”
Going along the path between the ﬁelds, he said his
Ofﬁce under his breath, looking round from time to time
at the scene with fond, glistening eyes. Working-women
gleamed in red rows at the potato-diggings, and the contents
of their baskets rumbled into the carts. Here and there,
the ground was still being ploughed for sowing. On the
fallows a herd of brindled cows was feeding. The ashen-
grey hue of certain lands was beginning to take on a ruddy
tint from the blades of corn already sprouting there. On
the close-cropped, tawny grass of the meadows, the geese
showed up like white snowﬂakes. A cow was heard lowing
afar. Fires had been lit, and long blue clouds of smoke
trailed over the cornﬁelds. Elsewhere harrows were at
work, a dim cloud of dust rising in the wake of each and
settling down at the foot of the hills. From beneath it,
coming as it were out of a cloud, a bareheaded, barefooted
peasant, with a cloth full of corn tied round his waist, was
pacing leisurely, taking handfuls of grain and scattering
them all over the earth with a solemn gesture, as one be-
stowing a blessing. On reaching the end of the ploughed
ﬁelds, he would turn and slowly ascend the slope, his shock
of touzled hair ﬁrst appearing above the sky-line, then his
shoulders, and ﬁnally his whole body, still with the same
solemn gesture, the sower’s benediction, that shed forth upon
the soil, a holy thing as it were—the golden seed which fell
in a semicircle round him.
The priest’s pace became more and more leisurely: now he
would stop to take breath, now to look at, his two grey
horses, now to glance at a few boys who were throwing
stones into a large pear-tree. They came running to him
in a body, and, holding their hands behind them, all kissed
the sleeve of his soutane. ‘
He stroked their ﬂaxen heads, but added a word of warn-
THE PEASANTS 8‘
ing: “Have a care not to break the branches, or you will
get no pears at all next year.”
“We were not throwing stones at the pears,” answered one
boy, bolder than the rest; “there’s a chough’s nest up in
the tree.”
The priest passed on with a friendly smile and was
presently among the potato-diggers.
“God speed your work!”
“May God reward you!” they replied in a chorus, and
all came up to kiss their beloved pastor’s hands.
“Our Lord has given us plenty of potatoes this year, I
think,” he said, offering his open snuff-box to the men, who
respectfully accepted; refraining, however, from taking
snuff in his presence.
“Aye, potatoes are as,big as a cat’s head, and plenty to
each plant.”
“Ah, then pigs will rise in price; you will all want to
have some to fatten.”
“They are dear enough as it is. There was a swine plague
last summer, and we have to buy them even in Prussia.”
“So there was, so there was. And whose potatoes are you
digging here?” a
“Why Boryna’s, of course.”
“I don’t see him with you, so I wasn’t sure.”
“Father is only at the forest with my goodman.”
“Oh, there you are, Hanka? How goes it?” he said, turn-
ing to a handsome young woman who wore a red kerchief
round her head. She came forward, and, her hands being
soiled, threw her apron over them as she took the priest’s
hand to kiss. ' '
“Well, and how is your little boy whom I christened in
harvest time?”
“God bless your Reverence, he is well and lively.”
“The Lord be with you all!”
“And with your Reverence!”
He walked away to the right, where the burying-ground,
near a road planted with pOplars, lay on that side of the
village. They gazed after him in silence for some time, and
9 AUTUMN
it was only when his thin and slightly bent ﬁgure had
passed the low stone enclosure and entered the mortuary
chapel, overshadowed with the yellowish and reddish foliage
of birches and maples, that they found their tongues again.
“There is no better man in the whole world,” said one of
the women.
“Yes, indeed,” chimed in Hanka, emptying her basketful
on to a yellow heap conspicuous on the freshly furrowed
soil and dry stalks. “They would have taken him away
from us to town, but father went with the Voyt1 to entreat
the Bishop, and so they did not get him. But dig away,
you, dig away: the day and the ﬁeld are both drawing to
a close.”
They set again to work in silence. Only the crunching
sound of the hoes in the hard ground, with now and then
the sharp clink of steel upon stone, was to be heard.
Less than a score of workers were there, most of them old
women and farm-labourers. At some distance were ﬁxed
. two couples of crossed poles from which, swathed in cloths,
a couple of babies were swinging as in hammocks, and
wailing now and then.
“Well, and so the old woman has gone off a-wandering,”
Yagustynka said after some time.
“The old woman? Who?” asked Anna, straightening
herself.
“Why, old Agatha.”
“What, a-begging?”
“Of course a-begging! No, not for the pleasure of the
thing. She has been working hard for her kinsfolk, serv-
ing them all summer long; and now they let her go—to get
some fresh air! Next spring she will return, with baskets
full of sugar and tea, and some money, besides. Oh, they
will be fond enough of her then, and cover her up snugly in i
bed, and tell her that she must not work, but just rest up.
Oh, yes! and they will call her ‘Aunt,’ till they have got the
last bit of money out of her. But when autumn comes
round again, there will again be no room for her—not even
1 Voyt—the headman of the community._TransZator’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 10
in the passageway, not even in the pigsty. Oh, those blood-
sucking kinsfolk! Those inhuman beasts!”
Yagustynka put such passion into her outburst that her
face turned livid as she spoke.
An old farm-labourer--a wry-faced worn-out man—re-
marked: “Here you see how true is the saying: ‘The wind
is always blowing in the face of the poor.’ ”
“Now, good people, please dig away,” interrupted Hanka
hastily; she did not like the turn the conversation was tak-
ing. But Yagustynka, who could not hold her tongue, soon
looked up and said:
“Those Pacheses,-—they are getting on in years; the hair
is thin upon their heads.”
“And yet,” another woman put in, “they still remain
unmarried men.”
“And there are so many girls growing old here, too, or
forced to take service elsewhere!”
“Yet, they have a score of acres and more, besides a
meadow beyond the mill.”
“Aye, but will their mothers let them marry, do you
think, or let them have anything if they do?”
“Yes, who would then milk the cows, or do the washing,
or tend to the farm and the pigs?”
“They have to keep house for their mother and for
Yagna. Else how could Yagna be the grand lady that she
is? Quite a gentlewoman, always dressing up, and wash-
ing herself, and peering into her glass, and for ever braid-
ing her hair!”
“And looking for someone to share her bed—any able-
bodied young man will do,” added Yagustynka with a
malicious sneer. ~
“Joseph Bandech sent ‘proposers’1 to her with a gift of
vodka, but she would not have him.”
"A plague on her, the pampered minx!”
“And the old dame, too: always in church, and praying
1Two men go to the girl’s family, offering vodka in the young
man’s name; if the girl drinks to him, she is regarded as aﬁianced.--
Translator's Note.
ll AUTUMN-
out of her prayer-book, and going wherever there’s an
indulgence!” 1
“She’s a witch, all the same. Who was it that made
Vavrek’s cows dry up, pray? And, ah! when Yashek’s
little boy stole plums from her orchard, and she muttered
evil words against him, did he not get the koltun 2 at once,
and shrivel up with crooked limbs?”
“Oh, how can God’s blessings descend upon a place where
such creatures dwell?”
“if. former days,” Yagustynka observed, “when I was
still tending father’s cattle, they used to drive such people
out of our midst. . . . Aye, and it does them no harm, for
they are not without protectors.” Then, lowering her voice,
and casting a side-glance at Hanka then busily digging in
the foremost row, Yagustynka whispered to her neighbours:
“The ﬁrst to defend her would be Hanka’s goodman ; he fol-
lows Yagna everywhere like a dog.”
“For God’s sake! Pray, hold your tongue. What awful
things you are telling us! Why, that’s an offence against
God, a sin!” the gossips whispered to her, as they went on
digging with bowed shoulders.
“Is he, then, the only one? Why, all the lads are after
her, like cats after their kind.”
“Indeed, she is good-looking: plump as a well-fed heifer,
with a face as white as cream, and eyes even as the ﬂax-
ﬂower. Strong, besides; many a man no stronger.”
“For what does she do but eat and sleep? No wonder she
is comely.”
A long silence ensued while they emptied their baskets
on to the heap. Afterwards the talk ran on other subjects,
till Yuzka, Boryna’s daughter, was seen coming at a run
across the cornﬁelds, from the village, and they stopped.
She came, panting and all out of breath, shouting from a
distance:
1An annual local festival held in every parish, where those who
come to church may gain an indulgence.-Translator’s Note.
2Koltu'n---a diseased, matted condition of the hair.—Traizslat0r’s
Note.
THE PEASANTS 12
“Hanka, come home: there’s something wrong with the
cow!”
“Mercy on us! which cow?”
“White-and—Red.”
Hanka heaved a sigh of relief. “Good God! how you
frightened me! I thought it was mine.”
“Vitek brought her in but now; the keeper had driven
them out of the wood. She ran too fast—she is so very
fat,—and fell just outside the byre. She neither eats nor
drinks; only rolls about and bellows. Mercy on us!”
“Is father home yet?”
“No, he is not. Oh, good Lord! Such a cow, too! She
gave more than a gallon at each milking. Oh, do come,
quick!”
“Yes, yes, quick as thought—instantly!”
She at once took her child out of the cloth in which it
hung hammock-like, and came away so alarmed at the news
that she forgot to let down the apron with which she had
tucked her dress up to the knees for work. And, as she fol-
lowed Yuzka, her white legs twinkled across the ﬁelds.
The potato-diggers, working with their hoes between their
feet, went on more slowly, having no one to hurry or to
chide them any more.
The sun, now quite in the West, glowing red as if heated
by its rapid course, hung like a huge crimson globe above
the high, black woods. Twilight was deepening and spread-
ing over the landscape; ﬁlling furrows, hiding in ditches,
gathering under thickets, and slowly pouring over the land;
deadening, blotting out and wiping away all colours, until
the tree-tops and the churchroof and steeple alone glowed
with gorgeous hues. Many labourers were already plodding
homewards.
Shouts and neighings, and bellowings and the rattling of
carts, growing ever louder and louder, ﬁlled the quiet eve»
ning air. But presently a tinkling from the belfry an-
nounced the Angelus; and at the bell’s sonorous vibrations,
these noises were all hushed, and only whispered prayers,
like the faint sound of falling leaves, were audible.
13 AUTUMN
And now the cattle, driven home with merry cries and
songs in a confused multitude, came along the roads stir-
ring up such a volume of dust that only now and then
were their mighty, thickly-horned heads seen to emerge
from it. '
Sheep, too, bleated here and there, and ﬂocks of geese,
ﬂying off the pasture lands, were lost in the Western glow.
so that only their shrill, creaking cries betrayed the fact
that they were on the wing.
“A pity that White-and-Red was with calf.”
“It is a good thing that Boryna is not poor.” ,
“A pity, all the same, to lose so ﬁne an animal.”
“Boryna has no wife, everything he has goes as through
a sieve.”
“Because Hanka is no sort of housekeeper, you know.”
“Oh, but she is—for herself. They lodge with her father
as if they were farm-labourers; each of them is on the look-
out for what can be got out of him. As to Boryna’s
property, let the dog watch over it!”
“Yuzka is a child, and knows nothing. What can she
do?”
“Well, Boryna might as well give up his land to Antek,
might he not?”
“Yes, indeed, and live on the portion they will allow
him?” Yagustynka returned hotly. “You are old, Vavrek,
but a great fool for all that. Ho, ho! Boryna is still hale:
he may marry again. If he gave all he had to his children,
he would be an ass.”
“Hale he is, but over sixty.”
"Never fear, Vavrek; any girl would have him, if he
only asked her.”
“He has buried two wives already.”
“May he bury a third, then, and, God help him! Never
while he lives let him give his children the least bit of
ground ;—no, not so much as a foot of it. The carrion!
They would give him a ﬁne portion, they would! Force
him to work on the farm, or starve, or go far off to beg!
Yes, turn over what you have to your children; they will
THE PEASANTS 14
give you just enough, to buy a rope to hang yourself or to
tie a stone round your neck with!”
“Well, it’s getting dark; time to go home.”
“Yes, it is time; the sun is going down.”
So they quickly shouldered their hoes and, taking their
baskets and dinner pails in hand, went oﬂ’ in single ﬁle
along the path, old Yagustynka always passionately hold-
ing forth against her own and everybody else’s children.
A girl was going home in the same direction, but by
another path, driving a sow with its little ones and singing
in a shrill‘voice:
“Oh, go not near the wagon,
Nor with its axle play,
Nor let a young man kiss thee,
Whatever he may say!”
“Listen to that idiot howling as if she was being skinned
alive!”
CHAPTER II
Boryna’s yard, which, surrounded on three sides
by farm buildings, was separated from the road
by an orchard on the fourth. Several women were offering
advice and eyeing with amazement the very large red-
and-white cow that lay wallowing on a heap of manure just
before the byre.
An old dog, somewhat lame and with hairless patches
along its sides, was now snifﬁng at her and barking, now
running to the fence and driving back into the road such
boys and girls as had climbed up and were gazing curiously
into the yard, and now approaching a sow that lay near the
hut, suckling four white little pigs and gently grunting.
Hanka ran straight to the cow on arriving, and at once
began to stroke her face and head.
“Poor, poor dear Red-and-White!” she cried, with
copious tears and many lamentations.
FromStime to time the women would recommend her a
new remedy for the sick animal. 'Now they would pour
brine down its throat, now milk into which wax from
a consecrated taper had been dropped. One advised soap
dissolved in whey, and another suggested bleeding. But the
cow did not benefit from any of these nostrums. At times
she would lift up her head, and, as though imploring for
help, low till her beautiful large eyes, with pink-tinged
whites, grew dim and misty. Then, quite exhausted with
pain, she would bow her horned head and put forth her
tongue to lick Hanka’s hand.
“May not Ambrose be able to do something?” was one
woman’s suggestions.
“Yes, yes, he knows a good deal about sicknesses.”
a GOOD many people had gathered by this time in
15
THE PEASANTS 16
“Run to him, Yuska. He has just rung the Angelus, so
is likely to be somewhere about the church. Good God!
when Father comes home, how furious he will be! And
yet,” Hanka sobbed, “ ’tis no fault of ours!”
She then sat down on the threshold of the cow-house and
bared her full white bosom to the babe that was wailing for
food, meanwhile watching the suffering animal with keen
apprehension and, expecting Boryna’s arrival, casting un-
easy glances past the fence.
In a few minutes Yuzka returned, announcing the arrival
of Ambrose, who came almost as soon himself. He was
close to a hundred years old, one-legged, and walked with
the aid of a staff, but still as straight as an arrow.
His face, dry and wrinkled as a potato in spring, was
clean-shaven, but scarred; his hair as white as milk, with
long wisps falling on his forehead and hanging down to
his shoulders. He went straight to the cow and looked her
over very carefully.
“Oho!” he said, “you will have fresh meat presently, I
see.”
“Oh, but pray do something to make her well!” cried
jozia. “A cow worth over three hundred glotyl . . . and
just now with calf, besides! Do help us! Oh, dear! Oh
dear?’
Ambrose produced a lancet, whetted it on his boot.
looked at the edge against the sky, and then cut a blood-
vessel in Red—and-White’s belly. But no spurt of blood
followed; only a few drops, black and foam-flecked,
oozed out slowly. .
All were standing about, their necks craned forward,
breathless with attention. _
“Too late!” he said mournfully. “Yes, the poor thing is
near its last gasp. It must be cattle plague or something of
the sort. You should have sent for me as soon as there
was anything the matter. Those women! Peevish things
they are, ﬁt only to weep! When anything’s to be done,
they only fall a-bleating. A lot of ewes!”
1Zloty. A Polish coin, formerly worth about seven cents.
l'i AUTUMN
He spat contemptuously, looked once more at the cow’s
eyes and tongue, wiped his gory hands on her sleek hide,
and prepared to go.
“I shall not ring for her funeral; your pots will clink
instead.”
“Here come Father and Antek!” exclaimed Yuzka, hasten-
ing to meet them as a rumbling sound came from the farther
end of the pond and a long cart and horses appeared, loom-
ing dark against the red glow of dust blazing in the light
of the setting sun.
"Father, Father! Red-and-White is dying!” she called
out. He was just turning the pond. Antek had got down
behind; the pine they had on the cart was a long one, and
had to be held up.
“Don’t waste your breath talking nonsense,” he growled in
reply, lashing the horses. '
“Ambrose has bled it——in vain. Melted wax down her
throat—in vain, too. Salt—no use. . . . ’Tis the cattle-
plague, no doubt. Vitek says the forester drove them out
of the grove, and all at once Red—and-White lay down and
started to moan; and so he brought her back here.”
“Red-and-White, our best cow! You foul beasts! The
devil take you for the care you took of her!”
He threw the reins to his son and ran forward, whip in
hand. '
The women drew away. Vitek, who had all the time been
very calmly doing things about the house, ran off, faint with
fear, into the garden. Even Hanka stood up on the thresh—
hold, bewildered and dismayed.
Old Boryna looked long at the cow and then cried out:
“Yes, she is gone, and because of them! The ﬁlthy sluts!
Always ready to eat, but to watch—never! Such a splendid
animal! One cannot stir from the house, but that some
harm and evil must come of it.”
Hanka murmured in excuse: “But I have been out
potato-digging all afternoon.”
He turned on her in a rage. “You! Do you ever see
anything that goes wrong? Do you care one pin for the
THE PEASANTS 18
things that are mine? Such a cow as ’twould be hard to
ﬁnd—aye, even at a manor farm!”
He went on lamenting for some time, examined the cow,
tried to make her stand up, and looked into her mouth. She
was breathing heavily, with a rattle in her throat. Her
blood had quite ceased to ﬂow and formed hard, black clots
like cinders.
“What’s to be done? She must be killed: I’ll save at
least as much as that will bring us.”
Thus making up his mind, he went into the barn for a
scythe. After sharpening it with a few turns of a grind-
stone that stood under the eaves of the cow-house, he pulled
off his coat, tucked up his shirt-sleeves, and set about his
grim task.
Hanka and Yuzka began to weep as Red-and—White, as
though feeling death close at hand, raised her heavy head
and, moaning faintly, fell ﬂat, with her throat cut. Her
legs jerked convulsively once or twice.
The dog lapped the blood, which was already beginning
to clot.
Antek, who had just arrived, angrily addressed his weep-
ing wife:
“What have you to weep over, foolish one? Father’s cow
is father’s loss, not ours!”
And he set to unharnessing the horses, which Vitek took to
the stable.
“ls the potato crop good?” Boryna inquired as he was
washing his hands by the well.
“Why shouldn’t it be good? Twenty sacks or there-
abouts,” was the reply. .
“They must be brought in this very day.”
“Bring them in yourself, then,” said Antek. “I am dead
tired and ready to drop. The off-horse, too, is lame in one
foreleg.”
“Yuzka, go and tell Kuba to stop digging. Let him put
the young mare to instead of the off-horse, and bring the
potatoes home to-day. It may rain.” ‘
19 AUTUMN
Boryna was boiling over with anger and mortiﬁcation.
Every now and then he went to gaze at the slaughtered cow
and swore outrageously. Then he strode across the yard,
looked into the byre, the barn, and all the sheds, being so
confused by his loss that he did not know what he was doing.
“Vitek! Vitek!” he roared at length, unfastening the
broad leather girdle round his waist. But Vitek did not
answer his call.
All the neighbours had disappeared, feeling that such
sorrow for so great a loss was likely to end in blows, and
Boryna was at no time indisposed for a ﬁght. To-day, how-
ever, he did nothing but curse and swear.
Going toward the hut, he cried through the open window:
“Hanka, give me something to eat!” and passed in to his
own quarters.
The hut was the usual peasants’ cabin, divided into two
parts by a very wide passageway. The back looked out
upon the yard; the four front windows, upon the orchard
and the road. Boryna and his daughter, Yuzka, occupied
the side next the garden; Antek and his family lived on the
other side; while the herdsman and the labourer slept in the
stable.
The room was now getting dark, for but little light could
ﬁlter through its tiny windows, the eaves that overshadowed
them, and the trees of the orchard beyond. Only the sheen
of the glass that covered the holy images hanging in dark
rows from the whitewashed walls, could be seen. The room,
though large, looked smaller on actount of the low ceiling,
with the great beams supporting it, and the amount of furni-
ture which ﬁlled the whole place, leaving only a little free
space about the big penthouse ﬁre-place that stood close to
the passage wall.
Boryna took off his boots there, then entered a dim
alcove, and closed the door behind him. He removed a
shutter from a small pane of glass, and the sundown at once
ﬂooded the closet with blood—red light. '
It was a small lumber-room, crowded with household
THE PEASANTS 20
articles. Poles were ﬁxed across it, from which hung many
a striped cloth and sukma1za,'1 there were piles of grey
spinning-yarn, and ﬂeeces rolled into dingy bales, and sacks
of feathers. He took a white sukmana and a scarlet girdle,
and then for a long time fumbled in certain tubs full of
grain; also in a corner, underneath a heap of odds and
ends—leather and iron fumbled together. But, hearing
Hanka in the next room, he quickly replaced the shutter,
and again started groping in the tubs of corn.
His supper, an enormous pot of cabbage stewed with fat
bacon, was now smoking on a bench just beneath the window.
The odour of that mingled in the air with the smell of
scrambled eggs in a big dish close by.
“Where did Vitek take the cattle this morning?” he asked,
cutting off a mighty piece from a loaf of bread as large as
the largest sieve.
“To the manor copse; and the forester drove them out.”
“The carrion! It is they who have killed Red-and-
White!”
“Yes, she was so tired and overheated with running that
something inside her got inflamed.”
“Those beggarly dogs! We have a right to graze our
cattle there. It is down in black and white, in letters as
large as an ox: yet they always drive us away, and say we
have no right there.”
“They have done the same to others, too. They have
beaten up Valek’s boy, too, most sorely.”
“Ah! I shall go to court, or else to the Commissioner.
She was worth three hundred zloty, if she was worth a grosg!”
“Surely, surely,” assented Hanka, greatly relieved to see
her father less angry with her.
“Tell Antek that as soon as they have brought the pota-
toes in, they must see to the cow—skin her and cut her up.
I shall lend a hand when I get home from the Voyt’s. Hang
the quarters from the rafters, out of the reach of dogs and
vermin.”
lSukmana-a long coat worn by Polish peasants—Translators
Note.
21 AUTUMN
Having ﬁnished his meal, he got up to dress for the visit,
but felt so heavy and drowsy that he ﬂung himself on the
bed, just as he was, for just forty winks of sleep.
Hanka cleared the things away, going to the window every
now and then to peep at Antek, who was taking his supper
under the porch in front of the house. He sat at a civil
distance from the platter, taking spoonful after spoonful
with a hard but leisurely scrape against the sides of the
vessel. At times he would cast a glance over the pond,
whose waters gleamed with moving circles of purple and
gold, iridescent in the sunset. Amongst these, like white
clouds round a rainbow, swam a ﬂock of geese, gabbling and
spurting streams of blood-red jewels from their beaks.
The village was seething with life and crowds of people.
On the road at either side of the pond, the dust ﬂew and
carts rattled; and lowing cattle stood knee-deep in the pond,
drinking at leisure and lifting their ponderous heads, while
from their jaws streams of water trickled down like strings
of opals. Meanwhile, on the farther side, washerwomen
were at work, and the bats they wielded clattered loudly on
the linen they were beating.
“Antek, please split the ﬁrewood for me; I cannot manage
it by myself,” said his wife timorously, for the man thought
nothing of treating her to an oath—nay, even to a blow-
on the slightest pretext.
He did not so much as reply, feigning not to have heard
her. She dared not repeat her request, but went to hack off
such splinters of ﬁrewood as she could, while he, moody and
spent with a long day’s hard work, sat looking over to the
other side of the pond, where a large cottage shone with
whitewashed walls and window-panes that reﬂected the sun-
set glow. A low stone fence, over which some clusters of
dahlias nodded their heads, standing out vividly on the
white background of cottage wall, ran round the garden; and
in front of the house a tall ﬁgure was seen to pass from
beneath the orchard trees, disappearing in the passage before
it could be recognized.
From the porch where he sat, Antek heard his father’s
THE PEASANTS 22 ‘
snores and growled ﬁercely. “The Master sleeps; and you,
toil on, labourer, toil on!”
He went out into the yard and eyed the cow again.
- “She was father’s cow, but it is also a loss for us,” he
remarked to his wife, who had left off hacking woOd and
gone to the cart which Kuba had now driven home.
“The pits are not yet ready for the potatoes; we must
dump them upon the threshing-ﬂoor.” ,
“But father said you were to ﬂay the cow and quarter it
on the threshing-ﬂoor, with Kuba to help you.”
“There will be room enough for both cow and potatoes,”
muttered Kuba, throwing the barn door wide open.
“I,” said Antek, “am no slaughter-house workman, that
, I, should ﬂay carcasses!” .
No more was said; the potatoes rattled noisily on the
barn-ﬂoor.
The, sun was down, but the dark blood and dead gold of
the after-glow were still mistily reﬂected in the pond; and
the quiet waters just trembled, shimmering ruddily with a
drowsy murmur.‘
Presently the village was lost in shadows and plunged in
the deep stillness of an autumnal night. The huts seemed
smaller, as though sunk into the ground or melted into the
trees that hung dreamily above them, Or made one with the
grey fences surrounding them. Antek and Kuba were carry-
ing the potatoes. Hanka and Yuzka, busy with their house-
hold duties, were driving the geese home or feeding the
swine that came grunting for food into the passage. Then
the cows wanted milking. Vitek had just come home with
them from the pasture-lands, and had put a little hay on
the racks before them, that they might remain quiet while
being milked. _ _
Yuzka had just begun with the ﬁrst cow, when Vitek asked
her in a low trembling voice: “Yuzka, is master very
angry?”
“Oh, Lord! that he is! He means to give you a thrash-
ing!” she answered, turning her face to the light and putting
2‘3“ AUTUMN
out her hand, for the cow, tormented by ﬂies, was whisking
her tail, which struck the girl.
“But was it my fault if the forester drove us out? He
would have given me a beating, too, but I got away. And
she lay down and lowed and moaned, so I came back with
her."
He said no ’more, but she heard him sniﬁling and weeping
quietly.
“Vitek! you are crying like a calf. Don’t! Is it the first
time father has thrashed you P”
_ “No, indeed, but I can’t bear being thrashed; I am always
afraid.”
“How silly! A great husky fellow, and afraid? But I’ll
explain it all to Father.”
“Will you really, Yuzka?” he exclaimed joyfully.
“I will, Vitek; only fear no more!”
“If you will,—then here’s a bird for you,” he whispered,
much pleased, and took a marvellous tOy out of his bosom.
‘fjust look how it moves, all by itself!”
He placed it on the threshold and wound it up. The bird,
lifting up its long legs and shaking its head, began to walk.
“Oh Lord! it’s a stork! and it moves as if alive!” she
cried out in wonder and, setting her milk pail aside, crouched
\ down and gazed on in rapture.
. * “Oh, how clever you are to have made it! and it moves
by itself, does it?”
“By itself, Yuzka; only I wind it up with this wooden
peg. And see! it is strutting about like a gentleman after
dinner!” He turned it about. The bird, lifting up its long
legs, with comical gravity, strutted on, moving its neck back
and forth. -
They both started to laugh, heartily amused by these
movemé ts; and from time to time Yuzka glanced admir-
ingly at e boy.
Suddeliﬁ Boryna raised his voice, calling to Yuzka from
outside the cabin.
in
“Here I am,\ she answered.
THE PEASANTS 24
“Come to me.”
“I can’t; l'm milking.”
“Well.” he said, “I am off to the Voyt,” and added, peep~
ing into the dark shed: “That, that there bastard, isn’t he
here?”
“Oh, Vitek do you mean? He is gone with Antek,” she
replied hastily and with uneasiness, for Vitekfterriﬁed, had
come to crouch behind her. _
“He has run off! . . . A rank beast he is . . . to let such
a cow be lost!” he snarled, returning to the hut to put on
his new white sukmcma, and a high—crowned black hat.
Then, buckling on a scarlet girdle, he set off in the direction
of the mill.
“So much work still to do!” he said to himself as he
walked on; “all the winter’s ﬁrewood to be brought in, some
ﬁelds not yet sown, and the cabbages still out of doors!
The potato-ﬁelds, too, must be ploughed; and so must the
oat-ﬁelds. My God! a man’s work is never done; he is like ,
an ox under the yoke. And that law business, besides! . . .
A bad one she is, truly: I slept with her indeed! . . . May
her tongue rot away, the vile creature!” He spat ven-
omously, ﬁlled his pipe, and with some difﬁculty kindled
a damp match by striking it on his trouser-leg.
Then he jogged along slowly, still brooding over his
troubles and the death of the cow.
Now he was as lonely as a signpost. There was no one
he could complain or tell things to. . . . 'He had to think
of everything, and make up his mind, and care for every-
thing all by himself—a dog’s life!-. . . Never could he
speak to anyone, nor get any advice or assistance . . . and
the result was, loss upon loss!
The hamlet was now getting dark. Through the wide-
open doors and windows (for the evening was warm) there
came from the glowing hearths streaks of light,’ and the
odour of cooked potatoes, and porridge with driblets of
fried bacon. Many were supping in the passages, or even
outside the cabins, and talking merrily to, the clatter of
spoons.
2%; AUTUMN
‘Boryna’s pace slackened; he was exhausted with the ex—
citement he had gone through, and the thought of the wife
he. had buried that spring recurred to him and made him
gulp down a sob.
“Oh, no! if she—how well I recollect her to-night!——if
she had been here, Red-and-White would still be alive. Yes,
she was a housewife, indeed, a rare housewife. It’s true,
she had a sharp tongue, and never a good word for anyone:
but she was a good wife and manager, for all that.” And
then he breathed a prayer for her soul, very sore at heart
in the remembrance of times gone by.
When he used to come home, all tired and weary, she
would give him the best of everything; and time and again
would she hand him, on the sly, savoury bits of sausage
that she had secreted for him from the children. And,
somehow, they throve very well then. Calves and goslings
and suckling pigs multiplied; on fair days, there was always
plenty to take to town; always cash at hand, and money
put by for a rainy day.
And now?
Antek was continually pulling his own way, as was his
son-in-law, the blacksmith—always trying to get something
out of him. YuzkaP—A frail child, with bran instead of
brains in her head; and no wonder, for she was still under
ten. And Hanka? She ﬂuttered about like a moth, was
for ever ailing, and did nothing but whine like a dog.
So everything was going to rack and ruin. Red-and-
i‘t/hite had to be killed that day, a pig died at harvest-time;
while the crows had carried off so many goslings that but
half of them remained. Such losses! Such disasters! All
i:e had was being frittered away, running out like water
through a sieve!
“But I won’t give in!” he almost cried aloud: “as long as
i can move these limbs of mine, not one acre shall be given
up to anyone!”
“Praised be jesus Christ!” someone’ greeted him as he
passed. \,
“World without end!” was his instinctive reply as he
THE PEASANTS 26
turned off from the road into a long-fenced lane at the end
of which, some distance back from the highway, stood the
Voyt’s cottage.
The windows shone brightly. The dogs started to bark,
as Boryna walked straight into the best room.
“Is the Voyt at home?” he asked of a stout woman kneel-
ing close to a cradle and suckling a baby.
“No, but he will be presently. Sit down, Matthias;
there’s someone else waiting for him, besides.” And the
woman threw her chin forward in the direction of a beggar
sitting by the ﬁre—the blind old man we have met before,
led by a dog. The chips that were burning on the hearth
threw a hard reddish light on his large shaven face, his
bald crown, and his wide-open eyes, drawn over with a
white ﬁlm and motionless under grey brows.
“Whence has the Lord led you hither?” asked Boryna,
seating himself on the opposite side of the ﬁre.
“From up and down the world, good man; and how were
it otherwise with me?” was the answer given in a drawling,
plaintive voice, while its owner, who listened attentively to
each sound, pulled out a snuff-box.
“Pray take a pinch, good man.”
Matthias complied, and such a large pinch did he take
that he sneezed three times and the water came to his eyes.
“Awfully strong stuff,” he said, and wiped the tears away
with his elbow.
“Petersburg snuff, very good for the eyes. May it be so—
for yours!”
“Come round to my cabin to-morrow, will you? I have
killed a cow.”
“God reward you. Boryna, i believe?”
“Ah! you are good at guessing.”
I“Knew you by your voice and speech.”
“Well, coming from up and down the world, what news
have you?”
“Ah! what indeed‘? Some news is good, some bad, and
some indifferent. The\way of the world. They all com-
plain and lament when it comes t0\giving a beggar some-
27 AUTUMN
thing; and yet they have always money enough for vodka.”
“You speak truly; it is just as you say.”
“Ho, ho! l have been a Wayfarer on this God’s earth
long enough to know a thing or two.”
“What,” the Voyt’s wife then asked of him, “what has be-
come of the foundling who came with you last year?”
“Ah! the vile creature! he ran away, ﬁlching a pretty
good sum out of my wallet. Some good people had given
me a little money, and I was taking it to Our Lady of Czes-
tochowa to have mass said, when the wretch stole it and
made off. . . . Be quiet, Burek! It’s the Voyt, I imagine.”
And at a pull on the string that held it, the dog ceased
barking.
He was right. The Voyt came in and, standing on the
threshold, threw his whip into a corner and shouted:
“Wife! Supper! I’m starved. How are you, Matthias?
And you, old man, what do you need?”
“I have come to ask about the affair I am to appear in
to-morrow.”
“I can wait your pleasure, sir. Put me in the passage;
it shall be well with me; or if, because I am old, you set
me by the ﬁre, there I shall sit. Give me to eat of your
potatoes or a morsel of bread, and I shall pray for you just
as much as if you gave me a kopek or more.”
“Sit down. You may sup here and spend the night, too,
if you will.”
And the Voyt sat down to a steaming dish of newly-
mashed potatoes, made savoury with abundant driblets of
fried bacon; a platter of sour.milk standing close by.
“Take a seat, Matthias, and share what we have,” said the
Voyt’s wife cordially as she laid a third spoon on the table.
“No, thanks. When I got home from the forest I ate a
generous supper.”
“Take a spoonful at least; the evenings are getting long.”
“ ‘Plenty of prayers, plenty of food,
Never does harm, always does good,’ ”
the beggar put in sententiously.
THE PEASANTS 28
I
Boryna stood upon ceremony for a time, but at last the
smell of the bacon in his nostrils got the better of him. So
he sat down and began to eat, but slowly, daintily, and
with great decorum.
The blind man’s dog now began to move about uneasily
and to whine impatiently for food.
“Be quiet, Burek! The farmer folk are at supper now.
You will get your share, don’t fear.” So spoke the blind
man soothineg as he was warming his hands at the ﬁre and
inhaling the savoury odour.
When the ﬁrst pangs of hunger had been appeased, the
Voyt, turning to Matthias, said: “Eva has, it appears,
lodged a complaint against you.”
“She! Oh, well, I declare! Not paid her, indeed? As
there is a God, I have—aye, and beyond what she deserved.
Yes, and when she had that baby I willingly sent the priest
a sack of oats for her at the christening!”
“But she says it was you who——-”
“Oh, but that’s preposterous! What, is she mad? Is she
crazy?”
“Oho! Old as you are, you are still an able craftsman!”
And the Voyt and his wife burst out laughing.
“To be old,” put in the blind man, “is to know; to know
is to be able.”
“But she lies like a gipsy! I never touched her, the
wench! She was homeless; an outcast who begged and
prayed us to take her in—just for the food and a corner to
sleep in, because winter was near. I was loath to do it,
but my wife that’s dead thought we had better. She could
do things in the house. Why should we hire a servant
when one was ready at hand? I did not like this—another
mouth to feed, and in winter, too, when there’s always less
to be done. But my wife said: ‘Don’t worry; she knows
how to weave cloth and canvas. I’ll see to it that she is
not idle, and there will always be some work or other for
her.’ Well, she stayed on with us and got strong; and pres-
ently she was with child. But the question is, who was the
man?”
29 AUTUMN
“You, according to her.”
“I’ll kill her for' saying so! The miserable liar!”
“Anyway, you will have to appear in court.”
“I shall. God reward you for telling me this. I thought
it was about her wages: but I have witnesses to prove that
I have paid her. A plague on her! A scold, and a beggar
into the bargain!—Dear me! one trouble after another! I
shall never be able to stand all this. And the cow I have
had to kill! And the ﬁeld-work not yet done! And here
I am, all alone, with no one in the world to lend a hand!”
“ ‘Who for a wife that’s gone must weep is like a wolf~
encompassed sheep,’ ” the old man observed.
“I heard about the cow; they told me in the village.”
“As to that, I have a claim against the manor. The
forester, I understand, drove the cows away. She was the
best of all I have—worth three hundred zloty—was with
calf—ran so fast and got so blown that I had to kill her.
No, I shall not let that pass: I’ll bring suit.”
The Voyt, however, who was friendly to the manor, strove
to calm Boryna: anger was always a bad counsellor, and
he should beware of doing anything rash. Then, to change
the subject, he said with a wink at his wife:
“Man, you ought to marry, so as to get someone who
would take care of the house.”
“I say, is this a joke? Why, last Assumption Day I
rounded my fifty-eighth year. What are you dreaming of P
And she, too, scarcely cold in her grave yet!” '
“You just take a wife, one ﬁt for your age, and all will
be well with you again, Matthias,” said the Voyt’s wife,
preparing to clear the table.
“ ‘For, sure, a good and kindly wife is the crown of her
husband’s life,’ ” added the blind man, groping for the dish
which the woman had set before him.
Boryna sat wondering why the thought had not occurred
to him before. Certainly some woman or other was to be
found, and any one would be better than none.
“Some,” continued the old man as he ate, “are silly and
speechless, some are quarrelsome, some pull the lads’ hair,
THE PEASANTS 30
and others are always dancing or running after music in
taverns; but, anyhow, a man is better off with one than
without.”
“But what would people think of it?” objected Boryna.
“Think? Will they give you back your cow or help you
in anything, whatever they think?” the Voyt’s wife retorted
with much heat.
“Or warm your bed for you?” said the Voyt with a laugh.
“There are so many lasses here that, when a man goes about
the huts, he is as hot as coal in a ﬁre.”
“Ah! the reprobate! look at him! Whom is he hankering
after now?”
“Sophie, Gregory’s daughter, might do; a slim handsome
girl and a good dowry, too.”
“What does Matthias, the richest farmer here, want with
a dowry?”
“ ‘Of goods and lands and such, who ever has too much?’ ”
queried the blind man.
“No,” the Voyt decided, “Gregory’s girl is not for him-—
too young, too immature.”
“Then Andrew’s daughter, Catharine,” was the next pro-
posal made by the Voyt’s wife.
“Already taken. Roch’s son, Adam, sent proposers to her
yesterday.”
“Well, there is Weronka, Stach’s daughter.”
“A babbler, a gadabout, and with one hip deformed.”
“But what about Thomas’s widow? She would do very
well, I fancy.”
“Three children, four acres, two heads of cattle, and an old
sheepskin that poor Tom left her.”
“Perhaps Ulisia, Adalbert’s daughter, who lives by the
church?”
“She might do for a single young man. The boy she has
is now big enough to tend cattle. But Matthias has his own
cowherd, and needs none.”
“There are others yet to be married; only I seek someone
suitable.”
31 AUTUMN
“But, wife, you have overlooked one who would be just
the girl for him.”
“Who is that?”
“Why, Yagna, daughter of Dominik.”
“To be sure; she had escaped my memory.”
“A bouncing wench and tall; no fence but would break
under her weight.”
“Yagna!” repeated Boryna, who had been silently listen-
ing to this roll-call; “but they say she runs after men.”
“Who has seen her? who knows? Gossips will gossip for
gossiping’s sake and for envy,” cried the Voyt’s wife, hot in
her defence.
“Oh, I did not say she was that way, but it’s common
talk. Well, now, I must be off.” He adjusted his girdle,
put a live coal to his pipe, and pulled at it twice or three
times.
“And for what hour is the summons?”
“For nine o’clock; so it stands in black and white in
the District Court. You will have to rise early, if you are
going there on foot.”
“I shall take the ﬁlly and drive slowly. God be with
you, and thanks for your good cheer and neighbourly
advice.”
“May God go with you, too. And think over what we
have been telling you. Say but the word, and I will go to
the old dame with vodka for you; and we shall have a wed-
ding before Yule-tide is out.”
Boryna answered not a word, but gave them a parting
glance that might mean anything.
“When old with young to wedlock ﬂy, the devil is glad,
for he proﬁts thereby,” was the blind beggar’s reﬂection as
he ﬁnished the mashed potatoes. Boryna walked homeward
with slow steps, seriously meditating on the advice given
him. At the Voyt’s he had carefully kept from letting it
be known by any sign whatever that the idea was extremely
to his liking. How could he? He was not a young whipper-
snapper, who would at the bare mention of marriage be
THE PEASANTS 32
ready to dance and shout for joy, but a grave, elderly
farmer.
Night had already enshrouded the earth. The stars glis-
tened in the sky’s sombre depths like silver dew-drops, and
all was still, save for an occasional bark of a dog or two.
Faintly and far between, a few lights twinkled athwart the
orchard trees, and now and then a breath of damp air blew
up from the meadows, making the boughs wave slightly and
their leaves whisper soft sounds.
Boryna was making for home by another way—direct and
leading down over the bridge, under which the waters of
the pond, rolling towards the mill, with a hollow bubbling
sound, poured into the stream. He then crossed to the other
side, skirting the pond, where the waters shone darkly and
the trees along its shores cast gloomy shadows over its
surface, framing it in ebony; though near the centre, where
the shadows were lighter, the twinkling stars were reﬂected
as in a mirror of steel.
Matthias himself could not have said why he did not now
go straight home, instead of chosing a roundabout way.
Did he want to pass in front of Yagna’s house? Possibly
he meant only to collect his thoughts and revolve matters
within his head.
“Really, it would not be a bad thing. And what they
say of her is all very true. Yes, she is a strapping girl!”
A shiver ran through him. It was damp and cold near
and about the pond and he came straight from the Voyt’s
cosy ﬁreside.
“Without a woman at home, I must either be ruined or
make over the farm to my children,” he thought, and then:
“And she’s a lusty wench, and as pretty as a picture. My
best cow gone to-day! and who knows what else will go
to-morrow? Perhaps I ought to look out for a second
wife; my ﬁrst one has left things to wear a plenty. But
Dominik’s old widow . . . she is a wicked creature!--
Three of them, and ﬁfteen acres: about ﬁve for Yagna, be-
sides her share of the cabin and the livestock. Five acres
of ﬁelds—the very ones beyond my own potato-patch. To-
33 AUTUMN
gether with mine, they will make close to thirty-ﬁve acres.
A nice bit of land!”
He rubbed his hands and set his girdle straight. “The
miller would be the only man richer than 1. Next year, I
would manure and till the whole of my lands for wheat.
I would have to purchase another horse. And a cow too, in
place of poor Red-and-White.—Oh, but then she would
bring a cow of her own. . . ”
So he went on musing, calculating, and dreaming farmers’
dreams, till the weight of his thoughts became, he felt, too
big for his mind. For he was marshalling every detail, like
the intelligent peasant that he was, and considering whether
he had not possibly overlooked anything of importance.
“They would raise a hue over it, the rascals!” he said to
himself, thinking of his children. But at the thought there
rushed over him a wave of indomitable self-conﬁdence,
which immediately ﬁlled his soul and conﬁrmed him in his
purpose, wavering and undecided as he had been hitherto.
“The land is my own. Let anyone else dare claim my
property! If they don’t like it, they may . . .” Here he
broke off, for he was then standing in front of the cabin
where Yagna dwelt.
The lamps were not yet out, and a long streak of bright-
ness from the open window, passing through the dahlia
bushes and the hedge, illumined the road. Boryna, standing
in the shadow, glanced into the room.
A big ﬁre was evidently burning on the hearth, for the
crackling of pinewood could be heard; and the great room,
though dusky in the corners, was elsewhere ﬁlled with a red- '
dish light. The old dame, crouching close to the ﬁre-place,
was reading something aloud; and Yagna, dressed only in
her smock, her face turned to the window and her sleeves
tucked up to the shoulders, was engaged in plucking a live
goose.
“A comely wench!” he thought.
She would raise her head now and then, listen to the read-
ing, and heave a deep sigh. Then she would again set to
plucking the goose, but so roughly that the bird would
THE PEASANTS 34
gabble audibly with pain, and, escaping from her hands,
ﬂap about the room till the feathers were ﬂying everywhere.
But she would soon quiet it and hold it fast between her
knees, the bird uttering only a few faint cries, to which
other cries responded from the passage and the yard.
“A handsome girl, she,” he mused and walked away at a
rapid pace, for the blood had gone to his head. Raising his
hand to his brow, he drew tightened his girdle as he walked.
He was already within his own gates, and had passed the
fence, when he looked round at Yagna’s dwelling, which
stood opposite on the other side of the water. Someone was
just then going out, for a quick ﬂash from the opening door
lit up the pond. Heavy footsteps were heard tramping
along, and the splash of a bucket of water was audible;
then at last, amid the darkness and the mists which had come
up from the meadows, a voice sang,to a slow tune:
“Betwixt us rolls the ﬂood, O grief!
How can I send a kiss from here?
I’ll ﬂoat it down upon a leaf
And waft my love to thee, my dear.”
He listened long, but the voice was heard no more; and
after a while all the lights were put out.
The moon, now in her full, had risen above the forest-
trees, silvering their tops, throwing its radiance through
their boughs and upon the pond, and peeping down into the
cottage windows. The dogs no longer barked. An un-
fathomable stillness had settled over the village and over
all nature.
Boryna made the round of the yard, took a look at the
horses that snorted as they munched their provender, and
put his head into the cow-byre, the doors of which stood
open because of the heat. The cows were lying and chew-
ing the cud with the low murmurs peculiar to cattle.
He closed the granary doors and, taking off his hat, en-
tered his cabin and said his evening prayers half aloud. All
were sleeping. He undressed quietly and went at once to
bed.
35 AUTUMN
He could not sleep, however. The coverlet was so hot
that he drew it from over his feet. His head, too, was
teeming with many a troublesome and worrisome thought.
Besides, he was not at his best physically.
“Sour milk,” he muttered, “as I always say, is not good
to take of an evening.”
And then he thought about his children and pondered
over what had been said of Yagna, till all this became mud-
dled and confused in his brain. He knew not what to do,
and was on the point (as once had been his wont) of call-
ing for advice to the sleeper in the other bed:
“Mary! Am I to marry or not?”
But he remembered in time that his Mary had been ly-
ing in the churchyard ever since the spring. Yuzka was
there, asleep and breathing heavily. And he was a poor
desolate man, with no one on earth to advise him. So he
gave a deep sigh, crossed himself, and said a few Ave Marias
for the soul of his departed and for the souls of all the
faithful in purgatory. ‘
CHAPTER Ill
HEN daybreak began to shed its light on the
cabin-roofs, and dispel the night, and make the
stars to fade, things were already moving about
Boryna’s hut.
Kuba had left the stable. There was hoar frost on the
ground, and it was yet grey dawn; but the East flaunted a
tinge of burning red, and the frosty tree-tops likewise. He
stretched himself with satisfaction, yawned more than once,
and went to the byre to call Vitek; for it was time to rise.
But the lad only lifted his drowsy head, and whispering:
“Presently, Kuba, presently,” laid it down again.
“Well, sleep a little more, poor fellow! sleep yet a little
more!” K'uba covered! him with a sheepskin coat, and
limped away; for he had once received a bullet in the knee,
which lamed him for life. He washed at the well, ran his
ﬁngers through his scanty hair, that had got matted during
the night, and, kneeling down on the stable threshold, pro-
ceeded to say his prayers.
The master was still in bed, when the cabin-windows took
a purple tint in the ruddy glow of morning. Kuba’s rosary
glided through his ﬁngers; he prayed for a long time, his
eyes wandering nevertheless over the yard, the windows, the
orchard with the boar-frost still not melted on the trunks,
and the apple-trees, laden with fruit as large as his ﬁst.
Then he threw something at the white head of Lapa, the
dog which slept in the kennel close by; but Lapa only
growled, curled up, and slept on.
“What, you rascal! would ye sleep till sunrise?” he cried,
and threw missile after missile, till the dog came out, with
a stretch and a yawn and a wag of its tail, and, approaching
36
37 AUTUMN
him, proceeded to scratch itself and cleanse its shaggy coat
with its teeth.
“And unto Thee, and also unto all Thy Saints, do I, O
Lord, offer up this my prayer. Amen.”
He beat his breast many times, rose from his knees, and
called out to Lapa:
“0 you dainty dog you, hunting for ﬂeas like a lass go-
ing to a wedding!”
Being an industrious fellow, he now set to work, taking
the cart out of the shed and greasing the wheels, giving
the horses a drink, and ﬁlling the racks with hay till they
snorted with pleasure and pawed the stable ﬂoor. Then
he brought from the granary some refuse of corn plentifully
seasoned with good oats, which he took to the mare’s man-
ger: for she had been given a stall apart.
“Eat, old girl, eat away; you are to have a foal, and you
need strength. Eat away!” He stroked her over the nose;
and the mare laid her head on his shoulder, and playfully
pulled at his shock of hair with her lips.
“Till noon, we shall be bringing in potatoes, and then we
shall go to get litter in the evening. Never fear; a cart of
litter is no great weight; don’t worry.”
“But you! for you there’s a good ﬂogging in store, you
lazy brute!” he said to the gelding that stood close by and
was pushing its head forward between the boards that sep-
arated it from the mare’s manger.
“You hireling, you jew! Willing enough to devour good
oats, you are; but to move one step, save for the whip—
not you!”
He passed it by, and looked into the manger that stood
next to the wall, from which the ﬁlly’s head—chestnut-
coloured, with a white arrow on the forehead—had for some
time been watching him; and she uttered a gentle neigh.
“Easy, little one, easy! And eat your ﬁll; you will take
master to town. . . .” But her ﬂank was soiled, and he
wiped it clean with a wisp of hay. Such a full-grown ﬁlly,
ready for coupling . . . and yet so dirty! Always wallow-
ing in the mire like a sow!”
THE PEASANTS 38
So he went on, talking continually, and passed round to
the sties, to let out the pigs that were squealing for food.
Lapa followed him, looking wistfully into his face.
“Want something, eh? Here you are then—a nice bit
of bread for you!” He took a piece of bread from his
bosom and tossed it into the air. Lapa caught it, and ran
away to his kennel, for the pigs would have taken it from
him.
“Ha! those swine, they are like some men: all for grab-
bing what’s not theirs.”
In the barn he took a long look at the quartered cow that
hung from the beams.
“A beast without understanding. Gone in her turn. She
will be in the pots by to-morrow. Poor thing! you end by
making a Sunday dinner for us.”
With a sigh of longing for the feast in store, he went to
rouse Vitek. “ ’Twill be sunrise directly. Come, drive the
cows to grass.”
Vitek had no mind; he wrapped his sheepskin round him
and grunted; but in the end he got up, and shambled
drowsily about the yard. _
The master had overslept himself; for the sun was up,
up, making the hoar-frost a dust of rubies, and each pane
and pool a mirror of ﬁre, and no one had as yet appeared
from the cabin.
Vitek sat on the cowbyre threshold, scratching himself
and yawning audibly. The sparrows had come down from
the roofs to the well, and were now bathing in the troughs.
He took a ladder, and went to look at the swallows’ nests
under the eaves; for it was very still there, and he feared
they might have died of cold. Several swallows lay there,
benumbed. Taking them out very gently, he placed them
within his shirt-bosom.
“See, Kuba, see! they are dead!” And he showed him
the bodies, stiff and stark. Kuba took them one by one,
laid them to his ear, breathed on their eyes, and gave his
opinion.
“They are only numb with last night’s cold. Silly things,
39 AUTUMN
not to have left for some warm country yet! Ah, well!”
And he went about his work again.
Vitek seated himself in front of the cabin, where the
sunbeams poured down upon the whitewashed walls, and ﬂies
were already crawling. He took out such swallows as the
heat of his body had revived a little; he breathed on them,
opened their bills, gave them to drink from his own warm
lips, until at length they were restored, opened their eyes,
and ﬂuttered to get free. Then, swiftly catching a ﬂy on
the wall, he would feed it to a bird and let it go.
“Away to your mother, ﬂy away!” he said, as the young
swallows sat on the rafters of the byre, preening themselves
and twittering their thanks, as it were.
Lapa, sitting on his hind quarters, looked on with keen
interest, whining now and then, running a few paces after
each bird to catch it as it ﬂuttered off, and then returning
to watch proceedings.
“You might as well try to catch the wind,” said Vitek, so
absorbed in reviving the swallows, that he took no note of
Boryna coming round the hut, until the latter stood in front
of him.
“Ha! you filthy knave! Playing with birds, are you?”
The lad jumped up to run for it; but the farmer caught
him fast by the coat-collar, while with his other hand he
undid the broad thong of tough leather which formed his
girdle.
“Oh, but don’t beat me, don’t beat me, pray!” was all
the poor fellow could utter.
“What sort of a cowherd are you, heyP—That’s how you
tend cattle, hey?——Lost my best cow for me, hey?—~You
foundling, youl—You Warsaw mooncalf!” And he laid on
furiously, wherever he could get a blow home; and the thong
'whistled in the air, and the lad writhed like an eel and
roared for mercy.
“Don’t! O Lord! He’s killing me! Master! O jesus,
mercy!”
Hanka peered out to see what the matter was; Kuba
spat with disgust and withdrew into the stable.
J
THE PEASANTS 4O
Boryna continued ﬂogging him with might and main, scor-
ing his loss upon the lads flesh with a vengeance, while
Vitek shrieked and yelled at the top of his voice. At last
the poor wretch managed to wriggle out of his master’s
clutch, and holding his posteriors with both hands, ran to
the fence, roaring as he ran: “He has killed me! My
God! he has killed me!” while the swallows that were
still in his bosom, fell out and were scattered along the
road.
Boryna, still breathing threats against him, returned to
the cottage and looked into Antek’s quarters.
“What!” he cried out on seeing him. “Still abed, and
the sun up so long?”
“I had to rest. Was tired to death yesterday.”
“I am going to the law court. You will bring home the
potatoes; and when that work is done, send our people to
get litter. You might yourself drive in laths to make the
hut a winter coating.” 1
“Do that yourself; there is no wind on our side.”
“As you please. I will do my side; and you, Mr. Slug-
gard, shall freeze.”
He slammed the door, and entered his own quarters. The
ﬁre was lit and Yuzka was going to milk the cows.
“Give me breakfast instantly: I must be off.”
“I can’t be in two places, nor do two things at once.”
And she went out.
“Not one quiet minute! I am forced to curse and fall
foul of everybody,” he said to himself, and proceeded to
dress in a very vile humour. What everlasting rows with his
son, so that at every word each was ready to ﬂy at the
other—or worse—to say something that stabbed you like a
knife! His ill humour, as he pondered, increased so, that
he could not help cursing under his breath, and ﬂinging his
boots here and there about the ﬂoor.
1 Polish peasants, in order to keep their huts warmer in winter,
put round them a sort of palisade of laths over a yard high, the
space between is then stuffed with hay, dry leaves, boughs, etc.,
often mixed with clay-Translator’s Note.
4] AUTUMN
“They ought to obey me, and they don’t. For what
reason?” he asked himself.
“Because, no doubt, a cudgel, and a good one, is needed
to deal with them. I ought long since to have used one.
But I did not care to raise a scandal in the village, and
could not make up my mind to do that. For I am not a
beggarly ploughman; thirty acres are mine. Nor am I of a
mean family; Boryna is a well-known name—But kindness
is thrown away upon them!” And then he remembered
his son-in-law, the blacksmith, who was setting everyone
against him, and continually pressing for a gift of six acres
of cornland and one of forest, “willing,” he said, “to wait
for the rest.”
“That is, till I am dead! Oh, yes,” he thought bitterly,
“you will have to wait, fellow! While I live, you’ll not
have so much as a smell at my land! You’re too clever by
half!”
When Yuzka came in from milking, the potatoes were on
the boil, and breakfast was soon ready.
“Yuzka, you will sell the meat yourself! To-morrow is
Sunday, and people know that we have it. so they will be
coming. But no credit, mind! Keep the hind quarters for
our own eating. You will call in Ambrose to salt and
pickle them.”
“But the blacksmith too can do that.”
“He’ll take his share—the wolf’s share of the sheep!”
“But Magda will be hurt. ’Tis our cow; is she to have
nothing?”
“Then cut off a piece and send it to Magda: but don’t call
in the blacksmith.”
“Father dear, that’s kind of you!”
“All right, little one. Take good care of things here, and
I’ll bring you a roll or something from town.”
He made a pretty good meal, girt himself up, smoothed
down his scanty dishevelled hair, took his whip, and looked
round the room.
“Is there anything I have forgotten?”
He would have looked into the alcove too, but Yuzka’s
THE PEASAiNTS 4;
eye was upon him“: so he merely crossed himself, and went
out.
Sitting in the cart, with the reins in his hand, he gave one
more order to Yuzka, who stood in the porch.
“When they have done digging the potatoes, send them
off to rake up the litter: you’ll ﬁnd the permit stuck be-
hind the picture. . . . And tell them to cut down some
young ﬁr or hornbeam: it will come in handy.”
The cart had got as far as the fence, when Vitek showed
himself among the apple-trees.
“I had forgotten. . . Vitek! Prrru, prrru! Vitek, I
say! you will take the kine to the meadow. . . . And tend
them well, or you’ll get such a flogging as you won’t forget.”
“Oh, you may kiss—” the lad cried audaciously, and
vanished on the other side of the barn.
“None of your impudence! If I get down, you’ll see!”
He turned to the right into the road by the church. The
sun was by now above the cottages, with ever stronger and
stronger rays. From the thatches mists rose up, and water-
drops dripped down; but in the shadows of the hedges and
ditches, the frost lay white. On the pond, the thin ﬁlm of
morning haze had grown thinner; the waters bubbled and
shone in the sunlight.
In the village the round of daily toil was commencing.
Folks were livelier and more spirited than usual in this
bright cool morning air: some going forth in troops to
dig in the ﬁelds, carrying hoes and mattocks, and baskets
with provisions; some setting out to plough the stubbled
ﬁelds; some with harrows in carts, and bags full of seed-
corn; whilst others wended their way to the wood for litter,
and bore rakes on their shoulders. And on either side of
the pond the noise increased, when presently the roads be-
came crowded with cattle driven to grass; dogs barked,
men shouted, and a heavy dust which the night’s dew had
but partly laid, rose in the highway.
Boryna carefully threaded his way among the cattle, from
time to time cracking his whip at some lamb or calf that
would blunder across the ﬁlly’s path; and at last he got clear
43 AUTUMN
of them all, and approached the church, which was screened
by a great rampart of limes and plane-trees, with dull yel-
low foliage. Thence he passed on to a broader road, planted
on either side with giant poplars.
The bell had been rung to announce that mass was be-
ginning, and the muffled notes of the organ came from
within; he doffed his hat and breathed a devout prayer.
The way was solitary, and strewn with fallen leaves,
which covered, as with a carpet of dead gold, all its deep
holes and ruts, and the gnarled roots about its surface: a
carpet striped by the falling shadows of the poplars, as the
sun shone across the way.
“Gee-up! my little one, gee-up!” He cracked his whip,
for the road sloped upwards, though slightly, towards the
forest, black in the distance.
The silence made Boryna drowsy; he gazed through the
colonnade of poplars upon the ﬁelds bathed in the rosy
radiance, and tried to think of Eva’s accusation and of
Red-and-White’s death; but he could not help feeling slum-
ber coming on. Birds were chirruping in the boughs;
through the tree-tops murmured the wind, here and there
bringing down a leaﬂet, like a golden butterﬂy, that settled
with a whirl on the road, or on some dusty clump of thistles,
whose ﬁery eyes opened bravely to the sun. And the pop-
lars talked one with another, and murmured softly with
swaying boughs, and then were still.
It was only when he had reached the forest, and the horse
stopped, that he woke up completely.
“The corn is coming up nicely here,” he mused, gazing
sunwards at the grey ﬁelds, with their rust-coloured haze of
sprouting rye.
“A good bit of land, and next to mine—just as if it had
been put there on purposeI—This rye, I think, was not sown
long ago.” He cast a longing glance at the recently har-
rowed lands, and then, uttering a sigh, entered the forest.
Here, however, a cold bleak wind, driving in his face,
quite dispelled his reverie.
The forest was very old and very great. It stood, com—-
THE PEASANTS 44
pact and thick, in the majesty of age and strength combined.
Nearly all the trees were pines; but not unfrequently an an-
cient spreading oak would appear, or some birches, in their
smocks of white bark, let their tangled yellow foliage ﬂoat
in the air. The lower growths—the hazel-nut, the dwarf
hornbeam, and the trembling aspen—were crowded around
the mighty red pine-trunks, so closely and with branches so
intertwined, that the sunbeams could but seldom touch the
ground, where they seemed to be crawling, like bright-hued
insects, over the mosses and reddish faded ferns.
“All this is mine. Four acres,” he reﬂected, devouring the
wood with his eyes, and gloating over the best bits of timber.
“Ah! the Lord will not let us be wronged! Nor will we
let people wrong us, either! The manor folk think what
we have is too much: we think it too little—Let me see:
my four, and Yagna’s one; four and one’s . . . Gee-up!
foolish beast! Afraid of magpies?” He whipped her up
smartly; for, upon the dry Tree, where the cruciﬁed Christ
was hanging, magpies were quarrelling so violently that the
ﬁlly had pricked up her ears and stopped short.
“ ‘Magpies’ quarrelling, rain will surely bring,’ ” he mut-
tered, and with a few strokes of the whip mended the ﬁlly’s
pace to a trot.
It was now well past eight, for the people in the ﬁelds
were sitting down to breakfast, when he came to Timow:
a small town whose empty narrow streets were lined with
dilapidated houses, like rows of old saleswomen—lining
gutters full of rubbish, and dirty jewish children, and pigs.
He had scarcely entered, when crowds of jews and Jew-
esses rushed round him, eager to look into his cart and
fumble among the straw it was strewn with,—-even under
the seat—to ﬁnd anything he might have to sell.
“Off, ye scurvy louts!” he growled, turning into the
market-place, where, in the shadow of a few ancient decayed
chestnut-trees slowly dying in the centre of the square, hard
on a score of wagons were drawn up, their horses
Unharnessed.
He drove his own cart in there among them, brushed off
45' AUTUMN
the straw from his coat, and went straight to Mordko the
barber’s, to get a shave. Presently he issued thence, clean-
shaven, and with only one cut on his chin, plastered with
a bit of paper, through which the blood oozed.
The court was not yet open; but in front of the build-
ing that stood right in the market-place, opposite a very
large church, a good many people had already assembled,
and werd sitting upon the time-worn steps, or lounging out-
side the windows. Women squatted along the white walls,
chatting together, with the red aprons they had worn on
their heads as they came, now fallen on to their shoulders.
Boryna perceived Eva holding her boy by the hand, and
surrounded by her witnesses. A storm of anger surged
within him. He spat contemptuously, and withdrew into
the corridor that ran the whole length of the oﬁicials’ private
lodgings. The judgment hall was to the left; the secre-
tary occupied the right side.
Just then the manservant Yacek had passed the threshold
of the lodgings with a samovar, and was blowing it so hard
that it smoked like a factory chimney. From time to time
a shrill angry voice was raised from the extremity of the
smoke-darkened corridor.
“Yacek! the young ladies’ shoes!”
“Presently, presently.”
The samovar was now hissing, and spouting ﬂames, and
burning like a volcano.
“Yacek! water for master to wash!”
“Yes, yes, directly, directly!”
Perspiring, distracted, the man ran to and fro about the
corridor till it rang again, and returned to blow, and went
off anew; for his mistress now screamed:
“Yacek, you rascal, where are my stockings?”
“Confound this devil of a samovar!”
The scene continued for some time yet; but at last the
door of the court opened, and in the people rushed, ﬁlling
the large whitewashed hall.
Y acek was there again, now in his capacity as usher:
barefooted, but in a dark-blue jacket and trousers of the
THE PEASANTS 46
same hue, and brass buttons. His red face perspiring freely,
he wiped it with his sleeve as he slipped in behind the black
grating by which the hall was divided into two parts.
Tossing his head like a horse attacked by a gadﬂy (for his
sandy hair fell over his eyes and into them), he sat down
for a moment’s rest near a huge stove of green delf tiles,
after peering cautiously into the adjoining room.
So many people had come in that the place was chock-
full. They pressed against the grating till it shook, and
after a time began to talk, the murmur of voices soon ﬁlling
the whole room.
Under the windows outside, Jews were vociferating;
within, women clamorously expounded their wrongs, and
still more clamorously wept over them; but what those
wrongs were, no one could make out. Everybody was
cheek by jowl, like a ﬁeld of red poppies or of rye, waving
to and fro in the wind, and rustling and whispering; all
clustered together.
It was then that Eva caught sight of Boryna, upright
against the grating, and heaped insults upon him, till she
cut him to the quick and he answered hotly:
“Silence, you bitch, or I’ll give you such a drubbing that
your own mother won't know you!”
Eva, in a fury, clawed at him, and tried to reach him
through the press; but her kerchieffell off, and her child
fell a-screaming. What might have happened, none can
say: for just then Yacek started up, opened an inner door,
and shouted:
“Hold your peace, yokels! The court is entering.”
It was indeed: the stalwart squire of Raciborowice, fol-
lowed by two assistant magistrates, and the secretary. _The
latter, sitting down at a side-table, set some papers in order,
and eyed the magistrates, as they put their gold chains
round their necks, and took their places at a great table,
covered with crimson cloth. '
At once there fell such a silence that the men chattering
outside the windows could be plainly heard; and the ses-i
sion began.
47 AUTUMN
The ﬁrst complaint was brought by a constable against
a petty trader, on account of some nuisance in his yard.—
Condemned in default.
Then the case of a boy ﬂogged for having put horses to
graze in clover.—-A compromise: ﬁve roubles for the
mother; a new jacket and trousers for the boy. ‘
A complaint of encroachment in ploughing—No evi-
dence: set aside.
A case of theft of timber in a forest, the judge’s property:
complainant, the administrator; defendants, the peasants of
Rokiciny.——Fined, with alternative of a fortnight’s impris-
onment. They gave notice of appeal, and made such a
noise about the injustice of the sentence, they having the
common right to cut ﬁrewood in the forest, that the head
magistrate made a sign to Yacek, who thundered:
“Silence! silence in the court! This is not a tavern!”
And thus case after case, like furrow following furrow,
was dispatched, evenly and quietly enough in general, with
a few lamentations and sobs, or even curses at times; but
these were promptly suppressed by Yacek.
Some of the people had withdrawn; but so many more
came instead, that they all stood like corn-stalks in a sheaf.
No one could move, and it grew stiﬂingly hot, until the
magistrate ordered the windows to be opened.
And now came the case of Bartek Koziol, of Lipka, ac-
cused of stealing a sow from Martianna Paches, daughter
of Anthony. Witnesses, the aforesaid Martianna, her son
Simon, Barbara Pyesek, etc.
“Are the witnesses present?” asked one of the assistant
magistrates.
“We are here,” came the reply in chorus.
Boryna had hitherto stood patiently apart, close to the
grating; but he now approached Paches to greet her; for
she was no other than Dominik’s widow, Yagna’s mother.
“Let the defendant come up to the grating.”
A low-statured peasant pushed forwards.
“Are you Bartek Koziol?”
The peasant, seemingly bewildered, scratched his thick
THE PEASANTS 48
hair, of roundhead cut; a silly grin twitched his dry clean-
shaven face, and his small red-fringed eyes kept leaping like
squirrels from one judge to the other.
As he answered nothing, the judge repeated the question.
“Aye, aye, that he is; he is Bartek Koziol, an’t please
the most honourable court!” cried an unwieldy woman,
forcing her way inside the grating.
“What do you want?”
“An’t please you, I am the wife of this poor thing, Bartek
Koziol”; and extending her hands, palms downwards to
the floor, she bowed till her frilled cap touched the magis-
trates’ table.
“Are you a witness?” .
“A witness, did you say? No, but please . . .
“Usher, outside the grating with her.”
“Get out, woman; this is not your place.”
He seized her by the shoulders and forced her back.
“An’t please this most honourable court,” she cried, “my
husband is hard of hearing!”
“Out, before I treat you roughly!” Yacek roared, push-
ing her against the grating till she groaned with pain.
“Go peaceably; we shall speak loud enough for your
Koziol to hear.”
The examination began.
“What is your name?”
“My name? Surely you know it, since you have called
me. Is it my nickname you want?”
“Dolt! give your name,” said the inexorable magistrate.
“Bartek Koziol, most honourable court,” his wife replied
for him.
“How old?”
“How am I to remember? Mother, what age am I?”
“Fifty-two next spring, I think.”
“A farmer?”
“Oh, yes: three acres of sandy land and one head of
cattle; a ﬁne farmer I am!”
“Ever sentenced?”
“Sentenced?”
)7
49 AUTUMN
“Were you ever put in prison?”
“Is it convicted you mean?—Mother, was I ever in
prison?”
“Yes, Bartek, you were—through those rotten manor
folks, on account of a dead lamb.”
“Ah, so I was.-—I found a dead lamb in a pasture-
meadow. Well, was it to be eaten by the dogs? So I took
it; and they lodged a complaint against me, and swore
I had stolen the beast, and the court passed sentence. They
put me in prison, and there I had to lie—But it was un-
just—unjust!” he said in a low voice, and casting a side—
glance at his wife.
“You are accused of stealing a sow, the property of
Martianna Paches: of taking it out of the ﬁeld, driving it
to your but, and killing and eating it. What 'defence have
you?”
“I never ate it. If I did, may God forsake me at my
dying hour! I eat itP—Well, I declare!”
“What defence have you?”
“Oh . . . defenceP—Had I aught to say, Mother?-—Ah, I
remember now—“Yes: not guilty. I did not eat the sow,
and this same Martianna Dominik’s widow is even as a
barking dog!”
“Oh, what liars some men are!” the Dominik woman
sighed.
“Explain how Paches’ sow got into your hut.”
“Into my hut—Paches’ soWP—Mother, what did the hon-
ourable squire say?”
“Why, Bartek, he asked you about the pig that followed
you to our hut.”
“Oh, I know . . . I know now. I pray the honourable
court to excuse me and listen to what I have said already
and repeat now.—It was a pig and not a sow; a white pig,
with a black patch about the tail . . . or somewhat lower
down.”
“Well, but how did it get into your hut?”
“Into my hut? I will tell you all exactly as it took place,
and show the right \vorshipful court and the people here
THE PEASANTS 50
assembled that I am innocent, and that the woman Dominik
is a lying gipsy, a cursed and pampered shrew.”
“A lying . . . May the Most Holy Mother grant you be
struck dead unshriven!” the woman ejaculated, with a deep
sigh, and a glance at an image of the Blessed Virgin that
hung in a corner. Then she clenched her bony ﬁst, shook
it at him, and hissed:
“0 you swine-stealer! you villain, you!” and she opened
her talons as though about tp claw him.
Here Bartek’s wife interfered, screaming:
“Would you then? would you hurt him, you jade, you
witch, you tyrant of your sons?”
“Be quiet,” ordered the judge.
“Hold your tongues when the judge is speaking, or I’ll
turn you both out of the place!” Yacek chimed in, holding
up his trousers; for the braces had given way.
Silence was now restored, and the two old women, who
had all but ﬂown at each other’s throats, now stood mute,
though looking daggers and breathing hate.
“Speak now, Bartek, and tell us the whole truth.”
“Yes, the truth, the truth itself, as clear as crystal. As
if I were at confession—It was in this wise. . . .”
“Look well into your head,” his wife Magda put in, “lest
you should forget anything.”
“I will do so, Magda—It was in this wise. I was walk-
ing along (it was in spring, and I was close to Boryna’s
clover-ﬁeld, just beyond the Wolf-Hole). . . . So I walked
along, saying my prayers, for night was coming on.——l\low,
on my way, I heard . . . was it a voice, or not? I won-
dered. Did it grunt, or not? . . . Behind me I looked, but
saw nothing: all was still. Was it the devil after me? . . .
I went on my way, shuddering with fear, and said a Hail
Mary. . . . Again—a grunt! So I said to myself it was
only a sow, or it might be a pig. . . . But I walked a few
steps aside into the clover; and what did I see? Something
following me. I stopped, it stopped. A long white thing,
low on its legs; its eyes blazed like a wildcat’s or a devil’s.
. . . I crossed myself; and having goose-ﬂesh, mended my
51 AUTUMN
pace. For I knew not what thing it could be, prowling thus
by night. Also, as all men know, the Wolf’s Hole is a
haunted place.”
“Yes, that’s a truth,” his wife observed; “last year Sikora
was passing there at night, and something took him by
the throat, threw him down, and beat him so, that he kept
his bed for a fortnight.”
“Hold your peace, Madga.—So on, on, on I went, with
the thing still running after me—and grunting! just then
the moon shone out clear, and I saw.—Lo, it was a pig, and
no devil at all! . . . I was angered; for what did the foolish
thing mean by frightening me thus? So, throwing a stick
at it, I make for my home, along the path between Michael’s
beetroots and Boryna’s wheat, and then between Thomas’
sown corn and Yashek’s oats (him they took to the army
last year, and whose wife had a baby yesterday). . . . And
the pig still ran after me as a dog would run, and then going
on one side, and into Dominik’s potato-patch, grunted all
the way. I turned off, and followed a slanting pathway
across the ﬁelds: and it followed still—I felt hot all over.
My God! a strange sowl—Perhaps it was no sow! I went
round nigh the cruciﬁx, and the pig after me. . . . I leapt
the ditch: it leaped too! Then I went to the mounds be-
yond the cruciﬁx. . . . After me still! Then I ran by the
pear-trees, and it came between my legs, and tripped me up.
. . . I wondered whether it was a possessed pig! I had
scarce got up, when it began to run on before me, with its
tail in the air. ‘Away with you, then, you pest of a beast!’
I said. But it did not go from me: straight to my hut,
to my very hut, did it go! It passed the fence, most hon-
ourable court! by the fence into the passage, and into the
room through the open door. So help me God! Amen!”
“And so you killed and ate it, did you?” the magistrate
asked, with a smile. '
“Killed? Ate?——Well, what was to be done? One day
went by: the pig would not go. A week passed, and there
was no getting rid of it: it always returned, squealing. My
wife gave it all she could to eat. Were we to let it starve?
THE PEASANTS 52
it was as much God’s creature as We were. . . . But let the
most honourable court, in its wisdom, take this into ac-
count: what was I, a poor orphan, to do with it? Nobody
came for the beast, we were needy people; and it ate, and
ate .' . . as much at least as two other pigs would have
done. What then? In a month, we should have been eaten
out of house and home, aye, and out of our skins too. . . .
What, then, could we do? It‘was a case of eat or be
eaten—So we did; but only a little of it; for they heard
of it in the village, and the Dominik woman complained to
the Soltys,1 and came with him, and took everything away.”
“Everything, indeed!” interrupted the Dominik woman,
angrily. “And what became of the hind quarters?”
“Ask that of Kruchek and the other dogs. We had put it
into the barn for the night. Now, the dogs were on the
watch, and there was a hole in the door; so they got in,
and had a good feast on . . . what I am accused of
stealing.”
“So the sow went after you by herself, did it? Tell that
story to an idiot, not to this court! You thieving black-
guard! Who was it took the miller’s ram? who stole his
Reverence’s geese? Say who?”
“Have you seen who? have you seen?” shrieked Koziol’s
wife, rushing forwards to use her nails. But the other con-
tinued mercilessly:
“Who plundered the organist’s potato-pit? Who is it
that snaps up everything missing in the village—be it
gosling, or chicken, or rake or hoe?”
“You carrion, you! All you did when a lass—what your
Yagna is doing now with the farm-lads—oh, no one re
minds you of that now, vile trollop that you have been!”
This stung Dominikova to the very quick. “You dare to
name my Yagna!” she roared furiously. “You dare! I’ll
knock your teeth down your throat!”
“Silence, hussies! or I shall have to drive you out!” said
Yacek, to quiet them, holding his trousers up with one hand.
The witnesses were then heard.
lSoltys—the village headman.-_Translator’s Note.
H AUTUMN
Dominikova, the plaintiff, spoke ﬁrst. She had taken a
subdued and pious tone of voice, every now and then call-
ing Our Lady of Chenstohova to witness. She averred that
the sow was hers, that Koziol had stolen it from the meadow
where it fed. She did not ask the most honourable court
to punish him for that—may our Lord give him a longer
time in purgatory instead!—but (and here she raised her
voice to its loudest tones) for having heaped such foul
outrages, and so publicly, upon Yagna and herself.
Simon, Dominikova’s son, with clasped hands held under
his cap, as one saying prayers in church, and with his eyes
always ﬁxed upon the judge, bore witness afterwards, in a
dull plaintive voice, saying that the sow was his mother’s,
that it was white all over, with a black patch about the tail,
and one ear torn by Lapa, Boryna’s dog, which had at-
tacked her last spring, and she had squealed so that he could
hear her from the barn.
Then came the other witnesses, who all conﬁrmed what
he said, while Magda poured denials and curses through the
grating, and Dominikova kept her eyes ﬁxed on the holy
image, or on Koziol, who listened attentively, with glances
darted now at the witnesses, now at his wife.
The audience gave ear with intense interest, sometimes
uttering a murmur, or an ironical comment, or a peal of
laughter, severely suppressed by Yacek.
The case was gone into thoroughly, and only settled after
the adjournment of the court to discuss the matter; during
which time the people dispersed into the passages and outside
the building, to get a breath of air, take refreshments, speak
to the witnesses, or hold forth about their wrongs: others
again, to complain of injustice with ﬁerce invectives, as is
usual on such occasions.
The adjournment over and sentence given, Boryna’s case
came on. Eva stood up in court, dandling her baby. With
ﬂoods of tears, she related how she had come to serve at
his house and worked herself off her legs, and never got
a kind word, nor a corner to sleep in, no, nor enough to
eat, so that she had to beg food from the neighbours, and
T'HE PEASANTS 54
he had not paid her, but driven her away, and his own
child too, on to the high roads—Here she burst into bitter
tears, and fell at the feet of the magistrates, screaming.
“Such, most honourable court, is the wrong done me: and
this is his child!”
Boryna muttered indignantly: “She lies, like the wretch
that she is.”
“Lie? Why, the whole village of Lipka knows . . .”
“That you are a wanton and a drab!”
“O most honourable court! and he used to call me Yevka
and names more tender still; and would bring me beads, and
often and often rolls, when he came from town; and would
say: ‘Here you are, Yevka, here you are, my dearest!
~ And now . . . O jesus! O jesus!”
At that, she bellowed aloud.
“You gipsy trull! Why not say I brought you a feather-
bed too, and cried: ‘Sleep under it, Yevka, sleep!’ ”
There was a roar of laughter.
“What, did you not? Was there anything you did not
promise me?”
“Good God!” exclaimed Boryna, in ﬁerce bewilderment.
“lt’s monstrous! And yet the lightning has not struck
her!”
“Honourable court, it is known to the world that this
thing has been: all Lipka can testify that I speak the
truth. Let the witnesses speak and bear testimony!” she
cried out, with a tempest of tears and ejaculations.
As a matter of fact, however, all they had to say
amounted only to bits of gossip and malicious talk: so
she set herself again to bring forward what proofs she had.
As a last resource, she displayed her baby and exposed it
to the eyes of the judges, while it kicked up its naked legs
and roared lustily.
“The honourable court,” she cried out, “will see with
their own eyes whose it is: whose is this potato nose, whose
are these grey-brown blear eyes? Boryna and he are as
like as two drops of water.”
But this was too much for the court’s gravity; and the
55 AUTUMN
audience was also convulsed with uproarious merriment,
when they compared the child with Boryna. Witticisms
came forth in plenty.
“There’s a handsome lass for you. For all the world like
a skinned dog!” ‘
“Let the widower Boryna marry her: the boy will do for
a swineherd.”
“Why, she is getting as bald as a cow in spring.”
“A comely girl she is! Put her as a scarecrow in a millet-
ﬁeld; all the birds will take fright.”
“Her face is smeared all over with grease and grime.”
“Because she’s a thrifty soul: washes once a year to save
soap!”
“No wonder; she is so busy, having to light the jews’
stoves.” 1
They were growing more and more caustic and biting
every moment, and Eva stood dumbstruck, with the vacant
look of a hunted dog in her eyes as she gazed round upon
the crowd, hazily revolving something or other in her mind,
when Dominikova called out aloud; “Be silent! It is a
sin to revile an unfortunate like her!” Whereupon there
was a sudden hush, and more than one man showed evident
signs of shame.
But the accusation failed completely.
Boryna felt exceedingly relieved. Innocent as he was, he
would have felt keenly both the scandal of a condemnation
and the burden of an order to pay for the boy; and, as he
thought, the law would often enough punish the innocent
instead of the guilty: you never could tell. He knew many
such cases.
He left the place directly, and, waiting till Dominikova
joined him, began to consider the whole business again.
He could not make out Eva’s motive in thus accusing
him.
“No, it is not her doing; she has not the headpiece for
1 Orthodox jews are forbidden to light ﬁres on the Sabbath, even
in winter They therefore engage some poor woman to go round
and light their stoves for them on that day.--Translat0r’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 56
that. Someone else has been egging her on.-—Who can it
be?”
He went with Dominikova and Simon to have a drink and
a morsel to eat in a tavern; for it was past noon. Dom-
inikova hinted'that the whole business was the blacksmith
his son-in-law’s work; but this he could not believe.
“What would he get by that?”
“The pleasure of worrying and mortifying you, and mak-
ing you a laughing-stock. That fellow would like to ﬂay a
man alive, just for the delight of the thing!”
“This spite of Eva’s—l cannot understand it. I never
harmed her in any way; nay, I gave his Reverence a sack
of oats at her bastard’s christening!”
“Why, she serves the miller; the miller is hand in glove
with the blacksmith—Don’t you see?”
“I see, but cannot account for it.—Have another drink?”
“Yes, please; but you ﬁrst, Matthias.”
They had another drink, then a third, and ﬁnished off
another pound of sausages, and half a loaf of bread; and
Boryna bought a lot of rolls for Yuzka and prepared to
depart.
“Come with me, Dominikova; we shall have a talk. l t
is tedious to be by oneself.”
“All right; but I must go to church ﬁrst, and say some
prayers.”
She was soon back, and off they started.
The sun was drawing westward by the time they reached
the forest.
Now and then they said a few words to each other, but
only out of courtesy: it would never do for them to sit mop-
ing together. But they only talked just enough not to doze.
and to “keep their tongues wet,” as the saying goes.
Boryna whipped up the ﬁlly, which now, all in a lather,
and tired and overheated, was going too slowly. He would
whistle now and then, and again relapsq into silence, ru~
minating and pondering over something in his mind, and cal-
culating things: not infrequently stealing allook at the old
5‘7 AUTUMN
woman, with that dried hard face, set and furrowed, and
in hue like bleached wax. Her toothless jaws moved a lit-
tle, as if she were praying silently. Sometimes she would
draw the red apron she had tied round her neck, further
over her brow; for the sun shone right into her face. She
sat motionless, save for the gleaming of her grey-brown
eyes.
“Have you dug all your potatoes?” he asked at length.
“We have. And a pretty good crop it is.”
“All the easier for you to keep a pig.”
“I am fattening one; it will come in handy during the
carnival.”
“Surely, surely—They say that Valek, Rafal’s son, has
sent messengers to you with vodka.”
“Yes, and others have done the same; but they have lost
their money. No, my Yagna is not for the likes of them.”
Raising her head, she looked him straight in the eyes,
like a hawk. But Boryna, a man of mature years, was not
confused as a youth might have been. He met her glance
with calm and unfathomable serenity. For a considerable
time neither spoke; each seemed vying in taciturnity with
the other.
It was not ﬁtting for Boryna to make the ﬁrst advances.
How could he—he, already past middle age, one of the
ﬁrst men in Lipka—blurt out to her that he had taken a
fancy to her Yagna? Nevertheless, being of a hot tempera-
ment, he felt his choler rise within him, thus forced to
parley and beat about the bush.
Dominikova saw he was annoyed, and knew why; but
she would not help him out by so much as one word, and
continued to eye him in silence. At last, however, in order
to say something, she remarked:
“You look as hot as though it were harvest-time.”
“Because I am.” .
And indeed it was very hot. The forest was all round
them; its mighty barrier let no breath of air pass, and the
sun burned so ﬁercely that the tree-tops, scorched with its
THE PEASANTS 58
rays, were drooping over the road, while a faint fungus-like
odour, pungent in the nostrils, came up from the drying
pools and the dry oak-leaves on the ground.
“Do you know,” said the old woman, “I, and others too,
have often wondered why such a man as you, a man of
such high repute amongst us, so wealthy and so much more
able than most men—has no ambition to occupy some of-
ﬁcial position?”
“You are right to say I am without ambition. What
would such a post proﬁt me? I was Soltys here for three
years: it cost me a pretty sum. I lost so much by it that
my wife was angry with me.”
“She was quite right. To be an ofﬁcial always ought to
mean both honour and proﬁt.”
“Thank you! A great honour it is, surely, to have to
bow to the constables, and lout low to every clerk and every
underling at court. . . . And if taxes are unpaid, or a bridge
is out of order, or if a dog hit by a cart-shaft goes mad,
who is to blame? Why, the Soltys always! And the
proﬁt! How many a fowl and goose and score of eggs have
I not had to send to the clerks and the district oﬁicials!”
“You say true; but then Peter the Voyt here has no
grounds of complaint. He has purchased some land, and
built a barn too.”
“Yes; but when he is Voyt no longer, what will he do?”
“Then you think that . . .”
“Oh, I have my eyes open, and can see a thing or two.”
“He is most conceited, and at sixes and sevens with the
priest.”
“And if he gets on at all, it is his wife’s doing: she is the
real Voyt, and holds all the cards in her hands.”
There was silence again for the space of a long pater
noster.
“Tell me,” she said at last, very deliberately, “are you
not going to send anyone messengers with vodka?”
“Ah, the desire of women is no longer with me: I am an
old man.”
“Do not speak vain words. A man is old when he can
59 AUTUMN
go about no more, nor lift a spoon to his mouth by himself,
nor sit elsewhere but by the stove. Why, I have seen you
shouldering a sackful of rye!”
“Granted that I am yet hale: but who would care to have
me?”
“That you cannot know until you have tried.”
“Besides, my children are grown up, and I cannot take
the ﬁrst lass that comes.”
“Make a deed of gift, and the very best of them will not
hold back.”
“A deed of gift! To get an acre of land, a girl would
take a beggar from the church porch.”
“What of men? They wouldn’t take a girl with a dowry,
would they?”
He made no reply, but whipped the ﬁlly to a gallop.
Another silence ensued, broken only when they were out
of the forest and upon the poplar-lined road; when Boryna
suddenly exclaimed:
“To the devil with the world as it goes on now! For
everything, nay, even for a good word, you must pay! It
is so bad that worse cannot be. Even children rise up
against their parents; there is nowhere any obedience, and
everyone would devour everyone else! The dogs!”
“They are fools, not remembering that we shall all lie
one day together in consecrated ground.”
“One has scarce begun to be a man, when he ﬂies in his
father’s face, loudly demanding a portion of his land; and
the young only scoff at the old. Scoundrels, for whom their
own village is a hole, who despise all ancient rules, and who
—some of them—are even ashamed of their peasant’s dress!”
“All because they have not the fear of God.”
“Because or not because of that, things are wrong.”
“And will surely not mend.”
“They must! But who can compel men to do right?”
“God’s judgments! For behold, That Day will come,
and He will punish them!” ‘
“Yes, but before That Day, how many shall be lost!”
“Times are _so bad, that a plague were better.”
THE PEASANTS 60
“Times are bad, but men are so, too. What of the black-
smith? And of the Voyt? They quarrel with our priest,
they make people rebel; they seduce them and are believed
by the purblind. That blacksmith, though my son-in-law,
is yet as poison to me.”
They continued to complain in chorus of the world’s
wickedness, as they looked through the poplars towards the
village they were nearing.
In the distance, there could be seen, outside the church-
yard, a row of women bending down, indistinctly visible
through a thin haze round them, and the dull monotonous
thudding sound of cluttering swingles came to them, borne
on the breeze from the low-lying meadows.
“just the weather for scutching ﬂax. I shall get down to
speak to them, for Yagna is there too.”
“I’ll drive you to her; it will make no difference to me.”
“How very kind you are to-day, Matthias!” she said with
a sly smile.
They turned oﬁC from the poplar road to the by-way that
led over the ﬁelds to the churchyard. There, outside the
low wall of grey stone which surrounded it, in the shadow
of some birches and maples, and of a few crosses, too, which
leaned over the wall, hard on twenty women were very bus-
ily scutching and beating the dry ﬂax: a mist of threads
hung over them in the air, and a few ﬁlaments had caught
on to the yellow birch-leaves, or hung suspended from the
dark-hued arms of the crosses. Further down, ﬁres had
been kindled in pits, over and across which poles were laid,
and upon them damp ﬂax was drying.
The swingles were hard at work, and all the womenfolk
bent and rose with quick short jerks up and down: now and
then one or another stood up, beat a wisp of ﬂax free from
remnants of woody matter, and, rolling it up, tossed it on to
a piece of linen spread out in front of her.
The sun, being at present over the forest, shone directly
in their faces, but they did not mind: work and laughter
and merry talk never ceased for an instant.
“God bless your work!” cried Boryna to Yagna, who was
'm AUTUMN
swingling the ﬂax with all her might. She had nothing on
but her white smock, a red petticoat, and an apron tied over
her head against the dust.
“Bless you for the wish!” she returned blithely, raising
her dark-blue eyes to his, while a smile lit up her handsome
sunburnt face. _
“Is it quite dry, dear?” her mother asked, ﬁngering the
scutched ﬂax.
“Dry as a peppercorn; quite brittle.” - ‘
And again she eyed the old man with a smile that made
him tingle all over. He smacked his whip and drove away,
looking back at her again and again, though she was not to
be seen any more; for his mind’s eye saw her still.
“A girl as graceful as a hind!” he muttered. “Aye,
even so!”
CHAPTER IV
with plenty of gossamers and sunshine in the air.
All Boryna’s livestock was feeding in the stubble
beyond the barn; and Kuba, watching heedfully over them
in the shadow of a tall and dome-like cornstack, was at the
same time teaching Vitek his prayers.
“Now attend to what I am telling you,” he said solemnly;
“these are holy words.”
“I’m attending. Kuba, I’m attending.”
“Then why are you looking at those orchards?”
“I see the Klembas have got some apples on their trees
still.”
“Oh! and you’d like to eat them? Did you plant them?—
Come, say the Creed again.”
“You did not hatch the partridges, either; yet you have
taken the whole brood.”
“Silly lad! the apples are Klemba’s, but partridges belong
to our Lord. Do you see?”
“But the ﬁeld where you took them belongs to the Squire.”
“And the ﬁeld, too, is the Lord’s. You’re too clever by
half—Now say the Creed.”
He did so, but in haste, for it hurt him to stay on his
knees so long.
“I think that ﬁlly is going into Michael’s clover!” he
exclaimed, preparing to run after her.
“Don’t trouble about her, but say your prayers.”
He went through them at last, but had to rest on his
heels, and turned and twisted in every direction. A band
of sparrows having settled on a tree close by, he shied a clod
of earth at them, and at once beat his breast in contrition.
SUNDAY had come round: a bright September Sunday,
62
63 AUTUMN
“Ah, what about the Offering at the end? Swallowed like
an overripe pear, I suppose?”
He said the Offering, and immediately started up to wake
Lapa and play with it.
“The calf-like witling! Always scampering about!”
Are you going to take the birds to his Reverence?”
“Yes, I am.”
“They would be nice, if roasted here. . . .
“You have potatoes to roast. What would you more?”
“See, they are going to church already!” cried Vitek,
glancing through the hedge and the orchard-trees at the
red aprons that went twinkling along the road.
It was pretty warm, and all the doors and windows of the
huts had been thrown wide open. Here and there, in front
of the huts, some were still washing their faces, or combing
or plaiting their hair, or beating their Sunday garments,
which had suffered from a week’s stay in the trunks; but
others had already started, in raiment of the hues of vermil-
ion poppies, or saffron-tinted dahlias, or nasturtium ﬂowers.
Women and girls, in bright array, farm-hands, little chil—
dren, grave husbandmen, in long white capotes that re-
minded you of huge sheaves of rye, were all slowly wending
their way to church along the roads that led to the pond,
which reﬂected the sunbeams like a golden trencher.
And joyfully the big bells boomed, and told of Sunday,
and rest, and prayer.
Kuba had meant to wait till they rang no longer, but his
patience gave way, so, putting the partridges under his
capote, he said:
“Vitek! as soon as they have done ringing, drive the
cattle to the byre, and then come to church.”
He then started off—as fast as he could, for he was very
lame—along the road, bordered with orchards, and so
strewn with yellow linden leaves, that he seemed to be
walking over a carpet of motley fallow hue.
The priest’s dwelling stood over against the church, at
the bottom of a large garden, in which there were trees still
laden with green pears or ruddy apples. All over the porch
,7
THE PEASA’NTS 64
there grew a wild vine, the leaves of which were now of a
rich crimson. Kuba stopped outside, embarrassed, and
looking timidly in at the window and the passage. He
durst not go in, and stayed by a large ﬂower-bed, gay with
roses, gilly-ﬂowers, and asters, whose fragrance was very
sweet. From the roof, green with moss, a ﬂock of white
doves ﬂew down to settle on the porch.
The priest was walking in his garden, saying his Ofﬁce ;
but time and again he would shake an apple or a pear-tree.
The fruit fell in a sounding shower, and he gathered them
up in the skirts of his soutane.
Kuba came up to him, and humbly embraced his knees.
“What is it you say?—Ah, Kuba, Boryna’s man.”
“Yes. I have brought your Reverence a few partridges.”
“Thanks for your gift. Come this way.”
Kuba accordingly entered the passage. but stopped at the
threshold of the room. He feared to go in, and would only
look through the open door at the various pictures that
hung against the walls. He crossed himself, and breathed
a devout sigh, so dazzled by the splendour he saw, that the
tears started to his eyes, and he felt like saying prayers.
Only he was afraid to kneel down upon the polished slippery
ﬂoor, lest he should soil it.
Presently the priest came out of the room, saying, as he
handed him a zloty:
“God reward you, Kuba; you are a good man\ and a
godly one, who never miss church on Sundays.”
Kuba again embraced the priest’s knees, so overwhelmed
with bliss that he never knew how 'he got out and on to
the road.
“What, so much money for so few birds! How I love
his Reverence!” he whispered, looking over the coins given
him. He had more than once brought him birds, or a
leveret, or mushrooms; but never had he received so muchi
at most, ten kopeks and a kind word. And now! O sweet
Lord! a whole glotyl—And he had called Kuba into his
room besides, and said such gentle words! Lord, Lord!
“None but the priest has regard for poor people, no one
65 AUTUMN
else!—-May God and the Blessed Virgin of Chenstohova
grant him health!—Yes, a good man you are, and a kind
one!—-All the village, farm-hands and owners, only give
me nicknames—call me Cripple, Good-for-Nothing, and
Hanger-on. No one else speaks to me with the least kind-
ness or compassion . . . no one cares for me, but the
horses and the dogs. And yet I am of an honest family:
no foundling, but a farmer’s son.”
He raised his head higher at the-thought, straightened
himself, and looked almost deﬁantly on those about him
going to the churchyard, and on the horses which stood
harnessed to the carts outside the enclosure. He donned
his cap, and covered his head of tangled hair, and slowly,
with digniﬁed mien, made for the church; thrusting his
hands into his girdle, as a farmer would have done, though
the dust ﬂew up as he dragged his lame leg after him.
No. This day he would not, as his wont was, stay in
the entrance. He pushed boldly through the crowd, even
close to the High Altar railings, where only the husband-
men used to stand, where his master was standing, and the
Voyt himself, and the men who carried the canopy over his
Reverence in the procession, and those who, taper in hand,
surrounded the altar at the Elevation!
They regarded him wi h amazement and indignation.
More than once he heard taunts and words of upbraiding,
and was scowled at, asfone scowls at a dog that goes where
it is not wanted. But/to-day he did not mind. The money
was tight in his cleyfched ﬁst; his mind, full of sweet and
gentle feelings. He; had a sensation as if he had but now
been shriven; nay, he felt even better.
Divine Service egan. He knelt down close to the Com-
munion Table, a (I sang along with the others, his eyes
pioust ﬁxed UPOIJT the altar, whereon was seen the image
of God the Fathgzr: a hoary magnate, stern-looking—just
like the Squire of Djasgova Vola. In the centre, Our Lady
of Chenstohova, in gilt raiment, looked down upon him.
On every side, gold shone bright, tapers gleamed, and
nosegays of red owers were ﬂaming. From the walls, from
THE PEASANTS 66
the stained-glass windows, austere saintly visages, sur-
rounded with aureoles, bent above him; streams of gold.
purple, and violet came down, ﬂooding his face and head
with rainbow tints, and he felt as when he plunged into
the pond at sundown, when its waters reflected the sky.
Dissolved into ecstasies with the joy of the beauty before
him, he was too much awed to move, and knelt motionless,
gazing at the sweet dark maternal face of the Virgin of
Chenstohova, and with parched lips said prayer after prayer,
and sang with such force and fervour, welling up from the
inmost depths of his enraptured heart, that his husky tune-
less voice was heard high above the others.
“Kuba! you are bleating like the jew’s goat!” someone
whispered at his elbow. ~
“For the Lord jesus and His Virgin Mother!” he replied.
The priest had now gone up to the pulpit. All present
lifted their heads to gaze on that white-surpliced ﬁgure,
which, bending forward over the people, read the Gospel of
that Sunday to them. This ended, the sermon began: long,
but so pOWerful that many wept tears, and many heads
were bowed down in remorse. Kuba’s looks were ﬁxed on
him, as on some holy image: he marvelled at the thought
that this was the very man who had just talked with him,
and given him a zloty. For now he was transﬁgured into
an archangel in a chariot of ﬁery light. His face turned
pale and his eyes ﬂashed, as he raised his voice to denounce
the sins of his people: greed and drunkenness, lust and
spite, disrespect for the aged, and ungodly behaviour.
And his voice resounded, calling upon ‘hem, and entreat-
ing and beseeching them to repent; unti Kuba, dismayed
at the thought of all these sins, and the pity and the sorrow
of them, wept aloud, and all the congreglation after him—-
not women only, but burly husbandmen Ias well—and the
whole place was ﬁlled with the sounds of sobb. Then, when the
priest, concluding with an Act of Contritioh, turned towards
the altar, and went down on his knees, a acry ran through
the building; all the people fell prostrate otn the pavement,
like a forest blown down by a whirlwind; and a cloud of
‘67 AUTUMN
dust rose over the multitude that lay thus, tearful and
lamenting, heart-broken and contrite, imploring the mercy
of God.
Then silence again prevailed—the silence of prayer and
-of heartfelt communing with God: for now High Mass had
begun. The organ poured forth low muﬁled sounds of awe
and adoration; and Kuba’s soul was full, even to bursting,
of love and ecstatic bliss.
Suddenly the accents of the priest were audible from the
altar, ﬂoating above the bowed heads of the multitude-—
strange thrilling sounds, and holy, holy words; and then
the bells thundered in a rapid volley, and the incense rose
in odoriferous pillars, wrapping the worshippers in a sweet-
smelling mist. Oh, then Kuba was seized with such bliss-
ful rapture that he could only sigh, and stretch his arms
wide, and beat his breast, swooning almost with the joy of
his own nothingness!
“O jesusl jesus whom I love!” he murmured, in dazed
annihilation. But he held the zloty tight in his clenched
ﬁst: for now the Elevation was over, and Ambrose was now
coming round with the plate, clinking the coins thereon to
tell of the collection for the church tapers. Kuba rose,
threw his Zloty on to the plate, and slowly took back from it
a few kopeks—just as he had seen the farmers doing many
a time. And with inﬁnite delight, he heard Ambrose say:
“May God reward you!”
Presently they brought the tapers round, for the Blessed
Sacrament was exposed, and there was to be a procession
round the church afterwards. Kuba put forth his hand,
having a great mind for a larger one: but his eye met the
cold reproving, glance of Dominikova, who was standing
near him, along with Yagna: so he chose a small taper.
This he lit immediately; for the priest was holding the
Monstrance in his hands, and turning towards the people.
lntoning the hymn, the Celebrant slowly descended the
altar-steps and into the lane at once formed for him—a lane
of singers, of ﬂickering lights, and gaudy colours, and
droning voices. The procession began to move, the organ
THE PEASANTS 68
thundered mightily, the bells joined in with clamorous up—
roar, and the congregation took up the chant with voices
raised in the grand unison of faith. In front of the crowd,
and of the twinkling sinuous lines of tapers moving on,
there gleamed a silver cruciﬁx; following this came the holy
images, dimly seen through a haze of cambric, and sur-
rounded with ﬂowers and lace and ornaments of tinsel. The
procession arrived at the great church door, through which
the sun irradiated the clouds of incense that it pierced; and
as the banners stooped to pass, the breezes made them ﬂoat
and ﬂutter and ﬂap, like the wings of some great green
and purple birds.
Round the church the procession went, Kuba sheltering
his taper well with one hand, as he doggedly limped on,
close to the priest, over whom Boryna, the blacksmith, the
Voyt, and Thomas Klemba bore a red canopy. Under this,
the golden-rayed Monstrance shot forth its beams, and was
so directly turned to the sun that you could see it shine
through the semi-transparency of the Sacred Host at the
centre.
He was so absorbed that he more than once stumbled
or trod upon someone’s foot.
“Clumsy one, take heed!”
“You lame scarecrow, you!”
But he did not hear these invectives. Grandly the chants
resounded, rising like billows of melody that dashed and
broke around that pale white sun within the Monstrance.
The throats of bronze overhead unceasingly rolled out their
sonorous notes into the air, till the maples and the linden~
trees shook their boughs, and now and then some reddish
leaf ﬂew down from their tops, like a frightened bird. And
high, very high above them, over the church steeple and the
drooping trees, a ﬂock of startled doves was wheeling.
Q
The service was over, and they all poured into the
cemetery round the church, Kuba amongst the rest.
Though he knew there would be a feast that day at the
69 AUTUMN
farm-house, he was in no hurry, but stayed to talk with his
acquaintances, and gradually drew near his masters, where
Antek and his wife were standing in conversation with
others, as is the custom after High Mass.
Another group, that had met in the road outside the lich-
gate, had for leader the blacksmith: a stalwart fellow,
dressed town-fashion from head to foot, in a black capote
(spotted with drops of wax on the back!), and a dark-blue
cap; he wore his trousers over his boots, and a silver chain
adorned his waistcoat. His face was ruddy, his hair curly,
his moustache red, his talk loud. And his laugh too: his
was the smartest wit in all the village, and when he made
a butt of anyone—well, that man’s lot was not happy.
Boryna watched him and listened. He could make out
that the blacksmith spared not even his own people. Was
he, then, likely to spare a father-in-law, with whom he was
at odds for his wife’s dowry? But Boryna could not hear
much: Dominikova, just leaving church with Yagna, now
passed in front of him. They did not get on fast, for they
stopped in the churchyard to greet or converse with many
people. He heard a few words about the priest, said by
Dominikova in low and pious tones; meanwhile Yagna
looked about her at the people. Having the advantage of
a stature as tall as the tallest there, she was also looked at
by many a farm-hand, who smoked cigarettes and grinned
at her from outside the lichgate. She was indeed a ﬁne
woman, and well dressed, and with such a bearing that
many a country gentleman’s daughter could scarce vie
with her.
The girls and married women who passed by all gazed
on her, either in envy or simply with the desire of feasting
their eyes on her striped skirt of rich stuff and ever-changing
rainbow tints; her black highlows, laced up with red shoe-
strings to where the dainty white stockings appeared; her
corset of cherry-coloured velvet, gold-embroidered, ﬂaming,
dazzling; and the strings of amber and coral beads she wore
round her full white throat, whence a bunch of particoloured
ribbons streamed down her back.
THE PEASANTS 70
But Yagna took no note of envious looks. Her deep-blue
eyes strayed to and fro, till they met Antek’s, ﬁxed upon
her; then she ﬂushed crimson, and plucked at her mother’s
sleeve to go home.
“Wait a little, Yagna!” the latter called after her, greeting
Boryna.
She could hardly get away, for the farm-nands were
now crowding about her, with salutations and jests—the
latter addressed to Kuba, and not without a sharp tang.
For Kuba was following her, and staring as at some fa’r
picture. With a gesture of contempt, he turned to limp
home; his masters were going that way, and he had tc see
to the horses.
“Yes, she’s a picture!” he blurted out, when he hao
seated himself in the porch.
Yuzka was just then bringing the dinner in. “Who’s a
picture?” she asked.
He cast his eyes down, abashed and afraid lest he should
have betrayed himself. But the dinner was long and
abundant; so he soon forgot all about that.
They all ate leisurely, with grave miens and in silence,
until the edge of their appetite was blunted, and they could
now talk and enjoy their meal with more dainty zest.
Yuzka was that day on duty as housewife, and saw to it
that the platters should be always properly supplied, ever
and anon bringing more food, lest the bottom of any dish
perchance be seen.
The porch where they were dining was obviously the
best place in such pleasant weather. Lapa ran to and fro,
whining for food, and even rising up to look into the dishes,
till someone threw him a bone. He carried it off, and
barked for joy when his masters called him by name, and
jumped at the sparrows, perched upon the hedge in expecta-
tion of crumbs to eat.
Passers-by merrily wished them joy: to which good wishes
they all would answer with thanks in chorus.
“I hear you have been taking some birds to his Rever-
ence,” Boryna said.
7l AUTUMN
“Yes, I have.” And, setting down his spoon, Kuba told
how the priest had invited him into the room, and what a
number of big books he had seen there.
“When has he time to read them all?” Yuzka wondered.
“When? Why, of an evening. He walks about the
room, and drinks tea, and is continually reading.”
“Books of piety they must all be,” Kuba added.
“What else should they be? Not spelling-books, surely!”
“He reads the paper the village factor brings him daily,”
Hanka added. ~And her husband remarked:
“Yes, for by the papers we know what’s done all the
world over.”
“The smith takes a paper in, and the miller too.”
“A paper ﬁt for the smith, no doubt,” remarked Boryna,
with a sneer.
“As it happens, the same paper that his Reverence takes
in,” was Antek’s hot retort.
“You know, then? Have you read it?”
“Yes, I have . . . more than once.”
“You’ll get none the wiser for his counsels.”
“And whom do you hold wise? One with seventeen
acres, or eight head of cattle, perhaps?”
“Hold your tongue before l lose my temper! Always
picking quarrels with mel—You’re too full of bread—my
bread!”
“Aye, so full that like a ﬁshbone it sticks in my throat!”
“Then seek better bread. Hanka’s three acres will give
you rolls!”
“Potatoes only; but these none will grudge me.”
“I grudge you nothing.”
“No? I work like an ox, nor ever get a kind word.”
“Elsewhere life is easier, and food given free!"
“Elsewhere it is better, surely.”
“Then (o and try it!”
“What, empty-handed? Not I!”
“I’ll give you a staff, to keep the dogs away.”
“Father!” Antek shouted, starting to his feet, but falling
back at once for Hanka caught him round the waist. The
THE PEASANTS 72
old man glared at him ﬁercely: then, crossing himself as if
dinner were over, he went out and into his room, saying in
a hard voice:
“D’ye think I’ll let myself be pensioned off by you?
Never!” _
All rose at once and left the porch, except Antek, who
stayed alone there, pondering. Kuba took the horses to
the clover beyond the barn, and lay down to sleep beside
a cornstack. But he could not; the full meal lay heavy
on his chest. Moreover, it now occurred “to him that if
he had a gun he could kill birds enough—and, it might
be, a Ieveret or two into the bargain—to offer every Sunday
to his Reverence.
The smith could forge him a gun. He had made one
for the keeper; and this, when let off in the woods, was
plainly heard in the village!
“A ﬁrst-rate workmanl—But then he wants ﬁve roubles
to make one!” He fell into a brown study.
“Where am I to get them from? Winter is at hand: I
must buy me a sheepskin coat. My boots, too, will not last
beyond Yuletide—Well, there are due me ten roubles, and
two bits of clothing—trousers and a shirt. A sheepskin
coat, short though it may be, will come to ﬁve roubles.
Boots, three more. I must get a cap; and a rouble will have
to go besides, for his Reverence to say a mass for my de-
parted. So then nothing at all will be left!”—He was dis—
appointed, fumbled in his pockets for a little tobacco that
might be left, and so came upon the ready money he had
previously forgotten.
“Ah! here I have some cash!”——He no longer cared to
sleep. From the tavern there came a far-off sound of
music, an echo of shouts, softened by the distance.
“There they are—dancing, and drinking vodka, and
smoking too!” he sighed; and, lying down again on his
stomach, he glanced over at the hobbled horses, that had
gathered together and were nibbling at each other’s necks.
Then he decided that in the evening he too would go to the
73 AUTUMN
tavern, purchase some tobacco, and just have a look at
the dancers.
From time to time, he would glance at his money, then
at the sun, which was that day going down with exceeding
sluggishness, as if it also needed its Sunday rest. His long-
ing for the tavern was now so great that he could hardly
bear it; but he refrained from going just then, and only
turned over on his side, and groaned within himself. Antek
and Hanka had come out from behind the barn, and were
walking along the dividing pathway between the ﬁelds.
Antek went foremost; Hanka, leading her little boy by the
hand, came after. At times, as they walked on slowly, they
spoke a few words. Then Antek would bend down, and
stroke the blades that were sprouting forth.
“It is growing up.-—As thick as the bristles of a brush,”
he muttered, casting his eyes over those acres, sown by him-
self and for himself: the wages of work done for his father.
“Thick, yes: but Father’s corn is better still. It grows
up like a forest,” Hanka said, casting a look on the neigh.-
bouring cornﬁelds.
“The land might be better manured, had we but three
cows.”
“And a horse of our own. .
“Aye, then we might raise some fowls or things for
market. As it is, what can we do? Father counts every
husk of chaff, and thinks a lot of a potato-peeling.”
“And taunts us with every morsel he gives!”
They could speak no more. Their hearts were too full
of gall and bitterness, and the angry gnawing pain of
revolt. “ _
After a time: “Eight acres or thereabouts would be our
share, if . . he observed, absently.
“No more. There's Yuzka, and the smith’s wife, and
Gregory and ourselves,” she counted.
“If we paid money down to the smith, and kept the hut.
and sixteen acres with it?”
“But have you the money to pay?” she cried, over-
,)
THE PEASANTS 74
whelmed with a sense of helplessness; and the tears started
to her eyes, as she gazed at her father-in-law’s ﬁelds—that
land, precious as pure gold, whereon, aye, on every inch of
it, wheat and rye and barley and beets might be grown.
“Don’t cry, you silly thing; at any rate, we shall have
eight acres of our own one day.”
“Oh, if we had but half as many, with the hut and the
cabbagepatch!” She pointed to the long stretch of ground,
bluish-green with heads of cabbages; and they both bent
their steps that way. At its edge they sat down under a
bush; Hanka suckled the child, which had begun to cry for
food, while Antek rolled a cigarette, lit it, puffed, and
scowled.
He said not a word to his wife of the pain that was de-
vouring him, and burned within his heart like coals of ﬁre.
For neither could he have told her, nor she have understood
him: as is usual with women, who have no sort of initiative,
who neither reﬂect nor catch the sense of things, but who
live—so to say—only as the shadows which men throw.
“But,” Hanka went on to say, “Father has ready money
by him, has he not?”
“That he has!”
“Why, he brought Yuzka a coral necklace worth as much
as a cow; and he is always sending money to Gregory
through the Voyt.”
Antek assented, but his mind was wandering elsewhere.
“It is wronging us all !-—-And the clothes your mother
left! he has them locked up, nor so much as lets them see
the light: skirts and kerchiefs, caps and beads. . . .” She
went on thus a long time, telling of all these things, and of
wrongs done, and grievances, and hopes: but Antek re-
mained obstinater silent. At last, out of patience, she
shook him by the shoulder:
“Are you awake?”
“Aye, and listening. Talk away, it will do you good.
And when you have done, say so.”
Hanka, who was naturally inclined to weep, and had
many a cause for sadness besides, here burst into tears;
'75 AUTUMN
he spoke to her, she cried, as to a girl he scorned: he cared
neither for her nor for her child.
At this, Antek rose to his feet, and replied con-
temptuously:
“Lift up your voice: these”—with a toss of his head
towards some crows ﬂying past them—“these will hear and
take pity on you!” and, settling his cap on his head, he
made for the village with great strides.
“Antek! Antek!” she called after him, in sorrow; but he
did not even turn his head.
With a very heavy heart, she wrapped up the baby, and
made for home—So he would not let her talk to him about
things, or complain of anything. Oh, he was very friendly,
Antek, he was indeed! It was always, Work, work, work;
and, See to this, and to that, and to the other thing; and,
Stay at home! Nothing else! No consideration, no com-
passion, no fellowship at all!—Other women enjoyed them-
selves in the tavern, or went to a wedding—But Antek!
She knew not what to make of him. Sometimes he was so
gentle, that gentler could not be; but again, and for weeks
together, he would scarce utter a word to her, or give her a
glance: it was think, think, thin'k—all the time. True, he
had cause enough. . . . Why should not his father make
over the land to him now? . . . It was high time for the
old man to retire and let them keep him. . . . If he did,
she would take as much care of him as she would of her
own father. . . .
She would willingly have talked to Kuba; but he leaned
back against the cornstack, pretending to sleep, though the
sun was shining straight into his eyes. And no sooner had
she disappeared round the corner of the barn than he got
up, brushed the straw from his clothes, and slowly took his
way by the orchards to the tavern.
The tavern stood at the farther end of the village, be-
yond the priest’s house, at the beginning of the poplar road.
There were,not many people there yet. The music was
heard at intervals, but no one had begun to dance. The
lads and lasses preferred to romp in the orchard, or to stand
THE PEASANTS 76
about the house, or close to the walls, where plenty of
women and girls were sitting on piles of deal logs, still fresh
and yellow from the forest. The biggest room, with its
dingy smoke-tinged rafters, was all but empty; the tiny
window-panes, grey with dust, let so little pass of the red
glow of the approaching sundown, that scarcely any got
through to fall on the worn uneven ﬂoor; and in the nooks
and corners the dusk was very deep.
Only Ambrose was there, with a member of the village
Confraternity; they stood, bottle in hand, chatting together
close to the window, and frequently drinking to each other’s
health.
Yagustynka was at the tavern, too, making herself un-
pleasant to everyone, and uncompromisingly angry with the
whole world, because her children had treated her ill, and
she had in her old age to seek work away from them. No
one, however, answered her invectives; so she made for
the small dark chamber, where the smith was sitting to-
gether with Antek and several other younger men.
A lamp swung from the murky beams, shedding a dim
yellowish light on heads shaggy with luxuriant blond hair.
The men sat in a circle, with their elbows on the table. All
eyes were ﬁxed on the blacksmith, who, ﬂushed and bending
forward, now stretched out his arms, now banged the table
with his ﬁsts; but he spoke, nevertheless, in subdued tones.
Outside, the bass-viols were grumbling, like the humming
ﬂight of a bumble-bee that has got into a room. The violin
would suddenly shed forth strong loud notes, as of a bird
calling its mate; or the cymbal set up a drumming quaver-
ing din: and then all would again be quiet.
Kuba had made straight for the bar, behind which
Yankel, the jewish tavern-keeper, was sitting, in his skull-
cap and shirt-sleeves (for the weather was warm), strok—
ing his grey beard, swaying to and fro, and reading out of a
book he held close to his eyes.
Kuba, taking thought, came forward step by step, counted
his money over, scratched his head, and then stood still,
77 AUTUI\%N
till Yankel noticed him, and without interruption in his
prayers and swaying motions, jingled the glasses once or
twice.
“One-eighth of a litre—but no water in it!” was his order
at last.
Yankel silently held his ileft hand out for the money, and
throwing the verdigris-eaten coins into a tray, inquired:
“In a glass?”
“Not in a boot, I suppose!” Kuba returned. Withdraw-
ing to the very end of the bar, he drank off the ﬁrst glass,
spat on the ground, and looked round the room; the second
dispatched, he held the ﬂask up to the light, saw it empty,
and pounded on the bar with it.
“Another!—And a packet of tobacco!” he ordered; more
boldly now, for the vodka was ﬁlling him with pleasant
warmth, and a peculiar sense of conﬁdence.
“Got your wages to-day, Kuba?”
“Not likely. Is it New Year’s Day?”
“Have a little rum?”
“No. I don’t care.” He counted his money, and sorrow-
fully glanced at the rum-bottle.
“But I’ll trust you; don’t I know Kuba?”
“I dare not.——‘Who purchases on trust will soon not have
a crust,’ " he answered, dryly.
Nevertheless, Yankel left the rum-bottle close at his elbow.
He wanted not to take it, and meant to go out; but the
rum had such a scent that he at last gave way, and took a
long draught on the impulse of the moment. '
“This money, did you earn it in the forest?” Yankel
inquired, with patient importunity.
“Caught birds in a net; gave six to his Reverence. He
gave me a zloty.”
“A zloty for six, did he? Why, I would have given you
ﬁve kopeks for each of them. .
“But—but ” cried Kuba, astounded, “are partridges
kosher?”
“Never mind about that; only bring me lots of them, and

T§IE PEASANTS 78
for every one you bring, you will get ﬁve kopeks of ready
money. And the rum you have drunk will be thrown into
the bargain. Is it well?”
“What, Yankel! Five kopeks for each?”
“My word is no idle wind. For those six partridges,
Kuba, you would have got, not two-eighths of a litre of
vodka, but four! together with rum, and a herring, and a
roll, and a packet of tobacco. Do you understand?”
“I do. Half a litre. and a herring. and . . . I am not a
fool, I can make it all out—Quite true.--Half a litre, and
rum, and tobacco. and rolls, and one entire herring. . . He was by this time somewhat fuddled by the fumes of the
vodka. .
“Will you bring the birds to me. Kuba?”
“Half a litre. and a herring, and . . . Yes, I will—You
see, had I but a gun,” he continued, his brain now a little
clearer; but then he fell to counting again. “A sheepskin,
now, .will come to ﬁve roubles . . . and boots, too, I
need . . . three roubles. No, I can’t manage it: the smith
wants ﬁve for a gun—as much from me as from Rafa].—
No!” He was thinking out loud.
Yankel make a swift calculation with a bit of chalk, and
then whispered low in his ear:
“Could you shoot a doe?”
“With my ﬁsts——how? With a gun I could.”
“Can you shoot then—properly?”
“You’re a jew, Yankel, so you don’t know this: but every—
body here knows I went along with the masters in the last
insurrection; that’s how I got shot in the leg. Oh, yes, yes,
I can shoot!”
“I’ll get you a gun and powder, and whatever you may
want. Only, what you shoot you are to bring to me,
Kuba! For a doe, you shall have a whole rouble. You
hear me? a whole rouble! For the powder, you will pay
ﬁfteen kopeks, that I shall deduct for every doe shot.
Then, for the wear and tear of the gun, I shall want half
a bushel of oats.”
“A rouble for a doe? and ﬁfteen kopeks for the powv
79 AUTUMN
' \
der? . . . A whole rouble? How do you make that out?”
Yankel again went over every particular. Kuba only
understood one point. ‘
fflake' oats out of the horses’ mouths?” he said. “That
afl'm not going to do.” ‘ ' '
j! _“Why.;5hould you? Boryna has oats . . . not only in
lthe matngers.” . ,
“Burl—but that would be like . . .” He stared at
l Yankel, and tried to make things out.
“They all do that! Did you never wonder where the
, farm-hands"th all their money from? How else are they
to have their tobacco, and their nip of vodka, and their
"dance- of Sundays?” '
“How? what? you scurvy fellow! Am I a thief, say?"
he suddenly thundered out, striking on the table with his
ﬁst, sothat the glasses rang. '
“Ah! Kuba, you’ll ﬂy out at me, will you? Then pay
your score and go to the devil!”
But he neither paid nor left. He was penniless, and in
debt to the jews besides. So he only drooped heavily over
the bar, in an attempt to make out the reckoning. And
Yankel,‘growing kind, poured him out some more rum—-
pure this time—and said not a word.
More and more people had by now thronged into the
tavern. for the twilight had deepened, and the lamps were
lit. The music sounded to a quicker measure; the noise
waxed loud; the folk formed groups around the bar, or
along the walls, or in the centre of the room. They talked,
gossiped, grumbled; and some drank one to another. But
as a rule this was at rare intervals. For how could they
do otherwise? They had not come to carouse, but only-—
well, so: to meet in a neighbourly way, and confabulate,
and learn what there was to be learned. It was Sunday,
and there was surely no sin in indulging one’s curiosity a
little, and drinking a few glasses here and there with one’s
acquaintances: provided always it was done seemingly,
without offending God. His Reverence himself did not
forbid that. Why, even beasts of burden, for example,
THE P'EASANTS '80.
were glad and! required to rest after labour! So the elderly
husbandmen sat at the table, and certain of the women,
too, in red petticoats and red kerchiefs, each looking like
a hollyhock in bloom. And as all talked at once, the mi);-
mur of voices ﬁlled the whole place, like the ri’Y {g of la
great wood ;' and the trampling of feet was as'. 7
of ﬂails beating the wheat upon the threshing-1'
the ﬁddle sang out with a merry tune:
“Who will—who will after me?” they cried, a?!
viols growled the reply: '
“All must follow—follow thee!” Meanwhile
ﬂuttering about with a sound as of laughter, ma,
noise with its jingling little bells. I ‘ ' ~
' There were not many dancers; but these stamped with
such lusty goodwill that the ﬂoor creaked, the table rocked,
the bottles clinked one against the other now and then,
or even a glass would be knocked over. _.
But it was no grand affair after all: the day was one of
no special solemnity, such as a wedding or a betrothaliin
church. They merely danced to have a little fun and make
their backs and their legs straighter from the week’s work.
Only, there were the lads who were to be taken into the
army towards the end of autumn: those drank deep for very
grief. And no wonder, having so soon to go amongst
strangers, and into a foreign land.
Of these, the Voyt’s young brother was the noisiest; and
after him, Martin Byalek, Thomas Sikora, Paul Boryna
(a ﬁrst cousin of Antek who had also come at twilight to
the tavern: only that day he did not dance, but sat in the
smaller room with the smith and his companions), and
lastly Franek from the mill, a short, thick-set, curly-headed
young man: the greatest talker of them all, a rakish
youngster much given to joking, and so excessively fond
of girls that his face was seldom without a bruise or~a
scratch. This evening he was quite tipsy to start with, and
stood near the bar now, along with fat Magda (from the
organist’s house), who was six months gone with child. y’


fairest had' given him public reproof from the pulpit,
and'urgedhim toymarry her. But Franek would notobey,
became hehad to go to the army in autumn, and what
should;;he.'.glo with a wife there? -
l drew him into a corner, and was saying
somrxeqt‘lftj.t a tearful voice; but he answered as ever:-
“Yoiifr‘l'ishr’ fool. Did I entice you, say? I’ll pay for the
christeirllggrsf; and give you a' rouble or so—~as much as I
choog"l'_ uiive.” He was stupeﬁed with drink, and pushed
her‘al'l’ an“; roughly that she sank down on the ground near
Kubajfy a fifwas sleeping close to the stove, his. head in the
ashes."-7§andsh Kranek went off to drink again with Ambrose
and Ithle, ghffners, Who were all willing to pay for him, to get
their corn-[ground sooner. '
“Have ai'drink, Franek, and pray get my stuff ground
quick: wife is worrying me says she hasn’t enough
ﬂour to, make any more dumplings.”
“Ah! and mine is continually grumbling, because we
have no groats.”
“And mine must have oatmeal for the pig we~are
fattening.” '
Franek drank, promised everything, and bragged very
loud. about what he could do. It was by his orders, he said,
that everything was done at the mill. The miller had to
do his will . . . and if not! well. he, Franek, knew of
means to cause vermin to breed in the ﬂour-bins to make
the stream run dry—to kill the ﬁshes till the'pond shOuld
stink—and rot the ﬂour, so that it would be good for
nothing in the world. . . . l
‘ “And I, if you did that to me, would pluck the wool off
your curly raim’s head!” cried as voice: it was Yagustynka’s.
She was always present where she found most company,
being there most likely to ﬁnd also some gossip or kinsman
to offer her a drop of vodka, fearing her acrimonious tongue.
Franek too, drunk as he was, felt apprehensive, and
answered her not a word. She knew, indeed, too much
about him and his management of-the mill. Triumphant,


THE PEASANTS 82*
and also rather ﬂustered with drink, she set her arms
akimbo, and danced and stamped and shouted in time with
the music. ‘
“What I say is true,” the smith in the adjoining room re-
marked; “for there it stands, in print in the papers-letters
as big as an ox. There is no nation on earth that lives
as we do. Not one!--Why, every big landowner domineers
over us; so does every priest; so does every oﬁicial. And
all we have to do is work, and starve, and bow low to all
men, lest they strike us in the face!—-We have so little
land of our own, that—for many of us—there presently
will not be the least little patch left. . . . Meanwhile, the
Squire has more land to himself than two villages put to-
gether!—Yesterday they were saying in court that there is
to be a redistribution of land.”
“Whose land?”
“The gentlemen’s, of course.”
Yagustynka, who had come in, leaned over the table and
laughed.
“Did you give it them, that you take it away! You are
marvellous free with other people’s property!”
“Folk have self-government there,” the smith continued,
without heeding the old woman’s interruption. “There,
everybody goes to school; they all live in gentlemen’s
houses, and are gentlemen.”
“Where may that be?” Yagustynka asked of Antek, who
sat at the farther end of the table.
“In warm countries.”
“Then,” she screamed out angrily, “why does the smith
not go there himself? The dirty dog! he is throwing dust
in your eyes, lying to you . . . and you blockheads be-
lieve him!”
“Yagustynka, pray be so good as to go peacefully whence
you came.”
“No, I will not! The tavern is for us all; and 1, poor as
I am, have as much right here as you. You play the
teacher here! you, who serve the jews, who cringe to the
officials, who pull off your cap to the Squire from a mile
83 AUTUMN
away! You loud—mouthed ranter, you! Oh, I know
of . . .” She said no more. The smith had taken her
under the ribs, pushed the door open with his foot, and
pitched her into the big room, where she lay sprawling on
the ﬂoor.
Without a word of reviling, she picked herself up, and
called out cheerily:
“As strong as a horse, you are! I’d fain have such a
husband!”
The folk burst into a guffaw, and she went out to curse
in silence and alone.
By this time the tavern had begun to empty; the music
had ceased, and the people were going home. The night
was warm and the moon shone bright: no one stayed but
the recruits, who shouted and drank their ﬁll, and Ambrose,
who, being exceeding mellow, had rushed into the middle of
the road, singing and reeling, from one side to the other.
The knot of men who had the blacksmith for leader had
also left the place.
The recruits too, a little later, when Yankel was putting
out the lights, staggered forth, all arm in arm, and went
down the road, bawling songs and howling and bellowing
so that the dogs bayed at them.
Kuba alone remained, so fast asleep in the ashes, that
Yankel had to awaken him. He would not rise, though,
but kicked out, and aimed blows in the air.
“Off, Jew!” he stammered. “I will sleep as I choose. A
tiller of the land am I; and you—you are a scurvy rascal
and a villain!”
A pail of water sobered him so much that he rose, and
with astonishment and dismay, learned that, having drunk
a whole rouble’s worth, he was in Yankel’s debt for that
amount.
“What! a quarter of a litre, rum, one herring, tobacco, and
another quarter besides: can they make up a rouble?
How’s that?” His brain was swimming.
Yankel, however, at last convinced him, and they came
to an understanding about the gun which the Jew was to
THE PEASANTS 84
supply; although Kuba was ﬁrm in refusing to give him
the oats demanded. ~
“My father was not a thief; neither am I.”
“Now go away, Kuba; it is time, and I have still some
prayers to say.”
“Hear the old hypocrite! Asking a man to steal, and
saying his prayers on the top of that!” he muttered, as he
walked homewards, trying to remember things and sift
them clear: for somehow he could not believe he had drunk
a whole rouble’s worth. But he was not yet sober, and the
cold night air made him dizzy; so he reeled and staggered
along, now falling against the hedges, now against the logs
of timber piled up outside the huts. He swore.
“May the devil wring your necks for cumbering the road
so, rascals! You must have been tipsy when you did it.
Yes, drunken wretches! and his Reverence’s warnings have
been all for naught. . . . His Reverence . . .” Here re-
ﬂection came to him; he realized the condition he was in,
and felt overwhelmed with contrition. He stopped short,
looking about him for some hard thing that might be handy.
Then he forgot about that, and clutched at his shaggy mane,
and beat his face with his ﬁsts.
“You drunken wretch, you plague-stricken swine! I will
drag you before his Reverence, and he will rebuke you in
presence of the whole congregation, and say you are a dog,
and a miserable drunkard; you have drunk half a litre of
vodka—a whole rouble’s worth—and are a beast, worse than
a beast!”--A sudden wave of self-compassion then came
over him; he sat down in the road and burst into tears.
The moon, large and splendid, was ﬂoating through the
dark space; like silver nails in the ﬁrmament, a few stars
shone, sparsely scattered about; a thin grey tissue of mist
hung over the pond like a veil, and waved its folds above
the village. The world had entered into that unfathomable
quiet of the autumn night, save that the few who were go-
ing home sang as they went, and dogs were heard to bark
now and then.
85 AU-TUMN
Also, upon the road in front of the tavern, Ambrose, still
reeling from one side to the other, quavered forth his song:
“Tell, Marysia mine,
Tell, 0 best and truest,
Tell whose ale thou brewest,
Tell, Marysia mine!”
which he repeated with interminable reiteration, until such
time as the effects of his potations should cease.
CHAPTER V
The pale days passed, dragging themselves over
the empty soundless ﬁelds, and died away beyond the
forest, always stiller, always paler, like the Sacred Host in
the glimmer of a taper that is going out.
And every dawn the morning came more and more slug—
gishly, benumbed, as it were, by the cold of the hoarfrosts,
and the sorrowful stillness and the life ebbing out of the
land. The sun, dim, shorn of. its beams, came blossoming
forth from the depths; and crows and daws that had started
up from somewhere in the East ﬂew circling round its disk:
they skimmed over the ﬁelds in long low ﬂight, and croaked
with dull mournful voices. Following them, the wind swept
along, bitter and bleak, rufﬁing the stirred waters, burning
up all that was left of greenery, and tearing away the last
dead leaves from the poplars on the roads: these fell slowly,
like trickling tears—tears of blood, shed by the summer as
it lay dying.
And every dawn, the villages woke up somewhat later, the
cattle went to graze with more slothful steps, the barn-doors
swung open with less stridulous creaking; men’s voices
seemed mufﬂed as they sounded in the deathly void of the
ﬁelds, and their very life beat now with fainter pulsations.
From time to time, they appeared outside their cabins or
out in the country, and, suddenly stopping, peered for a
long time into the livid murky distance. Or mighty horned
heads would be sometimes raised from the grass of the yel-
low pastures; and as they slowly chewed the cud, their
eyes would likewise go staring far, far away, while at inter-
vals a hollow lowing would resound through the desolate
waste.
@ UTUMN was growing ever more and more autumnal.
86
37 AUTUMN
And every awn, it grew colder, darker; the smoke ﬂoated
lower above he bare orchard trees, and more birds came
swarming int, the village to take shelter near the granaries.
Crows percr d on the ridges of the roofs or on‘the bare
boughs, or iﬂitted along close to the ground, croaking
hoarsely~singing, as it were, the dismal song of approach-
ing winter. '
Noontide was sunny as a rule: but so silent! The mur-
muring of ihe woods was heard afar as a faint whisper, and
the ripplin of the river sounded like sobs of pain. The
stillness ofjthat noontide had something of death in it; and
on the unflrequented ways and in the leaﬂess orchards there
lurked a profound sadness, mingled with a sense of shrink-
ing fromlwhat was to come.
The plbUghing was nearly over, and some ﬁnished their
work, ending the last furrow when it was already dark, and
looking {back at the ﬁelds as they went home, wishing and
longing for next spring to arrive soon.
Ofte , before evening set in, chilly rains would fall; and
these, as time went on, continued even till twilight—that
long utumn twilight when the cabin windows would shine
ﬂami g like golden blossoms, and the pools in the deserted
roads] gl'istened as glass—~and even till the cold wet wind
of tljle night ﬂung its drops against the panes and moaned
amo/ng the orchard trees.
ne‘ broken-winged! stork that had remained perforce,
was often seen stalking about the meadows, now began
raw near to Boryna’s cornstacks, and Vitek took de-
t in attracting it by giving it food.
gz'ads,1 too, now passed through the village more and
, m re frequently; not only those of the usual kind, who went
fr, m house to house with their cavernous wallets and their
1 .ngthy prayers, and at whose approach the house-dogs al-
,..-,ays fell a-baying; but’z'also certain others of a very differ-
ent sort. These had travelled much and far, to“ many holy


and
, to _‘
lig‘


I’Dziad signiﬁes in Polish 21 grandfather, an old man, or an an-
_:estor, but is now mostly used to mean a beggar of a special type.
' ~Tra-1zslator's Note.
THE'PEASANTS 88”
places; they knew Chens'tohova, and Ostrobraima, and Kal-
varya well, and in the long evenings they wduld willingly.
entertain the village folk by tales of what was. going on in
the world, and the strange things done in if reign parts. -
And there were even some'who told of the ‘Holy Land, .
and related such marvels about the vast sears they had.
crossed, and the adventures which had befajlen them, that
the people listened in pious amazement, and mo-e than one
could scarcely believe that such things could be.-
Ah, it was autumn, late autumn now! ,
Neither rollicking songs, nor-merry shouts, nor even the
chirruping of little birds, could be heard in the Village any
more: only the blast howling over the thatched lroofs, the
icy rain pouring glass-like ﬁlms down the rattliiiig panes;
and the quick dull thudding ofthe ﬂails on the threshing-g
ﬂoors, which grew daily louder and louder. ‘\ i -
.-It was indeed Autumn, the mother of Winter. .
One comfort there was. Hitherto the weather lgad not“
been really bad, and the roads had not yet soften 2d into.
bogs; so possibly it might hold until the fair, to wh'ch, as“ -
to a village féte, all Lipka was presently going. _ _
It was to take place on St. Cordula’s day and, it {being
the last fair previous to Yuletide, everybody had ijnade
preparations. -
Many days before, the great question, What ought to be
sold? had been debated: whether cattle, or corn, or 5 me
livestock of the smaller kind. It would also be needful,
since winter was coming on, to make purchases; and t (use I
to no small amount. Thence arose not a few bickerings ind ‘
tiffs and jars in the families: all knew that no one had m
money to spare, and. cash was harder to get every day. Besides, it was just then that the taxes had to be pal ,
and the communal rates too, and various sums to be laid
out, borrowed money to be returned“ in many cases, and n t
infrequently, the servants’ wages were due. So that more
than one owner (even of seventeen acres!) was sometimes
in straits to know What he had better do.
And so, s0me took a cow out of the byre, cleansed he'


~$’ ‘ ‘ AUTUMN
° dung-plastered sides with straw, gave her plenty of clover
for the night, or a mess of barley boiled with potatoes, and-
did all they could toﬁatten her up a little; while others ex-
perimented with some blind old jade, cOmpletely worthless,
. endeavouring to rnake it look at least something like a
- h0rse. And others irfi order to have their corn ready in time,
,7 ‘werg'e busily thrjlshing it all day long.
Boryna’s, too, all were working amain. Aided by
Kufba, the old: man threshed out all his wheat, while Yuzka
and Hanka e~ ployed every leisure moment in fattening the
sow, or such of the geese as they had selected for sale. And,
- as rain was i expected at any momeqt, Antek went time and
again to the wood with Vitek, to get dry boughs and brush-
wOod for vvffuel and litter: of this, some went to the cow-house,
and the reist to make a warm outer coating for the hut.
This fi-"rCed spell. of work was kept up till late the last
evening! efore the fair; and it was not until the wheat, all
in sacksv pon the cart, had beenwheeled into the barn, and
everytllii' g was quite ready for the morrow, that they all
sat do‘w together to supper in Boryna’s cabin. _
Thlj: re Was leaping merrily up the chimney, and by
its l'gh‘ they ate with leiSurely decorum and in silence;
but wile!) the meal was over, and the womenfolk had cleared
awaij pots and pans, Boryna drew a little closer to the ﬁre
~ and said: I ’
“ "shall have to start ere day breaks.”
“Oertainly, not a whit later,” Antek replied, and set to
grea Iing the harness, while Kuba was engaged in whittling a
swfp le for his ﬂail; and Vitek, occupied in peeling potatoes
for" ext morning’s meal, nevertheless found means to play
with Iiapa, who lay close by and searched for ﬂeas. ‘
,N thing was heard for some time but the crackling of
t :er‘l gs, theshrill cry of crickets beside the hearth, the
ing of water outside the room, and the clinking of 4
nd dishes.
ba, do you intend to remain in my service next year?”
e let his knife drop, and gazed so long and steadily into


TIIE PEASANTS 90
the ﬁre that Boryna asked him whether he had heard the

question. . \x , .
“Heard it? I have: but I was. thinking—Truly, you have
not treated me ill in any wise. . . . Only Here he
broke off in some confusion. - _ .
“Yuzka! Bring vodka and a bit of something—Are we
like‘jeW‘s, to be dry when we do business?”\ 7, Thus he gave his order, and drew a ben “h closer to..;t_he
ﬁre. 'Yuzka presently brought in a bottle and a loaf and
a string of sausages, and set them on the ben1h. ' j
“Drink, Kuba, drink, and say your say.” I I “Thanks, master—Well, I’d like to st§a but . '
but . . .” I . -
“Some increase of wages, perhaps?” . - g
“It were good. For see, my sheepskin coat-is all in rags.
So are my boots; and I need a.capote besides! If I‘go‘
to church as I am, I must stay in the porch. H’qw can I
stand before the altar in such a dress?” v . v ‘
“Yes,” Boryna sternly put in, “the other Sunday you did
not care: you pushed and thrust yourself to w ere the


foremost were standing!” X‘ ._
“It is true. . . . Yes, but . . .” he. stammered, gT‘eatly
abashed and ﬂushing crimson. '.
.“And his Reverence himself teaches us that th elders
ought to be respected—Now, Kuba, drink to a good! unlgler-
standing between us, andhearken to what I say. Yoju k‘iow
very well that a farm-hand is not a farmer. Everyone, has
his place, given to him by our Lord. To you also EhSath
the Lord jesus given yours. Keep it therefore, do not pish'
forward, nor set yourself above other folk, for this were? a
grievous sin. His Reverence will tell you the very; arriie
thing. It must be'so, else there would be no order in the
Worlds—Do youfollow me?” - “I am not a brute beast, and know what words meant” ’
“Well, then, see to it that you do not set. yourself la axle
’- anyone.”
’ “Butmy only desire was to be nearer God’s altar!”
“In whatsoever nook you are, God willhear you: fear
m ‘ ' AUTUMN
nothing. Also, Why should you thrust yourself amongs
the foremost, since all here know you?” '
“You are right, very right. If I were a farmer, I should
bear the canopy and support his Reverence, and sit on a
bench, and sing aloud out of a book. But,” he concluded,
with a sigh, “being Only a labourer—though a husband-
man’s son, mind you!—~it behoves me to stand in the vesti-
bule, or outside in the porch, like a dog.”
“So is it ordained throughout the world, and you will
_ not change it by taking thought.”
“Without doubt I shall nOt.”
“Take another drop, Kuba, and say what increase of
wages you would have.”
Kuba took the vodka. NOW, as he was already somewhat
ﬂustered, he presently felt as in the tavern, with Michael
(from the organist’s) Or any other boon companion at his
side, whom he Could talk with freely and joyously, as an
equal. So he undid a button or two of his capote, stretched
Out his legs, struck the bench with his ﬁst, and cried out:
“Four paper roubles more, With a silver one besides, and
I’ll stay with you!” -
“You’re “drunk or mad, I fancy was Boryna’s protest;
but Kuba, now fairly started in pursuit of what he wished
and dreamed for, never heard his master’s words. His im-
agination was no longer under control, his mind began to
take wings, his self-assurance to grow great, and he felt
himself as high and mighty as any farmer might feel.
“Yes. Four paper roubles more, and one other as earnest
money, and I’ll stay. If not, then, curse it! I’ll "go to the
fair. There. I shall ﬁnd service, were it only as a coachman .
at some manor. They know me—know I am honest, and
able» to do any farm work, aﬁeld or in the house; many a
farmer might learn a good deal of me, how I tend the cattle.
--4—Or else . . .'I know how to shoot, and can get birds for
his Reverence, or for Yankel. . . . Or else . .
“See him!” the old man roared; “behold how grandly this
lame one is prancing!”
The insult effectually sobered Kuba, and roused him from
’9
9
THE PEASANTS 92
his dreamings. He said no more of what he could do; but
held doggedly none the less to what he had said. Boryna
had to give way by half a rouble or one Zloty at a time,
and ended by agreeing to give him three roubles more, and
a couple of shirts in lieu of earnest money.
“Ho! Ho! what a fellow you are!” he said, as he drank
with him to clinch the agreement, though he was angry at
having to spend so much. All the same he thought Kuba
was worth it, and more. A man as good as two for hard
work; scrupulously honest besides, and more heedful of the
beasts he tended than of himself; one, moreover, so well ac-
quainted with husbandry that he could be relied on both to
do his duty, and to see that the others did theirs.
After settling two or three minor points, Kuba was about
to leave. At the door, however, he turned round, and spoke
in faltering tones:
“The agreement is made, then: three roubles and a couple
of shirts. But . . . but . . . l beseech you, don’t sell the
'ﬁlly. I saw her into the world, and spread my sheepskin
over her, lest she should die of cold. . . . I could never
bear to see her ill-used, perhaps by a jew! . . . A horse
is so docile, a man is nothing beside it. . . . Please don’t
sell her!”
“I never thought of doing such a thing.”
“Folk talked of it in the tavern, and I heard.”
“Meddlesome dogs and busybodies! They always know
best what is to be done.” .
Kuba was so delighted that, had he dared, he would have
embraced his master’s knees. He made the best of his way
to bed, for it was late, and there was the fair on the
morrow.
Next day, before the cock had crowed twice, every high-
way and by-way towards Tymov was thronged with people
wending their way thither.
There had been a heavy rain ere morning. In the East it
had cleared up a little, but the sky was threatening, with
93 I - AUTUMN
many a dun-coloured cloud. Over the low-lying ﬁelds crept
fogs, dripping wet and grey as coarse canvas; and the path
ways glistened with many a pool. '
They had set out from Lipka at early dawn. , ‘ -
All along the poplar-planted road beyond the church and
as far asthe forest stretched a chain of slowly-rolling wag—
ons, one close after another; and either side of the highway
was variegated by a line of red petticoats and white capotes.
The multitude was so great that all the village seemed to
be there.
The poorer husbandmen went on foot; so did the women
and the farm-hands'and the lasses. So, too, did some com-
mon labourers and inferior workers, this being the fair at
which service was taken or changed.
Some went to buy, and some to sell, and some just to en-
joy the fair.
One man led a cow or a big calf by a rope; one drove
a ﬂock of shorn sheep in front of him; another walked be-
hind a sow with her little ones, or a lot of white geese, with
their wings tied; another trotted by, riding a sorry nag;
While from under many an apron the red comb of a cock
peered forth—The wagons and carts, too, were well laden.
Often, from the basketwork and straw within one of them,
a hog’s snout would appear, squealing clamorously, 'till the
geese gaggled in consternation, and the dogs that ran to
market by their masters’ sides, barked in chorus.
But Boryna only left his cabin-when the day had fully
risen, and the sky had quite cleared. Hanka and Yuzka
had started before him at the very break of day, with the
sow and the fatted pig; and Antek had taken ten sacks of
wheat and ﬁfty pounds of red clover-seed in the cart. Kuba
alone had remained at home, with Vitek, and old Yagus-
tynka, hired to cook the dinner and milk the cows.
Vitek, who wanted to go to the fair, was blubbering nois-
ily" outside the cow-house.
“What is the matter with the fool?” Boryna grunted; and
making the sign of the Cross, he started off on foot, ex-
pecting that someone would give him a lift by the way.
THE PEASANTS 94
Which also came to pass; for just beyond the tavern the
organist, who was driving in a britzka with a couple of
lusty horses, caught up with him. - .
“What, Matthias, are you on foot?” - -
“Aye, stretching my legs.--Praised be jesus Christ!”
“For ever!” the organist’s wife answered. “jump up;
there is room for you.” ‘
“Many thanks. I should have walked, but, as the saying
is: ‘They that ride in a cart are ay joyful at heart’ ”—-and
he sat down on the front seat, with his back to the horses.
“And so young Yanek is not at school now? How’s
that?” he inquired of a lad who was driving,- and sitting in
front With a farm-hand. .
“Oh, I’m only just here for the fair!” he sang out in reply.
He was the organist’s son. His father said, tapping a box
which he held out to Boryna: “French snuff: take a pinch.”
They both did so, and both sneezed solemnly.
“Well, how goes it with you? Selling anything to-day?”
. “Nothing much. Wheat sent earlier, and a pig, taken by
the girls.”
“Not bad, not bad at all!” the organist’s wife exclaimed.
“Yanek, put this comforter on: it is chilly.”
“Oh, I am all right,” he answered; but she insisted on
his putting it on. '
“But,” Boryna pointed out, “think of my expenses; I can
scarce pay my way.”
“Matthias, do not complain; you have no reason to.
Thank God that you have enough.”
Boryna, not liking to be thus reproved in the presence of
a hired man, leaned forward hastily, and whispered:
“ls Yanek to remain at school much longer?”
“Only till Easter.” - I ‘
“And after? ls he to stay at home, or become an
ofﬁcial?”
“My good man, what should he be doing at home? We
have lots of children, and only ﬁfteen acres. And times are
hard—hard as stones!——There are christenings in plenty in-
deed; but what do we get from them?”
95 AUTUMN
“On the other hand,” Boryna satirically remarked, “there
is no lack of funerals.”
“And what do funerals bring us? Nobody dies but poor
people. A farmer’s burial, really worth something to us,
comes only once or twice a year.”
“And votive masses,” she added, “are ever more seldom,
and people bargain for them like jews!”
“That,” Boryna explained, “is on account of present hard
times, and poverty.”
“Also because men now think less of their salvation, and
of the duty to help poor souls in purgatory!”
The organist here added: “And we get less from the
manors as well. Formerly, when on our rounds at harvest-
time, or offering wafers, or at Yuletide, or with our lists of
parishioners newly made up, we used to go straight to the
manor, where they grudged us neither corn, nor money, nor
flour for pastry. And now, good heavens! all have grown
so stingy that, if one offers us a little sheaf of rye, it must
have been gnawed by mice; and if a bushel of oats, it will
be chaff for the greater part. Had we not a bit of land, we
should have to beg our bread,” he concluded, holding out
his snuffbox to Boryna.
“True, true,” the latter replied, though under no delusion.
He well knew the organist had money, some in the bank,
some out at interest, and proﬁtably lent to farm-hands. So
he only smiled to hear his lamentations, and once more
asked about Yanek. '
“Are you going to make a Government clerk of him?"
“Of him? My Yanek—-a Government official? I have
not denied myself bread for him that the poor boy should
have to ﬁnish his classes. No, no; he shall be a priest.”
“What, a priest?”
“Aye, why not? Shall he lose aught thereby? Whom
does it hurt to become a priest?”
“No one. No one, certainly,” he answered with delibera-
tion, looking respectfully over his shoulder at the young
fellow. “It is an honour. And also, as the saying is: ‘A
priest’s kith and kin will never grow thin.’ ”
THE PEASANTS 96'
“They said that Staho, the miller’s son, was to enter the
seminary; but I hear he is now at a college, studying
medicine.”
“Ah! such an evil-liver, a priest! Why, my servant
Magda is six months with child—and by him!”
“By the miller’s man, they say.”
“No. His mother says so, but it is only to screen him.
Oh, such a proﬂigate! . . . God forbid! . . . As a physi-
cian, he’ll do very well.”
Boryna said: “Yes, yes, a priest’s vocation is by far
the best,” and continued to humour her, tactfully listening
to her gossip, while the organist would many a time lift his
cap, answering “For ever!” to the greetings of those he
passed by. They went at a good trot; Yanek drove splen-
didly, threading his way among the wagons and people and
livestock upon the road, till they got to the forest, where
the crush was not so great, and the road wider.
There they came up with Dominikova, who was going
with Yagna and Simon, and a cow tied by the horns to the
cart, from which, hissing like so many adders, the white
necks of some ganders protruded.
They greeted each other, and Boryna went so far, when
the wagons were abreast, as to lean forwards, and say:
“You will be late!”
“Oh, we’ve time in plenty!” Yagna laughed in reply.
When they had been passed, the organist’s son looked
round at her several times, and asked at last:
“Is that Dominikova’s Yagna?”
“The same, yes,” Boryna returned, with his eyes upon
her, a good way behind already.
“I was not sure: it is a good couple of years since I last
saw her.”
“Ah, she was then tending kine. She’s very young still;
but she has grown as stout as a clover-fed heifer.”
“Aye, aye; comely she is; so well-favoured that every
week messengers are sent to her with vodka—and a
proposal.”
“But she’ll none of them. The old woman thinks,” the
97 AUTUMN
orgaiiist’s wife whispered spitefully, “that a steward may
come for her, and drive all the peasants away.”
“Well, she would do, even for the wife of a thirty-ﬁve
acres’ farmer.”
“O Matthias, if you think so much of the lass, send
proposers to her yourself,” she said with a laugh. Thence-
forward Boryna spoke not one word.
“You town-bred riff-raft, here become a big personage——
who look under the tail of every peasant’s hen to see if
there are eggs for you—who seek for money in every
peasant’s ﬁst—will you make a mock of me, a husbandman
born! You leave Yagna alone!” So he thought, and
looked straight in front of him, in a very ill humour indeed,
at Dominikova’s cart, bright with the gleams of aprons
thrown over kerchiefs, and now rapidly dropping astern;
for Yanek was ﬂogging the horses vigorously, and their
hoofs made great holes in the mud.
The good woman went on talking, but to no purpose.
Boryna only nodded, or mumbled indistinctly, and stub-
bornly refrained from any utterance whatever.
And no sooner had they reached the unspeakable pave-
ment of the little town, than he got down, with thanks for
the lift.
“We shall be returning about nightfall,” she said, and
asked whether he would care to go back with them.
“Very much obliged to you,” he replied, “but I have
horses of my own. People would jest—say I was applying
for the post of organ-blower or assistant; and I can’t sing
a note or learn how to use an extinguisher!”
They went down a by-street, and he walked with swift
steps up a main one, .till he got to the market-place. It
was a ﬁrst-class fair, and the streets were already pretty
well crowded. All the thoroughfares, squares, lanes and
courtyards were full of people and vehicles and all sorts
of country produce, like a ﬂood into which human rivers
were constantly ﬂowing, with dense waves rolling through
the narrow alleys and seeming about to bring the houses
down, until it poured into the great square near the mon-
THE PEASANTS 98
astery. On the way townwards, there had been rela%vely
little mud; but here, trodden and trampled by thousands
of feet, it was ankle-deep, splashing in every direction from
under the wheels of the carts.
Every instant, the din grew louder. Nothing could be
heard distinctly save a cow bellowing now and then, a
barrel-organ accompanying the merry-go-round, the 0b-
streperous wailing of Dgz'ads, or the ear-splitting whistles
of basket-makers.
Truly, it was a very big fair, so crowded that one could
scarce make one’s way forwards; and by the time that
Boryna had reached the main square, he had to push and
elbow a passage by main force amongst the stalls.
And the things that were there! They could not be told
or even conceived. How, then, is it possible to describe
them?
And, ﬁrst, those lofty canvas booths, which stood in front
of the convent in two rows, all of them devoted to articles
for women’s use: pieces of linen cloth, and kerchiefs,
suspended from poles, and all of them as scarlet as scarlet
poppies, making the eyes ache; and then, close by, an-
other booth hung with the same wares, but all of the purest
yellow; and another, again, of the deep crimson of the
beetroot. . . . But who could remember all these things?
Lasse's and women stood there in such serried crowds
that there was not room, as they say, to thrust a stick in
amongst them—some bargaining and choosing; and some
only looking on, gloating over those things of beauty!
Farther, there were stalls that positively blazed with
beads, looking-glasses, tinsel ornaments, and ribbons and
ﬂowers—green and golden and many-coloured-—and caps
too . . . and the Lord knows what besides!
Elsewhere, the sellers of holy images had set them forth
in glazed and gilded frames, so gloriously brilliant that
(although they only stood ranged along the walls, or even
lay along the ground) more than one peasant would take
his hat off and make the sign of the Holy Cross.
Boryna bought Yuzka the kerchief he had promised
99 AUTUMN
her in spring, and Withdrew, pushing his way onwards to
the swine-market beyond the monastery. He made but
slow progress, owing both to the terrible crush and to the
many interesting objects which he saw.
The capmakers, for instance, had put up wide ladders
in front of their shops, and embellished these with caps
from top to bottom.
The bootmakers had formed a real lane with trestles and
horses, from which endless rows of boots dangled, suspended
by the lugs: some of the common sort—tawny and only
requiring to be greased lest the water should get in; some,
lustrous with blacking like varnish; some, women’s boots,
high-heeled, red-laced, and beautifully polished.
Farther were the saddlers’ stalls, superb with horse-
collars and harnesses hanging in~,festoon from many a peg.
Then came the booths of the rope-makers, of them that
sold nets, and of the itinerant sieve-venders; of those whose
trade was to go from fair to fair with groats for sale; and
of the wheelwrights and of the tanners.
Elsewhere, tailors and furriers had set forth their re-
spective goods, the latter pungent in the nostrils with the
spices used to preserve them; and they, since winter was
coming on, had customers not a few. .
After these came rows of tables sheltered under canvas
roofs, displaying enormous coils of russet-hued sausages,
as thick as a ship’s mooring-rope; and piles of yellow fat
and grease, brown ﬂitches of smoked bacon, whole sides
of fat salt pork, and hams by scores, rose in multitudinous
tiers: while at other stalls, entire carcasses of hogs were
hooked up, wide-opened, gaping, and so dripping with
blot._’. that the dogs gathered round, and had to be driven
away.
Close by the butchers were their brethren of the baking-
oven; and on thick layers of straw, on wagons, upon tables
and in baskets, and wheresoever they could be placed, lay
monstrous piles of loaves, each as large as a small cart-
wheel. ,Cakes, too, were there, glazed over with yellow
egg-yolfks; and little rolls, and great ones as well.
THEPEASANTS 100
Nor were stalls for 'playthings wanting. Some were made
of gingerbread, in the shape of many a kind of beast, of
soldiers, and hearts—and strange forms, whose meaning-no
one could make out. At other stalls you could have seen
almanacs, prayer-books, tales about robbers and ﬁerce
Magielons,'1 at others, cheap whistles, mouth-organs,
singing-birds of baked clay, and similar musical instruments
were to be bought, on which those “jew rascals” who sold
them made such a row as was hardly to be borne; for the
birds chirped, the trumpets blew, the whistles squeaked with
long-drawn shrillness, and the little kettledrums at times
joined in, beating a tattoo: and the uproar was enough to
split any man’s head. _ - ‘
But in the centre of the market-place, under the trees,
coopers, tinmen and .earthenwarevdealers had made up a
group apart. There were so many pots, pans, pipkins and
porringers that it was no easy thing to get past. Beyond
these were stationed the joiners, with a show of painted
bedsteads and chests, wardrobes, and tiers of shelves, and
tables.
Now, in every place—upon the carts, along the walls, in
the gutters, and, in short, wherever they found room—
saleswomen were sitting: with onions in strings, or in
baskets; with cloth fabrics and petticoats of their own mak-
ing;-with eggs, cheeses, mushrooms, pats of butter of ob-
long shape and wrapped in ‘a linen cloth. Some had po-
tatoes to sell, some a couple of geese, or a fowl already
plucked and drawn; others, ﬂax ﬁbres ﬁnely combed out, or
'skeins of spun ﬂaxen thread. Each of them sat by her
wares and chatted pleasantly with her neighbour, as folk
are wont to do at the fair. And when a purchaser apf'ired,
they dealt with him quietly, gravely, leisurely, as decent
'peasant'people: not like those jews, who quarrel and
scream and push one another, as though they were out of
their minds.
Amid carts and booths, smoke was seen here and there
lMagielon, probably from “Magellan,” means a wild adventurer,
the hero of some tale of derring-do.-Translator’s Note. ‘
1m *AUTUMN
curling up from sheet-iron stoves. Here they sold hot tea.
At others, there were eatables: fried sausages, cabbage,
barszczl and boiled potatoes. -
Everywhere, Dziaa’s were about in vast swarms: the
blind, the halt, the dumb; cripples with never an arm,
cripples withnever a leg: just as at a local village féte.
They played hymn tunes on tiny kits they held, or sang
godly songs, clinking money in their wooden “bowls. From
the house-walls. from among the wagons, from the mud-
Vrlieluged street. they all came to beg timidly, and implore a
triﬂe in money or in kind.
On all this did Boryna gaze, not infrequently with ad-
miration, as he exchanged a few words with acquaintances
whom he met. At last he got to the swine-market, which
'was beyond the monastery: a very large space of sandy
ground, with a few houses sprinkled here and there. Close
to the monastery garden wall. and shaded by many a huge
oak-tree that stretched out its branches over'the wall, still
covered with withered leaves, were grouped a good many
people and carts, together with a large number of swine
brought to the fair for sale.
He soon saw Hanka and Yuzka, who stood at the out-
side of the group.
“Have you sold, hey?”
“Oh, the butchers have been here already to bargain for
the sow; but they offer too little.”
“Are swine dear?”
“Dear? Not at all. So many have come, and the buyers
are too few.” "
“Anybody from Lipka?”
“The Klembas have brought some small pigs; and Simon,
Dominikova’s son, has onetoo.”
“Well, be as quick as you can, that you may enjoy the
fair.”
“We have enough of waiting already.”
“How much will they give for the sow?”
1 Banger-pronounced “barshch"-a soup made of sour beetroots.
_Traizslat0r’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 1‘02
“Thirty paperproubles. They say she is not well fed;
big bones, but no fat on them.”
“That’s the biggest of lies! She has four ﬁngers’ thick-
ness of fat!” he cried, feelingthe sow’s back and sides.
“The young pig is not fat on the sides, but then its hams
are wellyclad,” he added, driving it out of the wet sand
where it was wallowing and half buried. ’
“Sell at thirty-ﬁve. I shall just see Antek, and come back
to you directly—Haven’t you a mind to eat?”
“Our bread is eaten already.” -!_
“I’ll buy you a bit of sausage besides. Only get a good...‘
price for the pigs.”
“Father, won’t you .think of buying me the kerchief
you promised _ last spring?”
Boryna put his hand to his bosom, but stopped, as though
struck with some idea, took out his hand again, and waved
it, saying merely: .
“You shall have it, Yuzka.”
Instantly he moved off, for he had descried Yagna’s face
amongstv the wagons; but before he got to her, she had
disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen. So he went in
search of Antek: no easy task, for the street from the
swine-market to the great square was so thronged with
carts, one after another and several abreast, that one could
drive past only with the greatest care and difﬁculty.
However, he happened upon him at once. sitting on the
sacks of wheat, and ﬂicking with his whip at the jews’
poultry, which came running about near the bags out of
which the horses were eating, while he made surly replies
to the bargainers. '
“I said seven, and seven it shall be.”
“I give six and a half: the wheat is damaged.”
“You scurvy dog! let me but fetch a blow at your ugly
face, and it will be damaged enough: but my wheat is as
good as good can be.” ‘
“Perhaps; but it’s damp. . . . I’ll take it by measure, and
at six roubles ﬁve zloty.” ‘
“No. By weight, and at seven—l have said.”
1M ' AUTUMN
“But, my good farmer, why so angry? Buying or not
buying, one may always try to bargain.”
“Then bargain away, if it amuses you.” And he paid no
more heed to the Jews, who came opening the‘sacks one after
another, to examine the wheat. - ' ‘
“Antek, I am just going to the. scrivener’s. I shall be
back in the twinkling of an eye.” ' -
“What? With your complaint against'the manor-folk?”
“Think you I’ll not resent the wrong done me?”
“just get hold of the keeper, fasten him to a pine-trunk,
and cudgel him ~till his ribs clatter: then you’ll have
jusﬁce done!”
“Aye, and serve him right too; but the manor-folk must
come in for their share,” he answered in a hard Voice.
“Hand [me over a Zloty.”-
“VVhatfor?’
“To drink a drop and eat a bit.”
“Always looking into your father’s purse! Have you no
money of your own?” _'
Antek, furious, turned his back on his father, whistling
derisively; and the old man, though very unwillingly,
pulled Out a zloty and gave it to him.
“Yes; coin your blood to money, and give it away to
all!” he thought, as he pushed his way towards a large
taVern at the corner, where many guests had come to eat.
The scrivener lived in a tiny room in the courtyard. Clad
only in his shirt, unwashed, unkempt, but with a cigar in his
mouth, he was then sitting at a table near the window.—
On a mattress in the corner a woman lay, with a greatcoat
over her. ' _
“Sit down, my good man!” He tossed some garments on
to the ﬂoor off a chair which he offered to Boryna, who
presently explained the whole business to him in detail. I
“As sure as a Pater ends with Amen, you’ll get a verdict
in your favour! What! A cow dead, and the boy
frightened into an illness! We are bound to win!” He
rubbed his hands,‘and looked about the' table for some
papen
THE PEASANTS 104
“But the boy is quite well.”
“All the same, he might have fallen ill: the keeper gave
him a beating.”
“Not him, but a neighbour’s cowherd.”
“A pity; that would have been still better. But we shall
word it so that it mayseem both that the cow died, and
that the boy had an illness. Let the manor-folk pay!”
“Surely. I want nothing but justice.”
“l’ll draw up your complaint instantly.-—-Franka, you
sluggard!” he cried, kicking the woman on the mattress so
hard-that she lifted up her tousled head.- “Fetch us vodka
and something to eat!”
“I have not one kopek, Gutek; and they’ll give us nothing
on trust, you know,” she grumbled, and, rising from her
disorderly couch, yawned and stretched herself. She was a-
big woman, with a drunkard’s face, bruised and bloated,
but the thin reedy voice of a baby.
The scrivener set to work, with noisy pen scratching the
paper. He puffed at his cigar. blowing the smoke into
Boryna’s face, as the latter was looking on. Now and then
he paused to rub his freckled hands and turn his haggard
pimply face towards Franka. He wore a great black
moustache; hisfront teeth were broken, his lips livid.
The complaint was soon made out. It cost a rouble, and
another for the stamp; and he agreed to present it at the
court for three more.
Boryna willingly allowed the expenses incurred, feeling
sure that the manor would have to pay them, with heavy
damages besides. -
“There must be justice in the world!” he cried, on
departing. ' '
“If we don’t win in the Communal Court, we shall try
the Assembly; if not there, why then, the District Court,
and then the judgment Chamber: I won’t give in.”
“Why should I abandon what is mine?” he said, with
ﬁerce obstinacy. “And to whom? To those manor-folk,
owners of forests and of ﬁelds without end? No!”
Such thoughts were ﬁlling his mind, as he went forth into
105 ; AUTUMN
the market-place: but just-as he passed the capmakers’
stalls, he met with Yagna. a ‘ '
There she stood, with one dark-bluecap, on her head,
cheapening another. . _ . .
' “See here, Matthias! this ‘yellow one’1 would have nf’e
believe this is a good capzbut no doubt he is lying.”
“A very nicecap. Is’t for Andrew?” '
“It is: Simon’s is already bought.”
“Will it not be too small for him?”
“His head is justthe size of mine.”
“What a well-favoured stable-boy you would make!”
“Ah! shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed, with a jaunty air, and
cocking her cap on one side. -
“I’d take you to my service directly!”
“Only my terms might prove much too high.” She
laughed. ' . '
“For some, perhaps; not for me.”
“But I’d do no work-in the ﬁelds.”
“Oh, I would do the work for you, Yagna!” he whispered,
and the look he darted at her was so passionate that she
shrank back in confusion, .and paid for the cap without
bargaining. . I '
“Have you sold- your cow?” he asked her, after a time,
when he had become more master of himself, and overcome
the sensation which had so suddenly gone to his head, like
strong vodka. -‘ .
' “Yes, they bought her for the priest in Yerzov. Mother
has gone with the organist, who wants to engage afarm-
labourer.”
“Well then, let’s just go and take a drop of sweetened
vodka together.” ‘ j ;
“What’s that you say?” - r . .
“YOu are cold, Y agna ;_ it will warm you somewhat.”
“Go with you for a drink? . . . Where could I go?”
“Then, Yagna, I’ll bring some, and we’ll drink it here
together.” i
1 Yellow one—A nickname sometimes given to Jews by peasants;
~Tra12slat0r’5 Note, ' ‘ \ ~ .
THE PEASANTS I 106
“God reward your kindness, but I must look for Mother.”
“Yagna, I’ll help you to ﬁnd her,” he whispered very low,
and going foremost, elboWed a way for her so powerfully
that she was easily able to get through the crowd. But
when they stood before the booths of linen goods, the girl
walked more slowly, and presently stopped, her eyes beam-
ing with joy at the various objects before her.
“Oh, what splendid things! Lord, dear Lord!” she mur-
mured, stopping in front of the ribbons which, hanging
above her, waved in the air, like a mobile and ﬂaming
rainbow.
“Choose the one you like best, Yagna!”
“Why, that yellow one embroidered with ﬂowers must
cost a rouble, or perhaps even ten zloty!”
“Let not that trouble you, but'take it.”
Yagna, however—regretfully indeed and with a great
effort—let the ribbon go, and‘passed on to‘the next booth:
Boryna remaining a little behind for a few instants.
Now her gaze again fell on kerchiefs, and stuffs for bodices,
and jackets.
“O Lord, O Lord! what beautiful things!” she murmured
low, rapt with the glamour of it all; and more than once
she would plunge her quivering hands into those folds of
~ green or red satin, till her eyes grew dim and her heart
went pit-a—pat with delight.
And what head-dresses those kerchiefs made! Scarlet
“silk, embroidered all round with green ﬂowers; or all of
a golden hue; or a deep blue, like the sky after rain! And
those—the ﬁnest of them all—of changeful shimmering
colours, pure as water shining in the evening sunlight, and
no heavier than ﬂoating gossamer! . . . No, she' could not
help it: she must try that kerchief on her head, and see
herself in the looking-glass the jewess of the booth was
holding out to her. I - ‘ ' -
Yes, it suited her to perfection; it Was like a glorious
aureole over her light ﬂaxen tresses, and made the deep azure
of her eyes shine so intensely with the joy of it that they
glowed violet amid the splendour of her face. And people
W7 ' ‘ ‘ AUTUMN
turned to gaze at her, so handsome she appeared, surrounded
with so bright an emanation of youtha-nd health!
“Is not this the daughter of' some Squire, disguising
herself?” they whispered among themselves. >
For a long time she contemplated the kerchief, and then,
with a deep sigh, took it off, and set to bargaining: not
meaning tobuy it—this was impossible—but only for the
pleasure of enjoying its beauty a little longer.
Presently, however, her ardour cooled. The jewess had
put the price at ﬁve roubles!—-Even Boryna at once
dissuaded her. '
».-Again they came to a stop before the stalls of beads.
How many strings there were! And how they looked! As
if the whole stall were oversprinkled with precious gems:
so brilliant, so resplendent! Hard, indeed, it was to take
one’s eyes away from them—from those amber globules of
pellucid gold, looking for all the world as if made of sweet-
scented resin; and the coral drops, like threaded beads of
blood; and the white pearls, as big as hazel-nuts; and those
other drops of silver and’of gold! -
Yagna tried on more than one, and made her choice of
the most beautiful. At last she caught/sight of one very
lovely string of coral beads, passed it four times round her
neck, and, turning to the old man, said:
“Does it suit me? Tell me true.” -
“Splendidly, Yagna!—-But coral beads are no strange
thing to me. In a chest at my home there lies a necklace
of eight rows. ’Twas my wife’s. Every bead is as big as
the biggest pea. “This he said to her with studied
indifference.
“And what’s that to me, if it is not mine?” She ﬂung
the beads back and hastened away, moody and repining.
“Yagna, let’s sit down awhile.”
“I must go to mother.” }
“No fear of her leaving you behind.”
They sat down together on the shaft of a wagon. ’
“It’s a big fair,” remarked Boryna, looking round the
market-place.
THE PEASAN'TS ,‘108
“It’s not small,” she! returned, casting a sorrowful glance
at the stalls they had left behind them, and heaving a deep
sigh. A pause ensued; then", trying to shake off her‘sadiness,
she spoke: I - w - ~ " ‘
“Ah, 'well it is for anyone who is a Squire! Once I saw
the daughter of the Squire-of Vol’a, with other ladies, buy-
ing, as they did at every-fair, such quantities of things that
they were carried by a manservant!” 1 ~ ‘_
“ ‘Who goes oft to the fair shall: lose all he has there.’ ”
Boryna remarked. ‘ ' ' " v i i ‘
“The proverb is not for them.” i - --
“Not so long as they can borrow from jews,” he answered,
with such bitterness that Yagna stared athim," knowing
not what to reply. Looking away from her, he asked, in a
low voice: Y ' -' - ’
“They have been to you Witha propoSal from Michael,
Voytek’s son, have they not?” ' ~ ' _ ‘
“They went away as they came. - Such a dolt, to send a
proposal to me!” ' ' i - ~ ' ‘ ' '
Boryna then rose hurriedly, taking out of this bosom a
kerchief, and something else wrapped up in paper.
“Keep this, Yagna; I must go to Antek.” -
Her eyes sparkled at the'name. “Ishe at the fair?”
“Yes; down that lane, selling ' the corn—Take this,
Yagna, it is for you,” he added, seeing her gaze at the ker-
chief with bewildered eyes. -
“Do you give it me? .Me—really? Oh, how pretty it
is!” She unwrapped'the paper. There lay the very same
ribbon that had pleased her so vastly just before. “Can
you be in earnest?” she exclaimed. “Why do you give me all
this? It is very *costly, and the kerchief is of pure silk.”
“Take it,>Yagna,‘ take -it,.it'isf1all bought for you. And
when some peasant shall come to drink to you, do not
drink back to him. Why hurry?-—-Now,-. I must go.”
“Are these things my own? Say you true?”
“And wherefore should I lie to you?” '
“I can scarce believe it,” shesaid‘, unwrapping'the ker-
chief, and then the ribbon again. '
109v ‘ 'AUTUMN
“God be with you, Yagna!”
“How I thank-you, Matthias!” _
He lefther. 'Yagna? Once more unwrapped the things,
and gloated over them. Then she wrapped them up both
together, with a mind to run after him and give them
back: for how cOuld she accept such gifts from a stranger?
'But he was no longer in sight. So she walked along slowly,
to seek her mother, secretly and ﬁngering with intense
pleasure the parcel hidden in her bosom. She was full of
joy; her cheeks glowed red, and her white teeth ﬂashed
as she smiled. ' ' _
“Yagna! Pray give some aid to a poor creature. Your
people are good, true Christians! I’ll say a Hail Mary
for your departed. . O Yagna!”
Yagna, thus recalled toherself, looked to see who it was
thatv spoke, and. saw Agatha, who was sitting close to ,the
' monastery wall, upon a bundle of straw: for the mud was
there more than ankle-d_eep._
' Coming to a standstill, she fumbled in her dress for
some coppers; and Agatha, overjoyed to have met someone
of her village, began to ask her What was gOing on at
Lipka. ' ' .
“Are all the pota'tOes in?”
“To the very last.”
“Anything ‘ new at the Klem‘bas’?”
“What, they have sent you, away tobeg . . . and you
still care about them?” ‘ '
] “Sent me away? That they did not; I went by myself,
for it was needful. And I care about them, because they are
my kinsfolk.” ' A.
“And what are you doing now?” ,
“Going from church to church, from hamlet to hamlet,
from fair to fair; and, as guerdon for my prayers, the good
people give me, here a corner to sleep in, there a morsel to
feed me, and at times a copper or two. The people are
good; they will not let a poor creature starve, .not they!”
She broke off, and asked, with some hesitation: “Do you
know if all the Klembas are in good health?”
THE'PEASANTS 110
“They are; and how are you?” V v ‘
“Oh, my health is nothing toiboast of. Always a pain
in my chest;_and when I take cold, I spit hot blood. I
shall not last long, noI—If I can but hold out till spring,
I will go back to the village to die among my own people. I
ask naught else of our Lord . . . Naughtelse.”
Say a prayer for Father’s soul?” Yagna whispered, slip-
ping some‘ coins into her hand. .
“That will be for all the holy souls in purgatory; for as it
is, I always pray for all those I know, living and dead.—
But . . . Yagna! . . . Have they sent no one to you with
vodka?” '
“Yes.”
“And you would drink backto none?” _
“To nOne,” she replied brieﬂy. “God be With you, and
come next spring to see us.” And she went to rejoin her
mother, whom she perceived at some distance with the
organist. _
Boryna was returning to Antek, but slowly, both on'
account of the crowds, and because the thought onagna
was haunting him. Before he saw his son, however, the
blacksmith met him. They greeted one anOther, and
walked on side by side without speaking. At last:
“Are you going to settle with me, or not?” the smith
began, in no friendly voice. Boryna was up in arms at
once. .
“Settle what? Lipka was the place to speak with me.”
“These three years I~have been waiting. People advise
me to bring an action at law . . _. but . . '.”
“Do so. I’ll introduce you to a scrivener; yes, and pay
him a rouble to draw up a complaint for you!” >
“. But I think,” the smith went on, with crafty mod-
eration, “it were best to have a friendly understanding.”
“Right. ‘By a neighbourly course get what’s not got by
force!’” I ’
“You say wisely.” v
“You will get it neither in one way nor in the other.”
Ill AUTUMN
. “I have always told my wife that you, Father, loved
justice.”
“Everyone wants justice . . . on his side. I am indiffer-
ent, for I owe nothing.” At those stern words, the black-
smith saw he would get nothing by his former tactics, so he
changed them. As if there had been no dispute, he very
quietly uttered the request:
“Will you stand me a drink? I should like one.”
“Certainly, dearest son-in-law: yes, even should you ask
for a litre.” The tones were rather sneering; but they en-
tered the corner tavern together. Here they found Ambrose,
not drinking, but seated in a corner, sulky and sad.
“I feel my bones ache; we shall have nasty weather,”
Ambrose predicted.
They drank once and again, but saying not a word, each
angry with the other.
“You take your vodka as they do at a funeral,” Ambrose
said; he felt sore at not being invited, for he had scarcely
taken anything that morning.
“How can we talk? Father-in-Iaw is selling so much to-
day that he must think to whom he had best lend his cash
out at interest.” '
“Matthias, Matthias!” cried Ambrose; I say to you that
our Lord . .
“Matthias I am—for some, not for you, you saucy fel-
lowl—Look at him! ‘Fain would the swine say to the
swineherd, Brother!’ ”
The smith had already taken a couple of stiff drams, and
felt inclined to argue. He lowered his tone, to say:
“Father-in-law, tell me once for all: will you, or will
you not, give what I ask?”
“You have heard my answer. I cannot take my land to
the grave with me; but, while I am living, not one acre
will I give up. I will not be fed at your expense, and
mean to enjoy a year or two in this world still.”
“Then pay me off!”
“I have spoken: have you heard?”
THE PEASANTS 112
“He is looking out,” Ambrose whispered, “for a third
wife. What are his children to him?”
“That’s likely, indeed!”
“Marry I shall, if I choose,” put in Boryna. “Do you
object?”
“Object? No; but . . .”
“If I choose, I shall send a proposal—yes, and no later
than to-morrow!”
“Do so. What have I against it? Only let me have Red-
and-White’s calf, and I’ll even help you all I can. You,
a reasonable man, must know what is best for you. I have
said so many a time to my wife: you want a woman in the
house to keep it in order.”
“Michael! You said that?”
“May I die unshriven if I did not! Yes, I did say so.
I, who advise the whole village, each man as he requires,
should I not know what is good for you?”
“You rogue, you are lying like a gipsy!—But come to-
morrow, and you shall have the calf. . . . What I am asked
for, I may give; but claim it as a right, and you’ll get only
a broken cudgel—or worse.”
They continued their potations, the smith now treating
Boryna, and inviting Ambrose to join them. This he did
very willingly, and told many a merry tale and jest, so
that they presently roared with laughter.
The two separated on good terms. But neither trusted
the other a jot—Each was transparent to each as a pane
of glass, each as easy to know as a horse with a star on the
forehead.
Ambrose remained, expecting gossips and acquaintances
willing to offer him the least little drop. For “a hungry dog
will try even to catch a ﬂy.”
The fair was drawing to its close.
For a moment the sun had shone out at noon, ﬂashing
on the world like the glint of a brandished mirror; then it
plunged anew behind the clouds. Before evening had come,
everything was in profound gloom; heavy masses of ,vapour
rolled down, almost touching the house-roofs, and a ﬁne
113 AUTUMN
rain drizzled as though sifted through a sieve. . . . The
folk therefore hastened to drive away, anxious to get home
before nightfall and a heavy downpour.
Twilight fell, swift, louring, and dank: the town was once
more empty and silent.
Only along a wall here and there, some Dgiads were
moaning, and the voices of revelling and quarrelling were
loud in the taverns.
Evening was well advanced when Boryna drove away
with his people. They had sold all they brought, purchased
various articles, and enjoyed the fair to the full. Antek
ﬂogged the horses with all his might, and the cart hurtled
'athwart the depths of the mud; for he felt cold, and they
had all drunk plentifully. The old man, stingy though he
was, and ready to make a fuss for a groszl had that day
treated them so well with things to eat and drink, and
friendly words, that they were all amazed at him.
When they reached the forest, it was black night—so
dark that nothing could be seen. The rain was falling,
ever in larger drops. Along the road a clatter of wagon-
wheels, the brawling howl of a drunken song, or the sucking
steps of someone plodding in the mire, were to be heard.
But, in the middle of the poplar-road, whose trees mur-
mured and muttered as though shivering with cold, Am-
brose, now quite drunk, staggered along from one side to
the other, now stumbling against a tree, now falling into
the mud; but he would quickly rise and go on, singing, as
was his wont, with noisy vociferation.
lGrosz-the smallest Polish coin—about one-fourth of an Ameri-
can cent.--Translat0r’s Note.
CHAPTER VI
Ever since the fair, all things had been drowned in
a grey turbid shimmer, through which only the dim
outlines of the forest or the hamlet loomed, embroidered, as
it were, on a ground of wet canvas.
The autumn downpours swooped down, icily cold, pierc-'
ingly sharp, and never-ending.
The rain, like scourges of ashen-grey hue, unceasingly
beat upon the earth, soaking every tree to its very centre,
and making every blade of grass quiver, as in dire pain.
From underneath those thick clouds and that ghastly grey
rain there would appear, now and again, strips of ﬁelds,
blackened, ﬂat, and sodden; or there would gleam forth
streaks of foam-ﬂecked water, ﬂowing down the furrows; or
the trees along the pathways would stand forth, dark and
stark, as their dripping branches, wet to the inmost pith,
shaking off the last rags of leaves, seemed struggling des-
perately, like hounds straining at a leash.
The deserted roads were now transformed into intermin-
able quagmires of ﬁlth.
The short, sad, sunless days crawled by; bleak and dull,
with ceaseless sounds of monotonous plashing, fell the
nights.
Mute were the ﬁelds, dumb the hamlets, silent the woods.
The houses dusky and colourless, seemed melting into and
making one with the earth, the fences, and the stripped
orchards, tossing their boughs with feeble moans.
A livid whirling downpour had covered the land, taken all
colour out of it, quenched its tints, and plunged the world
into twilight. All seemed confused, and as in a dream. A
sadness rose up from the mouldering ﬁelds, from the palsy-
7 I \HE rain had now begun to come down in earnest.
114 .
ll5 AUTUMN
stricken woods, from the dead wilderness; thence it ﬂoated
like a heavy cloud, lingering about the melancholy cross-
ways, under the cruciﬁxes which stretched forth their mourn-
ful arms and on the waste roads, where the trees would
suddenly quake as with dread, and sob as if in anguish; it
looked with vacant stare into each deserted nest, and on
each fallen cabin; it crept about the burial-places around
the graves of the forgotten dead, and the decaying crosses;
it spread over all the country.
And the drizzle was never-ceasing: but when the heavy
rain swooped down, it wrapped all Lipka in its folds, so that
the dark thatches, the dank stones of the enclosures, the
dingy tangles of smoke which twirled above the chimneys
and wandered over the orchards, were visible only at rare
intervals. ’
The village was noiseless, except for some barns, where
men were threshing. But these were few: the people were
all out in the cabbage plantations. The miry roads lay
waste; and waste, too, were the cabin-surroundings. If now
and then anyone appeared, a ghost in the fog, he vanished at
once, and only the sound of his wooden clogs was audible,
as he trudged through the mud. Or from time to time a
cart laden with cabbages would roll slowly away from the
peat bogs, and scatter the geese wading about to snap up such
leaves as it let fall.
The pond struggled within the narrow shores which con-
ﬁned it. It was continually rising; and ere it ﬂooded the
lower parts of the road on Boryna’s side, it came up to the
enclosures, and splashed and foamed before the very
cabin-walls.
But the whole village was out, busy cutting the cabbages,
and conveying them home. They were housed everywhere,
on threshing-ﬂoors, in passages, in dwelling-rooms, and in
some cases, even under the eaves—bluish-green cabbage-
heads were to be seen by hundreds.
They made haste, for it was continually raining, and the
ways were all fast becoming sloughs of mire, and impassable.
That day, they were cutting Dominikova’s plantation.
THE PEASANTS 116
Yagna, along with Simon, had been there since morning,
for Andrew had stayed at home to mend the roof.
Evening was at hand, and the old housewife again and
again came out, looking towards the mill, and listening for
the sound of their coming.
But the work was still going on busily in the low-lying
plantation beyond the mill. Over the meadows stretched a
dense fog; only in places, wide ditches gleamed, full of grey
turbid water; and long bands on the higher ground where the
cabbages grew, here of a pallid green, there of a rusty red.
About these ﬂitted dimly the crimson petticoats of women,
piling up heaps of newly cut cabbages.
In the misty distance, close to the river that ran frothing
among thickets of brushwood, there rose many a heap of
dull brown peat. Here the carts were stationed; they could
come no nearer, because of the quaggy nature of the soil,
and every sheetful of cabbages had to be taken to them
as a bundle carried on the back.
In some ﬁelds cutting was over already, and the people
were going home; from patch to patch, ever louder and
louder, their voices sounded through the fog.
Yagna had only just got through with the work. She
was tired out, very sharp-set, and completely drenched to
boot. Even her clogs were streaming with wet, for they
sank more than ankle-deep into the dun-coloured peaty soil,
and she often had to take them off and pour the water out.
“Simon! be quick now! I can feel my limbs no more!”
she called out wearily; but, seeing that the young man was
unable to lift his burden, she impatiently seized the great
bundle, raised it on to her back, and carried it off to the
wagon. -
“A big fellow like you—yet with the loins of a woman
after childbed!” She spoke scornfully, as she poured the
cabbages out into the straw at the bottom of the cart.
Simon, much abashed, muttered, growled, scratched his
head, and put the horse to.
“Hurry now, Simon!” she cried, swiftly bearing one huge
bundle after another to the cart.
117 AUTUMN
But night fell, the shades grew blacker, the rain fell
heavier, pouring upon the pulpy ground and into the ditches
with a sound as of dropping corn.
“Yuzka! have you done for to-day?” she cried to
Boryna’s daughter, who had been cutting along with Hanka
and Kuba.
”Yes, we have. Time to go home: the weather is fright-
ful, and I am wet through. Are you going too?”
“Aye. It would soon be so dark that we could not ﬁnd
our way. The rest must stand over till to-morrow.--Oh,
your cabbages are splendid!” she exclaimed, leaning over
towards them, and getting a glimpse of the heaps that
loomed through the mist.
“Yours are very good too, and your turnips far larger
than ours.”
“Ah, they were planted from a new kind of seed, brought
from Warsaw by his Reverence.”
“Yagna!”-—it was Yuzka’s voice, calling again to her
out of the fog—“do you know, Valek, joseph’s son, is send-
ing people to-morrow to propose to Mary Pociotek?”
“What, that little girl? Is she not too young? Only
last year she was herding kine, I think.”
“Yes, she is old enough. Besides, she has so many acres
that the lads are in haste to marry her.”
“You, too, Yuzka, they will be in haste to marry by
and by.”
“Unless your father takes another wife,” shouted
Yagustynka from the third ﬁeld.
“What do you mean?” said Hanka, in a tone of alarm.
“He buried her mother only last spring.”
“What does that matter to a man? Every one is even as
a swine; however full, always ready to thrust his snout
into a fresh trough. Ho, ho! one is not quite cold. nay,
not yet dead, and the goodman is after another.-—They are
dogs, all of them. What about Sikora? He took a second
wife only three weeks after burying his ﬁrst.”
“True: but then he was left with ﬁve little ones.”
“As you say. But only a fool can believe he married for
THE PEASANTS 118
their sake. For his own !--He was fain to share his blanket
with someone.” '
“But,” put in Yuzka, with great energy, “that we would
not let Father do. Never!”
“Silly baby that you are! The land is your father’s own;
and so is his will.”
“Yet his children too ought to be considered; they have
their rights,” Hanka rejoined.
“Better to leap into the deep than cumber another man’s
wagon,” Yagustynka muttered.
Yagna, who had taken no part in this talk, smiled to her-
self as she carried the cabbages. She was reminded of What
had happened at the fair.
As soon as the wagon was full, Simon made for the road.
“May God be with you!” Yagna then cried to her
neighbours.
“And with you! We are coming directly. . . . Yagna,
you’ll come to us to pluck off the leaves, won’t you?”
“Tell me when, and I’ll be there.”
“The boys have arranged for music at the Klembas’ next
Sunday: do you know?”
“I know, Yuzka, I know.”
“If you meet Antek,” Hanka asked, “pray tell him to
hurry. We are waiting.”
“All right.”
She ran fast to catch the cart, for Simon had started,
and could be heard swearing at the horse. The cart had
stuck in the mire of the soft peaty ground, and was over
the axles in mud; so they both had to work and help the
horse past the worst sloughs.
Neither spoke to the other. Simon led the horse, taking
care not to let the cart upset, for the way was everywhere
full of deep holes. Yagna put her shoulder to the cart
behind, considering all the while how she should dress when
she went for the leaf-plucking to the Borynas.
It was so dark that the horse was all but invisible. The
rain had abated a little, but the fog hung heavy and damp,
and the wind blew and whistled above them, lashing the
l9 AUTUMN
rees on the embankment which they were now going up.
It was a hard ascent, the ground being both steep and
;lippery.
“The cart is too full for one horse!” exclaimed a voice on
he embankment.
“Is that you, Antek?”
“Surely.”
“Then be quick; Hanka is expecting you—But give us
1 helping hand now.” '
“Wait awhile: I must get down ﬁrst.-—lt is so dark that
/ou can’t see anything.”
They were up the embankment in no time, for the help-
ng hand had pushed so powerfully that .the horse scrambled
1p at once, and only came to a halt at the top.
“Thanks most heartily,” she said; “but, good God! you
zre strong!”
And she stretched out her hand to shake his.
They were mute. The cart went on before them, while
hey walked on, side by side, unable to ﬁnd words, and
)0th of them strangely agitated.
“Are you going back?” she asked in a low whisper.
“I shall only go with you as far as the mill, Yagna; the
vater has made a nasty hole there.” I
“Very dark, isn’t it?” she said.
“Are you afraid, Yagna?” he murmured, drawing closer.
“Why should I be?”
They were mute again, walking on shoulder to shoulder,
aide touching side.
“How bright your eyes shine! . . . Like a wolf’s.”
“Will you come to the Klembas’ on Sunday for the
nusic?”
j‘Will Mother allow me?” .
“Do come, Yagna, do come!” he entreated her, in a
:trangled husky voice.
“Is it your wish?” she asked him softly, looking into his
ayes.
“Why, Lord! ’twas I ordered the ﬁddler from Vola, only
'or you; and only for you did I beg Klemba to let us have
THE‘PEASANTS ' 1-20
his cabin.” He spoke in a low tone; his face was so close
to hers, and his breath came so quick, that she drew back a
little, quivering all over with emotion. ‘ ~i
“Go now-they are waiting for yOu—someone may see
us.—Go!” ~. . >
“Will you come?” - ‘ ‘ - <
“I will—I will,” she repeated, turning to look at him as
he went away: but the»fogehadilswallowed him up, and she
only heard his feet, as-th-ey squaShed away through the
thick slush. A . t '
Then an irrepressibleshiver seized her; and yet it was
a ﬁery blast that went through? her heart and'brain. She
knew not what it was t.hat'(‘..l?ifad come upon her: her eyes
were full of ﬂames; {her‘brea-téh failed‘her; she could not
still the passionate throbbingTOf her heart. Instinctiver
she stretched forth her? arms "as for an embrace: then
stiffened herself, taken Wi-tfihi'fsof. Wild a‘ﬁt of sudden shudder-
ing that she could have-criedouti'aloud. But she reached the
wagon and, catching hold,@~ga'vef it a forward push with great
though needless violen-ce.-
cart creaked and lurched
over, so that several -' ca-bbiagEstell out into the mud. But
still she‘ saw before her that‘face, and ah! those eyes, so
bright, so full of ardent'crsav-ingjl’ '
“He is not a man, he’si-aTwhirlwind,” she mused blankly.
“Can there be such another in the whole world?”
She came back to. her, senses with the noise of the mill
they” were passing, and‘-\wit~h'~the roar of the water pouring
over the wheel and under thesluices; forthose, owing‘to
the high level of the Water, had been thrown open; with a
noisy rush the stream-rolled: down, breaking up into vol-
umes of yeast-like foam that formed long white streaks ‘on
the broad expanse of the river. I ‘ * .-
At the miller’s house, just by the roadside, a lamp had
been lit and placed on a table, whence it could be seen-
through the curtain'ed windoWs.
“They really have a lamp, just as at his Reverence’s or
at some manor-house!” ' ' I j '
“For are they not rich folk?” said Simon. “They have
121 AUTUMN
more land than Boryna himself; they put their money out
at interest; and how they cheat, us when they grind our
wheat!” ,
“They live like big landowners. . It is well for such
as they. . . . They strut about the rooms, they 1011 upon
the sofas, and eat dainty food, and make others work for
them.” So thought his sister, but without envious feelings,
nor paying any heed to what Simon went on saying; who,
usually taciturn, now held forth on this subject at intermin-
able length.
At last they arrived. In their bright warm cabin, a ﬁre
was blazing merrily on the hearth. Andrew was peeling
potatoes, and their mother preparing supper.
Close to the ﬁre sat a hoary-headed old man.
“Is all the work over, Yagna?”
“Only about three sheets full are still to be cut.”-
She went into the inner room to change, and wasv back
again at-once, getting things ready for the meal, all the
time keenly and curiously observant of the old man, who
sat profoundly silent, looking into the ﬁre, while his lips
moved and his rosary passed through his ﬁngers, bead by
bead. When they sat down to the meal, the old dame placed
a spoon for him, and asked him to eat with them.
“Remain ye with God: I go,” he answered. “But I shall
look in here again, and perchance make a longer stay at
Lipka.” '
Kneeling down in the centre of the room, he bent before
the holy images, crossed himself, and walked out.
“Who is that?” Yagna asked. \
“A saintly pilgrim. He comes from the Sepulchre of
Jesus. This many a year have I known him. He has been
here more than once, and brought me holy things from
afar. . . .- About three years since . .
She was interrupted by the entrance of Ambrose, who,
after the usUal greetings, took a seat by the ﬁre.
“It is so cold and wet that even my wooden leg feels
numb!”
“Why wander so, in such weather, and in the night too?”
THE PEASANTS 1'22
Dominikova grumbled. “You. had far better have stayed
at home and said your prayers.” '
“At home I was a-weary; so, coming out to see a girl or
two, I came ﬁrst of all to you, Yagna!”
“Death is the name of the only girl for you.”
“Oh, she! she has forgotten me quite; she prefers dancing
with the young.” -
“What do you mean?” Dominikova asked.
“That his Reverence has just carried the Holy Viaticum
to Bartek over the water.”
“Why, he was quite well when I saw him but now at the
fair!”
“He has been so savagely cudgelled by his son-in-law
that his liver was ruptured.” ' _ '
“When? and on what account?” ,
“On account of the land, of course. They have been at
odds these six months, and to-day at noon they settled the
matter.” ' '
“Why,” Yagna cried, “is there no judgment of the Lord
upon such murderers?” _ r '
“It will come,” her mother replied sternly, raising her eyes
to the holy images. ’
“Yes, but it will not bring the dead to life,” Ambrose
muttered. ‘
“Sit down, and share our board.”
“I have naught against that. I still can get through a
dish—if only large enough.” '
“You think of nothing but jesting and drollery.”
“I have nought else in the wide world: why should I
care!”
They seated themselves round the bench on which the two
dishes—potatoes and sour milk—had been put, and set to
eating with the usual deliberation and taciturnity, while
Andrew saw to the pots’ being abundantly supplied. Only
Ambrose now and again said something funny, at which
he himself was the ﬁrst to laugh. '
“Is his Reverence at], home?” Dominikova asked towards
the end of the meal.
'123 " AUTUMN
' “Where else, in such weather? Yes, at home, poring over
books like a jew.”
“A learned, a most learned man!” '
“And so good! The best man in the world,” Yagna
chimed in. . .
“Ah, yes. No harm in him. . .- . Takes care of himself,
and hurts nobody.”
“That’s not the way to speak, Ambrose!”
They had done. Yagna had gone with her mother to
where the distaffs were ﬁxed in front of the ﬁre-place, while
her brothers, as was their custom, cleared away and washed
and set things in order. Dominikova had always ruled her
sons with iron sway, and brought them up to do the duties
of girls, that Yagna’s beautiful hands might not grow coarse.
Ambrose lit his pipe, puffed up the chimney, and poked
the embers, while adding some vfaggots, with furtive glances
at the womanfolk. He was pondering over something and
settling how to begin.
“I fanCy you must have had a. proposal or two.”
- “More.”
“Naturally. Yagna is as pretty as a picture. His Rev-
erence Says there is none so pretty in the whole village.”
“Yagna blushed scarlet with delight.
“Did he say so?” quoth the old dame. “May the
Lord grant him health! I have long, long been getting
money together for a votive mass: I will have one sung
directly.”
“There’s somebody that would like to send you a pro-
posal; but he is somewhat shy.”
- “A farm-hand?” Dominikova inquired, turning the spin-
dle swiftly, till it ﬂuttered about the ﬂoor.
“A man with a household under him. Comes of a good
stock, but is a widower.”
“What, nurse anOther’s children? Not I.”
“Fear nothing, Yagna; they are all well out of leading-
strings.”
“Young as she is, why should she accept an old man?
Let her wait for a young one, if any such should come.” '
THE PEASANTS 124
‘ “Oh, there are plenty. No lack of young men, no! Lads
as straight as arrows, smoking cigarettes, dancing in the
tavern, swallowing drams of vodka, an-d‘with a keen eye
for anygirl that has a few acres and a bit of money.
Wretched husbandmen, though, who rise at noonday, and
in the afternoon carry dung in a wheelbarrow, and till the
land with a hoe!”
“I will not let my Yagna stoop to any such!”
“They say you are the wisest of us all; and they say true.”
“On the, other hand—small delight can an old man give
a young girl.” i i a - - '
“She may find young ones to delight her—not a few.”
She eyed him severely. “So reverend in years, yet so
careless in talk!” ' . -
A pause ensued. 1 i ' -
‘ “He’s an honourable elder, and not greedy of other folk’s
money.” " _ ' 1 ' -'
“No, no! naught but sin can come of it!”
“Well, but he might make a marriage settlement,” he con-
tinued, now quite serious, and knocking the ashes out of
his pipe.
The reply, when it came, was given withhesitation. .
“Yagna has enough of her Own.” '
“He would give more than what he received; certainly
more.” '
- “What’s that you say?”
“What I know. Neither the wind nor my fancy has
taught it me: I come here in another’s name.”
Silence again. The old housewife took a long time to
straighten the tangled ﬂax on the distaff; then, wetting her
left thumb and ﬁnger, she drew out the long ﬁbres, while
‘ her right set the spindle whirling, ﬂapping and whirring
along the ﬂoor like a top.
“Well then, shall he send her his friends with vodka?”
“He? Who?” ~ . <
“Know you not? ~ He that dwells over there!” And Am-
brose pointed to the lights in Boryna’s hut, twinkling across
the pond. : ' i ‘
in § ' ’AUTUMN
“His family are grown up: they will oppose it. Besides,
they have a right to their portions.” ' .
“But he can always make arsettlement With what is his
own! He is a good man, and no indifferent farmer; re-
ligious into the bargain. And hale! Lord, I havev seen the
man heave? more than two bushels of rye in a sack on to his
shoulders. ~ Let your Yagna wish for anything in the world
except pigeon’s milk, and she will get it. And then, the
lad Andrew is next year to be a conscript. Now, Boryna
knows all about ofﬁcial matters, and whom to apply to, and
may be of great use.” i ,
“But how do you, Yagna, look upon this?”
“Indifferently.—If you say: ‘Marry him’ I will. It
is for you, not for ine, to decide.” She spoke very low,
her forehead touching her distaff, while, looking vacantly
into the ﬁre, she listened as the faggots crackled merrily.
“Well?” Ambrose queried, rising from his seat.
“Let his friends come”; the words dropped one by one
from the old dame’s lips. “A betrothal is not a wedding
yet.” ~
Ambrose’crossed himself and went out, making straight
for Boryna’s cabin.
Yagna was sitting dumb and motionless.
“Yagna dearest, what do you say to this?”
“Naught whatever; it is all the same to me. If you like,
marry Boryna; if not, I stay with you. . . . By your side,
am very-well off.”
Her mother spoke in subdued tones as she went on
spinning:
“I would fain do all for the best, my dear. True, he is
old, but strong and hearty still. And, besides, he will treat
you courteously, not as other peasants might do. You will
be the mistress-and the head of his house. Also, when he
makes the settlement, I shall arrange matters so that the
land he will leave to us will touch ours. . . . And then,
were the amount only six acres—think of it, Yagna! six
acres more!--And then remember: you must marry, you
must! Why should the tongues of all the village gossips
THE PEASANTS 'l’26
wag to defame you? . . . We should have to - kill the
pig . . .” Here she broke off, and went on to settle other
matters within herself; for Yagna was spinning mechan-
ically, as if she had heard nothing said. _ - ‘
Was she, she mused, unhappy at her mother’s? She did
what she liked; no one ever said a cross word to her. Acres,
settlement, possessions, nay, even a husband—what did she
care for them all? Were the lads who sought her few in
number? Had she a mind, she could bring them all to pro-
pose to her the same evening. . . . Her mind was little by
little being made up, as was the ﬂaxen thread shespan; and
as that thread turned in one direction only, so she de-
termined on one thing—to. marry Boryna, if her mother
cared for the marriage—Yes; she liked him‘ better than: the
rest: had he not bought her a ribbon and a kerchief?—
True; yet Antek, and others as well, if they owned Boryna’s
money, would do as much for hen—No, no: let her mother
choose, whose head was good at such things: her own was
not. -
She looked towards the window, where the withered and
blackened dahlia bushes were tapping, lashed by the gale.
By and by she forgot them, forgot everything, forgot her
very self, and fell into a state of beatiﬁc inertness like that
which now held the earth around her in thosedeathly quiet
nights of autumn. For Yagna’s soul was even as that earth;
as that earth, it had its abysses, dreamy. chaotic, known to
none. Vast it was, but unconscious of its own vastness;
mighty, yet without either will or desire or longing—in-
animate, yet immortal; like that earth, too, swept by every
blast that took hold of her, and seized upon her, and did
with her whatsoever it listed. . . . And likewise, in the
springtime, the warm sun would awake her, and ﬂood her
with life, and ﬁll her with the quivering ﬂame of desire and
love; and like the earth, her soul would conceive—it could
do naught else; would live and sing, rule, create, and anni~
hilate its creations—it could do naught else; it would exist
-—it could not but exist! Such was that hallowed earth;
such was the soul of Yagna, like unto that same earth.
127 AUTUMN
Long did she sit thus, mute: only those eyes of hers were
glittering as still waters at noon in spring, or as gleam the
stars. .
Suddenly -she awoke from her reverie: someone had
opened the front door. It was Yuzka, who rushed breath-
less into the room. .
Shaking the water out of her clogs, she said: “Yagna,
we have the leaf-plucking to-morrow: will you come?”
“Of course.” .
“We shall do the work in the big room. Ambrose is sit-
ting there now with father, so I made shift to slip out and
let you know. There will be Ulisia, and Mary, and Vitka,
and all the other Pociotek girls. Lads will be there too.
Peter has promised to come and bring his ﬁddle.”
“Peter? Who is that?”
“The son of Michael who dwells beyond the Voyt’s house.
He that returned from the army when potato-digging began,
and talks so queerly now, one can scarce understand what
he says.” 1
After chattering on in this way, she ran off home.
Again the room'was plunged in silence.
The raindrops pattered'on the window-panes, like hand-
fuls of sand thrown upon them. The wind roared and
played about the garden, or blew down the chimney, till
the brands on the hearthstone were scattered about, and
whiffs of smoke came into the room. But the spindles never
ceased from whirring about the ﬂoor.
Thus the long evening dragged on tediously, until Yagna’s
mother began to sing in a faint, quavering voice:
,
“May all that we this day have done . . . ’ ;
Yagna and her brothers taking up the hymn in so high-
pitched a key that the f'owls roosting in the passage clucked
and cackled in chorus.
1- Four years in the Russian army. often in the very depths of
Russia, were wont to make havoc with a Polish peasant’s mother-
tongue.--Translator’s N ote.
CHAPTER VII
HE next day was as rainy and dreary as the one
before.
Every now and then, someone would come out of
a but to peer anxiOusly into a mist-blurred world, and see
if it was clearing up a little. And nothing met the eye but
the slate-coloured clouds, so low that they touched the very
tree-tops. And the rain rained on.
The folk were cooped up in the cabins, and getting out of
sorts.v One or two went out through the mud and rain to
a neighbour’s, lamenting that So-and-so had left his cattle-
litter in the forest, not having'been able to remove it; that
another had not yet brought in his ﬁrewood; that many, al—
most all, had cabbages in the ground still, and could not
now go to cut them, because the pond had risen so much
during the night that the sluices had been perforce opened,
and the water let out into the river; Which consequently had
swollen very greatly and the meadows were ﬂooded, and all
the cabbage plantations like sombre islands amid the drab
and foaming swirl. '
Nor had Dominikova been able to get home the cabbages
she had aﬁeld. ‘
Ever since morning, Yagna was feeling greatly upset,
heaving sighs of vexation as she went from corner to corner,
and looked out of the window at the dahlia bushes, now
beaten to the ground by the ﬂood, and at the whole drip-
ping landscape. , ‘
“Good Lord, how weary I' am!” she said, impatiently
awaiting the close of day and the start for Boryna’s cabin.
The hours crawled by, like an old man trudging in the
mud—so sluggishly, so wearily, so drearily, that it became
intolerable. She grew very restless, and was continually
128
129 . AUTUMN
scolding her brothers, and ﬂinging about such articles as
she happened to ﬁnd at hand. Withal, her head began to
ache, and she had to put a warm oatmeal poultice, sprinkled
with vinegar, on the top of her head, before it passed off.
But, though now better, she felt completely out of gear;
her work fell frOm her hands, and she many a time cast her
eyes upon that surging pond which, like some hugebird,
spread out ponderous wings, and ﬂapped them, and strug-
gled up, foaming, till the water rose and splashed all over
the road—and all but soared into the air.
Dominikova had been out since the morning, called away
to attend a woman in child-bed at the farther end of the
village; for she knew a good deal about medicine, and how
to heal various ailments.
So then Yagna was feeling very ill at ease. She longed
to go out of doors and see someone; but whenever she tied
her apron over her head and peered out beyond the thresh-
old at the mire and the downpour, her desire vanished
away. At last, knowing not what to do with herself, she
opened her chest and took out all her holiday apparel, which
she spread upon the beds, till the room glowed crimson
with striped skirts and jackets and aprons. But that day
vshe cared nothing for any of them. At all those her posses-
sions she gazed with tired indifferent eyes; nevertheless, she
drew Boryna’s gifts—the kerchief and the ribbon—from the
bottom of the chesf, and adorning herself with them, took a
look at the glass.
“They will do. I shall put them on this evening,” she
decided; but took them off again hurriedly, for someone was
coming to the hut, creeping along by the fence.
This was no other than Matthew. Yagna cried out in
astonishment as he came in: the very man on whose ac- '
count the village folk had talked most against her as having
met him by night in the orchard and elsewhere many a
time. He was a ‘man rather beyond the prime of life, be-
ing well over thirty; still a bachelor, for he did not care to
marry, having sisters at home (or rather, according to Ya-
gustynka’s malicious tongue, because lasses and neighbours’
THE PEASANTS ‘ 130
wives were very much to his liking); a tall fellow, strong as
an oak, very sure of himself, and conSequently so proud and
headstrong that he was} feared by almOst everyone. ’ And he
could—what could he not dOP—play the ﬂute, construct a
wagon, build a hut, arrange a stove; and whatever he did,
he did so well that his hands Were always full of work.
Never of money, though: however much he earned, he would
get rid of it directly, drinking; standing drinks, and lending
to his friends. He was called “Dove,” though in his eyes
and his ﬁery nature he had much more Of the hawk. )
“Matthew!” ‘ '
“Yes, ’tis l, Yagna!” _ ‘ j ‘
He seized both her hands, and riveted his eyes on hers
with a glance of such passionate eagerness that she turned
red, and looked uneasily towards the door. ’
“You have been away these six months,” she stammered.
“Six, and twenty-three days besides, is the true reckon-
ing.” He did not drop her hand. ‘
“I shall get a light!” she cried; for it was really getting
dark, and she wanted to free her hands.
“Give me a greeting, Yagna!” he begged, in a whisper,
and tried to put his arm round her waist. She slipped away,
and ran to the ﬁre-place to kindle a light, fearing lest her
mother should ﬁnd her in the dark with Matthew. He,
however, was too quick, caught her, squeezed her close, and
set to kissing her with wild impetuosity.’
She struggled like a snared bird, but could not free her-
self from the ravenous creature that hugged her till her ribs
cracked and showered upon her such mad kisses that she
grew faint; a veil dimmed her eyes, and she could not
breathe.
“Matthew, good Matthew, please let me go!”
“Yet awhile, Yagna, yet again . . . for I am frantic!”
And he kissed till the girl drooped and Sank limp in his
arms, weak as water. But at that moment he heard steps
in the passage; so he let her go, lit a hand-lamp at the
ﬁre-place, and rolled a cigarette, looking the while at Yagna
with eyes that sparkled with delight. , '
13! AUTUMN
Andrew came in, blewthe ﬁre on the hearth into a blaze,
and pottered about the room; so they said but little, those
two, whilst exchanging hOt glances of hungry, starving de-
Sire all the time. i '
A few minutes later, Dominikova came in. She must
have been vexed at something or other, for she began by
rating Simon soundly in the passage. Seeing Matthew, she
darted a ﬁerce look at him, paid no heed to his greeting, and
went into the bedroom to change her dress.
“Go away,” Yagna begged, “or mother will curse you
when she comes.”
But he only implOred her tocome out and meet him.
DominikoIVa entered. “You. . . you! Back again?” she
asked, as if she had not seen him before.
“Yes, back again, Mother,” he answered gently, trying to
kiss her hand. ‘ ‘
“Am I a cur, that you call me mother?” she snarled,
snatching her hand away angrily. “Why do you come?
Once for all, I have said you are not wanted here.”
“I come, not for you, but for Yagna,” he answered, with
a deﬁant air: he was losing his temper.
“You’re to drop Yagna for good, I say! Drop her!
Folks shall not again defame her on your account! .
Off, and out of my sight, you . . . l”
. “Why croak so loud? All the village will hear!”
“Let them hear! Let them cOme! Let them know that
you are sticking to Yagna as a burr sticks to a dog’s tail—
that we'need‘ an ovenrake to drive you from us!”
“Oh, that you were a man! How you would smart for
this!” '
~ “Try then, hound that you are! Just try, you ruffian,
yOu bully!” And with those words she grasped the poker.
iin'ThiS‘ brought the scene to an end. Matthew spat fu-
riously on the ground and went out instantly, slamming the
door. For how could he make a laughing-stock of himself
by coming to blows with a woman?
Thereupon th'e'beldame turned to Yagna, to vent her fury
Withers? ~With what upbraidings did she fall upon the girl,
THE PEASANTS 132
and discharge her soul of the gall she was bursting with!
At ﬁrst Yagna sat dumbstruck and petriﬁed with dismay;
but soon her mother’s bitter words stung her to the quick.
She hid her face in the bed she was sitting by, and burst
into tears and lamentations. She was cut to the heart. . . .
What wrong had she done? . . . She had not even asked
him in: he had come by himself. . . . Mother had reminded
her of last spring. . . . Well . . . he had met her at the
stile. . . . How could she get away from so impetuous a
ﬁre-drake, when a ﬁt of faintness came over her so? . .
And after that . . . how could she keep him off? Impos-
sible! . . . It was always the case with her: when a man
looked deep into her eyes, or embraced her with a powerful
hug . . . then all within her trembled, and her strength
forsook her, and her inwards swooned away, and she knew
nothing more. Was she in any wise to blame for this?
These complaints she uttered in a choking voice, between
bursts of tears; and at last her mother, softening towards
her, wiped her face and eyes with tender care, and stroked
her tresses, and soothed her.
“Come, come, Yagna; be calm: do not weep. Why, your
eyes will look like a rabbit’s: and how will you be able to go
to Boryna’s then?”
“Is’t time to go now?” she asked after a while, a little
comforted.
“It is.--Now dress and array yourself—There will be
many there, and even Boryna will notice you.”
Yagna instantly rose and prepared to deck herself out.
“Shall I boil some milk for you?”
“I have no mind at all to eat, Mother dear.”
“Simon! you hulking oaf! Warming yourself at the ﬁre,
indeed—and the kine gnawing at the empty mangers!” she
cried, exhaling the last of her anger on the lad, who ﬂed
in bodily fear.
“’Tis my mind,” she remarked, helping Yagna dress,
“that the blacksmith has been reconciled with Boryna: I
met him leading a calf home from the old man’s farm.—
A pity! ’twas worth ﬁfteen roubles at least. And yet it
133 AUTUMN
may be as well that they agree together; for the smith
has a dangerous tongue, and knows the law besides. . . She stepped back, and looked lovingly at her daughter.
“Alas! they have let that thief Koziol out of jail already;
and now we shall have to watch, and lock every door
well.”
Yagna set off; but for some distance on her way she heard
her mother inveighing against Andrew for leaving the swine
out of their sties, and letting the fowls roost in the trees.
Many people were already at Boryna’s when she arrived.
The ﬁre was leaping up the chimney, lighting the big
room, making the glazed picture-frames glisten, and giving
a semblance of motion to the many globes made of coloured
wafers that dangled from the grimy, smoke-blackened raft-
ers. In the middle there lay a heap of cabbages, round
which, in a wide semicircle, with faces turned towards the
hearth, a good many girls and some women of maturer age
sat side by side, stripping the cabbages of their outer and
withered leaves, and throwing them on to a great sheet that
was spread out under the window.
Having warmed her hands at the ﬁre, Yagna took her
clogs off, and at once sat down to work at the end of the
row, next to old Yagustynka.
The room soon grew noisier, more men and women com-
ing in: some of the former, together with Kuba, helping to
bring the cabbages in from the barn, but for the most part
only smoking cigarettes and grinning at the Iasses, or crack-
ing jokes together.
Yuzka, though hardly in her teens as yet, presided over
the work and the fun; for old Boryna had not come home,
and Hanka was as usual ﬂitting about everywhere like a
moth.
“Why, the room glows like a ﬁeld of red poppies!” ex-
claimed Antek, who, having rolled several barrels into the
passage, had now set the cabbage-cutter by the ﬁre, but a
little on one side.
“Bah! they are dressed up as though for a wedding!”
remarked an elderly woman.
THE PEASANTS 134
“And Yagna looks as if she had been washed in milk,”
Yagustynka said, in a spiteful tone.
“Let me be, will you?” the girl whispered, ﬂushing deeply.
“Rejoice, O ye lasses,” the old woman continued; “for
Matthew is back from his wanderings. And now will the
time begin for music, and dancing, and trysts in the
orchards!”
“He has been absent all the summer.”
“Yes; building a farm-house at Vola.”
“A grand master-builder: could build a castle in the air,”
said one of the farm-hands.
“And achieve a bantling in less than nine months,” ob-
served Yagustynka.
“Always speaking against somebody, you are!” one of
the girls protested.
“Take heed lest I choose to speak of you!” was the retort.
“Have you heard them say the old wanderer has come to
Lipka again?”
“He will be with us to-night,” Yuzka boasted.
“He was away for three years.”
“Yes, at the Holy Sepulchre.”
“Fiddlesticks! Who saw him there? He lies like a
gipsy, and only fools believe him. just like the smith,
telling us what he has read in the papers about foreign
parts.”
“Do not say that, Yagustynka. His Reverence himself
told Mother that the man was there.”
“Ah, we all know that Dominikova’s other home is the
priest’s house, and whenever his Reverence has a stomach-
ache, she knows all about it.”
Yagna said not a word, but would have loved to knife
the old hag, for her gibe was the signal of a burst of laugh-
ter. But just then Ulisia, Gregory’s wife, leatned over to-
wards Klembova and asked her whence the man was.
“Whence? From far away; where, no man can tell.”
She stooped to take up another cabbage, and as she cut off
the old leaves, said in a louder tone, so that all might hear
her: “Every third winter he comes to Lipka, and takes up
135 AUTUMN
his quarters with Boryna. Roch is the name he chooses
to go by; but it certainly is not his. He is a Dzz'ad, and yet
no Dziaa’: what he really is, who knows? But a good and
religious man, that he is no doubt; he only needs a halo
round his head to be just like a saint in a picture. Round
his neck he wears a rosary that has touched the sepulchre
of our Lord. He gives the children holy images, and also ‘
-—-to some of them—pictures of the kings who once ruled
our country. He has prayer-books besides, and other books
that tell about everything in the world. . . . He was read-
ing some of them to our Valek. We listened too, my hus-
band and I: but the things were hard to make out, and I
have forgotten them. . . . And so pious! Half the day, he
is on his knees; and then again before the cruciﬁx, or out
in the ﬁelds; he never goes to church but for mass. His
Reverence asked Roch to stay with him, but his answer was:
“‘My place is with the common people, and not in
chambers.’
“Everybody knows he is not a peasant, though he speaks
as we do. And how learned he is! He can jabber in
German with a jew; and at the manor of Djazgova, where
dwells a young lady who was in a warm country for her
health, he spoke with her in an outlandish tongue!-—Nor will
he take aught from any man, save a drop of milk or a mor-
sel of bread: and he teaches our children besides. They
say . . .”—-Here she was interrupted by a great burst of
laughter that made the company hold their sides.
The cause was Kuba, who had been bringing cabbages in
a sheet and, receiving a push, had fallen sprawling on the
ﬂoor, all the cabbages rolling about the room. He tried to
rise, but as soon as be began to scramble up, another push
sent him down again.
Yuzka took his part, and came to help him up at last;
but he was exasperated, and uttered fearful language.
But the interest turned to other matters presently. All
spoke at once, and this—though no one spoke loudly—made
a hubbub as in a hive before swarming-time; and there
were peals of merriment, and banter; and eyes ﬂashed, and
THE PEASANTS 136
tongues waxed bold, and the work went on swifter and
swifter. The knives rattled upon the stalks, the cabbages
fell into the sheet like a running ﬁre of cannon-balls: every
moment the heap rose higher. Antek was using the
cabbage-cutter over a big barrel rolled close to the ﬁre—-
undressed, save for his shirt and the striped drawers that
he wore, ﬂushed, dishevelled, streaming with perspiration,
and yet so handsome that Yagna feasted her eyes on his
picturesque form. From time to time he paused to take
breath; and then he would look at her, and she would cast
her eyes down and blush. This, however, was noticed by
none save Yagustynka, who pretended to have seen nothing,
whilst taking thought how best to spread the news about
the village.
“They say Martianna is conﬁned,” Klembova said.
“That’s no news, but a yearly thing.”
“The woman’s an aurochs! But for the babies she has,
she would certainly get a stroke!” Yagustynka grumbled,
and would have gone on, had not the others rebuked her
for talking of such things in the presence of girls.
“Fear not for them,” she replied. “They know a good
deal more than that already. In these days, you cannot
speak to a goose-boy about the stork, but he will laugh in
your face. No, no, it was otherwise of old times.”
“Well, you at any rate knew everything when you were a
cow-herd,” said Vavrek’s old wife, very gravely. “Have I
forgotten all you did when tending cattle?”
“If you have not, then keep it to yourself!” cried Yagus-
tynka, with wrathful asperity.
“I was then already married. Let me see: with Matthew?
No, with Michael; Vavrek was my third,” she muttered,
not quite clear as to the date of the old hag’s youthful
frailties.
Here Nastusia, Matthew’s sister, burst breathless into the
room, crying out: “What, are you all sitting here, and
know ye not what has befallen?”
Questioned on every side, and with every eye ﬁxed on
137 AUTUMN
her: “Why,” she said, “the miller’s horses have been
stolen!”
“When?”
“But two minutes ago. Our Matthew has just heard of
it from Yankel.”
“Yankel always knows of this sort of things from the
ﬁrst—and perhaps a little before, too.”
“They were taken out of the stables. The farm-servant
went to the mill to get provender; and when he came back,
the stable was bare, both of horses and harness! And the
dog was found poisoned in its kennel.”
“Winter is coming on, and strange things happen in
winter.”
“Because there is really no punishment at all for thieves.
Why, what do they get? A warm prison cell, food in
plenty, and so much to learn from their fellow-thieves that,
when they get out, they know twice as much, and are twice
as bad.”
“Oh, but if anyone should steal my horses, and I got
hold of him, I would kill him on the spot like a mad dog!”
cried one of the farm-hands.
“Only fools look for justice in this world. Anyone who
can, may right his own wrongs.”
“Should such a one be caught by a great number of men
and killed, these surely could not be punished: impossible
to punish all of them!”
“I remember,” said Vavrek’s wife, “something in that way,
done here amongst us. . . . I had then my second husband
—-no, let me see; Matthew was yet living then . .
Her reminiscences were cut short by the entrance of
Boryna.
“Oh,” he cried in a merry mood, “the noise of your chat-
tering can be heard across the water!” and taking off his
cap, he greeted each guest, one after another. Possibly he
was already slightly elevated, being as red as a beetroot; and
contrary to his custom, he unbuttoned his capote, and talked
loud and long. He greatly wished ito come over and sit by
THE PEASANTS 138
Yagna, but durst not: it would never do, so long as things
had not been settled between them. So he only enjoyed
the looks of her—so comely, so well dressed—adorned, too,
with the kerchief he had bought for her!
Vitek and Kuba brought a long bench and set it in front
of the ﬁre. And Yuzka, having wiped it with a clean linen
cloth, at once set on it the necessary dishes and spoons for
supper.
Out of the pantry Boryna brought a big-bellied bottle,
containing four quarts of vodka, and went round drinking
to each visitor, and with him.
The girls, however, hung back with affected dislike, until
one of the farm-hands cried out: “They’re all as fond of
vodka as a cat of milk, but just hold off for the look of the
thing!”
“The hopeless drunkard! Always at Yankel’s, he thinks
everyone is like him!”
So they held off no more, but drank, ﬁrst turning away
and putting their hands before their faces, then throwing
the last drops on to the ﬂoor, with due rites; and each made
a wry face and exclaimed: “How very strong!” as she re-
turned the glass to Boryna.
Yagna alone refused to drink, however much she was
asked. '
“I do not so much as know how vodka tastes, and I do
not care to know.”
“Well, now, sit down, dear friends, and partake of what
we have for you,” was Boryna’s invitation, after the vodka.
Several formalities, commanded by good breeding, having
been gone through, they all seated themselves to eat delib-
erately and engage in conversation.
The food was so very excellent as to surprise many of the
guests. There were boiled potatoes, served in broth; there
was sodden meat, with barley meal; there was cabbage to-
gether with peas in one‘ dish: all offered with great hospital-
ity on the part of the master, who not only invited, but
pressed his visitors to enjoy themselves.
Vitek heaped the ﬁre with dry roots, which made a joyful
139 AUTUMN
crackling noise; and while they were eating, Kuba brought
in a heap of fresh cabbages, which he piled up, greedily
snifﬁng the dainties on the table, and sighing.
“Those creatures!” he grumbled to himself; “all eating
away like starved horses! Very likely they will not leave
a man as much as a bone to gnaw!”
Presently, however, the meal was over, and all stood up to
say “God reward you!” to the founder of the feast.
“May it do you good!” was the set reply.
A few minutes of unrest ensued, during which some went
out to take a little air and stretch their limbs, some to see
whether the sky was clearing up; and the farm-hands, to
stand about the porch and chaff the girls.
And then Kuba sat down upon the threshold, with a dish
on his lap, and gorged himself with such an intensity of
appetite that he did not so much as notice the dog Lapa,
notwithstanding its gentle hints; and Lapa, ﬁnding it would
get nothing in that quarter, made for the passage reserved
for the other dogs that had come with the guests and were
gnawing the bones thrown to them by Yuzka.
They were about to fall to work again, when Roch ap-
peared upon the threshold, and “praised jesus Christ.”
“World without end!” was the reply of all.
“ ‘See ye come not too late, but when food’s on the
plate,’ ” Boryna quoted.
“Let Yuzka but give me some bread and milk; ’twill do.”
“There’s some meat remaining still,” said Hanka, timidly.
“No, thanks; I never eat meat.”
At ﬁrst, all were silent, staring at him with friendly cu-
riosity; but when he sat down to eat, they soon again fell
a-talking and a-laughing.
Yagna alone eyed the old pilgrim again and again, with
wondering looks, surprised that such a one, not unlike
other men, should have visited the tomb of Christ our Lord,
and gone over half the world, and seen so many a marvel.
What was it like, then, the great world he knew? Where
should one go, to arrive at it? Around her there were only
hamlets and ﬁelds and pine-forests, beyond which again
THE PEASANTS 140
stretched ﬁelds and pine-forests and hamlets. One must go
a hundred leagues, or perhaps a thousand, she thought. She
was strangely drawn to put some questions to the man; but
how could she? The folk would only laugh at her.
Rafal’s son, who had just come back from the army, had
brought his ﬁddle; and now, having tuned it, began to play
one tune after another. Silence came over the room; only
the rain was heard, pattering upon the panes, and the voices
of the dogs whining outside.
He played and played on, ever some new tune, drawing
his bow across the strings, and the melody seemed to come
forth by itself at its caressing touch. First he played re-
ligious tunes, as though in honour of the pilgrim, who never
took his eyes off the young man. Then came other and
quite worldly airs; for instance, the one about “johnny has
gone to the wars,” which the girls were used to sing in the
ﬁelds so often; and he drew the notes out with such in-
ﬁnite sadness that an icy shudder ran down one’s spine; and
Yagna, who was sensitive to music as are but few, felt tears,
one after another, trickling down her cheeks.
“Oh, do leave off!” Nastka called out. “You are making
Yagna cry.”
“No, no; I always feel tearful when there is music,”
Yagna whispered, covering her face with her apron.
But she could not help the tears that ﬂowed against her
will, called forth by the strange yearning which she felt
within her—-and for what? She knew not.
The young fellow went on playing; only the ﬁddle now
poured out riotous Mazurs and such lively Obertas that
the girls could scarce remain seated, but must perforce
squeeze their restless quivering knees together to do so, while
the boys stamped merrily and hummed the tunes, and the
whole room was in a tumult of noise and laughter, and the
very window-panes were shaking.
On a sudden, a dog in the passage set up a lamentable
howl, a howl so piercing that on the spot the room became as
still as death.
“What is that?”
l4! ' AUTUMN
Roch had dashed out so suddenly that he had narrowly
missed falling over the cabbage-cutter. -
“No great thing,” Antek cried, after a look into the pas-
sage; “some lad has been squeezing a dog’s tail in the
doorway.” I
“Vitek’s work, I make no doubt,” Boryna said.
Yuzka defended the boy most earnestly: “What, Vitek
cruel to a dog? Never!”
Roch now returned, very greatly agitated. He had prob»
ably let the dog loose, for it was heard outside, whining
close to the fence.
“A dog, too, is God’s creature,” he said excitedly, “and it
suffers when ill-treated, as does any man. Our Lord also
had a dog of His own, and suffered no one to use it ill.”
“What? The Lord Jesus had a dog, just as men have?”
queried Yagustynka the doubter.
“I tell you that He had; and Burek was its name.”
The statement was received with a chorus of exclamations:
“Well-a-day!-—How now? Can this be!” and so on.
Roch was silent for a while; then, raising his hoary head,
covered with long-hair save in front, where it was cut
straight and short over the forehead, and ﬁxing upon the
ﬁre those eyes out of which the colour seemed to have been
washed by many a tear, he began to speak slowly, his beads
slipping meanwhile through his ﬁngers. -
“In those far-off bygone times, when jesus our Lord yet
walked upon this earth, and ruled over the nations in ‘His
own Person, the thing of which I shall tell you came to pass.
“Now, jesus was going to the local feast in the parish
of Mstov. And there was no road thither, but the way
was through desolate burning sands only; and the sun beat,
hot upon them, and the air was-even as when a storm‘is
nigh at hand. -
“Nor was there any shade or shelter anywhere.
“Our Lord walked on patiently; but though He was not
yet near the forest, His holy feet were quite numb with
weary travel, and He felt exceeding great thirst. Therefore
did he vagain and again stop to rest- on some hillock upon 'the
‘TH’E'PEASANTS 142
way: albeit the heat there Was still greater, and there was
not enough shadow from the few dry stalks of mullein for
even a fowl'of the air to ﬁnd shelter.
“But when He had seated Himself, it was hard for Him,
without air to breathe; for lo, immediately the Evil One—-
as a foul goShawk swooping down on some weary little bird
—Would swoop down, beating up the sand with his hoofs,
and wallowing therein as would someunclean beast; and a
cloud of sand arose, hiding all things from sight in darkness.
“NOW OUr Lord, although He neither could well breathe,
nor indeed move (so dark it was), rose up and Walked on,
only laughing to s’cOrn the foolish one, the ﬁend who would
make Him lose His way, so that He might not be there at
the local~ feast to save the sinful people. I
“And jesus walked and'walked, until He came to the
forest. ' ~ ' T A '
“There, in the shadow, He rested somewhat, and refreshed
Himself with water, and with that which was in His scrip.
. . . Then, breaking off a bough for a staff, He crossed
HimSelf, and entered the fOrest.
“Now, that forest was most ancient and thick, with great
*fastnesses of'deep mire, and matted tangles of undergrowth
and dense brushwood, almost impervious even for a bird,
wherein the Evil One himself surely did dwell. Yet jesus
entered thither. ' ~ ’
“Whereupon, what did the ﬁend not do? He shook the
forest, and. howled,'and broke “in twain the great branches
with the help of the blast, as his Wicked attendant aiding
him all it cOuld; blowing the Oak-trees down, tearing the
branches Off, and roaring through the forest like-one mad!
“Moreover, it grew‘dark, blindingly dark, and on this
side there was a hubbub, and on that side a din, and on the
other a whirlwind. And round about jesus there ran hellish
imps, leaping, showing their long teeth, glaring and snarl-
ing, and all but clutching at Him with their claws. Only
that they durst not do, for the awe they had of Christ’s most
sacred Person. \ i '
“But when otir Lord grew weary of all those foolish ’hOb-
143 " AUTUMN
goblins, being in haste to arrive at the local feast, He made
the sign of the Cross over them—and behold, all the evil
spirits with their impish helpers straightway disappeared in
the brushwood. ' I i ‘ ‘ ‘
“And 10, there remained only one wild dog; for in those
days the dog had n0t yet become the' friend of man.
“This dog therefore ﬂed not, but, running after our Lord,
barked at Him; and following after, it tore at His capote,
and'snapped at His scrip, and Would‘fain have seized the
meat which was therein. . . . But our Lord, being merciful,
and unwilling to harm any of His creatures, said unto it:
“ ‘Silly one, hungry one, behold! here is meat for thee!’
And He threw it some, which He took'from out of His
scrip. ‘
“But the dog waxed still more angry, and in its fury it
bared its teeth and, snarling, attacked our Lord, and tore
the hose which He was wearing. ' -
“ ‘I gave bread unto thee; I harmed thee not: and yet
thou tearest My garments, and barkest to no avail? Thou
art foolish, thou little dog of mine, that thou knowest not
thy Master! Because thou hast done this, shalt thou be
the servant of man, and helpless without him evermore.’
“When our Lord had said this, speaking in a loud voice,
the dog sat down on its hind quarters; and then, stupeﬁed,
with its tail between its legs, it went away into the wide
world. _ .
“Now, at the local feast, there were many, many people,
thick as the blades of grass on the meadows.
“Only the church was empty. They were carousing in
the taverns, and had set up a great fair in the church clo‘is-
ters, with drinking and lechery, and sins against God, such
as do happen even in our days. ' ~ ‘ '
“Our Lord arrived when High Mass was over. He saw
the people agitated like the corn in the breeze, and running
to and fro, some striking with whips, some pulling stakes
out of the fences, and others seeking for stones; and the
wOmen were screaming and rushing to scramble over the
hedges, or into their carts; and the children wept. ~
THE PEASANTS 144
“They all were shouting aloud: ‘Lo, a mad dog! a mad
dog!’
“And through the waves of the people the dog sped on,
for all made way for it to pass: so, with tongue lolling out,
it darted straight towards the Lord jesus.
“Our Lord feared it not, and He knew that it was the
dog from the forest; and He doﬂed His capote, speaking
unto the dog; and it straightway went no further.
“ ‘Come hither, Burek,’ He said; ‘here, by My side, thou
shalt be safer than ever thou wast in the forest.’
' “He covered it with His capote, and spread His hands out
over it, and said:
“ ‘Kill it not, O men: for behold, it is a creature of God,
wretched and hungry, hunted and without a master.’
“Howbeit the peasants began to cry aloud, murmuring,
and striking with their staves upon the earth.
“‘It was a wild and savage beast; it had carried away
many geese and lambs of theirs, and never ceased from do-
ing evil. Nor did it reverence man at all, but snapped at
him with its fangs, so that none \could go abroad, unless
he bore a stick. Wherefore it must needs be slain."
“But jesus waxed wroth, and cried:
“ ‘Let no one stirl—O ye drunkards, ye fear a dog, and
ye fear not the Lord your God?’
“They then shrank back, for He had spoken with a
mighty voice. And then He said further that they were
evil-doers, who had come to gain the indulgence, and did but
drink in the taverns, and offend God, and repented them
not; men accursed, ungodly, thieves and torturers one of
another; but they should not escape the judgments of God!
“And having ended these words, the Lord jesus took up
His staff, and made as if to depart.
“But the people now knew who He was, and knelt down
before Him, and cried out and wept with great lamenta-
tions, saying: ‘Abide with us, abide, O Lord jesus! and
we will be faithful unto Thee, we drunkards, we ungodly
ones, we evil-doers—only abide with us! Punish us, smite
us, but forsake us not, helpless orphans, a masterless people!’
145 AUTUMN
And they wept so sore, and begged so earnestly, kissing His
sacred hands and feet, that His heart softened towards
them, and He remained the space of a few prayers, teach-
ing and shriving and blessing them all.
“And when He departed from among them, He said:
‘Hath the dog done any harm to you? Lo, it will hence-
forward be your servant, and watch over the geese and
drive your sheep: and if one or another of you shall sleep,
having drunk over much, it shall be the guardian of your
little holdings, and your friend.
“ ‘Only do ye treat it with kindness, nor do it any wrong.’
“So Jesus went forth, and left them. And looking round,
He ‘iw Burek, sitting where He had stood by its side to
defend it.
“ ‘Wilt thou come with Me, Burek, or abide here in thy
foolishness?’
“And thereupon the dog rose up; and thenceforth it al-
ways followed jesus, as quiet, as faithful, as watchful as
the best of servants could be.
“And from that time forth, they were always together.
“And if at any time a famine came over the land, the dog
would catch a small bird, or a gosling, or a lambkin; so that
they both had wherewithal to live.
“Ofttimes also, when jesus was tired, and rested Him-
self, Burek would drive away wicked men and evil beasts,
and not let them hurt jesus.
“But when it came to pass that the vile jews and their
cruel Pharisees seized our Lord to put Him to death, then
Burek ﬂew at them all, poor loving creature! and defended
Him, using its teeth as it could.
“But jesus, stooping beneath the Tree which He was
bearing for His sacred Passion, said unto Burek:
“ ‘Thou canst do no good: and behold, their consciences
will bite them deeper than thy teeth!’
“And when they hanged Him on the bitter Cross, Burek
sat beside it, and did howl.
“Now, the next day, when all men had departed, and
neither His blessed Mother, nor His holy Apostles were
THE PEASANTS I46
there, Burek alone abode by His side, and licked again and
again the sacred dying feet of our Lord, pierced through
with nails; and it howled, and howled, and howled.
“And when the third day rose, jesus awoke from His
swoon, and looked; and no one was nigh Him beside the
Cross, save only Burek, whining pitifully, and fawning at
His feet.
“Then did Christ Jesus, our most Holy Lord, look merci-
fully upon it in that hour, and say with His last dying
breath:
“ ‘Come with me, Burek!
“And the dog at that very instant did breathe its last,
and follow its Lord!
“Amen.
“All this came to pass as I have said, O dearly beloved,”
Roch concluded, pleasantly; and, making the sign of the
cross, he passed over to the other lodgings, where Hanka
had prepared him a corner to sleep in; for he was very
tired.
There was dead silence through the room for a time.
All were pondering over that strange fantastic story. Some
of the girls—Yagna, Yuzka, and Nastka amongst them—
stealthily brushed their tears away; for their emotions had
been strongly excited, both by the doOm of Christ, and
by the part played in it by the dog Burek. Also, the very
fact that there had been a dog upon earth better and more
faithful to our Lord than men were, gave them all much
matter for reﬂection. Slowly, and at ﬁrst under their
breath, they began to make various comments upon so won-
derful a Divine‘ordinance; when Yagustynka, who all the
time had listened with great attention, lifted up her head,
and said with a sneer: @
“Fiddle-de-dee, ﬁddle-de-deeI—One fable and two make
three! I’ll tell you a far better tale: how a man made
an ox.
I47 AUTUMN
“ ‘Of old the steer,
Not the ox, was made;
But a man took a blade-
Lo, the ox is here!’
“My tale is at least as true as Roch’s,” she said, with
a burst of laughter. Those about her laughed likewise, and
presently the room was full of jokes, and funny sayings and
tales of all sorts.
“Ah, there’s nothing that Yagustynka does not know!”
“She has learned, she has learned; has she not buried three
husbands?”
“Oh, yes: the ﬁrst taught her in the morning with a whip;
the second at noon with a strap; and the third in the eve-
ning with a cudgel!” Rafal cried.
“And a fourth would I take, but not you: too stupid a
hobbledehoy for me!”
Here one of the young men observed: “As our Lord’s
dog could not do without men, so women cannot do without
beating: the want of that is what makes Yagustynka so
spiteful.”
“You’re a fool,” she retorted, with a ﬁerce snarl. “just
you take heed no one sees you, when you steal your father’s
corn for Yankel; let widows alone, they are beyond your
understanding!”-——Everyone was silent, fearing lest she
might, in a ﬁt of anger, tell all she possibly might know.
Indeed, she was a most stiff-necked woman, who held her
own opinion on every matter, and would often utter such
words as made men’s ﬂesh creep, and their hair stand on
end. She had respect for no one, not even for the priest
and the Church. His Reverence had more than once ad-
monished her, but without effect: nay, she even talked about
his rebukes in the village.
“Oh, without any priest we can all manage with God,
if we are but honest folkl—Let him rather take more
heed of his housekeeper: she is with child for the third
time, and will soon be dropping it somewhere, as she did
before.”
THE PEASANTS 148
Such was her character.
When they were about to separate, the Voyt came in with
the Soltys, giving orders that the peasants should go next
day to work at repairing the road by the mill: it had been
damaged by the rains No sooner had the Voyt come in
than he exclaimed, stretching out both arms:
“Why, the old boy has invited all the prettiest girls in
the village!”
And so he had: all were of the best stock, and robust and
blooming,
The Voyt had a private talk with old Boryna, but no
one could catch what they said. He withdrew, after a few
words of banter with the lasses, having still half the village
to summon for the morrow. They too departed soon after,
it being late.
Boryna said farewell to each one in particular, and even
saw the elder women to the gate.
Yagustynka, on leaving, raised her voice, and said:
“God bless you for your good cheer; but all was not as
it might have been.”
“Indeed?”
“You need someone to keep house for you, Matthias:
without such a one, how can things go right?”
“What’s to be done, friend? What’s to be done? .
She died, it was God’s will . . .”
“Have we no girls here? Why, every Thursday they all
wait for you to propose to one of them,” she said, cun-
ningly trying to draw him out. But Boryna only scratched
his head and smiled, looking instinctively towards Yagna,
who was going out.
Antek expected her exit; so he dressed quickly and
slipped out ﬁrst.
Yagna had to return alone: her companions all' lived in
the direstion of the mill.
“Yagna!” he whispered, coming suddenly out of a
hedge-side.
She stopped, knew his voice, and was at once seized with
emotion.
I49 ' AUTUMN
“I’ll see you home, Yagna!”-,—He looked round; the night
was black, starless. Above them, the wind roared, sweeping
over the tree-tops.
His arm enclosed her waist in a tight grasp; and, one
close to the other, they both vanished in the gloom.
CHAPTER VIII
arranged between Boryna and Yagna burst upon the
village of Lipka.
The Voyt had gone over to her with the proposal. His wife,
whom he had severely forbidden to breathe a single word
about the matter until he had come back with the answer,
waited till evening to visit an acquaintance, on the pretext
of borrowing some salt; and as she went away, she took her
good friend apart, and whispered:
“Do you know what? Boryna has just sent a proposal
to Yagna, daughter of Dominikova. But beware and tell no
one, for my husband has forbidden me to speak of it at all.”
“Can this be?” she gasped in amazement. “Should my
I T was on the following day that the news of the marriage
tongue wag of such a thing about the village? . . . So old
a man, taking a third wife! . . . And his children, what
will they say? . . . Oh, what a world it is!”
No sooner had the Voyt’s wife withdrawn than, tying
her apron over her head, she hurried through the orchard to
the Klembas’, “just to borrow a bit of tow to scrub with.”
“Have you heard? Boryna is to marry Yagna, daughter
of Dominikova! He has but now sent messengers with his
proposal.”
“Impossible! What do you say? Nay; he has full-
grown children, and is himself stricken in years.”
“True, he is not young. But they will not refuse him for
that. . . . A farmer so reputable, a man so rich!”
“Ah, but that Yagna! she that has had dalliance, and with
more than one! To be the wife of the ﬁrst farmer here!
Is there any justice in the world, say? And meanwhile, so
many a girl is remaining unwedded—my younger sister, for
example!”
150
l5l AUTUMN
“Or my brother’s widow. . . . Or the Kopzyva girls. . . .
Or Nastka, and many another.—No, it is not seemly, ’tis
not meet, not right; what think you?”
“She will be mightily puffed up, and strut Ja’bout like a
peacock, will she not?” "
“Great offence of God there must be: be sure that neither
the smith nor Boryna’s children will suffer her as a
stepmother.”
“Alas, what can they do? The land is as much his own
as his will is.”
“By law, yes; but in justice, it belongs to them as
well.”
“My dear friend, justice is always for him who has the
power to get it on his side.”
They continued thus, complaining and inveighing against
the world and all its deeds, and went their way. And with
them the news spread throughout the hamlet.
The little work there was to do was not urgent; so the peo-
ple were all at home, the roads being as quaggy as so many
sloughs; and the possible marriage was discussed in every
cabin. [All were eagerly expectant of what would take place,
They Well knew how headstrong Boryna was, and that he
would not be turned away from a course he had chosen for
himself, even were his Reverence to dissuade him. They
knew, too, the unyielding pride of Antek’s nature.
Even those men who had been drafted to mend the mill-
side road where the dam had burst, stopped in their work
to talk of so momentous an occurrence.
t Various opinions were set forth; and at last, old Klemba,
an intelligent and respected farmer, gave the stern
judgment:
“The whole village will be the worse for this
“Antek will not suffer it,” someone said. “What, another
mouth to feed?”
“That would make no difference. But the inheritance!
There’s the rub.”
“There will surely have to be a marriage settlement.”
“Yes; Dominikova is shrewd, and will manage that.”
‘37
THE PEASANTS 152
“She is a mother,” Klemba put in, “and even a bitch will
defend her own puppies.”
Thus, all the afternoon, the people in the village were
talking the 'matter over. Which was no wonder, the Boryna
family being of “the, very best stock of husbandmen, and
Matthias holding larid.\which had from time immemorial
belonged to his people, being also endowed with hereditary
keenness of wit, as well as riches; so that everybody,
willingly or not, had to take 111 _ into account.
To none of his children, howeiker, not even to the smith,
durst anyone tell the news: the ragds't would cause might be
so great as to result in a sound thrag'ir'r‘g for the teller.
All then was quiet at Boryna’s hut; More so, indeed, than
usual. The rain had ceased since morning, and the sky was
clear. Antek, along with Kuba and thelwomenfolk, had
been sent to the forest at once after breakfast, in order to
get some dry fuel, and see whether they could not rake
together some supply of pine-needles.
Boryna himself had stayed at home. Since early morn-
ing, he had been curiously ill-humoured and strangely
- irritable, always on the look-out for someone who should
bear the brunt of the impatience and nervousness which had
seized upon him. He had beaten Vitek for omitting to
spread straw beneath the cows, which consequently had
spent the night with their sides deep in dung; had quar-
relled with Antek, and scolded Hanka, because her little
boy had dirtied himself while playing outside the house; and
had even spoken harshly to Yuzka.
When he was at last alone with Yagustynka, engaged
overnight to see to the cattle the next day, he no longer
knew what to do with himself. Again and again did he call
to mind what Ambrose had related of his reception by
Dominikova. Nevertheless he felt uneasy, and doubtful of
the old fellow, who was able to tell any lie to get a glass
of vodka. So he prowled about the hut, looking, now from
the window, now from the porch, in the direction of Yagna’s
dwelling; and as a beggar waits for alms, so he awaited the
coming of the nlght.

x
153 AUTUMN
Many and many a time did he long to be off to the Voyt’s
and urge the man to start sooner: nothwithstanding, he re-
mained at home, restrained by the look in Yagustynka’s
eyes, half closed and expressive of sarcastic amusement,
which were continually ﬁxed upon him.
“That hag!” he said to himself; “her eyes are gimlets.”
She meanwhile went about the house and passage with
her distaff under her armpit, seeing to things here and there.
She span till her spindle whirred in the air as it turned;
then she wound up the thread, and went out to the geese,
the swine, the byre, while Lapa, drowsily and heavily,
followed her steps. She spoke not a word to. the old
'man, though she well knew what it was that tormented
him so, and even drove him to put up stakes round the
walls for the winter sheathing that was to keep the house
warm.
Now and then, howeyer, she made halt in front of him;
and at last she said: “You seem not to be getting on with
your work to-day.”
“Devil take it! no, I’m not.”
“Oh!” she thought, as she went away; “the place will be
a hell . . . a helll—But the old man is right to marry
—quite right. If he did not, his children would be sure
to give him board and lodging—as mine have done for
me! . . . Yes, I made over a good ten acres of the very
best land to them. And here I am!” She spat angrily. “I
must go out now to work, and lodge in another’s dwelling!”
At last the old man, unable to stand it any longer, tossed
his ax away and shouted: “Curse this work!”
“There’s something that troubles your mind.”
“There is, there is!”
“And yet you have no reason in the world to be troubled.”
“Much you know of it!”
Yagustynka came and sat down close by the wall, pulled
out a long thread, wound it on the spindle, and said, slowly
.md not without trepidation:
, “Fear nothing. Dominikova has a good head, and
't’agna is no fool.”
THE PEASANTS ' 154
“What have you said!” he cried out delighted, and sat
down by her side.
“I have eyes to see.”
There was a long pause, each awaiting what the other
would say.
“just invite me to your wedding; and I’ll sing you such
a Hop-song 1 as will bring about a christening in the house
in nine months. . ” So she began; but, seeing the old
man scowl, she changed her tone. _
“Matthias, you are doing just what you should do. Had
I but sought out another husband when mine died, I should
not now have to lodge in a house that is not my own. Oh,
no! . . . But I was a simpleton, I trusted to my children:
they were to board me. I made over all I had to them:
and now?”
“But I,” he answered in a hard voice, “will give up not
one single bit of ground.”
“Right—l had to drag my cause from court to court:
the few zloty that I had went all that way, yet they got me
no justice. And here I am in my old age, degraded to a
woman of all work!—Last Sunday I went to them, only just
to see my old place once more, and the orchard I had
planted myself; and my daughter-in-law beshrewed me,
saying I had come to spy on her! To spy, good
heavens! . . . I thought I should fall down dead—l went
to his Reverence, that he might rebuke them from the pulpit
for those words; but he told me that our Lord would make
me amends for the wrong they had done. Aye, aye! of
course. For him that has nothing in the world, even God’s
grace is worth having; but I would far rather have property
here on earth, and sleep my ﬁll in a warm room and a
feather-bed, and eat much butter and fat, and divert
myself!”
She continued holding forth against everything in the
world, and with such violence that Boryna left her, and
sallied out to the Voyt’s: for twilight was at hand.
lHop-song—a very primitive sort of nuptial song-Translator’s
Note.
155 ' AUTUMN
“Well, are you starting yet?”
“This very minute: Simon will be here at once.”
Simon appeared and all three went to the tavern, to toss
off a dram and get a ﬂask of rum for the proposal-
offering. . . . Ambrose, who was there before them, joined
them directly; but they could not drink long, for Matthias
was urging them to make haste.
“I shall be waiting here for you.‘ If they drink back,
then bring them hither—And speedily!” he added, calling
after them as they went out.
They walked along the middle of the road, splashing
through the mud. The twilight deepened, covering the land
with its gossamer web of sober grey; and soon the village
was no more, save for the cabin lights that began twinkling
through the dusk, and the barking of the watchdogs in the
farmyards.
“My fellow-messenger!” said the Voyt, after a time.
“Well?”
“Boryna’s wedding will, I fancy, be a grand one.’
“That’s as it may be,” the other returned, in surly
fashion; he was a taciturn man.
“It will, I tell you—I, the Voyt, a man Whom you may
believe. We shall make such a match of it that . . . Ha!
ha!”
“The mare may prove restive, if so be the stallion prove
not to her liking.”
“That does not concern us in any wise.”
“But his children—they will curse us, sure.”
“All shall be well: I the Voyt tell you so.”
And they walked into Dominikova’s hut.
The room was lighted, and carefully swept; they were
expected.
The messengers “praised God”; then, greeting in turn
everyone present, took seats close to the ﬁre-place, and
opened the conversation.
“The weather is cold; there seems to be a frost at hand.”
“Very likely; it is not springtime, nor near it!”
“Have you gathered in all the cabbages?”
THE PEASANTS 156
“All but a few that we cannot get in just now,” the old
dame replied indifferently, casting her eyes on Yagna, who
was near the window, making up skeins of spun ﬂax, and
who looked so comely that the Voyt, a man still in the
golélen time of life, cast an eager glance at her, before he
sai :
“As the ways are foul and miry, and the night-air is dank,
I and Simon the Soltys here thought we would enter your
dwelling on our way. And seeing that you have received
us with a kind and friendly welcome, perchance, Mother,
.we may even drive a bargain with you.”
“A bargain may be driven only when there is something
about which to drive it.”
“Spoken truly, Mother, but that we have found already
in your house: livestock, and of the best.”
“Well,” she cried, in good humour, “let us bargain, then.”
“We would fain, for instance, bargain for a heifer of
yours.”
“Oho! that will be no small thing, and ye shall not lead
her away with the ﬁrst rope at hand!”
“As to that, we have for her a hallowed silver cord, and
such that none can break it, he be strong as ten—Well, how
much, Mother?” And he pulled the ﬂask of rum out of his
pocket.
“How muchP—Hard to say! She is young, will be nine-
teen in spring: good and hard-working. She might yet re-
main a year or two with her dam.”
“Years without offspring, Mother; barren years!”
“Ah,” Simon whispered, “were she other than she is, she
might have offspring, even should she stay with her dam!”
The Voyt gave vent to a loud laugh. The old woman’s
eyes ﬂashed angrily, and she made answer on the spot:
“Seek another, then! Mine can wait.”
“She can; but we can ﬁnd nowhere another so beautiful,
or of so good a breed.”
“Then what do you say?”
“I who speak am the Voyt: so believe what I tell you.”—
He took out a glass, wiped it on the skirt of his capote,
157_ AUTUMN
ﬁlled it with rum, and said gravely: “Pay good heed,
Dominikova, to what I say now. I am in ofﬁce. A bird
on the bough may chirp and twitter, and is gone: my word
is not thus—Simon too: all here know who he is; no man
of straw, but a husbandman, the father of a family, and
our Soltys! Mark well, then, who we are that come to you,
and with what intention; mark this well.”
“I do so, Peter, and most carefully.”
“Now you, being a wise woman, must therefore know that,
sooner or later, Yagna will surely leave your house for
her own, as the Lord hath ordained. Parents breed up
their children, not for themselves, but for the public
weal.”
“Ah, Mother, ’tis true, ’tis true!
“ ‘You may pet her and guard and caress,
But give her you must none the less;
Aye, and him that shall take her you’ll bless!’ ”
“The world is made so, and there is no changing it.—
Now, Mother, shall we drink together?”
“How can I say? I will not force hen—Will you drink,
Yagna?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” she stammered in a thin voice,
turning her burning face to the window.
“The lass is docile,” Simon put in, with gravity. “ ‘A
docile calf, beyond all doubt, thrives, sucks much milk, and
waxes stout.’ ”
“Well, shall I pass it on to you, Mother?”
“Drink ye, by all means; but we do not yet know who
it is proposes,” Dominikova remarked, attentive to the
rules of etiquette that required her not to seem to know
until told by the messenger.
“Who?” he exclaimed. “Why, who but Boryna himself!”
and he lifted his glass.
“What, an agedr man! A widower!” she objected, as in
duty bound.
“Aged? ’Tis a sin to say so! Aged? and but now he was
accused.”
THE PEASANTS .158
“I know: only the child was not his.”
“How could it be? A man of such repute, was he to
put up with any but the very best?——Come, here’s to you,
Mother!”
“Fain would I drink; but he is a widower.-—Old, he may
soon be in Abraham’s bosom: and what then? Her step-
children would thrust her out.”
Here Simon interposed. “Matthias,” he growled, “said
there must needs be a settlement.”
“Of course before the wedding.”
The Voyt, having ﬁlled another glass, turned with it to
Yagna.
“Come, drink, Yagna, drink to us! The swain we pro-
pose you is strong as an oak: you’ll be his lady, the keeper
of his household, the ﬁrst of all in the village! See, I
drink to you, Yagna: do not be shamefaced!”
She ﬂushed scarlet, and turned away; but ﬁnally, throw-
ing her apron over her face, she tasted a little, and threw
the rest on to the ﬂoor.
The glass then passed round to all. The old dame pro-
duced bread and salt, and lastly some dried and smoked
sausages as a relish.
Several times in succession did they drink, and in a
little their tongues were loosened. But Yagna had ﬂed into
the inner chamber, where, she knew not why, her tears burst
forth, her sobs becoming audible through the partition.
Her mother would have followed, but the Voyt kept
her back.
“Even calves, when weaned from their dams, shed tears:
’tis common. She is not to go away, no, not to the next
village even: and you will still enjoy each other’s company.
It is I, the Voyt, who say it: she shall come to no harm:
believe me.”
“Aye, but I always thought to have grandchildren for my
consolation.”
“Let not that trouble you. The ﬁrst of them will be here
before the harvest!”
“The future is known to the Lord alone, not to us sin-
I59 AUTUMN
ners. We have drunk to her betrothal, and yet my heart
is heavy, as if ’twere a burial.”
“Nothing strange. An only daughter, she ought to be
duly mourned over. . . . Yet a little more, to drive your
grief away. Ah, do you know, let us all go to the tavern.
There Yagna’s future husband awaits us, boiling over with
ﬁerce impatience.”
“Shall we celebrate such an occasion in a tavern?”
“As our fathers of yore. I, the Voyt, have spoken.”
Yagna and Dominikova put on their best dresses, and
all started off. But the Voyt remarked how disappointed
her brothers were looking. “Are the lads to remain, then?”
he said. “It is their sister’s engagement-day: some pleasure
is due to them.”
“Can we leave the house to the care of Providence?”
“Then take Agatha from the Klembas; she will see to
the place.”
“She has gone begging. We shall get someone on our
way. Well, Simon and Andrew, come; but put your
capotes on. Would you come in your shabby everyday
clothes?—And if either of you gets tipsy . . . he will never
forget it!—-The kine have not yet been cared for, and ye
must mash potatoes for the swine—See ye to it.”
“We will, Mother, we will!” they both exclaimed,
trembling with fear, though they were both big lads, as high
as a small pear-tree, such as are planted along the ﬁelds.
And so presently they went to the tavern.
The night was murky and as dark as pitch, as is_usual
enough during the autumn rains. The wind roared over-
head, swaying the tree-tops till they nearly lashed the
neighbouring hedges.
When they arrived, the tavern had a gloomy look. A
pane had been broken in the window, and the gusts that
entered made the tiny lamp which hung above the bar by a
cord swing there to and fro like a golden ﬂower.
Boryna rushed to welcome and embrace and hug them
warmly, knowing that Yagna was already as good as
his, own.

THE PEASANTS 160
“Our Lord hath said: ‘Thou worm, take unto thee a
wife, that thou, poor wretch, shouldst not suffer loneliness!’
So Ambrose said, or bleated rather: he had been drinking
for more than an hour, and was good for little, either in the
talking or the walking line. -
The jew instantly set before them rum, sweetened vodka,
and “essence”; also salt herrings, saffron-seasoned cakes, and
others (very dainty) made with poppy-seed.
“Eat ye, drink ye, dearly beloved brethren, true Chris-
tians!” cried Ambrose, taking upon himself to invite the
guests. “I had a wife once—but cannot at all remember
now where—In France, I think—no, in Italy! No, not
there—but now I am bereft and a widower. . . . I tell you:
our ancients used to cry thus: ‘Attention!’ ”
Here Boryna interrupted him. “Drink deep, friends! . . .
And you, Peter, give the example!” And then he brought
Yagna a whole zloty’s worth of caramels, and put them into
her hand. “Here you are, Yagna, they are very sweet:
here you are!”
She made as if she were disinclined to take them. “They
cost so much money,” she said.
“Fear not, I can well afford it. . . . You will see later.—
Oh, if pigeon’s milk were to be bought for any money, I
would buy some for you, dear! Oh, how happy you will
be with me!” And, taking her round the waist, he pressed
her to partake of all that was there. And she did: accepting
all, however, as coolly and indifferently as if it were some-
one else’s engagement-day. She only thought: “Will the
old man give it me before the wedding, that coral necklace
he told me of at the fair?”
And now they began to drink in earnest—rum and
sweetened vodka alternately, and all talked at the same
time. Even Dominikova was not a little ﬂustered, and she
chattered and held forth about many a matter, so that the
Voyt wondered at the wisdom she displayed.
Her sons were likewise in their cups, for again and again
either Ambrose or the Voyt urged them to take some more.
“Toss off your glasses, boys, ’tis Yagna’s engagement-day!”
161 AUTUMN
“Yes, yes, we know,” they answered, and wanted to kiss
the old sexton’s hand.
It was then that Dominikova took Boryna apart to have
a straight talk with the man,
“Yagna is yours—yes, yours, Matthias!”
“Thanks, Mother, for your gift of her.” He put his arm
round her neck and embraced her.
“You promised to make her a settlement, I understand.”
“Why need there be any? All I have is hers.”
“In order that she may look her stepchildren in the face
and laugh at their curses.”
“Woe betide them, if they interfere! All is mine, all is
Yagna’s.”
“Kindly said. Only note this: you are somewhat elderly.
Besides, we all are mortal. And, you know:
“ ‘Death none can refuse:
He takes all he can,
Now a lamb, now a man,
Not caring to choose!”’
“Oh, but I am hale—good for a score of years yet.
Never you fear!”
“ ‘Never-Fear was eaten by the wolves.’ ”
“Well, I am glad you speak out! Would you have me
settle on her the three acres I have, close to Luke’s ﬁeld?”
“‘A hungry dog will try even to catch a ﬂy,’ as they
say; but we are not hungry. Yagusia is to inherit ﬁve
acres, besides one of forest-land, from her father. Settle
six acres on her, you: those six where you grew potatoes last
summer—close to the road.”
“My very best ﬁelds!”
“Yagna too is the pick of the village.”
“She is, indeed: therefore I sent you my proposers. But.
mercy on us! six acres! It is a whole farm!” He scratched
his head in perplexity; for his heart was sore at the thought
of giving up so much of his best land.
“My good friend, consider, like the intelligent man you
are, and you will see that the settlement is only a protection
THE PEASANTS 162
for my daughter. No one can take the land from you, so
long as you live: while all that Yagna has inherited from
her father will be yours at once. Iv will send for a land-
surveyor when spring comes round, and youwill even be
able to sow it then. And, seeing that such an arrangement
cannotharm you, you will readily settle those ‘six acres
upon her.” ’ - Y
“Good: I will.”
“And when?” ‘ » ' ~
. “To-morrow, if you likel—No, on Saturday, when we
have put up the banns; we shall then go straight to town.
After all: ‘A goat dies once, and then—Never again!’ '
“Come hither, Yagna, daughter dear!” She called to the
girl, whom the Voyt was pushing towards the -bar,~while
telling her something that made her laugh IOud. -
“Yagna, Matthias here will settle on you those six road-
side acres of his.” . >
“Many thanks,” she murmured, and offered him her hand.
“Drink ye all to Yagna, most sweet Yagna!”
They drank, and Matthias put his arm round her waist
to lead her to the other guests assembled; but she slipped
away, and ran to her brothers, who were talking and
drinking with Ambrose. -
In the tavern, the din was ever grOwing louder and
louder, as more people dropped in. Many, hearing voices,
had come in to know what was going forward: some, too, to
get a drink for nothing. Even the blind old man, led by
his dog, was there in a good place, where all could see him;
and he now listened and now said prayers aloud; so loud
that DominikOva, hearing him, gave him some vodka, a
morsel to eat, and a few kopeks besides.
The carouse went on; and soon, as is customary on such
occasions, everybody was dear friend and own brother to
everybody else. f ,
The only silent‘one was the jew. To and fro he glided,
ever setting more and more spirits and bottles of beer
before his guests, and scoring up everything with chalk
behind thedoor. '
l63 AUTUMN
Boryna, beside himself with joy, took dram after dram,
urged his guests to drink, talked as he had seldom in his
life been heard to talk, and was incessantly coming round
to Yagna, offering her dainties, stroking her beautiful face,
and taking her into some dusky corner, with his arm
round her.
Very soon Dominikova saw it was high time to go home,
and called her sons to set out with her.
Simon was quite fuddled now; so when she spoke, he set
his girdle straight, smote the table with his ﬁst, and
cried out:
“Out upon it! I am a farmer, I! Who cares to go, let
him go. If I choose to stay and drink, I will.-—More vodka,
you jew!”
“Be silent, Simon! Oh, be silent: else she will trounce
you!” So Andrew moaned, with maudlin tears in his eyes,
pulling his brother by the coat. He, too, was very far
gone.
“Boys!” she hissed, threateningly, “home! come home!”
“I am a farmer. I! If I choose to stay, Lo, I stay, and
drink. . . . I have enough of Mother’s rule. . . . Thwart
me, and I turn you out! Down with it all!”
But the old woman then struck him such a blow in the
chest that he staggered and was sobered forthwith. Andrew
took him out into the road, after placing his cap on his
head. But the cold air overcame Simon once more: he only
took a few steps forwards, then tottered, caught at the hedge,
and fell down, shrieking and groaning.
“ ’Sdeath! I am a farmer. The property is mine, and I
drink, if I choose; and if I choose, I work!—-jew! more
rum !—Thwart me, and I turn you out!”
“Simon! Simon! For God’s sake!” whimpered Andrew,
weeping abundantly; “come home, Mother is after you!”
Indeed, she was there directly, together with Yagna; and
they both got the lads from beneath the hedge, where they
were making some feeble attempts to ﬁght.
After their departure, other people also went out, and
the tavern grew somewhat less noisy. At last no one re-
THE PEASANTS 164
mained there but Boryna and his messengers, with Ambrose
and the blind beggar, all now drinking at one table.
Ambrose was very mellow indeed. He stood up in their
midst, now singing, now shouting very loud.
“He was quite black—black as that pot! He aimed . . .
but where did he hit me? where? . . . And l—l thrust my
bayonet into him, and twisted it: I heard his inside gurgle!
-—-So we halt—halt! And the commander himself arrives
with more men.--Ah! the commander! ‘Boys,’ he says,
‘boys!’ ”
“ ‘Attention!’ ” the old man cried, in a voice of thunder.
And he stood stifﬂy erect, and stepped slowly backwards, his
wooden leg stumping along the ﬂoor: “Drink to me, Peter!
to me who am an orphan!” he bleated out; but when close
to the wall, suddenly he whipped out of the place. But
they could still hear the braying of his voice, raised in song
outside.
Just then the miller entered the tavern: a big burly fel-
low, red-faced, dressed town-fashion, and with small keen
eyes.
“Drink, lads, drink together!—Ho, ho! the Voyt, the
Soltys, and Borynal—ls it a wedding?”
“No, it is not—Sir miller, take a drink with us,” Boryna
said.
And once more the vodka went round.
“Well, now to you all three thus together, I shall tell
some news that will sober you in no time.”
All stared at him vacantly.
“Not an hour since, the Squire sold the clearing of Vilche
Doly!”
“The hound! the miscreant! What, sell a clearing that
belongs to our village!” Boryna shouted, smashing a bottle
on the ﬂoor in a ﬁt of rage. “Sold it, has he? But there
is law—law both for the Squire and for all of us!” Simon
stammered; he was completely intoxicated.
“It’s false! 1, your Voyt, have spoken: believe me, it’s
false!”
“Sold it! l-laI—But we won’t let anyone take it: as
, i
f l
I65 AUTUMN
there’s a God in heaven, we won’t!” Boryna growled, and
he brought his ﬁst down upon the table.
The miller left them, and they stayed there far into the
night, taking counsel together, and breathing threats against
the manor-folk.
CHAPTER IX
All Souls’ Day had dawned.
Ever since morning, the church-bells of Lipka had
tolled incessantly, slowly; their doleful and sorrowful notes,
ﬂoating over the desolate ﬁelds, called the people together
with deep-sounding voices of sadness on this day, which
rose pallid and swaddled in fog, as far as the far-off horizon
-—where the earth and the sky met, no one knew where, in
a vague unfathomed abyss of vacuity.
Now, as soon as the sun arose in the east, which still
glowed red as copper molten and cooling, hosts of crows
and daws had been coming thence, winging their ﬂight from
beyond the lurid clouds.
They ﬂew very high; so high that neither the eye could
well make them out, nor the ear catch distinctly the wild
and melancholy harshness of their croaking, which sounded
like weeping in the autumn night.
And from the belfry, the tolling sounded continually.
The deep notes of that doleful hymn rolled heavily
through the thick nebulous air—rolled all over the country-
side, and men and ﬁelds and villages seemed as one vast
heart, throbbing to the dismal dirge.
And still the ﬂocks of birds increased, even to the dismay
and stupefaction of the people; for now they ﬂew lower,
ever in vaster multitudes, sprinkling the sky as with scat-
tered specks of soot; and the dull ﬂapping and croaking
was now louder, more boisterous, more turbulent—dike a
storm that is drawing nigh. They swept in circles over the
village: and as a heap of dead leaves the blast plays with,
so they wheeled over the ploughed lands, ﬂoated down to
the woods, hung above the skeleton poplar-trees, took pos-
IT was shortly after Yagna’s engagement had taken place;
166
I67 ' AUTUMN
session of the lindens round about the church, and perched
upon the trees in the burial-ground.
“A severe winter it will be,” people said.
“Snow is going to fall—they are ﬂying towards the
woods.” ‘
They now approached the huts in still greater numbers;
never before had so many been seen together. People
looked at them, sighing, in fear of an evil omen, and some
made on their brows the sign of the Cross, as a protection
from the evil to come, and put on their garments to set
out for church. And continually the tolling sounded with
a dull roar; from the neighbouring villages the people were
already coming to pray.
An all-pervading sense of desolation ﬁlled every soul;
in every heart, there reigned a strange distressful silence: the
stillness of mournful reminiscences, the recollections of
those who had gone before, gone to lie beneath the drooping
birch-trees, and the darkly looming crosses, that stood
slantwise in the churchyard.
“O my Jesus! O my beloved Jesus they would mur-
mur, and then raise up their ashen-grey faces, and fear no
longer, plunging into the mystery of futurity: and they
calmly went forward to present their offerings and to say
their prayers for the dead.
The whole village was as though lost in a sea of grave
and heart-stricken quietude: only the whining singsong of
the Dgz'ads at the churchdoor now and then broke the
stillness.
At Boryna’s, the silence was especially deep: though in—
deed it was of that hell which reigned amongst them, and
was on the point of bursting forth.
His children knew all by that time.
The day before being Sunday, the ﬁrst banns had been
published from the pulpit. On Saturday, Boryna had gone
with Yagna to town, where he had settled six acres of land
upon her in the presence of a notary. He came back late.
and with his face scratched. Being the worse for liquor, he
had behaved disrespectfully to Yagna; but had only got
'7)
THE PEASANTS I68
acquainted with the strength of her arm and the sharpness
of her nails.
On his return, he said no word to anyone, but went to
bed as he was—in his boots and sheepskin coat; and when
Yuzka next morning complained that he had soiled his
feather-bed with mud:
“Let me alone, Yuzka, let me alone!” he answered her
merrily. “Such a thing may happen sometimes, even to
one who has not been drinking.”
In the morning he had gone over to Yagna, and stayed
all day: at home, dinner and supper waited for him in vain.
This day, too, he rose late, considerably after dawn, put
on his best capote, ordered Vitek to smear his Sunday boots
with grease and line them with fresh-cut straw, was shaved
by Kuba, girt himself, and, taking his hat, slipped out
through the fence, and was seen there no more that day.
Yuzka cried all the time. Antek was in the grip of tor-
tures, even sharper and more agonizing, and could neither
eat, nor sleep, nor busy himself in any way. He felt dazed
as yet, and could not wholly realize what had come to pass.
His face had grown sombre, but his eyes seemed larger, and
ﬂaming glassily,—full of hardened tears, as it were. He
had to clench his teeth lest he should cry out and curse
aloud, and was continually walking about the cabin, or
around it, or about the enclosure, or in the road; and on
coming back, he would throw himself on a bench in the
porch, and sit there motionless for hours, racked by suffer-
ings that were ever growing more intolerable. ~
The house was dreary, and within it there continually re-
sounded the sound of weeping, as sobs and sighs resound in
a house wherein someone lies dead. The doors of the byre
and the sties stood wide open, the cattle and swine wandered
about at liberty in the orchard, some even looking in at
the windows. No one attempted to interfere with them
but old Lapa, who barked and tried to drive them in again,
but unsuccessfully. '
Sitting on his truckle-bed in the stable, Kuba was clean-
I69 AUTUMN
ing a gun, while Vitek, gazing at him in wondering awe,
took care to keep a look-out on the yard, for fear someone
might drop in.
“Oh, what a noise it made! Lord! I thought it was the
Squire or the keeper shooting.”
“Ah, yes. I had not shot for ever so long, and the charge
I put in was too big: it roared like a cannon.”
“Did you go in the evening at once?”
“Aye, to the manor lands close to the wood. The roe-
bucks are fond of coming that way to crop the sprouting
blades in the sown ﬁelds. It was very dark, and I had long
to wait. just at dawn, a buck came by. I was so well
hidden that he was only ﬁve paces away from me. But I
did not shoot. He was as big as an ox, and I knew I could
not carry him off. So I spared him; and after the space
of a few Paters, some does appeared. I chose the ﬁnest,
and took aim. What a report there was! I had put in a
heavy charge: it kicked so, my shoulder is one bruise still.
And the doe fell; but she still kicked, and made such a
fearful noise that I was afraid the keeper might hear, and
I had to cut her throat.”
Vitek was full of enthusiasm.
“And—did you leave her in the wood?”
“Where I left her, I left her: it’s no business of yours.
And if you say a single word about this to anyone . . .
you’ll see what I shall do to you!”
“I won’t, if you forbid me; but may I not tell Yuzka?”
“The whole village would know directly. No.-—But here
is a ﬁve-kopek piece, for you to buy something with.”
“Without that, I’d hold my tongue—But, 0 clear, dear
Kuba! take me with you some day!”
“Breakfast!” Yuzka was in front of the cabin, calling
to them.
“Be easy, Vitek, I shall take you.”
“And you’ll let me shoot—once, only once?” he entreated.
“Silly one! think you they give gunpowder for nothing?”
“But I have money, Kuba, I have. Master gave me two
THE PEASANTS 170
zloty for the last fair, and I was keeping them for the
Memorial offering. But . . '
“Very well; I shall teach you how to shoot,” he whis-
pered, patting the boy’s head, and touched by his appeal.
Almost as soon as they had ﬁnished breakfast, they went
together to church. Kuba limped along as fast as he could;
but Vitek lagged a little behind: he was ashamed to have to
go barefoot, for he had no boots.
“Is it right to go into the vestry without boots?” he quer-
ied in a low voice.
“You are foolish. Does our Lord consider a man’s boots,
not his prayers?”
“True; but are not boots more respectful?” he whispered
sadly.
“Oh, you will get boots one of these days.”
“That I shall! Let me but grow up to be a farm-hand,
I shall directly go off to Warsaw.and get a place in some
stable. In the town, they all wear boots, don’t they, Kuba?”
“They do.—Can you remember anything about Warsaw,
Vitek?”
“Of course. I was ﬁve when Kozlova brought me here;
so I recollect perfectly. . . . Yes, we went on foot to the
station, and there I saw no end of glowing lights . . . and
houses all one close to another, and as big as churches.”
“Nonsense!” cried Kuba, disdainfully.
“But I remember quite well. I could not see the roofs,
they were so high. Windows, too, to the very ground.
Whole walls of windows! And everywhere bells were ring-
ing continually.”
“No wonder; there are so many churches there.”
“Else whence could the ringing have come?”
And now they were silent, having entered the churchyard
and begun to push their way through the dense throngs that
ﬁlled all the space round the church, not being able to get
in.
There the Dgz'aa’s had formed a lane from the church to
'the road, crying out, screaming, uttering prayers, or asking
I71 ’AUTUMN
alms, each in his own way; some were playing on ﬁddles,
and droning out hymns in mournful voices; others on
ﬂageolets or concertinas; and all together causing such a
racket as almost to make one deaf.
The vestry, too, was full of people: so full that they were
sorely squeezed against the tables, where the organist and
his son (the one who had been at school) were taking down
the names given for the Memorial offerings.
Kuba got through the press, and rolled off a long list
of names to the organist, who wrote them down, and re—
ceived for each soul three kopeks, or as many eggs (in case
one had no ready cash).
Vitek was not able to push forward so fast, for his bare
feet were sorely trod upon, but he got on as well as he could,
clutching the money in his hand. When, however, he found
himself in front of the organist at the table, he felt suddenly
overwhelmed and tongue-tied with confusion. What! only
farmers and farmers’ wives round him—almost all those of
the village . . . ? Even the miller’s wife was there, wear-
ing a hat like the wife of the Squire l—And the blacksmith
and the Voyt, with their dames—all giving the names of
those whose souls they wished remembered; some as many
as a score of them—all the family, and their fathers and
forefathers—And he . . . what name could he give? His
own father, his mother—what names had they? Could he
tell? For whom, then, should his offering be made? . . .
“O my jesus, my little jesus!” he cried in his soul; but his
mouth remained wide open, and he stood there like a wit-
ling. His heart was wrung with an agony of grief, he could
hardly draw his breath, and he felt so faint that he was
like to drop down as one dead. But he could not stay
there; the crowd shoved him aside into a corner, beneath the
holy water stoup: and, in order not to fall, he crouched
down with his head against the tin basin, while tears gushed
forth and fell, like the beads of some rosary of desolation.
It was in vain that he tried to keep them back; he was so
shaken, so unnerved in every limb, that he had not even
THE PEASANTS 172
the strength to clench his teeth and stand up. So he crept
into a corner out of sight, and wept abundant tears—the
bitter tears of a fatherless, motherless boy.
“Mother, O Mother!” something within him was crying,
and tearing his heart to pieces. . . -. He could not think
why each of the other lads had his father and his mother,
while he alone was without either—bereft—and how be-
reft—of both!
“jesus, my jesus!” he sobbed, crying out like a poor bird
strangling in a snare. . . . It was then that Kuba came
upon him and said:
“Vitek, have you given in your Memorial offering?”
“Not yet,” he returned; and, suddenly drying his eyes, he
forced his way back to the table. Yes: he would give
names. Did it concern anyone that he had no parents he
knew? If he had none, it was his own affair. If he was
a foundling, a foundling let him be.-—-He therefore took
heart, wiped his eyes, and boldly gave the names josephine,
Marianna, Anthony—the ﬁrst that occurred to him.
He paid, took the change, and went with Kuba into the
church to pray and hear the priest read the names of his
dear departed!
A catafalque, bearing a cofﬁn at its summit, had been
raised in the centre of the church. Round it many tapers
were burning, while the priest read aloud from the pulpit
an interminable list of names. Now and then he stopped,
and the whole congregation said the Paters, Aves, and
Credos that should relieve the souls of the faithful departed.
Vitek knelt down by the side of Kuba; the latter took out
a rosary, and counted thereon all the prayers which the priest
had recommended. Vitek too recited a few prayers; but
the monotonous sounds soon made him drowsy, and, worn
out by the heat of the place and his recent ﬁt of tears,
he presently rested his head against Kuba and went to sleep.
In the afternoon, all the Boryna family were present at
the Vespers which were sung once a year in the churchyard
173 AUTUMN
mortuary chapel. Antek and his family, the blacksmith
and his, Yuzka accompanied by Yagustynka, and Vitek,
and Kuba dragging himself in the rear, had come, deter-
mined to make the most they could of All Souls’ Day.
As a man shuts his weary eyelids, and plunges into dark
unfathomable shadows, so evening was closing in; the wind
sounded with a dreary voice, long drawn out, and wafted
the odours of many a mouldering leaf, redolent with un-
pleasant eﬂ‘luvia.
The country-side was serene, with the strange and sombre
calm of that anniversary of sadness. The crowds went
about their way—~as it were, in painful silence; their tramp-
ling boots echoed with dull dead sounds: the roadside trees
waved their boughs restlessly, and swayed overhead with a
sad sullen murmur. '
In front of the lich-gate and about the graves along the
wall, stood rows of barrels, and many a Dgiad was close
by. It was by this road that the people came along to
the burial-ground. The twilight had already covered the
world, sprinkling it with its ashen greyness, although there
twinkled athwart its folds many a rustic lamp (fed with
butter for oil!), with yellow ﬂickering ﬂame. Each one,
on entering the churchyard, took from his wallet either
bread, or cheese, or a piece of bacon or of sausage; or a
skein of thread, or else a handful of combed ﬂax; sometimes
even a string of dried mushrooms. These they deposited
piously in one of the barrels that stood open there; they
formed offerings for the priest, for the sacristan Ambrose,
for the organist—and, lastly, for the Dgiads. Such as had
no offerings in kind to give, put a few kopeks into the out-
stretched hands of the latter, whispering the names of the
dead for whom they asked them to intercede.
About the lich-gate, then, there was a continuous cadence
of names called out, and prayers, and chants. in broken and
unequal rhythm. The people went on and soon disap-
peared, vanishing among the graves. Presently, like so
many glow-worms, tiny lights began to shine and tremble
in the dusky thickets and the dry grass.
THE PEASANTS 174
Breaking the stillness, which, as it were, exhaled from out:
of the earth, prayers were everywhere audible, in low quav-
ering tones of awe. Now and again there would come from!
some grave a heart—broken sigh; sometimes a thrilling la-
ment would rise from the winding paths around the crosses;
and then a sudden short shriek of despair would burst forth.
rending the air like a ﬂash of lightning; or the faint weep~
ing of children would be heard among the murky bushes,
like the chirping of unﬂedged birds in their nests.
From time to time, there would creep over the churchyard
a dull and dreary silence, when only the trees were audible.
murmuring ominously, as the sound of human miseries and
sorrows and clamorous agony ﬂoated up to Heaven.
They went about the graves noiselessly, and terror-struck
they stared into the dim and unknown distance.
“All must die!” they muttered, in tones of torpid palsy-i
stricken resignation, and went on further, to sit by the
graves of their fathers, and either recite orisons, or remain
motionless, in a reverie that deadened both love of life
and fear of death—aye, and even abhorrence of pain.
They were like trees, bowing low in the blast; and, like
them, their souls quivered slumberously; dismayed, yet
benumbed.
“O my jesus! O merciful Lord! O Mary!”-—such were
the ejaculations which burst forth from their tormented
souls. They raised their faces—now expressionless with
grief—and ﬁxed their hollow eyes on the crosses, and on
those trees in drowsy yet perpetual motion: and falling on
their knees at the feet of the cruciﬁed Christ, they laid be-
fore Him their fear-stricken hearts, and shed tears of resig-~
nation and self-surrender.
Kuba went with Vitek in the same direction; but when it
became quite dark, the former crawled further on—away to
the old burial-ground. There the forgotten ones lay—those
whose very memory had perished long ago, with their days,
and the times they lived in, and all the past. There, only
ill-omened birds uttered hoarse croakings, and the bushes
rustled mournfully near some cross of rotting wood that still
175 AUTUMN
remained standing here and there. In this forgotten nook
lay side by side whole families, hamlets, generations: no
one came there to pray, to shed tears, to light lamps any
more. The gale alone blew ﬁercely through the boughs,
tore off the last of their leaves, and tossed them away into
the night, to be lost therein. And voices howled that were
not voices; and shadows moved—but were they only shad-
ows?——striking at random against the trees, as though they
had been blinded birds, and seeming to moan and beg for
pity!
Kuba took from his bosom several pieces of bread that he
had put by. Kneeling down, he broke them, and threw the
morsels about among the tombs.
“Food for you there is, 0 Christian soul!” he whispered,
very earnestly. “I forget you not at eventide.-—Food for
you, O sufferer that was mortal !—Food for you!”
“And will they take it?” Vitek asked in terror.
“Beyond doubt !—Our priest forbids it.1-—The others put
the food into those barrels, and these poor creatures get
nothing. But what? Shall the priest’s and the Dgz'ads’
swine have to eat, and Christian ghosts stray starving!”
“Ah! will they come hither?”
“Yea, all who suffer the cleansing ﬁres—all. jesus lets
them back to earth for to-day, to visit their people.”
“To visit them!” Vitek repeated, shuddering.
“Fear not. On this day, nothing evil has any power to
harm: the Memorial offerings have driven him away—him,
the bad Angel! So have the lamps. And our Lord comes
in person about the world, and He, the beloved Shepherd,
goes counting how many souls are His yet, and choosing
from amongst them.”
“Oh, does our Lord jesus come to the earth to-day?”
’Vitek said faintly, looking around.
1Because it was a superstition: a very old one, no doubt, come
down from prehistoric times, and now all but dead in Poland, if not
quite so. Mickiewicz’s poem “Dziady” deals with something similar
which he came across in Lithuania, about a century ago._Transla-
tor’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 176
“Do you think to see Him? That only Saints can do—
and persons greatly wronged.”
“See, see, lights are there; and there are people too,”
Vitek cried out in alarm, and he pointed to a long row
of graves close to the hedge.
“Ah, there lie those slain during our insurrection. Yes,
my master lies there; aye, and my mother too.”
They forced their way through the underwood, and knelt
down by the graves. These had fallen in, and were so level
with the rest of the ground that they could hardly be traced.
They were marked by no crosses, overshadowed by no trees.
Only barren sand was there, and a few dry stalks of mul-
lein: all was stillness, oblivion, death.
Ambrose, together with Yagustynka and old Klemba,
were kneeling beside those perishing graves. A few lamps
glimmered, ﬁxed in the sand; the winds made them wave
and tremble, and carried away the supplications into the
blackness of the night.
“Aye; there lies my mother,” Kuba said, rather to himself
than to the boy, who had crept close to him, chilled to the
very marrow.
“Magdalena was her name. My father had land of his
own: he served as coachman to the manor, but never drove
out, save with the old Squire, and stallions to the coach!
. . . After that, he died. . . . His uncle inherited the land,
and I became swineherd to the manor. . . . Yes, Magda-
lena was my mother’s, and Peter, my father’s name: sur-
name, Soha, and I bear it. . . . Then the Squire set to
making me coachman, to drive with his stallions, as my
father had done. . . . l was continually going to the chase,
with Master and other gentlemen; and I learned to shoot
pretty well myself; and the son of the Squire gave me a
gun. . . .
“I remember perfectly. . . . When they all went out for
the insurrection, they took me with them too. . . . I fought
for a whole year: killed more than one Russian grey dog
. more than two, even. . . . Then the Squire’s son was
177 AUTUMN
shot in the belly. His bowels gushed out. He was my mas-
ter, and a good man; so I took him on my shoulders and
carried him away. . . . Later, he got off somewhere to a
warm country, but ﬁrst gave me a letter to take to his father.
Well, I went. I was weary of all, dog-tired . . . got shot
in the leg on my way, and it would not heal; for I was al-
ways out of doors, sleeping under the stars. . . . Then came
snow, and a terrible frost:—l remember well! . . . So I got
there . . . at night . . . and looked about for the place.—
Oh, what a thunderstroke!--No more manor—no more
barns—no more hedges, even. All had been burned down
to the ground. . . . And the old Squire . . . and his lady
. . and my mother too . . . and also the girl Yosefka,
who was chambermaid there . . . all lay in the garden,
slaughtered !-—0 jesus! jesus!—Aye, I remember.—O holy
Mary!” These last words he uttered very low; great tears
that he did not care to hide ran down his cheeks in ﬂoods,
and he heaved deep sighs, as that night rose again before
him.
The darkness grew more and more intense; the blast
caught more and more ﬁercely at the trees; the long tresses
of the birch-boughs thrashed the graves about them, and
their trunks, white'as sheeted ghosts, loomed dimly through
the gloom. The folk were leaving the place, the lamps go-
ing out, the hymns of the Dgiads dying away. A solemn
silence, disturbed only by weird rustlings and thrilling
whispers, now reigned among the tombs. The graveyard
seemed ﬁlled with shadowy forms, the bushes bore question-
able shapes; there were melodies of lulled soft moans, oceans
of eerie tremors, movements of shapeless things in the dark,
bursts of dread hushed sobs, mysterious and horror-
breathing alarms which made the heart sink. Throughout
the village, the very dogs were howling with long despairing
howls.
On this holiday alone, Lipka was hushed. The roads
were deserted, the inn-doors closed. Through the tiny mist-
blurred window-panes of a few huts, lights were seen to
THE PEASANTS 178
shine, and holy hymns heard to quaver timidly forth, with
loud supplications to God for the souls of the faithful
departed.
Outside the cabins, the folk glided about in fear; in fear
did they listen to the quiet sighs of the trees; in fear did
they look towards the window, lest there should appear to
them one of those who, on this day, wander by God’s de-
cree and their own yearning—lest they should be heard
lamenting where four roads meet—or be seen looking sor-
rowfully in through the window.
Outside certain huts, the husbandmen—following ancient
customs—set the remains of the evening meal for the hungry
ghosts to partake of and, crossing themselves, breathed some
such invitation: “O Christian soul that still abidest in the
place of cleansing, lo! here is refreshment for thee!”
And thus, in stillness and sadness, amidst memories and
fears, did the evening of All Souls’ Day come to an end.
On Antek’s side of his father’s cabin sat Roch, the pil-
grim to our Lord’s sepulchre, reading and telling many a
pious and holy legend.
People were there not a few: for both Ambrose and Ya-
gustynka and Klemba had come, Kuba and Vitek, Yuzka
and Nastusia: the only one absent was old Boryna, who re-
mained at Yagna’s till late in the night.
Save for the crickets that cried and the pine-knots that
crackled on the hearth or in the ﬁre, the cabin was still as
death.
They all were sitting on benches round the ﬁre; Antek
alone sat looking out of the window. Roch now and then
drew the red embers together with his staff, While he spoke
thus, in a soft hushed voice:
“It is not terrible to die—Oh, no!
“As birds in winter ﬂy to a warmer land, so do our weary
little souls long to ﬂy to jesus.
“Though the trees stand bare in winter, yet are they
clothed in spring by the Lord with green leaves and scented
blossoms: thus, O thou soul of man, dost thou go to jesus
1w AUTUMN
,to ﬁnd with Him joy, and spring, and gladness, and vesture
eternal!
“As the sun caresses our weary earth, fatigued with fruit-
bearing, so doth our Lord caress each soul, and make it
forget the past winter of anguish and death.
“Ah me! for in this world there is naught but trouble,
and wailing, and woe! _
“And evil' increases and multiplies, as doth the thistle
in the woodlands!
“All things are vain and to no purpose . . . like tinder-
wood, and like the bubbles which the wind maketh on the
water and driveth away.
“And there is no faith, nor hope, save in God alone!”
CHAPTER X
man in particular . . .”—The wind put an end to
the rest of the sentence by blowing violently down the
priest’s throat, making him fall into a ﬁt of coughing. An-
tek was silent.
The gale was growing ﬁercer, sweeping down the road,
lashing the poplars, storming through them, and causing
them to bend and moan and shriek aloud with rage.
“Man, I have told you,” the priest went on to say, “that
I myself took the mare down to the pond. . . . Blind as
she is, she may go astray in some coppice, and perhaps
break a leg.”——The very thought made him turn pale, and
he continued looking under every tree, and seeking in every .
ﬁeld.
“Well, but she always went about freely.”
“She knows well her way to the pond. Anyone might ﬁnd
a pail for her to drink from, and then turn her round: she
would have come back by herself. . . . Valek!” he suddenly
cried, thinking he saw someone among the poplars.
“I saw Valek on our side of the pond; but that was before
twilight set in.”
“Gone perhaps to look for her: a little too late! . . . A
mare twenty years old! She was foaled soon after I came
here, and deserves to be fed for mercy’s sake . . . As much
attached as any man can be. . . . Good Heavens! if any
harm should have befallen the poor beast!”
“What on earth can happen?” Antek growled, in a surly
mood. He had come to his Reverence to complain and
get counsel; and he had been, not only reprimanded, but
asked to seek the lost mare besides! No doubt the mare,
“I \ SPEAK of this, both from the pulpit, and to every
180
l8l AUTUMN
so old and blind, deserved pity; but ought not a fellow-
man to come ﬁrst?
“As to you, you are to master yourself; do you hear?
And curse him not! he is your father!”
“Oh, that,” said Antek very bitterly, “that I know well.”
“It were a grievous sin and offence against God. And no
blessing will there be for him that in anger raises his hand
against his father, to break the commandment!”
“I want justice: no more.”
“No, ’tis revenge you seek. . . . Am I wrong?”
Antek was at a loss for an answer.
“Now I will tell you one thing more: ‘A docile calf, be-
yond all doubt, thrives, sucks much milk, and waxes stout.’ ”
“ ‘Docile!’ The word sticks in my throat, I have so much
of it. Shall I allow a man to do me every wrong in the
world, simply because he is my father? Are children for-
bidden to seek justice for the wrong done?—Good God! if
that’s the order of things, I had as lief bid it farewell, and
go anywhere to get away from it.”
“Go, then; what is it prevents you?” cried the priest,
takingﬁre on a sudden.
“Well may I go: what—what is there left to me here
now?” he muttered, almost in tears.
“You are simply talking nonsense. Others have not one
bit of land: yet they stay on, and work, and thank God
that they have work to do. You had far better settle down
to do something, and not complain like a woman. You
are strong and able, and have something to lay your hands
to besides. . . .”
“Yes, indeed; three whole acres!” was the ironical reply.
“And a wife and child, who belong to you too: do not for-
get it.”
They were now in front of the tavern; the windows were
all aglow, and from the road where they stood they could
hear voices inside.
“What! another drunken bout?”
“ ’Tis the recruits who were chosen during the summer,
drinking to keep their spirits up. Next Sunday the Rus-
THE PEASANTS 182
sians will take them away to somewhere at the back of the
world: so they are seeking comfort.”
The priest had taken his stand near the poplars, from
where he could look through the window, and see how
thronged the place was. “Why, the tavern is well-nigh
full!” he exclaimed.
“They were to have a meeting and advise together to-
day, about the forest clearing which the Squire has sold to
the jews.”
“But he has sold only the half.”
“Till we have agreed to the sale, not one bush shall be
sold!”
“What do you say?” the priest inquired, in a tone of
anxiety.
“We don’t give leave: that’s ﬂat. Father would go to
law; but Klemba and the others with him won’t have it.
They forbid a single tree to be cut down; and if the whole
village has to rise, rise they will—aye, and ax in hand, too.
What is theirs, they never will give up.”
“Merciful heavens! Pray God there may be no violence!”
“No, no! only a few of the manor-folks’ heads split in
two: that will be but justice!”
“Antek! has anger made you mad? My good fellow, this
is senseless talk!”
He would not listen, but turned on his heels and vanished
in the gathering dusk; while the priest, who heard the rum-
ble of wheels and a mare’s whinny, hastened back to his
dwelling.
Antek passed by the mill on the other side, wanting to
avoid going near Yagna’s hut.
“She was fast in his bosom: a festering wound of which
he could not rid himself.
Afar, the light shone bright from within her cabin. In
there it was joyful. He stopped to look once more, were it
but to curse her in his rage. And suddenly something fell
on him like a hurricane, and tore him away.
“She is my father’s nowl—My father’s!”
183 AUTUMN
He went round to his brother-in-law, the smith, though
expecting no advice from the man, and only wanting to re—
main a short time away from his father’s dwelling, and in
somebody’s company—Ah! the priest would preach work to
him, would he? Preaching to others was an easy thing
for those who have nothing to trouble them !——“Remember
your wife and child!”—-Was he likely to forget them? Her!
. whom he loathed so, with her wailing and her meekness
and wistfully glancing eyes! Were it not for her . . . were
he but single!-—O Lord! He groaned deeply; a wild ﬁt of
anger swept over him, and he would have liked to take
someone by the throat—strangle him—tear him to
pieces! . . .
But whom? He knew not. His fury passed away as
suddenly as it had come. He looked blankly out into the
night and hearkened to the whistling blasts. Then he
walked on, trudging heavily, scarce able to drag himself;
for now he felt weighed down by a mountain of sorrow,
lassitude, and such a sense of prostration that he no longer
knew whither he was going, nor for what purpose.
“Yagna is my father’s—my father’s!” he repeated again
and again, each time in a lower_ key.
In the smith’s shop, a boy was working the bellows with
might and main, and the draught that poured on to the ﬂar-
ing roaring embers made them burst into blood-red ﬂames.
The smith stood at the anvil, grimy-faced, girt with a
leather apron, his arms bare, his cap on the back of his head,
beating a red-hot iron bar till the anvil resounded, while
showers of sparks ﬂew from beneath the hammer, and fell
hissing into the moist ground of the forge.
“Well?” he asked, after waiting a moment.
“Well, what?” Antek mumbled, leaning against a basket-
wagon frame, several of which were standing by to have
their iron-work repaired; and he gazed into the ﬁre.
The smith went on, working hard at the incandescent
iron, and beat away, keeping time as he smote upon the an-
vil with his hammer; or, when a yet more powerful blast
THE PEASANTS 184
was needed, helping the boy to blow; but ever and anon
stealing a glance at Antek, while a malicious smile peeped
from under his red moustache.
“Well, so you have been to his Reverence again: and
what has come of it?” '
“And what should come? Nothing. I might have heard
just the same in church.”
“What else did you think to get?”
“Why, he knows a great deal,” Antek replied in self-
defence.
“As to taking, yes; as to giving, no.”
Antek was in no mood to contradict him.
“I am going to your cabin,” he said after a pause.
“Go; I shall join you at once, for the Voyt is to be here.
You will ﬁnd tobacco on the top of the press: help yourself.”
Antek had not so much as heard him, as he made straight
for the house which stood opposite.
His sister was kindling the ﬁre, and her eldest boy, at
the table, learning out of a spelling-book.
“Is he studying?” he asked; for the boy spelt aloud,
pointing to each letter with a sharp stick.
“Yes. He began at potato-digging-time. The young
lady from the mill is teaching him, for my husband is too
busy.” ,
“Roch, too, began teaching on Father’s side of our cabin
yesterday.”
“I wanted to send our johnny to him, too: but Michael
will not have it. He says she knows more, because she
has been at school in Warsaw.”
“Oh, yes. Yes,” he answered, in order to say something.
“johnny gets on so fast with his primer that the young
lady is astonished.” .
“Oh, of course. It’s the smith’s blood, you see—being
the son of so clever a man . . .” a
“You are jeering. And yet was he not right to tell you
that Father can, so long as he lives, withdraw any settle-
ment made?”
185 AUTUMN
“Aye, try to snatch its prey from out of the wolf’s
mouth! . . . Six acres of land! My wife and I are both
as good as his farm-servants; and see, he settles the land
on the ﬁrst strange woman he comes across!”
“You will wrangle, and fall foul of him, and ask for
advice against him; and the end will be that he will drive
you from his house into the bargain!” She spoke thus,
looking timorously towards the door.
“Who told you that?” .
“Hush, hush! That’s what people are saying.”
“He shall not! Let him get me out by force, if he can!
I’ll go to law. But as to giving way, never, never!”
“Yes, you’ll butt your head against a stone wall, like a
ram, but never get it smashed, eh?” the smith said, coming
in.
“Then what’s to be done? You give clever advice to
everybody; advise me.”
“It will never do to run counter to the old man’s will.”
He lit a pipe, and set about explaining matters, excusing
Boryna, and smoothing things over, till all at once Antek
saw his drift, and cried out:
“You—you are on his side!”
“I want to be fair.”
“You have been well paid for this.”
“Not out of your pocket, at all events.”
“My property is not yours to give up in my place. You
no doubt have had a good instalment already, and are in
no hurry to get more.”
“I have had no more than you.”
“Oh, no more? And what about your share of the cow?
And all the pieces of linen, and odds and ends you have
sneaked out of Father? Have I forgotten the geese, and the
young pigs . .. and . . . and . . . there’s no end of
them! Ah, and the calf he gave you the other day? Is
that nothing?”
“You might have got it just as well as I.”
“I am not a gipsy, nor a thief!”
THE PEASANTS 186
“A thief! Do you call me that?”
They both rushed forward, ready to spring at each other.
But they stopped, for Antek went on more calmly:
“I was not speaking of you. But never will I abandon
my rights, even to be saved from utter ruin.”
The smith interposed, with a jeer: “It is not the land, I
fancy, for which you would go to such lengths.”
“For what then?”
“It is Yagna you want, and rage to lose her now!”
“Did you ever see . . . ?” he cried; the shot had hit the
mark.
“There be those who have seen . . . and not once only.”
“May their eyes drop out of the sockets!” But he said
this curse very low; for just then the Voyt entered the
room. Probably he too was aware of the reason why they
quarrelled, for he at once set to justifying and defending
the old man’s behaviour. A
“That you stand up for him is no wonder: he has given
you drink and sausages in plenty!”
“No careless talk, pray; I, the Voyt, am speaking to you.”
“For your Voytship I care as I care for this broken stick!”
“What !-—what has the man said?”
“You have heard; and if not, you shall hear other things
which will go yet farther.”
“Say them, then, if you dare!”
“I will—Behold, you are a drunkard, a judas, a dissem-
bler; one that squanders in revels the money the village has
entrusted to him, and takes abundant pay from the manor,
to let the Squire sell our forest land. . . . Will ye I say
more?” he added furiously, snatching at a stick. “So I
will, but with this cudgel, not with my tongue.”
“Take care you rue not what you are doing, Antek; I am'
a man in ofﬁce!”
“And do not ﬂy at anyone under my roof! This is no
tavern!” the smith shouted, placing himself in front of the
Voyt. But Antek, now wrought up to exasperation, poured
a volley of abuse on them both, slammed the door, and left
them.
187 AUTUMN
“Now,” he was saying to himself, while breakfasting the
next day, “now they will all be against me!” when, to his
stupefaction, he saw the blacksmith come in. They met
'on their usual terms.
When Antek went to the barn afterwards to chop straw,
the smith followed him, and said in conﬁdential tones:
“I’ll be hanged if I know why we quarrelled . . . some
silly word dropped, belike. So I am ﬁrst to come to you
and shake hands.”
Antek shook hands indeed, but grunted, with a look of
mistrust:
“Yes, some hasty words passed between us; but I felt no
grudge against you. That Voyt made me frantic. . . . Let
him mind his own business, and keep himself to himself,
or . . .”
“So I told him, when he wanted to follow you out. . . .
“To ﬁght me?—I would have given him such a dressing as
I gave his cousin, who has been smashed up ever since
harvest-time !”
“Of that, too, did I remind him,” the smith observed,
with a demure look and a sly leer.
“But I will settle with him yet . . . with that great man,
that jack in ofﬁce! He will remember me!”
“He is not worth your notice: let him be.—-l have had an
idea, and have come now to tell you about it. This is what
’7
we have to do. . . . This afternoon my wife will come here.
You will go with her to old Boryna, and talk the matter
over thoroughly. . . . Of what use is complaining in holes
and corners? Speak your mind out to him face to face.
Perhaps you will succeed. perhaps not; but at all events
we shall have threshed the matter out.”
“But what is to be done, now the settlement has been
made?”
“You see, by wrangling we shall get nothing at all. Yes,
he has made it. But, so long as he lives, he has the power to
revoke it. Do you understand? That is the reason why
we must not irritate him. He wants to marry: well, let
him. And to enjoy himself: why not?”
THE PEASANTS - 188
At the mention of marriage, Antek turned white, and
shook so that he paused in his work.
“Do not oppose him openly. Approve him. Say he
was right to make the settlement, since he chose to do so:
only ask him to promise us the rest—that is, to you and
me, and in presence of witnesses,” he added, with a sly
after-thought.
“Yes, but what of Yuzka, what of Gregory?” Antek in-
quired reluctantly.
“They shall get money instead. Gregory has been re-
ceiving not a little every month, ever since he has been in
the army—But just listen, and do as I tell you; you will
not regret it. My management of things will make all the
land ours in the end, my life on it.”
“‘To sew the sheep’s skin do not strive, furrier, while
the sheep’s alive.’ ”
“Listen—Let him but make a promise in presence of
witnesses: we shall then have something to lay hold on.
We can still fall back on the courts of justice. And there
is another point besides: the land he got as your mother’s
dowry.”
“A great thing, forsooth: four acres for me and your
sister . . . four whole acres!”
“But these he has not given to either; and for so many
years he has sown therein and garnered therefrom! For
these he must pay you well, aye, and with percentage too!
. . . I tell you once more: oppose the old man in nothing.
Go to the wedding; do not grudge him fair words. We shall
manage him, you will see. And if he is after all unwilling
to give the? promise, the law may then come in and force
him. You are on very familiar terms with Yagna, and she
may be very useful to you: only speak of this to her. No
one could better succeed in bringing the old man round.—
Well, is it agreed? For I must be stirring.”
“Agreed !——That you get out quick, or I will smite you in
the face and drive you out of doors!” Antek hissed through
his clenched teeth.
“What . . . what has come over you?” the blacksmith
189 AUTUMN
stammered, appalled by the looks of the other, who dropped
the straw-cutter and came on, with eyes terribly gleaming
and face as pale as a sheet.
“Thief! carrion! traitor!” He spat the words out, his
mouth was foaming with hate as he advanced, and the
smith fairly ran for it.
“Has the man lost his wits?” he said, as soon as he was
out in the road. “I was giving him good counsel . . . and
he—Oh, that’s your game, is it? You would have struck
me, driven me out, because I wanted to share the land with
you, and came to you as to a friend and a brother! Is that
your game . . . to have all to yourself? Ha! you will not
live to see the day, my man! Though you wormed my
thoughts out of me so cleverly, I will give you such a shak-
ing, the worst ague will be nothing beside it!” He grew
angrier and still more angry, as he reﬂected that Antek had
taken him in so, and would inform old Boryna of all this
intrigue—The very thing he feared most of all!
“But that must at once be prevented!” He swiftly came
to a decision, and though in bodily fear of Antek, went back
to Boryna’s.
“Is your master at home?” he asked Vitek, who was op-
posite the house, throwing pebbles at the geese in the pond
to make them land.
“Over there at the miller’s: gone to invite their people to
his wedding.”
“I shall go that way: perhaps we may meet,” he thought,
and made for the miller’s; but he went home ﬁrst, and told
his wife to dress her best, take the children with her, and
go round to Antek’s at the ﬁrst stroke of the noonday
Angelus.
“He will tell you what to do. . . . Do nothing by your-
self, for you are not clever; only fall a-crying at the right
time, embrace your father’s knees and beseech him, and all
that. But give good heed to what Antek shall say and your
father reply.” And so he went on instructing her for some
time.
“Now I shall look in at the mill: perhaps our meal is
THE PEASANTS I90
ground.” He was too un‘easy to stay any longer in the
house and, going out, walked on slowly, often halting to
consider.
“The man threatened me; yet he’ll do as I told him, I
think. Better my wife should be there, and not I.—-What
else can he do but what I say?-—Quarrel——and be expelled!”
He smiled in triumph, set his cap straight and buttoned
up his capote, for a chill piercing wind came from the pond.
“There will be frost, surely, or else dirty weather,” he
predicted, standing on the bridge and looking into the sky,
where a scud of driven clouds was passing, not unlike a
ﬂock of muddy unwashed sheep. The pond uttered a low
murmur, now and then beating upon its shores, along which,
scattered about amongst blackened drooping alders and
weeping willows, the outlines of women washing linen ap-
peared, traced in red, and the obstreperous clatter of their
bats rose on either bank. The roads were empty, save for
the numerous ﬂocks of geese, soiled with stiffening mire, that
were waddling in and out of the ditches, now ﬁlled up with
dead leaves and rubbish. Children outside the houses
squealed and screamed; and the cocks crowed in the hedges
—-weather-prophets telling of a change.
“Better wait for him at the mill!” he growled and walked
down the slope.
Antek, when the smith left him, had set to chopping straw
so frantically that he forgot everything but his work; and
Kuba, returning from the wood, cried out aloud:
“Mercy! there will be enough of it for a week’s fodder!”
And then Antek woke up from his musings, threw the straw-
cutter aside, stretched himself, and went into the hut.
“What must be will be,” he reﬂected, “and I must speak
to my father this day—That blacksmith fellow is a lying
traitor; his advice may be good, for all that. Nay, there
must be something in it.” He peeped in at his father’s
door, and at once drew back; a score of urchins were sit-
ting there. Roch was teaching them, and paying great
heed to their behaviour; going 'round with beads in hand,
hearing their lessons, correcting them at times; at others
l9! AUTUMN
pulling one boy’s ear or patting another’s head, but for the
most part sitting patiently and explaining the printed mat-
ter, or putting questions, which the children hastened to
answer in chorus as fast as they could, gobbling like a troop
of little turkeys when excited.
Hanka was getting dinner ready, and having a talk with
her father, old Bylitsa, who seldom came, because he was
always ailing and could hardly move about.
He sat close to the window, his chin and hands on his
staff; hoary-headed, with a twitch of the lips and a treble
voice like a bird’s, accompanied by thin wheezing sounds in
the windpipe.
“Have you breakfasted?” she inquired.
“To say true, Veronka forgot me.”
“Oh, she even starves her dogs! they often come to me
for food,” she cried. Her elder sister and she had been on
bad terms ever since last winter, when their mother had
died, and Veronka seized on all she had left, refusing to
give anything up; which had estranged them.
He took her part in a feeble voice. “They have not too
much for themselves. Staho threshes at the organist’s,
where he gets food and a score of kopeks daily besides.
And there are many mouths to feed in the cabin: the potato-
patch Cannot suffice for all. True, they have a couple of
milch-cows and take butter and cheese to town, and get a
few coppers; but she often forgets to give me my meals.
Yet I do not want much . . . only a little every day, and
at the right hour . . .”
“Then come to us in spring, since you are so ill off with
that jade!”
- “But I make no complaint, no fuss; only . . His
voice died into silence.
“With us, you could tend the geese, and see to the
children.”
“Hanka,” he said under his breath, “there is nothing that
I would not do.”
“There is room for you here; I should put up a bed for
you and make you cosy.”
THE PEASANTS 192
“Oh, if I could but be with you, Hanka, and never go
back to them, I would sleep in the cowhouse or the stable,”
he answered in a husky beseeching voice. “They took my
feather-bed from me; she says the children have nothing
to sleep on. It is true that they were cold, so I had them
with me. But my sheepskin is all torn, and does not keep
me warm at all; and where I sleep there is no ﬁre, and she
will not let me have any wood, and counts every spoonful
that I eat, and sends me out a-begging, and I am so weak
I can scarcely crawl to your house.”
“Good God! and you never told me this was sol—Why?”
“How could I? she is my daughter!—-And he is a good-
hearted man, but very little in the house—How could I?”
“She is a hag! She took half the land and half the
cabin, and the other things. . . . So that’s the board and
lodgings she promised to give you! We must go to law:
they were bound to let you have food and ﬁring, and cloth-
ing too—And we were to give twelve roubles a year: have
we not kept our promise, say?”
“Surely! For you are upright folk—But those few zloty
that I have saved for my burial—I had to give them up too,
I could not help it.” He said no more but sat crouching
in his place, more like a heap of rags than a human being.
After dinner, when the smith’s wife came with her chil-
dren and greeted Hanka, the old man took up a bundle pre-
pared for him by his daughter, and vanished unnoticed.
Boryna had not come home to dine.
The smith’s wife was determined to see him, nevertheless,
though she should have to wait till nightfall. Hanka had
set up a loom near the window, where she set to work,
drawing the woof of hempen thread across the warp assidu-
ously, and but seldom and timidly taking part in the talk
between Antek and his sister. His conversation with her
about their grievances did not last long, however; for Ya-
gustynka dropped in, saying in a casual tone:
“I have just come here from the organist’s, where they
need me for the washing. Matthias was there only just
now, together with Yagna, to invite them to the wedding.
I93 AUTUMN
They are coming. Yes, everyone to his people: the rich to
the rich. They have asked the priest also.”
“What! have they dared His Reverence!” Hanka
exclaimed.
“Is he, then, so sacred a being? They asked him, and he
said he might possibly come. Why not? Is the girl ill-
looking? will the food be bad? and will there be little to
drink? The miller and wife and daughter have promised.
Ho, ho! There will not have been such a wedding since
Lipka was Lipka!——I know, for I shall be cooking with
Eva—her from the miller’s. Ambrose has killed a pig
for them, and sausages are making now . . She broke
off abruptly, noticing that no one asked any questions, or
spoke at all. She looked round at them as they sat gloomily
there, and, eyeing them attentively, cried out:
“I say! there is a storm brewing here!”
“Storm or no storm, what is that to you?” the smith’s
wife answered, so tartly that Yagustynka was offended, rose,
and went over to Yuzka in the other lodgings, who (the
children having just departed) was setting chairs and benches
in order.
“Father is not likely to grudge himself anything,” the
smith’s wife remarked, in an aggrieved tone.
“Oh, he can well afford it!” Hanka rejoined, and broke
off abruptly, seeing Antek look ﬁercely at her.--They sat
waiting in almost complete silence. From time to time a
word was said; then that dull, crushing, ominous speechless—
ness came over them once more.
“He must have cash enough: he is always selling things,
and never spending.”
Antek’s only rejoinder to his sister’s words was a wave of
the hand; and he went out of the room to get some fresh
air. He was feeling ever more and more uneasy; nor could
he tell why. He now expected his father, and felt impa-
tient at the delay, yet glad in his heart not to have met with
him yet—“It is not the land you are angry about, it is
Yagna!”—-Those words, uttered by the smith the day be-
fore, now suddenly came back to him—“He is a lying dog!”
THE PEASANTS 194
was the cry of rage which burst from his lips. And he set
to work at the outer wall which was to protect the hut
from the side of the courtyard. Vitek brought him litter
from the heap; Antek drove in the laths to form the wall,
and rammed the litter down inside it; but his hands were
trembling, he had to stop working more than once, and lean
against the cabin walls, and look out through the bare leaf-
less trees over the pond to Yagna’s hut—No, it was not
love that was now growing within him, but anger and hatred
in numberless billows! She, the jade—she, the hateful
oneI—They had thrown her a bone, and off she went
after it!
Such were his thoughts. But then there swept over him
remembrances coming up—whence, he knew not—laying
siege to his heart, clinging to his mind, even visible to his
senses . . . and the sweat bedewed his brow, his eyes ﬂashed,
a thrill ran through him—Ah, there in the orchard! Ah,
then in the forest! And again, when they once were com-
ing from town together!
All at once he reeled; he again saw that burning face,
those deep-blue eyes, those wondrous full red lips; and'he
heard her quick-drawn breaths of passion, and her voice,
low and husky with love and rapture, calling to him: “An-
tek! Antek!” And she was again bending towards him, very
close—he felt her touch him with all her throbbing self! . . .
But he rubbed his eyes to drive away that too sweet phan-
tom, and his implacable resentment again oozed icin from
his heart, as the drops fall from the icicles under the eavesf
when the spring sun shines upon them, and love awakens
once more; within his soul, agonized yearning lifted her_
thorn-crowned head once more—a yearning so bitter that
he would fain have eased it by clutching at any pain what-
soever, or by shrieking to rouse the dead! I
“May a brimstone thunderbolt strike her!” he cried out;
but, suddenly recollecting himself, he cast a sharp glance
round, fearing lest Vitek should have understood whom he
meant.
He had spent those three last weeks in a fever of ex-
I95 AUTUMN
pectancy, awaiting the happening of some miracle. As for
himfhe could do nothing, prevent nothing!
And of late, insane thoughts had often surged up in his
mind, insane resolves. Often had he gone out to meet her,
and many a night had he watched outside her cabin, in
the rain and the cold. But she had not come out.--She
shunned him!
No, no, no! Every instant he grew more angry against
her, against the whole framework of things. She was his
father’sl—A strange woman, an adventuress, a thief who
had robbed him of his land, the most precious of all pos-
sessions! Smite her he would—aye, beat the life out of her!
More than once he had determined to confront his father,
.and tell him to his face: “You cannot have Yagna; she is
mine!” But the very thought made his hair stand on end.
—What would his father, what would all the village say?
So now she, that same Yagna, was to be his stepmother—-
his mother . . . of a sort! How could that be? Was it
not a sin, a most grievous one? He was afraid to think of
it: the thought of some awful judgment of God at hand
made his heart die within him. . . . And yet, to say nothing
—to bear all this within himself, as one bearing in his bosom
-coals of ﬁre that burned to the bone—that was beyond the
endurance of man!
And the wedding was but a week away!
“Master is coming,” Vitek cried; and Antek felt he was
shaking with dismay.
It was getting dark.
It was getting cold, too; the ground was freezing, the
air eager and nipping, but clear as usual when a frost is
setting in, and wafting sound so well that the bellowing
and trampling of the cattle driven to water, the creaking
of the gates and bucket-dippers, the noises of the children
and the dogs, were all heard distinctly across the pond.
Prom some windows, there gleamed lights already, throwing
athwart the waters their long, broken, quivering reﬂections;
while, from behind the woods, the huge red full moon was
slowly ascending.
THE PEASANTS 196
Boryna, attentive to farm matters, came into the yard,
and rated Kuba and Vitek soundly for having let the calves
stray from their stalls and wander to the cows’ mangers; so,
when he entered the house, his visitors were awaiting him.
They said nothing, but just gave one glance, and looked
down, as he stopped short in the middle of the room, eyed
them, and asked scornfully:
“All here? What, come to sit in judgment, hey?”
“No, indeed,” the smith’s wife returned, timorously; “we
only come to you with a petition.”
“But why is your goodman not here?”
“He was very busy, and could not come.”
“Aha! Busy . . . yes.” He smiled knowingly, threw his
capote aside, and pulled off his boots. All remained tongue-
tied the while, uncertain how to begin. The smith’s wife
cleared her throat and drew her children closer; Hank-a, on
the threshold, was suckling her little boy, and casting un-
easy looks at Antek, who sat by the window thinking what
he should say, and shaking all over with emotion. Yuzka
alone was calm, peeling potatoes by the ﬁre-place.
“Now, then, say what you have to say,” the old man
cried sharply, irritated by the silence.
“Better you, Antek, should speak ﬁrst—about that settle-
ment: we shall follow,” the smith’s wife stammered.
“The settlement? It is made, and the wedding is to be
on Sunday: that I can tell you.”
“We know, but we came for another reason.”
“What is it?”
“You have settled six whole acres!” _
“I chose to: if I choose, I can settle everything on her,
and this instant!”
“You may, if all belongs to you,” Antek retorted.
“And whose else is it—whose?”
“Your children’s. Ours.”
“That’s nonsense. Mine the land is, and I can do with it
as I please.”
“Or not yours, and not to do as you please.”
197 A U T U M N
“Will you prevent me—you P”
“I shall . . . we all shall; and if not, we have the law to
protect us.” He could no longer control himself, and was
raging. \
“Ah! you do threaten me with the law, forsooth?——Hold
your peace ere I am angered, or you’ll rue it.”
“Wrong us ye shall not!” cried Hanka in a loud voice,
rising to her feet.
“And what is’t she wants—she?—She brought us three
acres of sand, and one piece of canvas cloth: and she dares
wag her tongue here!”
“You have given Antek still less: not even the land, his
mother’s dowry; we are as your farm-labourers!”
“But in return for your work you get all that three of
my acres yield.” /
“For work that is/ worth the yield of more than twenty.”
“If unfairly trea ed, go elsewhere and fare better.”
Here Antek shou d: “We will not! The land is ours,
come down from ur grandsires and forefathers.”
Old Boryna ared at him, but answered nothing. He
seated himself y the ﬁre and, taking up a poker, used it
on the 'bran till the sparks ﬂew on every side. He was
ﬂushed wit passion; his hair again and again came tum—
bling into is eyes, phosphorescent like a wildcat’s; but he
had some self-control still left.
A lon ' pause ensued, and the stillness of the room was
broken nly by the hurried breaths drawn there.
“We nave naught against your marrying; marry, if you


11d if you have aught, much difference will it make to
me! ’
‘ Only revoke that settlement!” added Hanka, in tears.
_/ ’Oh, that peevish mother of dogs! Always chattering
ike a fool!” And he poked the ﬁre so furiously that the
parks ﬂew all about the room.
“Take heed! She is no wench of yours, that you should
peak such words to her!”
THE PEASANTS 198
“Why should she prate, then?”
“She has a right to speak!” Antek shouted; “she stands
up for what is our due.”
“If you will,” the smith’s wife murmured, “let the settle-
ment stand, but settle the rest of your property on us.”
“Look at that simpleton! Going to divide my land, eh?
No, I’ll never take board and lodgings from you.--I have
spoken.”
“We will not give in! We will have justice!”
“If I but take my stick to you, I’ll give you justice!”
“Try but to touch us!—You’d not live till the wedding!”
And now the squabble began in earnest; they rushed for-
wards, threatening; they beat the.,table with their ﬁsts, they
shouted aloud all their grievances, all their injuries. Antek,
in his anger, forgot himself so far as again and again to
clutch his father by the shoulder, even by the throat, so
furious was he; but the old man was yet master of himself.
He wished to have no ﬁght, and merely pushed him aside,
seldom replying to insults, and unwilling to have the whole
village taking part in his affairs. But the noise and con-
fusion in the room waxed louder and louder; for both the
women were weeping and pouring forth inivectives alter-
nately, while the children screamed so that both Kuba and
Vitek came round from the farm-yard and peep’ed in at the
window.
Hanka, leaning against the chimney penthouse, here
burst into a torrent of tears and words: ’; .
“Yes, we shall have to go out into the world \and beg
our bread! O Lord, good Lord! . . . we that have toiled
like oxen! . . . What have we now of our labour“? . . .
Ah, God will avenge this wrong of ours! . . . His judgment
will be upon you! . . . Six whole acres settled—land
mother’s clothing and beads given away . . . everythihg!
And to whom, great God? . . . To that swine! . . . Oh
wanton and harlot as you are! For the wrong you ar
doing us, may you end in a ditch some day!” é
“What do you say?” the old man shrieked, darting fur —
ously towards her-
I99 AUTUMN
“That she is a harlot and a wanton—as all the village and
all the world knows!”
“Woe betide you! I’ll beat your foul mouth to pulp!”
He seized and shook her; but Antek leaped forwards to
protect her, and shouted in his turn:
“And I say it too: she is a wanton, a harlot, and anyone
may know her that cares!”--But he said no more. Boryna,
in a paroxysm of rage, stiuck him such a blow in the face
that he fell with his head breaking the pane of a glazed
press, which he brought to the ﬂoor with him. Springing
up instantly, streaming with blood, he charged his father.
They both rushed at each other like mad dogs, with a
mutual clutch, driving and being driven backward and
forward about the room, pushing and hurling one another
against the bed, the great trunk, the walls, till their heads
rang again. A horrible outcry arose: the womenfolk tried
to separate them, but they rolled down upon the ﬂoor, so
closely gripped in hatred that they turned over and over,
each strangling each, each crushing the other, as best
he could.
By great good fortune, the neighbours ran in while it
was time, and separated them.
Antek was hustled away to the other lodgings, and water
dashed over him; he was faint with exhaustion caused by
loss of blood, for the glass had gashed him very deep.
The old man had no hurt at all; only a slight tear in
the short jacket he wore, and a few scratches on his face,
that was livid with rage. . . . He swore at the folk who
had come, shut the front door on them, and sat down by
the ﬁre.
But nothing could avail to calm him.
He could not put out of his memory the words uttered
about Yagna: they stabbed him like a knife.
“That hound! I will never forgive him, never!” was the
oath he then swore to himself. “My Yagna! how could
he?”—-But then he recalled what he had heard said of her
in former_times and disregarded. He turned hot, he felt
as if he were choking, and a wretched sense of dejection
THE PEASANTS 200
came over him. How, if his own son said such things, were
people’s mouths to be stopped? Oh, that villain! The
very recollection of those words burned him like ﬁre.
After Yuzka had cleaned away all the traces of the
struggle, and given him his supper, though late, he attempted
to eat, but could not, and laid his spoon down. “Have
you given the horses their provender?” he inquired of Kuba.
“Of course.” ’
“Vitek—where is he?”
“Gone for Ambrose, to see to Antek’s head. His face is
swollen like a pipkin,” he added, hurrying out; for he had
chosen this moonlight night to go out shooting.
“ ‘When dogs have too much bread, each ﬂies at t’other’s
head,’ ” he grunted.
The old man stumped down into the village, but refrained
from visiting Yagna, though the light was gleaming bright
from her window. He turned away just outside her door,
and went round to the mill. It was a chilly star-besprinkled
night, and so clear that the whole mill-pond shone like
glittering quicksilver. Over the deserted roads the trees
cast long swaying shadows. It was late; they were putting
the lights out in the houses, whose white-washed walls now
stood out more distinctly among the skeleton orchard trees.
Silence and darkness had swallowed up all the hamlet: only
the mill—wheel and the water clattered and babbled monot-
onously. \Matthias walked on, crossing to the other side.
As he went, his anger grew stronger, together with his
hatred. When he got to the tavern, he sent for the Voyt,
and they both drank till midnight. He could not, however,
drown the gnawing pain within him. Only he then
registered a resolve.
No sooner had he risen the next morning than he went
round to the other lodgings. Antek was in bed, his face
bandaged with a bloodstained rag.
“Get out of my hoine this instant!” he said, “and let no
trace of you remain! If you want war, if you will go to
law, then do so; bring an action, and get back your prop—
erty! What you have sown of your own grain, you may
201 AUTUMN
reap, when summer comes. And now, away with you! Let
me set eyes on you no more! Do you hear?” he roared.
Antek set about dressing slowly.
“By noon, you will have to be off!” he added, calling out
to them from the passage.
Antek remained as dumb as though he had not heard.
“Yuzka, call Kuba: let him put the mare to the cart, and
take them whither they want to go!”
“But there is something the matter with Kuba. He lies
groaning on his pallet, and says he cannot rise at all, his
lame leg hurts him so.”
“A sluggard, who only wants to lie abed!” And Boryna
saw to the farm-duties by himself.
Kuba nevertheless was seriously ill, but would not say
what the matter was with him, though pressed by his master.
As he lay, he uttered such groans that the horses came up
to him, sniffed at his face and licked it, while Vitek brought
him water in a pail, and secretly washed certain blood-
smirched rags in the river.
Boryna, intent as he was on the departure of Antek and
his family, noticed nothing of all this.
They departed.
Without clamour or disturbance, they packed everything,
carried their belongings out, and made up their bundles;
Hanka well-nigh swooning with distress; Antek refreshing
her with drinks of water and hurrying her on, that they
might be away—out of that father’s house—as quickly as
ever they could.
He would take no horse from his father, but borrowed
one from Klemba, and took everything over to Hanka’s
parent, at the very end of the village and beyond the
tavern.
Several peasants had come in from the hamlet, along with
Roch as their leader, desirous of reconciling them; but to
this neither father nor son would agree.
“No,” said the old man; “let him try how he will enjoy
his freedom, and bread of his own!”
Antek answered no word to their solicitations; but, lifting
THE'PEASANTS 202
his ﬁst, he uttered such horrible maledictions that Roch
turned pale and withdrew amongst the women, who were in
numbers about the premises; partly to assist Hanka, but for
the most part to air grievances aloud, and babble, and
give advice. _ -
When Yuzka, all in tears, gave dinner to her father and
Roch, her brother and his family were off the place, to-
gether with all they had. Antek never even looked back at
his hut; he only crossed himself, heaving a deep sigh; and
whipping up the horse, put his shoulder to the cart, it being
very heavily laden. He went plodding along, his face White,
his eyes blazing with stubborn resolve, his teeth chattering
as one in an ague: but never said one word. Hanka walked
languidly after the cart, her elder son holding to her skirt
and roaring, her younger one clasped to her bosom. Be-
fore them she drove a cow, a ﬂock of geese, and two lean
swine: and her voice was so loud in imprecations and
mourning that folk came out of their houses, and followed
her as in procession.
At Boryna’s, the meal was eaten in sombre silence.
The old dog Lapa barked in the porch, ran after the
cart, returned and howled. Vitek called it; but it paid no
heed. It ‘smelt the farm-yard, entered Antek’s empty
rooms, ran round them one or twice, rushed into the pas-
sage, barked again, whined, fawned on Yuzka, and again
tore about as though distracted: then it sat down on its
hind quarters with a strange air of imbecility—and ﬁnally
made oﬂ, with its tail between its legs, on Antek’s trail.
“Even Lapa has gone after them!”
“Do not fear, Yuzka,” her father answered tenderly;
“Lapa is coming back soon. They will have no food for
him. Come, no silly puling, but prepare the other rooms:
Roch is to live in them. Call Yagustynka to help
you. . . . You must take household matters in hand now;
being housekeeper, you’ll have many a care on your
head. . . . No, no! no whimpering, dear!” He took her
head in both his hands, and stroked it, and drew her
caressingly to \his heart.
203 AUTUMN
! “When I go to town, I’ll buy you a pair of shoes.”
\“Oh, will you, will you, Father?”
iers, I will indeed, and many another thing besides.
Only be a good girl, and take care of the place.”
“{And will you buy me a caftan like Nastusia’s?”
“:Certainly, dear, I’ll buy you one”
“And ribbons too?——B.ut long ones . . . such as I shall
want for your .wedding-day.” “ 2
“Say but'what you need, little one, and you shall have
it . all you want!”’ "
CHAPTER XI
as RE you sleeping, Yagna?”
A “How can I sleep? I woke at dawn . . . with
the thought that I am to be married to-day.”
“You are sorry, darling, are you?” she whispered; there
was in her heart a mingling of hope and fear.
“Wherefore? Shall I be sorry that I must leave your
home, and go to my own?”
Dominikova, crushing down the pang which suddenly
seized her at the words, did not reply at once. She rose
from her bed, dressed herself carelessly, and went out to
wake up the lads in the stable. These had overslept them-
selves somewhat, the “Unbinding of Hair”1 having taken
place in the cabin the evening before. It was broad day-
light, and the morning, clad in hoarfrost, ﬂooded the world
with silvery splendour.
Dominikova washed her face in the passage, and went
quietly about the house, ever and anon peeping at Yagna,
whose face was scarcely discernible in the shades of the
bedroom, dark as yet.
“Lie there, darling! lie there still! Lie for the last time
in thy mother’s home,” she murmured, love and sorrowing
pain contending within her many a time. What she had
coveted so ardently, she had now: yet she felt such anguish
that she could not but wince at the smart of it, and sat down
upon the bed—Boryna . . . a kind man, who would treat
her daughter with due respect. . . . And Yagna could do
whatever she liked with this man, who saw nothing in the
whole world but her!
1As Polish peasant-girls’ tresses are cut after the wedding, they
have a little domestic party the evening before, to which only girls
are invited, and the tresses are then unbound, ready to be shorn.
-Tnmslator’s N ote.
204
205 AUTUMN
No. It was not he that she dreaded, but the stepchildren.
--Ah, why had he driven the Anteks from his home?
Now, if ever, would they brew mischief and seek revenge.
But yet, if he had not done so? . . . Antek at Yagna’s side!
--A sin against God might have ensued—Well, there was
no help for it now. The banns were published, the guests
invited; the pig was killed, the settlement safely stowed
away. . . . No, no, no! What would come of it had to
come; and while Dominikova lived, she would suffer no
wrong to be done to her daughter.-Having come to this
ﬁnal decision, she went out to rate the lads for their sloth.
When she returned, she thought to rouse her daughter too;
but Yagna had fallen asleep again, and the quiet regular
breathing of slumber was heard from her bed. Once more
did the mother feel anxieties and uncertainties swoop down
upon her, like hawks with talons tearing at her heart,
screaming distrust, and predicting some vaguely awful im-
pending doom. But she dropped on her knees by the
window and, with red bleared eyes ﬁxed upon the ﬂushed
dawn, prayed very hard for a long time. And she rose, full
of strength to meet any- fate that might come, no
matter what!
“Now, Yagna dear, get up; it is high time. Eva is
coming at once to cook, and we have so much to do still!”
“Is the weather ﬁne?” the girl inquired, raising her
heavy head.
“So ﬁne that all the country round is glistening over with
hoarfrost. The sun will rise presently.”
Yagna, aided by her mother, was soon dressed! Then
the latter, after due consideration, spoke thus:
“What I have told you before, I will repeat again.
Boryna is a good, kind man; but you must take great
care . . . not to make friends with any chance acquaintance.
or let tongues ever again wag against you. People are
curs: they love to bite—You hear me, dear?”
“I hear, yes; but you speak as though I had not any
judgment at all.”
“No one is the worse for good advice—See well to this:
THE PEASANTS 206
Boryna must never be set at naught, but always treated
with tender respect. An old man cares much more for
that sort of thing than a young one does. . . . And who
knows whether he may not settle all his land on you? or
perhaps give you a big sum—from hand to hand?”
“For that I care nothing,” she interrupted impatiently.
“Because you are young and inexperienced. Look round
you: what is it men quarrel for, work for, and make every
attempt to get? Why, what but property, property alone!
P—The Lord never, never made you for toil and suffering.—
Whom have I laboured for all my life, if not for my Yagna?
——And 'now I shall be alone—quite alone!”
“But the lads will not quit your side; they will always be
with you.”
“Of them I have as much joy as of the day that is no
more!” She wept, and added, wiping her eyes: “You
must also live in harmony with your husband’s children.”
“Yuzka is a kindly girl. Gregory Will not be back from
the army for some time yet. And—and . . .”
“Beware of the smith!” '
“Why, he is on the best of terms with Matthias.”
“If so, it is for some reason of his own: be sure of that.—
The Anteks are worst of all; they will not be reconciled. . . .
His Reverence wanted to make peace yesterday, but they
'would none of it.”
“Oh, but Matthias is a wicked old man to drive them
from his house!” Yagna burst out passionately.
“What’s that—what do you say, Yagna? 'Do you know
that Antek would have taken back the land from us—that
he cursed you, and said of you things unﬁt to repeat?”
“Antek against me? Antek? They lie who told you
so. . . . May their foul tongues drop out of their heads!”
“Oh! And what is it sets you so strongly on his side?
Say!” she asked with a threatening look.
“Their being all against him! I am not a begging dog
that fawns on all who toss him bread. He is ill—used, and
I know it!”
207 AUTUMN
“You would like to return the deed of settlement to him,
would you not?” .
Yagna could speak no further; a stream of tears fell from
her eyes; she rushed into the inner room, bolted the door,
and cried there for a long while.
Dominikova did not try. to interfere. The scene had
awakened new feelings of anxiety in her mind, but she had
- no time to brood over them. Eva came; the lads slouched
into the passage; the last preparations and arrangements
were now to be made.
'The sun was up, and the morning—tide rolling on.
.The frost of the previous night had been hard enough
for the roadside pools and the borders of the pond to be
coated with ice, and the quagmires to bear the weight of the
lesser ﬂocks.
Now it was growing warmer, though in the shadow and
under the hedges the frost still reigned. The thatches
dripped with crystal drops, and wreaths of smoke-like
vapour were curling up from the marshes.
Not the least little cloud ﬂoated in the dark azure of
the sky.
Nevertheless, crows hovering about thercabins, and cocks
frequently crowing, foretold bad weather to come.
It was Sunday; and though the bells had not yet begun
to ring, the whole village was like a hive of swarming bees.
Half the inhabitants were smartening themselves up for the
wedding of Boryna with Yagna.
In every cabin, turmoil and racket prevailed; everyone
was getting ready, trying things on, and dressing carefully;-
and out of many an open window and door came the sounds
of merry voices. .
On Dominikova’s premises, of course, everything was in
seething tumult, as usual on such a day.
The cottage, freshly whitewashed, was noticeable from.
afar, having been decorated with green boughs in Whitsun-
tide fashion. Already the day before, the boys had come
to ﬁx pine-branches on the thatched roof and where possible ‘
THE PEASANTS 208
along every chink in the wall. From the fence to the porch,
ﬁr-tree boughs had been likewise set up, so that the fra-
grance was like that of the woods in the springtime.
Within, the arrangements made were very ﬁne indeed.
On the farther side of the house, generally used as a
storeroom, a great ﬁre had been made, and Eva from the
miller’s was cooking there with some neighbours and
Yagustynka to help her.
All the furniture had been removed from the other side,
the room whitewashed afresh within, the chimney-piece
veiled with a great piece of blue drapery. Nothing re-
mained but the holy images on the walls; but the lads had
carried in stout benches and long tables, which they set up
along the sides. The ceiling, with its age-darkened rafters,
had been adorned with paper ﬁgures that Yagna had her~
self cut out. Matthias had fetched her coloured paper from
town, out of which she had snipped many a fringed and
variously coloured circle, and imitating ﬂowers, and curi—
osities of different descriptions—as, for instance, a dog run-
ning after sheep, its master following it, staff in hand; or
a church procession, with priest, banners ﬂying, and images;
borne aloft—and so many other marvels of the same kind,
it was impossible to remember them all! And all were well-
shaped and artistic in appearance, and had been greatly
admired the evening before, when they were unplaiting
Yagna’s tresses. She knew how to make many another
thing besides—anything that caught her eye or fancy; and
in all Lipka there was not a cabin without some cutting
made by her hands.
Having partly dressed herself in the other room, she came
out to paste the rest of her cuttings upon the walls beneath
the holy images, there being no room anywhere else.
“Yagna! will you have done with those fancy things of
yours? The people are assembling, the band is marching
through the village: and that girl is amusing herself wrth
drolleries!”
-“Plenty of time, plenty of time,” she returned brieﬂy;
but she now stuck no more cuttings, and busied herself
209 AUTUMN
strewing the ﬂoor with pine-needles, laying the tables with
ﬁne linen cloth, exchanging a few words with her brothers,
or strolling about the place and looking out at the scenery.
But she felt no pleasure in all this: not the-least. She was
going to dance and hear the band play, and was fond
both of music and of dancing: that was all. Her soul, like
the present day of autumn serenity, was cloudless and
radiant, but lifeless. Were it not that all things reminded
her it was her wedding-day, she might even have forgotten
that. At the “Unplaiting,” the day before, Boryna had put
in her hands eight strings of coral beads—all that his wiv.es
had left at their death. And now they lay at the bottom
of her trunk: she had not even put them on. To-day she
felt no interest in anything. Willingly would she have
ﬂown away somewhere—but where,.she knew not! Every-
thing teased her; and what her mother had told her about
Antek recurred persistently to her mind. What! he speak'
evil of her? She could not, would not believe it: the very
thought made tears start—Yet, it might be! . . . Yester-
day, she was washing linen; he had passed by, and never
looked her way! In the morning, she was going with
Boryna to confession. Antek, coming in their direction,
had turned back as from a savage dog. . . . Well, then, let
him snarl at her if he would; let him snarl!
She began to feel herself in indignant revolt against him.
But a sudden ﬂash of memory brought that evening back to
her, when they had returned together from plucking cab-
bages at his father’s. The recollection went to her head, her
mind was wrapped and plunged in ﬂames all over; it re-
vived so intensely that it was not to be borne. Thereupon,
to make a diversion, she cried point-blank to her mother:
“I’ll have you know I won’t let my hair be cut off after
the wedding!”
“Here’s a clever one for you! Who ever heard of a
girl whose hair was not shorn after the wedding?”
“At manors, and in towns.”
“Certainly. Yes, they—they have to keep their hair, to
cheat the folk, and pass for what they are not—Why
THE PEASANTS 210
would you bring in a new order of things, you? Let the
manor girls make laughing-stocks of themselves by all
means; let them go about, hairy as jewesses. They are
‘ fools, and they may. But you—no town rubbish, a daugh- '
ter of the soil from grandsire and greatgrandsire—you have
to do as has ever been done amongst our peasantryl—Ah,
I know them, those town conceits and fancies!”
Yagna, however, stuck to her point. Eva, an experi-
enced woman, who knew many a village, and year after
year went on foot to Chenstohova with the pilgrim com-
panies, tried her best to persuade the girl; so did Yagus-
tynka, though according to her way seasoning her advice
with jests and bitter railleries. At last she said:
“Keep your tresses, do; they will serve Boryna, when he
beats you. He’ll twist-them round his hand, and so use
his stick better upon you. And then you will cut them off
by yourself . . . I knew a woman . . But here she
broke off. Vitek had come to call her. She was staying
with Boryna since Antek’s expulsion, Yuzka proving too
young for a housekeeper. Now helping Eva in the cooking,
she would once in a while run round to the house to see
to things there, as the old man’s brain was topsyturvy that
day. Ever since morning, Yuzka had been at the black-
smith’s, smartening herself; and Kuba lay continually
ill in bed.
The lad had come in a hurry. “Kuba wants you sorely:
pray come this instant.”
“Off at once!——Good friends, I shall just see what it is,
and be back here directly.”
“Hurry, Yagna; we are expecting the bridesmaids,” said
Dominikova warningly.
But she made no haste at all, seemingly in a drowsy
ﬁt. . . . Her work fell from her ﬁngers, and she would
stand sometimes gazing vacantly out of window. Her soul
was as though turned to water within her—water that ﬂowed
hither and thither, and now and again splashed and broke
on some rock of memory.
In the cottage, the hubbub was ever increasing, with the
211 AUTUMN
constant arrival of many a dame—now a kinswoman, now
a housewife: these, according to ancient custom, bringing
Dominikova fowls, or a loaf of Wheaten bread, cake, salt,
ﬂour, pieces of bacon, or a silver rouble wrapped up in
paper—all these things as thank-offerings for the invitation,
and to make up for the heavy expenses incurred.
Each of them drank a little nip of sweetened vodka,
chatted a few minutes with the old dame, admired every-
thing, and hurried away.
Dominikova herself superintended the cooking, cleared
things away, and saw that everything was duly done; not
omitting to scold her sons for laziness; and, indeed, they
dawdled much, and each of them slipped out whenever he
could into the village to the Voyt’s, where the musicians
and the bridesmen had gathered already.
Few people attended High Mass, and this vexed his
Reverence, because folk had forgotten the Divine Service
on account of a mere wedding. Which was very true; but
people also said to themselves that such a wedding was not
to be witnessed every Sunday.
All those invited came driving in at once after the noon-
day meal from the neighbouring villages.
The sun, shedding a dim hazy splendour over the autumn
ﬁelds, had begun to roll westward; the ground seemed
shiny and glistening as if with dew, the pond shimmered
tremulously, the roadside ditches had a glassy gleam; the
whole landscape was soaked in the dying light and the cool-
ing heat of the last autumn days.
Burning down like a candle, the day was slowly approach-
ing extinction. -
The village of Lipka, however, was inspired with all the
animation of a fair.
No sooner had the Vesper bells rung for the ﬁrst time
than all the musicians at the Voyt’s sallied forth into
the road.
First came the ﬁddlers, each marching abreast with a
ﬂutist; then the bass-viol-players, and the drummers, to
whose instruments there were little bells attached: all
THE PEASANTS 212
adorned with ﬂying ribbons, and advancing with elastic
steps.
After the musicians walked a troop of eight: the two
“proposers,” who had arranged the match, and the six
bridesmen. These were all handsome young fellows, slender
as pine-trees, slim-waisted, broad-shouldered, enthusiastic
dancers, audacious of speech, fond of a fray, and great
sticklers for their rights: such were they all six, and all of
good families, pure farmer’s blood.
Together they marched, shoulder to shoulder, down the
middle of the road, the ground echoing under the tramping
of their boots: with such merry daredevil looks, and so
gayly adorned, that they killed the' whole scene—a vision of
striped trousers glancing in the sun, of scarlet jackets, hats
decked with bunches of ﬂoating ribbons, and white capotes,
open and ﬂapping in the breeze like wings.
Uttering shrill cries, and humming joyful tunes, on they
dashed, tramping noisily in measure—a young pine-grove
in motion and rushing with the blast!
The musicians played polonaises, going from but to but to
call the wedding guests; here vodka was offered them, there
they were asked in; elsewhere a song would answer to their
tunes; while on all sides the folk came out, dressed in
their best raiment, and went swelling the main body. And
under the windows of the bridesmaids all sang in unison the
following verse:
Lasses, lightly treading,
Come ye to the wedding-
Hear our gleeful tune!
Hear our voices’ chorus
Join with ﬂute sonorous-
Hautboy and bassoon!
Let the tankard clink now:
Who is 10th to drink now-
He’s a scurvy loon!
Oy ta dana dana,
Oy ta dana dana,
Oy ta‘dana da!
213 AUTUMN
And then they shouted so loud that they could be heard
throughout the whole village, and beyond in the ﬁelds and
the forests. -
The folk had come out in front of their houses, into the
orchards. Many who had not been invited joined the party,
merely to look on and listen; so, before it had reached its
destination, pretty nearly the whole village was round them,
pressing and surging on every side, while the children ran on
in front: a dense crowd, a swift and a noisy one.
Having brought the guests to the bridal cottage, playing
them in with a joyful strain, they returned to fetch the
bridegroom.
Vitek, who, brave in his short jacket adorned with rib-
bons, had accompanied the bridesmen, now ran fast
before them.
“Master!” he cried through the window. “They are com-
ing!” And off he ran to where Kuba lay.
They played a good while there before the porch. Boryna
came out directly, threw the door wide open, and would
have had them all in; but the Voyt and the Soltys took him
by each arm and led him straight away to Yagna; for it
was high time to go to church.
His gait was full of mettle, and he looked surprisingly
young. Clean-shaven, with hair newly cut, and his wedding-
suit on, he made a rarely handsome ﬁgure; besides which,
portly and broad-shouldered as he was, the digniﬁed ex-
pression both of his features and his whole outer man made
him conspicuous from afar. He smiled and talked pleas—
antly with the young men who had come; especially with
the smith, who managed to be always close to him.
They brought him in ceremony to Dominikova’s, where
the crowd made place for him; and, with tumultuous cries,
and sounds of many instruments and songs, he entered the
cabin.
Yagna was as yet invisible: the women were arraying her
in the inner room, carefully watched and strongly bolted.
For the young fellows knocked and battered at the door;
they cut narrow slits in the partitions, and made careless
THE PEASANTS 214
jests with the bridesmaids: whereupon rose great scream-
ing, much laughter, and of old women’s scolding not less.
The old dame, with her sons, received the guests, offered
vodka, conducted the elders to the places reserved for them,
and in short had an eye to everything.
All the guests were of high condition: no common men,
but only men of property and of good family; and of these
only the wealthiest. All were connected with the Borynas
and the Paches by ties of family and friendship, or were at
least acquaintances who had driven over from distant
villages.
None of your Klembas, or your Vincioreks, none of your
one-acre starvelings were there: nor any of the small fry
that eked out their existence by working for others, and
were the closest adherents of old Klemba!
“No dainties for dogs, and no honey for hogs,” says the
adage!
Presently the door opened; and the organist’s wife and
the miller’s ushered Yagna into the big room. The brides-
maids formed a circle round her—a wreath of human ﬂow-
ers they were, all so beautifully dressed and so fair to see.
And she—she stood in their midst, like a rose, the most fear-
less of them all; with head-dress of plumes and ribbons and
silver and gold lace, she was like one of those images they
carry in church processions; and they all stood mute be-
fore her. '
Ah! since the Mazur was ﬁrst danced, no one was ever
more splendid!
Then did the bridesmen lift up their voices, growling
from the depths of their throats:
Resound, O violin, resound!
(Yagna, now ask pardon of your mother!)
Resound, O ﬂageolet, resound!
(Yagna, now ask pardon of each brother!)
Boryna came forward and took her hand. They both
knelt, and Dominikova made the sign of the cross over them
with an image, and then sprinkled them both with holy
215 AUTUMN
water. Yagna, bursting into tears, fell at her mother’s
knees, embracing them, and the other women’s too, as she
begged pardon and took leave of them all. The women
gathered her into their arms, passing her from one to an-
other, and all wept much: Yuzka the most, thinking of
her dead mother.
They all formed up before the house and marched off on
foot, for the church was but one ﬁeld away.
Then the bridesmen took possession of Yagna. She
walked on with delight, smiling through the tears which still
trembled in her lashes. She now was gay to see as a spring-
blossoming bush, and riveted every eye. Her hair, braided
over her forehead, bore above it a rich pile of gold spangles,
and peacock’s eyes, and sprigs of rosemary. Therefrom,
down to her nape and shoulders, fell'long ribbons of every
hue; her white skirt was gatheredat the waist in abundant
folds; her corsage, of sky-blue velvet, was laced with silver;
she wore great puffed sleeves to her chemise. Round her
throat there was an abundant frill, embroidered with de-
signs in dark-blue thread, and necklaces of coral and amber,
row upon row, hung/covering half her bosom.
Matthias was being led by the bridesmaids.
As the stalwart oak may be seen rising behind the grace-
ful pine in the wo/o’ds, so did he appear after Yagna’s ﬁgure.
There was in his/ gait a certain jaunty swing, and he shot
glances on either side of the road: he fancied he had be-
held Antek in the ruck.
Following h'm came Dominikova, with the “proposers,”
the smith an his family, Yuzka, the miller’s and the or-
ganist’s peop , and all the persons of any note.
And follo ing these came the whole village.
The sun as now hanging above the woods, red, enor-
mous, ﬂoo ing all the road, and the pond, and the huts, with
its blood red glow.
In th midst of this crimson conﬂagration they walked
on slow y. It made the eyes blink to see them as they went
-wit ribbons and peacock plumes and ﬂowers; gay in
red t ousers, petticoats of orange tints, rainbow kerchiefs,


THE PEASANTS 216
snowy capotes: just as if a whole ﬁeld full of ﬂowers in
bloom had arisen and moved forward, swaying in the wind!
Aye, and singing too! For again and again the high
treble of the bridesmaids’ voices would strike up the ditty:
On the clattering wagons go,
And my heart is full of woe,
Alas!
Round you while our songs rise glad,
You, O Yagna, you are sad,
. Alas!
All the way, Dominikova was in tears, her eyes ﬁxed
upon Yagna‘ alone.
Ambrose was already lighting the tapers in church when
they came.
They formed in ranks—two and two—and proceeded to-
ward the high altar, just as the priest was coming out of
the sacrisy.
The wedding was soon over: his \ everence had to visit a
sick man in haste. When they left the church, the organist
played them out with Mazurs, Obertases, and Kuyavy
dances, till their feet beat time of themselves; and more than
one was on the point of singing aloud, butt luckily remem-
bered where he was. \.
They returned peIl-mell, and very noisily, for bridesmen
and bridesmaids weie singing together. ’
Dominikova got to her home ﬁrst and, wh _ the company
arrived, was there to welcome the newly arried couple
on her threshold, and offer them the hallow d bread and
salt; then she had to receive the whole comp ny a second
time, embrace them all, and ask them in once ’ ore!
In the passage, the music was striking up. So, on passing
the threshold, everyone made a partner of the ﬁ 'st woman
he met, to perform the stately polonaise that as being
played. At once, like a many-coloured serpent, a "hain of


ﬂoor with dignity, swayed to and fro in graceful u ldula—
217 AUTUMN
tion, placed, swam, wheeled about, one after another in ser-
ried ranks, Boryna with Yagna leading off!
The lights placed on the chimney penthouse ﬂickered, and
the very walls seemed like to fall asunder with the forceful
gravity of this solemn dance, performed with such digniﬁed
grace.
This was the introduction, and lasted but some minutes.
-Then began the ﬁrst dance, in honour of the bride, and ac-
cording to the usages and customs of old days. All present
squeezed themselves into corners, or huddled against the
walls; and the young men made a wide circle, within which
she danced. As she stepped out, she felt the blood tingling
in her veins; her dark-blue eyes shone; her white teeth
gleamed; her face was ﬂushed; she danced persistently, and
for a long time, for she was obliged to give each partner at
least one turn round the room, and dance with all.
The musicians worked hard—worked till they felt worn
out: but Yagna seemed to have but just begun. The ﬂush
on her face deepened, she turned and whirled more im-
petuously than ever; her ribbons ﬂuttered and rustled as she
went by, lashing those near her on the cheek; and her skirt,
expanding to the streaming air, spread out and bellied wide
around her.
The young men, delighted, beat time on the tables, and
shouted in eager excitement.
It was only after all the others that she chose her bride-
groom. Boryna, who had been waiting so long, now leaped
forward, pouncing on her like a forest lynx, seized her
waist, whirled her round like a hurricane, and cried to the
players:
“Now, boys, the Mazur—and with a will!”
All the instruments sounded with might and main; the
whole room was in a fever.
Holding Yagna in a strong grip, Boryna lifted the skirts
of his capote over each arm, settled his hat upon his head,
clicked his heels together, and set off, swift as the wind!
Ah! but how he danced! Now turning round and round,
now with a backward step, now bringing his foot down as
THE PEASANTS 218
if he would stamp the ﬂoor to shivers—then sidling with
Yagna, and sweeping her on, and whisking her hither and
thither, and whirling her so that they twain formed but one
indistinct mass, looking for all the world like a spindle full
of yarn, spinning about a room; and from each of them
there came forth a full blast of power and force.
Furiously, unceasingly, the players went on playing the
Mazur dance!
The crowds in the corners and at the door looked on in
silent wonder: Boryna was so indefatigably active, and ever
at higher and higher pressure, that he instilled not a few
with riotous boisterousness, even to beating the measure with
their feet; and some of the hottest heads, no longer re-
strained by decorum, seized a girl and danced about with
her.
Yagna, though brawny and well-knit, soon had to give in;
he felt her weakening in his arms, and immediately ceased
from dancing, and led her to the inner room.
“What a splendid fellow you are!” the miller cried out.
“Henceforth you are my brother !--Ask me to be godfather
at the ﬁrst christening, I pray you!” And he put his arm
round Boryna’s neck. Soon they were on very familiar
terms, for the music had stopped and refreshments were
handed round.
Dominikova and her sons,,,with the smith and Yagus-
tynka, now glided swiftly about, bearing bottles and clusters
of glasses, and drank with each one. Yuzka and the friends
of the old dame carried pieces of bread and cake about in
sieves to the guests.
And the tumult grew and increased.
On a bench near the window sat the miller, with Boryna,
the Voyt, the organist—all the notables in the place be-
sides; and there a bottle of rum—not of the worst—was
circulating among them.
Many were also standing about the room in groups, talk-
ing loudly to anyone they met, as they felt inclined; and the
vodka glasses were in requisition.
The inner room was lit by the organist’s great lamp, lent
219 AUTUMN
for the occasion. The housewives, with the organist’s wife
and the miller’s at their head, had gathered there, and sat
on chests and benches strewn with pieces of woven wool.
They held their heads up with great dignity, sipped their
mead by tiny droplets, crumbled the sweet cake with dainty
ﬁngers, and very rarely threw in a word or two, but listened
attentively while the miller’s wife told them all about her
children.
The very passages were quite full. Some tried to invade
the other side; but Eva drove them out. They proved
too greedy for the dishes, the appetizing scent of which
had ﬁlled the house, and was making many a mouth water.
The young people then dispersed all about the premises,
in the yard and the orchard. The night was chilly, but
serene and starlit. Here they strolled, disporting themselves
in merry guise; and all the place echoed with laughter,
shouts, and running to and fro, one chasing another among
the trees. So the elders cried a warning to them from the
window:
“Are ye seeking ﬂowers by night, girls?—Beware lest ye
lose what is more than any ﬂower!”
But who paid heed to them?
Yagna and Nastusia were now walking about the big
room, their arms round each other’s waists, whispering to-
gether, and ever and anon bursting into laughter. Simon,
Dominikova’s eldest son, was watching them, with eyes
glued to Nastusia, and frequently going to her with vodka
and attempting conversation.
The blacksmith had dressed up most grandly, having on
a black capote, and trousers over which the boots were
drawn. He slipped about with great activity, was every-
where, drank with everybody, walked to and fro and talked;
and his red head and freckled face were never long on the
same spot.
The young people danced several times, but not long, nor
with much animation. They were looking forward to the
supper.
The old men, on their side, were deep in debate, the Voyt
THE PEASANTS 220
raising his voice higher and higher, striking the table with
his ﬁst, and laying down the law:
“I, the Voyt, have said it: you may take it from me.
I, a man in office, have received a paper commanding me to
call a meeting, and order half a kopek per acre to be voted
by every landowner for educational purposes.”
“You, Peter, may vote even ﬁve kopeks an acre if you
like: we won’t!”
“No, that we will not!” one of the men roared.
“But I am making you a statement as an ofﬁcial!”
“We do not care for such schools as those,” Boryna re-
marked; and the others assented in chorus.1
“In Vola,” said one, “there is a school which my children
attended for three winters running. What is the result?
They cannot even read in a‘ prayer-book.—Devil take such
teaching!”
“Let the mothers teach prayers at home; prayers have
naught to do with studies. I, the Voyt, tell you this!”
“Then what are schools for?” grumbled the man from
Vola, rising.
“I will tell you, I the Voyt: but listen . . .
Here he was interrupted by Simon, who cried aloud to
them all that the trees of the clearing sold to the jews had
already been branded by them, and that they would have
them cut down as soon as the sledges could run.
“Brand the trees they may: to fell them will be harder!”
Boryna put in.
“We shall complain to the commissary.”
“Who is hand in glove with the Squire?—No: let us go
in a body and drive the woodmen off.”
“They shall not hew down one single sapling!”
“Matthias, drink to me! Now is no time for holding
councils. A tipsy man will even defy God!” So cried the
miller, ﬁlling Boryna’s glass. The talk was as little to his
2)
1The reader should bear in mind that this book was published
before the War, when only schools where Russian was taught were
permitted by the government, and Polish was not learned except in
secret-Translator’s Note.
221 AUTUMN
taste as the threats were; for he had an agreement drawn
up with the jews, and the trees were to go to his sawmill.
They drank and left their places; the tables were now to
be laid for supper, and all the needful things were being
brought in.
The farmers, however, still stuck to their forest griev-
ance, which was a great wrong done to them. They formed
a group, and with lowered voices (so that the miller might
not overhear them) determined to thresh the matter out at
Boryna’s. .
At this juncture, Ambrose came in, and went straight to
them. He had come late, having had to go with his Rev-
erence to a sick person three villages away, in Krosnova.
So now he set to drink energetically, to make up for lost
time. Vainly: for at that very moment a chorus of elderly
women struck up the song:
Bridesmen, about, about! With you it rests
Round the spread tables now to bring the guests!
To which they replied, having given the signal by strik-
ing on the benches:
Lo, we have called them: they are ready here
Your spread to taste, if it be but good cheer.
The guests, now straggling in to table, took their seats on
the benches.
The newly married couple had the ﬁrst places, and all
the others sat about them in order of precedence, as they
were higher in standing, in possessions, or more advanced
in age—from the elders to the girls and children. Tables
had been set up along three of the walls, and yet there was
scarce room for them all. The bridesmen and the musi-
cians remained standing, the former to serve the guests.
There was a hush. The organist stood up and said a
prayer aloud; after which, a glass went round, with the sen—
timent: Health and enjoyment!
The cooks and bridesmen then bore in a huge and deep
dish of smoking food, singing the while:
THE PEASANTS 222
Friends, we bring you dainty food:
Fowls in rice-soup boiled and stewed!
And, carrying in the second dish:
Tripe with pepper, spiced and hot:
He’s a fool that likes it not!
The musicians, stationed near the ﬁre-place, played va-
rious tunes very softly, to give more savour to the food.
All the company ate with becoming reﬁnement, and de-
liberation; few spoke at all, and for some time the room
resounded only with the sound of munching and the clatter
of spoons. When they had to some extent slaked their ap-
petites, the smith set another bottle in circulation; and
now they began conversing (though in low tones) to one an-
other across the table.
Yagna ate scarcely anything at all. In vain did Boryna
urge and coax her, entreating her as one entreats a ,child to
eat. She could not even swallow the meat before her; she
was so hot, so tired!
“Yagna, are you content, sweet? Most beautiful Yagna,
you will be as happy with me as ever you were with your
mother. . . . Yagna, you will be a lady—a lady! I’ll hire
a girl, that you may not be overworked.”——He spoke in
hushed tones, and looking with love into her eyes, caring
not for what folk might say; and they began to make fun
of him openly.
“He looks like a cat after bacon!”
“How the old fellow ﬂaunts his wantonness! Beside him,
a cock is nothing at all.”
“Oh, he is enjoying himself, Grandfather Boryna is!”
“As a dog does out in the frost,” old Simon here muttered
spitefully.
All held their sides with laughter, and the miller laid his
face down on the table and beat it with his ﬁsts for sheer
joy!
Once more the cooks entered, proclaiming:
223 AUTUMN
Here is a dish of Turkish wheat,
Cooked with plenty of lard, for lean folk to eat!
“Yagna, just bend over to me, I’ll tell you a thing,” the
Voyt said, plucking at her dress behind her bridegroom,
whose next neighbour he was.
“I would be your child’s godfather,” he cried, laughing,
and gloating over her with greedy eyes.
At this, she grew very red; and the women, seeing this,
fell a-laughing and jesting yet more facetiously, some set-
ting to explain to her how she ought to behave to her
husband.
“You’ll have to warm a feather-bed for him every evening
before the ﬁre, or he’ll be cold as ice.”
“And especially see he has much fat to eat: it will keep
him in good condition.”
“And pet him well, with your arms round his neck.”
“And drive him with a gentle hand, that he may not
know he is driven at all!”
So they babbled on, each sentence freer than the last, as
happens when women have taken too much, and let their
tongues run away with them.
All in the room were shaking with merriment, and things
at last went so far that the miller’s wife set to lecturing them
on their duties towards the girls and little ones present; and
the organist pointed out how grievous a sin it was to cause
others to offend by evil example.
“What? is this bellows-blower forbidding people every
pleasure in life?”
“Being close to the priest, he thinks himself a saint!”
“Let him stop his ears, an it like him not.” And more
unpleasant cries began to be heard, for he was disliked in
the village.
“We have a wedding to-day, and therefore, my good peo-
ple, 1, your Voyt, assure you it is no sin to enjoy yourselves,
laugh at things laughable, and make merry.”
“And our Lord Himself used to go to weddings and
drink wine,” Ambrose added seriously; but no one made-
THE PEASANTS ’ 224
out what he said, as he was now tipsy, and sitting by the
door besides. Then all fell to talking, joking, clinking
glasses, and eating more and more slowly, in order to get
more compactly ﬁlled up; some even, to make room for the
most food possible, undid their girdles, and sat straight
and stiff. 1
Again the cooks entered, with the following couplet:
It grunting, squealing, rooting once about the garden ran:
But now, for all the harm it did, ’twill pay the husbandman!
“Well, they have done the thing grandly!” the people
declared.
“Truly, this wedding must come at least to a thousand
zloty!”
“Oh, she can well afford it: has she not got six acres
of land thereby?”
“just look at Yagna! Is she not gloomy as night?”
“As a set-off, Boryna’s eyes are shining like a wildcat’s.”
“Say, like tinder, my friend—rotten tinder!”
“Aye, the man will weep over this day yet.”
“No. He is not of the weeping sort. Of the cudgelling,
rather.”
“just what I said to the Voyt’s wife, when she told me
the marriage had been settled.”
“Ah, I wonder why she is not here to-night.”
“Out of the question. Her child may be due any day.”
“But I’d lay my head that in no long time—say, before
the Carnival begins—Yagna will be again running after the
lads.”
“Matthew is only waiting for that.”
“I know. Vavrek’s wife overheard him say so in the
tavern.”
“Because he was not asked to the wedding.”
“Yes. The old fellow would have had him, but Domini-
kova was against it.—All the folk know why, do they not?”
“Well, all say so; but what has anybody seen?”
“Bartek Koziol saw them in the wood last spring.”
225 AUTUMN
“He is a liar and a thief: Dominikova accused him of
stealing a pig, and what he says may be mere spite.”
“But others too—there be others that have eyes.”
“All this will end ill . . . you will see. ’Tis no affair
of mine, but to my mind, Antek and his family have been
unjustly dealt with.”
“Of Antek, too, people talk—say they have been seen
together here and there.”-—The voices dropped lower as the
spiteful talk went on, leaving no shred of reputation on any
of the family, and the more unmerciful for their hostess as
they had more pity for her two sons.
“Is’t not a sin?—-Simon, a man wearing mustachios—
thirty, if a day—and she will not let him marry, nor leave
the house: and for the slight fault she raises a tempest!”
“It is indeed a shame: such strapping lads, and doing all
the woman’s work!”
“So that Yagna, forsooth, may not soil her hands!”
“Each of them has ﬁve acres of his own, and might marry
at his ease!”
“With so many unmarried girls around them!”
“Yes, yes; your own poor Martianna, waiting for ages,
and the land quite close by Paches’!”
“You let her alone! See rather to your girl Franka,
lest she come to grief with Adam!”
“Those great oafs!—-Afraid to leave their mother’s apron-
strings!”
“They are beginning: Simon' has been all the evening
staring at Nastka.”
“Their father was of the like mould: I remember well—-
Aye, and the old woman was in her time no better than
Yagna.”
“As the root is, so the boughs; as the mother, so the
daughter.”
The music ceased, and, supper being over, the musicians
went to refresh themselves in the kitchen. But after a time
the noise waxed even louder than before, and the whole
place seethed with uproar: all talking, ranting, shouting
THE PEASANTS 226
away one to the other across the tables, and no one able to
make out What was said.
At the close of the meal, the most select guests were of-
fered a drink compounded of mead and spices, while the
others got strong vodka and beer in abundance.
By this time, but few were well aware of what they were
drinking, being too far gone and in a blissful state. They
made themselves comfortable, and unbuttoned their capotes
to be cooler; beat the tables with their ﬁsts till the dishes
jingled, embraced each other, either round the neck or
clutching at the shirt-collar; and they talked freely, un-
bosoming themselves and telling all their sorrows as if they
had been brothers.
“’Tis ill living here on earth! Things are out of gear
with mankind, and we have naught but grief!”
b “Aye, men are like dogs, snapping at one another for a
one.”
“No consolation, save when neighbour meets neighbour
over a glass, and they take counsel, and make complaint;
and if any has wronged or been wronged, he is forgiven and
forgives!”
“As even now, at this wedding-feast: but, ah! for one day
only!”
“Ah! To-morrow will come, though we call him not!
You’ll not shun him, save in God’s hallowed Acre. . . . Yea,
he will come and seize you, and lay on you his yoke, and
smite you with the whip of 'poverty; and you, O man! must
pull . . . even till the yoke be bloodstained.”
“What is’t aggravates our misery, setting men one against
the other, like dogs quarrelling for a ﬂeshless bone?”
“Not poverty alone, but an Evil Power; and they then
are blinded by him, discerning not good from evil.”
“Truly so; and he bloweth upon our souls as one bloweth
on half-quenched embers; and he causeth greed, malice, and
all wickedness to burst out into ﬂame!”
“Yes; for he that is deaf to the commandments hath a
quick ear for the music played in hell.”
227 AUTUMN
“It was otherwise of old days.-—Then was there obedience,
and respect for old men, and concord.”
“And each man had land, as much as he could till; and
pastures, and meadows, and the forest.”
“Who in those days ever heard of taxes?”
“Or was there anyone that purchased timber? He had
but to drive to the wood and take all he needed, though it
were the best pine or oak. The property of the Squire was
the peasants’ property too.”
“And now it belongs to neither, but to the Jews, or to
men still worse.”
“The foul carrion! (I have drunk to you: drink you to
me! . '. . They are now established as on land of their own!
(Your health, Brother!) . . . To drink vodka is not a sin,
if only at the proper season and with brothers: this is a
wholesome thing, it cleanses the blood and drives away
distempers.”
“Who drinks at all, should drink one quart complete——
likewise, who makes merry, should do it all Sunday long.
—But have you work to do? Man, do it with all your
might, grudge not your force, but put forth all your
strength. And if ill things come to pass—if your wife be
taken, if your cattle die, or your home burn down—why,
’tis the will of God. Do not rebel: what will it avail you to
lament, poor creature as you are? Be patient, therefore;
trust in God’s mercy. Aye, and if the worst should hap,
and should grim Cross—Bones stare you in the face and
clutch your throat, attempt not to escape, which is more than
you can do; all is in the hand of God!”
“Verily, who is to know the day when the Lord shall de-
clare: ‘Thus far, O man, is thine: what is beyond is
mine?’ ”
“It is so of a truth. As lightning ﬂashes, so are the
decrees of God: and none, be he a priest, be he a sage,
can know them till they fall, as ripe corn falls out of the
ear.”
“Man, you have to know but one thing—to do your
duty, live as God commands you, and not look too far
THE PEASANTS 228
ahead.-Surely our Lord prepares the wages of His servants,
and pays most strictly what is due to’each.”
“By these laws did the Polish people stand of old; and
they are for ever and ever, Amen.”
“Aye, and by patience shall we prevail against the gates
of hell.”
Thus they discoursed together, with not infrequent liba-
tions, everything pouring out all he felt in his heart, all
that had long stuck in his throat and stiﬂed him. Ambrose
talked the most of all and the loudest.
At the very end, Eva and Yagustynka came in with great
ceremony, bearing in front of them a large ladle, tricked out
and beribboned. A musician who followed accompanied
them on his ﬁddle, while they sang:
Ere you quit us, here come we;
’Fore you both your cooks you see:
Pray forget us not, good men:
For each dish give stivers three;
For our seasoning stivers ten!
The company had eaten plentifully, and drunk yet more;
their hearts were warmed by gooc. cheer, and many a man
tossed even silver coins into the ladle as it passed.
They then slowly rose from table, and went out, some to
breathe the fresh air, some to resume their conversation in
the passages or in the great room; some gave way to en-
thusiastic demonstrations of friendship; and more than one
reeled about, running his head against the walls or some
other man, butting like rams.
Only the Voyt remained at the board with the miller,
both quarrelling with intense fury, and about to ﬂy at each
other like two hawks, when Ambrose came to reconcile them,
offering more vodka. \
“Back to your church porch, old beggar,” the Voyt
snarled at him, “and hold yourself aloof from your betters.”
So Ambrose walked off in dudgeon, hugging the bottle
to his breast, stumping noisily. and seeking someone~to drink
and talk with as a friend. 4 \ ’
n9 AUTUMN
The young people had dispersed about the orchard, or
were walking arm-in-arm along the road, with much horse-
play, and chasing of one another, and shouting. The night
was serene; the moon hung over the pond, which glittered
so bright that the feeblest circles tremulous on its surface
were distinctly visible, moving like snake-coils in silence,
responsive (as it seemed) to the light that struck on them
from above. The frost was pretty hard, the road-ruts were
crisp underfoot, the roofs rime-crusted and hoary. It was in
the small hours, for the ﬁrst cock-crow had already been
heard.
Meanwhile they set the great room in order for dancing
again.
Rested and refreshed, the players now again, in subdued
strains, called the guests together.
Yagna had been taken to the private room by the ma-
trons, Boryna sat with Dominikova close to the door, the
elders took seats on benches and in corners, where they dis-
cussed various matters, and only the girls stood about the
room besides, giggling together: a pastime which soon tired
them, and they decided on starting some games, “to stir the
boys up a little.”
First there was the game, “Fox goes out to make his
round; both his hands and feet are bound.”
Yasyek, nicknamed Topsy-turvy, was dressed up as Fox,
in his sheEpskin turned inside out. He was a silly fellow, a
simpleton, and the laughing-stock of them all. Though a
full-grown man, he played with children, and was in love
with all the girls and foolish beyond measure: but, being
an only child with ten acres of his own, he was invited every-
where. Yuzka Boryna was his quarry, the Hare. And they
laughed; Lord, how they laughed!
At every step, Yasyek stumbled and fell down, sprawl-
ing, with a thud like a log. The others, too, put out their
feet to make him fall; and Yuzka got out of his way with
perfect ease: she sat up quite as a hare does, and imitated
to perfection the way its lips move.
Then came “Quails.”
THE PEASANTS 230
Nastka was leader, and so nimble that no one could
catch her till she let them (in order to dance a measure with
someone).
Finally, Tomek Vahnik was made up for a Stork, having
a sheet over his head and a long stick which he held under
it for beak; and he clack-clack-clacked like a real stork, so
well that Yuzka, Vitek, and all the youngsters ran after him,
calling (as they do to the live bird):
Klek, Klek, Klell!
Thy mother’s in hell!
What does she there?
Cook children’s fare!
What was her sin?
That her little ones’ bellies had nothing in!
And the hullabaloo was great; for he ran after them, and
pecked with his beak, and ﬂapped his wings violently.
These games lasted but an hour, when they had to make
way for other observances.
Now the married women brought Yagna out of the pri-
vate room, covered all over in a white wrapper, and seated
her in the centre, on a kneading-trough on which a feather-
bed had been put. The bridesmaids thereupon rushed for-
ward as though to snatch her away, but the men kept them
off: and at last they formed a group opposite, intoning a
sad and plaintive chant: ~
Where is your wreath, oh, where
Your bridal wreath so fair?
Henceforth, to man’s will bowed,
A cap, your locks to shroud,
You on your head must bear!
The matrons then uncovered her.
She was seen wearing the cap of the married women over
the thick plaits of her tresses; yet in this disguise she ap-
peared still more fascinating than before.
To the slow strains of the band, the whole assembly,
young and old, struck up the “Hop-Song” in one grand
231 . AUTUMN
unison of gladness. This ended, she was taken over by the
matrons alone, to dance with them. . . . Yagustynka, by
this time much heated, set her arms akimbo, and ﬂung this
impromptu verse at her:
Oh! had I known this day would see
My Yagna wed a widower,
A wreath I would have woven thee
Of naught but prickly juniper!
After which came others, yet more biting than the ﬁrst.
But little note was taken of them; for the musicians had
struck up for the greatest performance of all; and forward
now came the dancers, and the trampling of many feet was
heard. They crowded thickly, couple close to couple, cheek
by jowl, moving ever more swiftly as the dance went on.
Capotes ﬂew open and ﬂapped wide, heels stamped, hats
waved—now and then a snatch of song burst forth—the
girls hummed the burden, “da dana,” and tore on more
quickly still, and swayed in measure in the mighty, swirl-
ing, headlong rush! No one could any longer distinguish
his neighbour in the throng; and when the violins burst
forth in quick sharp volleys of clean-cut separate notes, a
hundred feet echoed on the ﬂoor at once, a hundred mouths
gave tongue, a hundred dancers, seized as by a cyclone,
whirled round and round; and the rustling of capotes, skirts,
kerchiefs waving about the room, was like the ﬂight of a
ﬂock of many-coloured birds. On they went, on continu-
ally—dancing without the slightest pause for breath, the
ﬂoor clattering like a drum, the walls vibrating, the room a
seething cauldron. And the rapture of the dance waxed
greater, greater yet.
Then came the moment to perform rites which are always
gone through when the bride puts aside her crown of
rosemary.
First, Yagna had to pay toll, on entering the matrons’
set!
Immediately afterwards, another ceremony was gone
through. The men had a long rope, woven of the straw of
THE PEASANTS 232
unthreshed wheat, of which they made a large ring, care-
fully held and guarded by the bridesmaids, Yagna stand-
ing up in the middle. Whoever wished to dance with her
was obliged to creep under it, tear her away by force, and
tread a measure, though they scourged him all the time with
cords, wherever they could. Finally, the miller’s wife and
Vahnikova made a collection, for “The Cap.” The Voyt
came ﬁrst; he tossed a gold piece into the plate; after that,
silver roubles tinkled like hail; lastly, paper ones, as leaves
in autumn.
More than three hundred roubles were thus collected!
Dominikova, quite overcome to see so large a sum offered
for Yagna’s sake, told her sons to bring more vodka, with
which she herself pledged her hosts, kissing her friends and
weeping at their great kindness.
“Drink, my good neighbours, drink, dear friends, beloved
brothers of mine. . . . I feel spring back in my heart
again . . . ! Yagna’s health . . . drink once more . . .
once more . . And when she gave over, the smith drank
with others, and her sons too, each separately; for the
throng was very thick. Yagna too, thanking them heart-
ily for their kindness, embraced the knees of the elders
present.
The room was humming, the glasses circulating freely
from hand to hand; everyone exhaled ardour and joy.
Faces were crimson, eyes resplendent; hearts went out to
hearts. They stood in knots about the room, drinking and
talking blithely, each saying his say very loud, unheard by
any, but not caring for that!—All felt at one; one joy united
and penetrated them all! “Ye that have troubles, leave
them for the morrow; take your ﬂing to-night: enjoy
friendly company, solace your soul! Our hallowed land,
its summer spell of fruit-bearing over, is given rest by the
Lord: even so is it meet that men should rest in autumn,
when their ﬁeld-work is done. Man, that have your corn-
stacks piled and your granaries full of grain worth heaps
of precious gold—rest you now from summer labour and
toil gone by!”
Z33 AUTUMN
So spake some, while,others again revolved in their minds
their troubles and their griefs.
To neither of these classes did Boryna belong. His eyes
saw only Yagna, his heart swelling and throbbing with the
pride of her beauty. Again and again would he throw
zloty to the musicians, that they might not spare catgut:
for the sounds were growing weak, as their zeal was ﬂagging.
On a sudden, then, they thundered out an Obertas that
made one quiver to the backbone. Boryna leaped to Yag-
na’s side, caught her in a mighty grasp, and at once started
such a dance as shook the planks beneath them. He wafted
her down the room—back again—clanged on the ﬂoor with
his horseshoe heels—knelt suddenly to her, and sprung up
again in a ﬂash—bore her about from wall to wall—roared
out a solo which the instruments took up and accompanied,
and still led the dance, while other couples imitated him,
leaping, singing, stamping, and all with ever-increasing
rapidity: as if as many spindles full of particoloured wools
were together on the ﬂoor, turning, twisting, twirling, faster
than the eyes could make out their hues; so that no one
could discern lad from lass in the swift rush—only rainbow
masses, ﬂying about, driven as by a goal, with ever-changing
tints, turning always with greater and more impetuous speed!
At times the rush of air even blew out the candles: the music
went on in the dark, and the dance as well, lit by the faint
white beams of the moon shining in through the window.
Then, athwart the seething dimness, were seen quick shadows,
ﬂying fast, chasing one another in the mingled darkness and
silvery mist; foaming waves of pale glimmering and melo-
dious din surged up out of the black night, in dusky harmo-
nies of colour and sound—as in a vision or a dream—fading
back into impenetrable murk, to loom once more distinct
against the pallid wall, from which the glazed images of
the saints reﬂected the moonbeams with crinkled ﬂickers;
and again they plunged and vanished into the shadows, and
only the sounds of heavy breathing, and quick steps and
cries, made their presence vaguely known in the entangled
confusion of the unlit room!
THE PEASANTS 234
One dance followed another in rapid succession, and with
no interval between them. As each new dance was struck
up, new dancers directly sprang forward, erect as a forest,
swift of advance as a gale of wind; and loudly the stamp-
ing feet thundered afar, and shouts of merriment echoed
through the house, while the onset went on, wild, mad,
stormy, and earnest as a struggle for life and death!
Ah! how they danced!
Those Cracoviennes, with their frolicsome hop-skip-and-
jump measures, and the quick lilt of their clean-cut, tin-
kling, metallic tunes; and the terse ditties, full of fun and
freedom, with which, like the spangled girdles of the peas-
antry who made them, they are so brightly studded—those
tunes welling with joyous dashing melody, redolent of the
strong, abounding, audacious savour of youth in sportful
pursuit of the sweet thrilling emotions that tell of the heyday
in the blood!
And those Mazurs, long-drawn-out as the paths which
streak the endless plains, wind-clamorous and vast as the
endless plains they streak: lowly, yet heaven-kissing; mel-
ancholy and bold, magniﬁcent and sombre, stately and
ﬁerce: genial, warlike, full of discordances, like that
peasants’ nature, set in battle array, united as a forest and
rushing to dance with such joyful clamours and wonderful
strength as could attack and overcome ten times their num-
ber, nay, conquer, sweep away, trample down, the whole
of a hostile world, nor reck though they themselves be
doomed, and fall, but still carry on the dance after death,
still stamping as in the Mazur—still crying out aloud: “Oy
dana dana!”
And oh, those Obertasesl—short of rhythm, vertiginous,
wild and frantic, warlike and amorous, full of excitement
mingled with dreamy languor and notes of sorrow; throb-
bing with hot blood, brimming over with geniality and
kindliness, in a sudden hailstorm: affectionate voices, dark-
blue glances, springtime breezes, and fragrant wafts from
blossoming orchards, like the song of ﬁelds in the young
year; making tears and laughter to burst forth at the same
235 AUTUMN
time, and the heart to utter its lay of joy, and the longing
soul to go beyond the vast ﬁelds around her, beyond the
far-off forests, and soar dreaming into the world of All
Things, and sing ecstatically the burden, “Oy dana dana!”
And all these dances, beyond the power of words to de-
scribe, thus followed one after the other, that our peasantry
might make merry in season!
And thus did they take their pleasures at the wedding of
Boryna and Yagna.
The hours slipped away in clamour and din and uproar;
in noisy merry-making and dances fast and furious: they
did not note that the dawn was spreading in the East, that
the daybreak’s streams were slowly pouring their pallor into
the night’s black gloom. The stars grew wan, the moon
sank; a wind that sprang up beyond the woods passed by,
chasing the dark that waxed thinner and thinner: the
gnarled tufted trees looked in at the windows, bowing yet
lower their slumbrous frost-crowned heads, but the folk
within were singing and dancing still!
The doors had been thrown wide open; so had the win-
dows; the house, brimming and boiling over with lights
and tumult, trembled, creaked and groaned, while the dance
went on, now in utterly uncontrollable and rapturous ex-
citement. It seemed to those within—such was their state!
-—that trees and people, earth and stars, and the hedges and
the time-honoured cabin itself, were all wrestling and writh-
ing together, united in one inextricably whirling cluster,
blind, intoxicated, raving, and in utter oblivion of all; reel-
ing and rolling from room to room, from wall to wall, from
passage to passage, and out into the road and the enormous
world, caught in a round that ﬁlled the universe—fading
away in the long unbroken chain of crimson lights now
glowing in the East!
And the music led them on—the tunes played and the
songs.
How they kept time in their growling, the gruff bass-viols,
uttering their broken humming sounds, like huge humble-
bees! And how the ﬂutes led the band, merrily whistling
THE PEASANTS 236
and twittering, as in mockery of the drum’s joyful thuds and
strokes, swelled by the jingling of its bells that shook with
laughter, and ﬂoated lightly like a jew’s beard in the wind!
And then how the ﬁddles‘ took the lead and came to the
front, like girls leading the ballet, and sang out loud and
shrill at ﬁrst as though to try their voices—then played with
wide, sorrowful, heart-rending sweeps of the bow—the lam-
entations of orphans driven from their homes—and then
again, with an instantaneous change, fell into a lilting tune
--short, trilling, sharp, like the tripping of a hundred dan-
cers’ heels, at which a hundred full-throated lads shouted
themselves out of breath, and quivered all over, and set once
more to turn and sing and dance mincingly, laughing and
rejoicing, heat rising anew to the head and desire to the
heart, lie strong vodka . . . when they fell again into
the slow long notes of sorrow and weeping—as dew upon the
plains!—uttering the notes of our own beloved tune, most
near to the heart, instinct with mighty yearning tenderness,
and making all dance delirioust to the strains of our
Mazovian air!
The candles were growing dim, so near was the day; a
dingy ashen twilight pervaded the room where they danced.
But they still took their enjoyment as heartily as ever. If
any found the liquor now ﬂowing too scantily, he sent to
the tavern for more vodka, sought out companions, and
drank with them to his liking.
Some had withdrawn; some were tired and resting awhile;
some, overtaken by drink, were sleeping off its fumes in the
passage or by the door: others, still more intoxicated, were
stretched under the hedges. All the rest danced on, danced
ever
At last, some of the more sober made up a group by the
porch and, beating the ﬂoor in measure, sang thus:
O wedding-guests, come home!
Already sings the lark;
237 AUTUMN
The wood is deep and dark,
And ye have far to roam:
Come home!
0 wedding-guests, come home!
There’s danger in delay:
Athwart our weary way
The loud ﬂoods roll and foam:
Come home!
But no one cared to listen to them and their song!
CHAPTER XII-
T was grey dawn when Vitek, tired out by the merry-
] making and driven home by Yagustynka, hastened to
Boryna’s hut. .
A little watch-light was burning there, like a glow-worm.
Vitek looked in at the window, and beheld the old Dziad,
Roch, sitting at the table, where he was singing hymns.
The boy silently glided away to the stable, and was fum-
bling at the door-catch, when he jumped back with a cry
of astonishment. A dog had leaped upon him, uttering a
whine.
“What, Lapa, Lapa? ’tis you back again, poor wretch!”
he cried, and sat down on the door-step, overcome with joy.
——“Hungry and starving: is it not so?”
He had put by a bit of sausage, saved from the feast,
which he now took out of his bosom to offer the dog. But
it did not care for food just then: it barked, laid its head
on the lad’s breast, and whined for sheer delight.
“Did they starve you, poor thing? did they drive you
away?” he whispered, opening the cow-byre door, and at
once throwing himself on his straw bed. “But now I shall
defend and take care of you.” With these words he nes-
tled deep in the straw; and the dog, lying down beside him,
growled gently and licked his face.
They were both asleep in an instant.
From the stable close by, Kuba called to him in a voice
weakened by illness. He called for a long time; but Vitek
was sleeping like a dormouse.
After a time, however, Lapa recognized his voice, and
fell to barking furiously and pulling the boy’s coat.
“What’s the matter?” Vitek asked sleepily.
“Water! The fever is pulling me to pieces. . . . Water!”
238
239 AUTUMN
Vitek, peevish and drowsy though he was, brought him a
pailful, and held it to his lips.
“I am so ill, I can hardly breathe! . . . What’s growling
round here?”
“Why, Lapa!”
“Lapa is it?” Kuba groped to touch the dog’s head in
the dark; and Lapa leaped about, frisked, and tried to get
on to the bed.
“Vitek, give the horses their hay; they have been gnaw-
ing the empty mangers a long time; and I cannot move. . . .
Are they still dancing?” he asked a little later, when the lad I
was ﬁlling the racks with hay.
“They are not like to have done till noon; and some are
so drunk, they are lying by the roadside.”
“Ah, they are enjoying themselves, the masters are!”
And he sighed deeply.
“Was the miller there?”
“Aye, but he left rather early.”
“Many people?”
“Beyond counting. Why, the cabin was overﬂowing with
them.”
“Plenty for all?”
“Like manor guests! They brought them meat in such
huge dishes! And vodka and beer and mead were poured
out in ﬂoods! Of sausages alone, there were piles enough to
ﬁll three troughs.”
“When is the bride coming?”
“This afternoon.”
“They are rejoicing and feasting still. My God! 'I
thought I’d gnaw a bone at least, and eat my ﬁll once in
my life! . . . And here I am, lying, sighing, and hearing
about other people’s good cheer!”
Vitek returned to his bed.
“If I could but feast my eyes on those good things!”
He said no more, feeling weary, sad, and tormented by
a sort of faint timid querulousness that gnawed at his
heart now. At last, however, he spoke, patting the dog’s
head.
THE PEASANTS 240
“Well, well! may they all be the better for it! Let them
at least get some pleasure out of this life!”
The fever, increasing, began to confuse his thoughts;
to drive it away, he applied himself to prayer, offering him-
self to the mercy of the Lord jesus; but he could not re-
member what he was saying; he was dazed with sleep com-
ing over him, and only a string of ejaculations that were
prayers mingled with tears, trickled from his consciousness
—the told beads of a crimson rosary!
Now and then he roused himself, but only to look around
him blankly, recognizing nothing, and fall back into deathly
and corpselike unconsciousness.
Again he woke, now to groan so loud that the horses
pulled at their bonds and snorted to hear him.
“O God! that I may but hold out till day!” he moaned
in terror; and his eyes wandered through the window, star-
ing out at the world and the approaching dawn, seeking
the sun in that sky yet grey and lifeless and studded with
paling stars.
But the day was a long distance away still.
In the stable, plunged in turbid mistiness, the horses’ out-
lines were growing dimly visible; and the racks beneath the
window slits showed like ribs in the pale glimmer.
Fall asleep again he could not: the pains were torturing
him anew; they felt like sharp gnarled sticks thrust into
his legs, piercing, boring, stabbing in and in; and the agony
became so unbearable that he started up, screaming with all
his might, till Vitek woke and came round.
“I am dying! . . . Oh, how it pains! . . . How the pain
swells! how it crushes me! Vitek, run for Ambrose . . .
O Lord! . . . Or else call Yagustynka. . . . Perhaps she
can help. . . . I am not able—my last hour is here . . .”
He burst out weeping terribly.
Vitek, all sleepy as he was, ran to the wedding feast.
The dancing was yet at its height; but Ambrose, being
completely tipsy by now, had taken his station on the road
opposite the cabin, where he kept reeling and singing be-
tween the road and the edge of the pond.
241 AUTUMN
Vitek implored him to come, and tugged him by the sleeve,
but to no purpose; the old man heard nothing, understood
nothing around him, singing the same song over again with
obstinate repetition.
Vitek then applied to Yagustynka, who was not ignorant
of healing. But she was in the private room, sipping krup-
m'k,1 talking and chattering with her good friends so in-
tently that she would listen to no one else. And as the
boy was importunate, begging her with tears to come at
once, she in the end drove him from the room. So he went
back crying to the stable, having accomplished nothing.
When he returned, Kuba was asleep again; and he too,
burrowing deep in the straw and covering his head with
a clout, went off to sleep.
It was long after breakfast-time when he was waked by
the noise of the hungry unmilked cows, and by the ﬁerce
scoldings of Yagustynka, who, having overslept herself just
like the others, now made up in clamour against them for
what she had neglected herself.
It was only after she had got the work somewhat in swing
that she went to see Kuba.
He said in a feeble voice: “Pray help me and do
something.”
“just you marry a young wench, and you’ll be well in
a trice,” she began cheerily; but, seeing his livid swollen
face, grew serious at once. “You need a priest more than
a physician. . . . What on earth can I do for you? . . . So
far as I can see, you are sick unto death, aye, even unto
death!”
“Must I die?”
“All’s in God’s hand: but you’ll not escape Cross-bones’
clutches, I’m thinking.”
“I’m to die, say you?”
“Tell me: shall I send for his Reverence?”
“For his Reverence?” Kuba cried, in amazement. “His
Reverence to come here—to a stable—to me?”
1K rupm'k_a drink made of vodka, hot water, honey and spices.
~Translaior’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 242
“What of that? Think you he’s made of sugar, and
would melt if he came near horse-dung? It’s a priest’s
business to go wherever they call him to a sick man.”
“O Lord! how could I dare?”
“You are a silly sheep!” She shrugged her shoulders and
left him.
“The woman knows not what she says,” he muttered,
greatly scandalized.
And now he was quite alone, all the others seeming to
have forgotten him.
From time to time, Vitek looked in to give the horses
provender and water. He gave him water, too; but pres-
ently went back to the wedding. At Dominikova’s they
were preparing to bring the bride home.
Often Yuzka would rush in noisily, bring him a bit of
cake, prattle of many things, ﬁll the stable with racket,
and run out in a hurry.
Yes, and she had something to run for. Hard by, they
were amusing themselves fairly well: the band, the shout-
ing, the singing were to be heard through the walls.
Kuba lay motionless. A strange feeling of desolation
had come over him. He merely listened, and noted how
well they enjoyed themselves, and talked to Lapa, his never
absent companion. They two ate Yuzka’s cake together.
Then the sick man called to the horses and talked to them
also. They neighed with pleasure, turning their heads
round from their mangers: the ﬁlly even managed to slip
her halter and come to his pallet, where she caressed him,
putting her warm moist nose close to his face.
“Poor dear, you have lost ﬂesh, you have!” He patted
her tenderly, and kissed her dilated nostrils. “As soon as
I am well, you will ﬁll out, even if I have to give you
nothing but oats!”
Then he lapsed once more into silence, and stared at the
blackened knots in the timber walls, oozing with dark drops
of resin—as it were, tears of congealed blood.
Dumb, and with feeble sunbeams, the day peeped in
Z43 AUTUMN
through the chinks, and a ﬂood of shimmering motes ap-
peared at the open doorway.
Hour after hour dragged by at a snail’s pace, like lame,
blind, and dumb beggars, crawling painfully through toil-
some beds of deep sand.
Only, now and again, a few chirruping sparrows, swoop-
ing down on the stable in a noisy band, would boldly make
for the mangers.
“Ah, the clever little ones!” Kuba said. “And God gives
those tiny birds understanding, to ﬁnd out where they can
get food—Be still, you, Lapa! let the poor things feed and
keep up their strength: winter will presently be with them
too.”
The pigs now began to squeal and poke their muddied
noses in at the door.
“Drive them off, Lapa! The beggars, they never have
enough!”
After these, a lot of fowls came cackling to the threshold,
and one large red cock was so bold as to pass over it to
the baskets of provender. The others followed, but had
no time to eat their ﬁll, when a ﬂock of gaggling geese drew
near, hissing on the threshold, ﬂashing their red bills,
stretching and swaying to and fro their straight white necks.
“Out with them, Lapa—out with them! All those fowls
-—as bad as women for quarrelling!”
Suddenly there was an uproar—screaming, ﬂapping,
feathers ﬂying as out of a torn bed. Lapa had entered well
into the spirit of the chase, and came back breathless and
its tongue lolling out, but uttering cries of delight.
“Be quiet now!”
From the house there came a torrent of angry words, a
sound of running, and the dragging of furniture from one
room to another.
“Ah, they are making ready for the bride’s coming!”
Someone, though rarely, passed along the road: this time
it was a lumbering creaking cart, and Kuba, listening, tried
to guess whose it was.
THE PEASANTS 244
“That’s Klemba’s wagon. One horse—ladder frame-
work; going to the woods for litter, I dare say. Yes, the
axle rubs against the nave, so it creaks.”
Along the road there was a continual sound of footsteps,
talk, and noises scarcely to be heard at all; but he caught
them, and made them out on the spot.
“That’s old Pietras, going to the tavern—Here comes
Valentova, scolding: someone’s geese have gone on to her
ﬁeld, belike.—~Oh, she’s a vixen, not a woman! . . . This,
I think, is Kozlova, shouting as she runs—yes, it is! . . .
Here is Peter, son of Raphael. . . when he talks, his
mouth always seems full—This is the priest’s mare, going
for water. . . . Now she stops . . . cart-wheels blocked by
stones—One of these days she will break a leg.”
And so he went on, guessing at every sound he heard,
going about all the village with quick thoughts and lively
mental vision, and entering so into the whole life and
troubles and worries of the place, he scarce noted that the
day was declining, the wall darker in hue, the doorway
dimmer, and the stable quite obscure.
Ambrose arrived only when evening had set in. He was
as yet only partly sober; he staggered a little, and spoke so
quickly it was hard to follow him.
“Hurt your leg, eh?”
“Look and see what it is.”
Silently he undid the bloodstained rags; they had dried
and stuck so fast to the leg that Kuba could not help
shrieking as he pulled them off.
“A girl in childbed would not cry as you do!” Ambrose
muttered scornfully.
“But it hurts so! How you tear me! O God!”
And Kuba all but howled.
“Oho! you have caught it ﬁnely! Was it a dog that
tore your leg like that?” Ambrose cried, wondering. The
leg was horribly mangled, and swollen with matter to the
size of a water-can.
“It was—but pray tell no one—the forest-keeper that
shot me. . . .”
2% AUTUMN
“Yes, I see—And hit you from afar, eh? Well, well!
your leg will never again be of any use. I feel the splinters
of bone rattling about. . . . Ah, why did you not call me
in at once?”
“I feared . . . lest they should know I had been after
a hare. . . . But I was out of the forest, when the keeper
shot at me.”
“Once, in the tavern, he complained; someone was doing
mischief, he said.”
“The foul carrion! Is a hare, then, the property of any-
one? . . . He laid a trap for me. . l was in the open
ﬁeld, and he let ﬂy with both barrels—Oh, the hell-hound!
——But say nothing; they would take me to the lawcourt;
the gun, too, is not mine, and they would seize it at
once. . . . I thought it might heal by itself—Oh, help me!
It pains so! it is tearing me to bits!”
“Ah, you cunning trickster, you! with your sly games and
your forbidden quests, sharing the forest hares with the
Squire!—-But, you see, this partnership will have cost you
your. leg!”
He examined it again, and looked sorely distressed.
“Too late, ever so much too late!”
Kuba was terriﬁed. “Please do something for me,” he
moaned.
Ambrose, without replying, turned up his sleeves, whipped
out a very keen clasp-knife, grasped the leg 'ﬁrmly, and set
about extracting the shots and expressing the matter.
Kuba roared like a beast at the slaughter-house, till the
other gagged his mouth with his sheepskin, and then he
swooned with the agony of it. After dressing the wound,
and applying some ointment and fresh bandages, Ambrose
brought him to.
“You will have to go to the hospital,” he said in a
low voice.
Kuba was still dazed. “To the hospital?” he asked, not
knowing what was said.
“They would cut off your leg, and you might get well.”
“My leg?”
THE PEASANTS 246
“Of course. It is good for nothing: black—decayed—
rotten.”
“Cut it off?” he asked, still unable to understand.
“Yes. At the knee. Fear nothing: mine was cut off
almost at the thigh; and I am alive yet.”
“Then I shall get well again, if the wounded limb is
cut off?”
“Even as though one should take out the pain with the
hand . . . but you must go to the hospital.”
“There . . . there they cut and carve living men’s
bodies!—-Cut it off, you: I’ll pay whatsoever you will, but
cut it off!—-To the hospital I will not go: I prefer dying
here!”
“Then here you will die. None but a doctor can cut it
off for you. I am off to the Voyt’s at once; he will send
you to town in a cart to-morrow.”
“No use: I will not go,” he replied, stubbornly.
“Fool! do you think they will ask your leave?”
The old man went out, and Kuba said to himself:
“When it is cut off, I shall be well.”
After the dressing, his leg had ceased to pain. But it
was numb as far up as the groin, and he felt a tingling all
along his side: this he did not notice, plunged in thought
as he was.
“I should recover.—Yes, I surely should. Ambrose has
nothing left him of his leg: all he walks on is wooden.
And he said: ‘As though one “should take the pain out
with his hand. . . .’—-But then, Boryna would turn me
away. . . . Aye, a farm-hand with but one leg—such a one
cannot plough, nor do aught else—what would become of
me? I should have to tend cattle . . . or beg my bread!
Wander about, or sit at some church-door.—O Lord, merci-
ful Lord!” And on a sudden his position ﬂashed clearly
upon him; and under the horror that now assailed him,
he even sat up. And then he uttered a deep cry of impotent
agony, his mind rolling in an abyss from which he saw no
issue. “O jesus, jesus!” he repeated in a fever of excite-
ment, quaking in every limb.
247 AUTUMN
Long did he shriek and struggle thus in his anguish; but
in the midst of those tears and that despair, a certain resolve
was slowly shaping itself, and he brooded more and more
deeply. Little by little, he grew calmer, more at peace,
thinking so profoundly that he heard nothing around him,
though surrounded by the din of instruments and songs
and clamour; just as if he had been in a deep sleep!
It was then that the bride and the wedding guests arrived
at Boryna’s house.
They had led away a goodly cow, and sent Yagna’s box
and feather-bed, and various articles that she had received
as wedding .presents, before her in a cart.
And now, just a little after sundown, the procession left
Dominikova’s cabin, as darkness was falling and the mists
rising up.
Playing lustily, the band marched in front; then Yagna
went on, still in her wedding dress, and conducted by her
mother and friends: last of all, and without any order, came
the ruck of guests, each in the place he had chosen.
Their way wound along by the pond, now darkened, its
gleaming quenched in the ever-thickening folds of the fog;
the silence and obscurity growing blacker and more dead,
the tramping and music sounding muffled and, as it were,
from underneath the water.
From time to time one of the younger folk broke out into
song, or a matron took up a stave, or one of the peasant
lads cried: “‘Da dana!” but it was only a short outburst.
They were as yet in no merry mood, and, besides, they
were chilled to the marrow by the bleak damp air.
Only when they turned in to Boryna’s enclosure did the
bridesmaids lift their voices in a sad farewell:
Wending her way to her wedding,
The maiden wept.
Then lit they tapers four,
And played upon the organ.—
Didst fancy, maiden,
That they would play for ever?
~A little yesterday, to-day a little,
THE PEASANTS 248
And after, thou shalt weep for all thy life!
Da dana! . . . All thy life!
Before the threshold, and under the porch, Boryna was
waiting along with Yuzka and the young men.
Dominikova came forward ﬁrst of all, carrying in a
bundle a piece of bread, a pinch of salt, a little charcoal,
some wax from a Candlemas taper, and a handful of ears
of corn, blessed on Assumption Day. As Yagna passed the
threshold, the matrons cast behind her threads plucked from -
cloth seams, and the peels of hempstalks, that the Evil One
might ﬁnd no entrance, but all things thrive with her!
They greeted. kissed, and pledged one another in cups of
mead, with wishes of luck, health, and all good gifts and
blessings; then they entered and ﬁlled the whole room.
every bench and nook and corner.
The players tuned their instruments, and then strummed
softly, so as not to interfere with the feast that Boryna was
now giving.
He simply went from matron to matron with a full goblet
in hand, offeringhpressing them to partake,' gathering them
in his arms, and drinking to each of them; the blacksmith
took his place with the others.
Yuzka was bearing on platters pieces of a cake she had
baked with curds and honey on purpose to please her father.
All the same, the party was dull. True, they emptied
their glasses as in duty bound, nor did they turn away from
the sausages. Nay, they even drank plentifully and with
due zest; only there was no mirth amongst them.
The women too, who as a class_are inclined to diversions
and pastimes, now only sat still on the benches, or here and
there in corners, not even talking much amongst themselves.
Yagna went into the private room, where she undressed.
Returning in her everyday costume, she would have done
the honours of the cabin and treated her guests herself, but
that her mother would not let her touch anything.
“Darling. enjoy your wedding-day now! You’ll yet have
work enough and enough toil!” And again and again did
249 AUTUMN
she weep over her most tenderly, and clasp her to her bosom.
The company found matter for laughter in this maternal
sentimentality of hers: their jeers being all the sharper that
now, on Yagna’s arrival as mistress in her husband’s home,
owner of so much land and property of every sort, her
new position was brought home to them. Many a mother,
with yet unmarried daughters, felt very bitter against her;
many a girl was choked with bile at the thought.
They went over to survey the other apartments, where
Antek had formerly lived with his family. There Eva and
Yagustynka had prepared a grand supper and made a roar-
ing ﬁre. Vitek had hardly been able to bring logs enough
and place them under the enormous pots.
They examined all the premises besides, and ran their
envious eyes over all that there was to be seen.
The house itself, to begin with, was the ﬁrst in the whole
village: large, conspicuous, tall, with rooms (they fancied)
as good as those in a manor-house: whitewashed, and with
boarded ﬂoors! Then how numerous the household articles
and utensils were! In the big room, too, there were a score
of holy images: and all of them glazed! And then, the
byre, the stable, the granary, the shed! Five cows were
kept there, to say nothing of the bull—no small source of
proﬁt. And the horses, and the geese, and the swine—and,
above all, the land!
Eaten up with envy, 'they sighed deeply; and one said to
another:
“Lord! and to think that all this goes to one that is
undeserving !”
“Oh! they knew well how to bring their pigs to market!”
“Yes; he that goes to meet luck always ﬁnds it.”
“Why should your Ulisia have missed this chance?”
“Because she fears God and leads an honest life.”
“And all the rest do the same!”
“Oh, were she other than she is, folk would not stand it
of her. Let them but meet her once at night in company
with a lad, and all the world will know!”
- “What luck this one has!”
THE PEASANTS 250
((J
Tis the fruit of shamelessness.”
“Come along!” Andrew called out, interrupting their
talk. “The music is playing, and not one petticoat is in
the room—-nobody to dance with!”
“A mind to dance you have, but will your mother
let you?”
“So eager?-—Beware and let not your trousers fall, boy:
’twere no fair sight!”
“Nor trip the dancers up with your legs!”
“Pair off with Valentova; you’ll make a ﬁne couple . . .
of scarecrows!”
Andrew rapped out an oath, took hold of the ﬁrst girl
he came across, and led her off, paying no heed to the
wasps humming behind him.
There were but few couples in the room as yet, and these
danced but slowly and (it seemed) with little zeal. Nastka
and Simon Paches were the only exception, and frisked
about very'willingly. They had arranged matters before-
hand and, with the opening sounds of the music, had joined
in close union, and bounced about in scrupulous fulﬁlment
of their promise.
But no sooner had the Voyt come in (he was late, having
had to go with the recruits to the District Barracks) than
he began to make things look more lively; drinking deep,
talking with all the farmers present, and cracking jokes
with the newly-wedded couple. ’
“Why, your bride is as red as her skirt, and you are as
white as a sheet!”
“You’ll not say that to-morrow.”
“Matthias, experienced as you are, you surely have not
wasted a day.”
“Nay, with all eyes upon him? Fie! the man is no
gander”
“I would not bet half a quart that you say true. You
know: throw but a pebble into the bush: out ﬂies the bird!
’Tis the Voyt tells you so!”
Yagna made her escape from the room; which occasioned
a loud guffaw.
251 AUTUMN
The women then proceeded to wag their tongues very
much at their ease, careless of what they said.
The hubbub swelled, and the guests grew more good-
humoured in proportion. Boryna, bottle in hand, went
several times the round of the company; the dancers, now
more numerous, frisked with livelier steps, and began
to stamp and sing, and circle about the room in wider
rounds.
Then did Ambrose make his appearance and, sitting down
(nearly at the threshold), follow the bottle with wistful eyes,
as it went its way.
The Voyt.cried to him: “You never turn your head, ex-
cept towards 'the clinking of glasses.”
“Because of that same clinking!” he answered. “And
he has merit who gives to drink to them that thirst.”
“You leather bottle! here’s water for you!”
“What’s good for cattle may be bad for man. They
say: ‘Water to drink is now and then not bad, but harm
from vodka no one ever had!’ ”
“Here’s vodka for you, since you discourse so well.”
“You ﬁrst, Voyt!——They say, too: ‘Water for a christen-
ing, vodka for a wedding, and tears for a death!’ ”
“Well said: drink another.”
“I should not even shirk a third. For my ﬁrst wife I
always take one, but two for my second!”
“Why so?”
“Because she died in time for me to seek a third.”
“What! Still dreaming about women, and his old eyes
see no more as soon as twilight comes!”
“It is not always necessary to see.”
At this, they laughed uproariously, and the women cried
out:
“For the love of vodka and of talk, they are both well
matched.”
“There’s a saying: ‘A wife good in talk, and a man
strong in deed, have every chance in the world to succeed.’ ”
The Voyt had now sat down by Ambrose, the others
crowding round, as many as could ﬁnd seats, or, if they
THE PEASANTS 252
could not, standing about with little heed to the dancers’
convenience.
And then began such a running ﬁre of witty sayings, jests,
comic tales, and joyous banter, that they all shook with
laughter. In this ﬁeld, Ambrose was the recognized leader,
and chaffed his hearers to their very faces with so much
humour and fun that they were like to split their sides.
Amongst the women, Vachnikova yielded to none for
drollery; she played ﬁrst ﬁddle in that respect, with the
Voyt for bass-Viol, so far as his official dignity permitted.
The musicians sawed away as hard as they could, and
scraped out the liveliest tunes they had; and the dancers
were shufﬂing along as fast, and shouting, and screaming,
and tapping with nimble heels. Blithe and delighted, they
had forgotten the rest of the world, when one of them
chanced to notice Yankel standing outside in the passage.
At once they pulled him into the room. The Jew took off
his cap, with amicable bows and salutations to all present,
and taking no notice of the nicknames showered upon him.
“Yellow one!——Unchristened one!—Son of a mare!”
“You be quiet there!” cried the Voyt. “Let us treat him!
Here, a glass of the best vodka!”
“I was passing along the road, and wanted to see how you
husbandmen divert yourselves—God reward you, Mr.
Voyt—I’ll take a drop of vodka—why should I notP—to
the health of the newly-wedded pair!”
Boryna raised the bottle and invited Yankel, who, after
wiping the glass with the skirt of his capote, covered his
head, and tossed off one glass, followed by a second.
“Stay a bit, Yankel: it will not make you unclean,” they
cried out in a merry vein. “Here, musicians, play us the
jewish dance, and Yankel will caper to it.”
“Yes, I may dance; why not? ’Tis no sin.”
But ere the players had understood what was wanted of
them, Yankel slipped quietly into the passage, and vanished
in the yard. He had come to get back his gun.
They scarce noticed his exit. Ambrose had all the time
2% 'AUTUMN
gone on with his entertainment, to which Vachnikova con-
tributed a violoncello accompaniment, so to speak. And he
continued until supper-time, when the music ceased, the
tables were pushed forward, and the clatter of dishes was
heard: yet they still listened and he still held forth.
Boryna invited them to sup, but without effect. Yagna
asked them again and again. The Voyt only got her into
“the circle, made her sit down by him, and held her by
the’hand.
It was Yasyek (nicknamed Topsy-turvy) who bellowed
out: “Come, good folk, and set to: the dishes are cooling.”
“Hold your tongue, blockhead, or lick the dishes with it.”
“Old Ambrose! You are lying like a gipsy, and fancy we
don’t know it!”
“Yasyek, take what folk put into your mouth: you’re
good at that. But leave me alone, you are no match
for me!” -
“No match! Just you try, then!” the foolish lad shouted.
He thought Ambrose meant ﬁghting.
“An ox could do all you can . . . or more!”
“Because you bear his Reverence’s night-vase, Ambrose,
you think none has wit but you.”
Ambrose was offended, and growled: “Let a calf into
church, he’ll come out just as he was—Idiot!”
Yasyek’s mother attempted to stand up for her son. He
went off to table ﬁrst of all, and soon the others took their
places in a hurry; for the cooks had brought in the smoking
dishes, and the odour ﬁlled the room.
They seated themselves in order of precedence, as was
ﬁtting for the bride’s installation ceremony: Dominikova
and her sons in the middle, bridesmen and bridesmaids to-
gether; Boryna and Yagna remained standing to serve the
guests, and see that all was done properly.
A quiet interval succeeded, save that the brats outside
made a noise at the window, ﬁghting with one another, and
Lapa barked in great excitement about the house and pas-
sages. The company were quiet and decorous, while they
THE PEASANTS 254
worked hard to put the eatables away: only their spoons
tinkled about the rims of the dishes, and the glasses jingled
going round.
Yagna was continually busy, setting some particular
dainty before each guest: here it was meat, there some other
very good thing. And she begged them all so courteoust
not to stint themselves, and behaved with such natural grace,
conquering all hearts with her beauty and the pleasant
words she said, that many of the men present could not but
gaze on her in adoration, and her mother even laid down
her spoon to look and rejoice in her daughter.
Boryna, too, noticed this, and when she happened to go to
the kitchen, followed, caught up with her in the passage,
gave her a mighty hug, and kissed her enthusiastically.
“Dear, what a housewife you make!——Like a manor-house
lady—so digniﬁed and so pleasing in everything!”
“Am I not, eh?——-Now run away to the room: Gulbas
and Simon are sitting apart, grumpy and eating little. Get
them to drink with you!”
He obeyed, and did all she wanted. And Yagna felt now
strangely blithe of heart, and full of affection. She knew
herself the mistress of the house, knew that power had some-
how got into her hands: and therewith she was aware of
an accession of authority and serenity and strength. She
walked about the place at ease, eyed all she saw with keen
understanding, and managed things as though she had been
married ever so long.
“What she is, the old man will ﬁnd out soon enough, and
that’s his business; but to my mind there are in her the
makings of a housewife—and a ﬁne one, too!” was Eva’s
muttered remark to Yagustynka.
“A fool that’s in favour will always be clever,” the latter
returned bitterly. “Things will go on as they are till she has
had too much of the old man, and begins again running
after young fellows.”
“Aye, Matthew is lying in wait: he has not given her up.”
“But give her up he will! Somebody else will make
him!”
255 A U T U M N
“Boryna?”
“Boryna?” She smiled a crafty smile. “No, someone
yet mightier. I mean—no: time will show, and you will
see—Vitek! Drive that dog away: it barks and barks till
my ears are aching. And drive those boys away too: they
will be breaking the panes, or doing some mischief.”
Vitek rushed out with a stick. The dog barked no more.
But there were cries without, and the noisy footfalls of a
crowd of ﬂying urchins. He drove them into the road, and
ran back, bent double to escape a shower of missiles that
assailed him.
Roch showed himself in the shade at the corner of the
yard. “Vitek, wait a little. Call thou Ambrose; say I
want him very urgently indeed, and am awaiting him in
the porch.”
It was only after some time that Ambrose appeared,
and in a detestable humour. His supper had been inter-
rupted, and at the very best dish of all—sucking-pig with
peas
“What? what? Is the church on ﬁre?”
“Do not raise your voice so. Come to Kuba: I fear he
is dying.”
“Oh, let him die, then, and not prevent folk from eating
their supper! I was with him only this very evening, and
told him he would have to go to the hospital, and get his
leg cut off, and he would be well in a trice.”
“You told him that?-—Oh, then I understand. . . . I—-l
think he has cut off his own leg!”
“jesu Marial—His—his own leg?”
“Come instantly and look. I was going to sleep in the
cow-byre, and had just entered the yard, when Lapa came
barking to me, and jumping, and pulling me by my capote.
I could not make out what it wanted; but it ran forward.
sat down on the stable threshold, and howled. Thither I
went and saw Kuba lying in the doorway, half in, half out.
I thought at ﬁrst he had gone to get some air, and fainted
on the way: so I carried him back to his pallet, and lit
the lantern to get him some water; and it was then I saw he
P'HE PEASANTS 256
was bloodstained all over—deathly pale, and with blood
pouring from his leg.”
They went in, and Ambrose did his very best to bring
Kuba to; but the poor fellow was extremely weak. He
scarce drew breath, and a rattling sound came through his
teeth, clenched so fast that, to give him a little water, they
had to prize them open with a knife.
The leg, which had been hewn off at the knee, and still
dangled by a shred of skin, bled profusely.
A great pool of gore lay on the threshold, close to a blood-
stained ax and the grindstone, usually placed under the
eaves, now fallen near the doorway.
“Aye, he has cut it off himself. Afraid of the hospital.
—-A fool to think it would avail him: but dauntless and
resolute all the same.--Good God! . . . his own leg! . . .
it is simply incredible. . . . And the blood he has lost!”
At this juncture, Kuba opened his eyes, and looked round
him with returning consciousness.
“Is it off? . . . I struck twice, but swooned———” he
said feebly.
“Any pain?”
“None at all. . . . Weak as water . . . but not ailing.”
Ambrose dressed, washed and bound the leg with moist
rags, Kuba lay still meanwhile, uttering not the least sound.
Roch, on his knees, held the lantern, praying fervently
the while; but the patient smiled—a faint tearful smile, as
when an orphan babe, abandoned aﬁeld, knows only that his
mother is not there, not that she has forsaken him, and
enjoys the grass waving over his head, and the sunbeams,
and stretches out his hands to the birds that ﬂy past, con-
versing with all around him after his fashion: even so did
he feel now. He was at ease, without pain and in comfort;
so cheerful that he thought no whit of his ill, but felt se-
cretly rather proud of himself. How sharp he had ground
the ax! how well he had placed the limb on the threshold,
and—one blow not sufﬁcing—struck a second with all his
might! And now the pain was all gone; so of course he
257 AUTUMN
had succeeded—Oh, if he were but a triﬂe stronger, he
would not lie rotting on that pallet any more, but be up, and
go to the wedding . . . dance even—and eat a morsel, for
he would fain eat!
“Lie you still, and do not budge. I will tell Yuzka, and
you shall have something to eat’ presently.” So said Roch,
patting his cheeks; and he went- out into the yard with
Ambrose. '
“He will drop off ere morning—fall asleep like a little
bird: there’s no more blood in him.”
“Then, while he is conscious, the priest must be sent for.”
“His Reverence has gone to spend the evening at the
manor-house at Vola.”
“I’ll go and tell him: there must be no delay.”
“Five miles on foot and through the forest! You would
never be in time—No: the carts of those guests here who
leave after supper are ready; take one and go.”
They got a cart on to the road, and Roch seated himself.
“Do not forget Kuba!” he called out as he started:
“Have a care of him!”
“Yes, yes, I shall remember, and not leave him by
himself.”
Nevertheless, he did forget him almost directly. After
telling Yuzka about the eatables, he went back to supper,
and applied himself so close to the bottle that he very soon
remembered nothing at all. . . .
Yuzka, being a kind-hearted little girl, at once brought
him all she could get, piling it up on a dish, with half a
quart of vodka.
“Here, Kuba, is something for you, that ye may eat and
enjoy yourself.”
“God bless you !——Sausage it is, I fancy;—-a delightful
smell!”
“1 fried it for you, that you might ﬁnd it more savoury.”
She put the dish into his hands, for the stable was dark.
“But drink of the vodka ﬁrst.”
He drained the glass to the last drop.
Q
THE PEASANTS 258
“Will you sit with me a little? I feel lonely here.”
He broke the food, bit and chewed it—but could swallow
nothing.
“Are they in good spirits over there?”
“Oh, yes! and so many people! I never saw more com-
pany in all my life.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, proudly; “is it not
Boryna’s wedding?”
“Yes; and Father is so pleased . . . and always going
after Yagna!”
“Indeed, for she is so beautiful—as fair to see as a Manor-
house lady any day.”
“Do you know, Simon, Dominikova’s son, is taken with
Nastka!”
“His mother will forbid him. There are only three acres
of land at Nastka’s, and ten mouths to feed.”
“That’s why she keeps strict watch and drives them apart
when she ﬁnds them together.”
“Is the Voyt here?”
“He is.--Talking a great deal, and—together with Am-
brose—making the company laugh.” '
“And why not, being at so great a wedding, and with so
great a man ?—Do you know anything of Antek’s doings?”
“Ah, I ran over to him at dusk, with cake and meat and
bread for the little ones. But he turned me out, and threw
the things after me. He is very resolute; and ﬁerce. Oh,
so ﬁerce! And there is wailing and misery in their hovel.
Hanka is always quarrelling with her sister, and they have
well-nigh come to blows.”
He made no reply, but breathed somewhat harder.
“Yuzka,” he said after a while, “the mareI—I hear her
moaning. Since evening she has been lying down: she must
be near foaling-time, and ought to be looked after. Prepare
a mash for her—Hark how she moans! And I cannot help
at all, so weak I feel—quite helpless!”
He was worn out, and said no more for a while, seeming
to be asleep.
Yuzka rose and went ,out in a hurry.
259 AUTUMN
“Ces, Ces, Ces!” he called to the mare, as he woke
suddenly.
The mare uttered a low whinny, and tugged at her halter
till the chain clanked again.
“So then, once in my life at least, I shall eat and be ﬁlled!
Aye, and you too, good dog, shall get your share: no need
to whine.”
He attempted once more to swallow some sausage, but
quite in vain: it stuck in his throat.
“Lord, Lord, such heaps of food . . . and I cannot so
much as eat one mouthful!”
Yes, it was utterly useless: he could not. His hand fell
powerless, and, still grasping the meat, he put it under-
neath the straw of his bed.
“So much! Never so much yet! And all for nothing!”
-—l-le felt rather sore.
“But let me rest a little now; and later, when I can eat,
the feast shall begin.”
He was just as unable afterwards, and slipped off into a
coma, still holding the sausage, and unaware that Lapa was
stealthin gnawing at it.
Suddenly his senses returned—The supper was over, and
such a blast of music burst on his ears from over the yard,
that the stable-walls vibrated, and the frightened fowls fell
a-cackling on their roosts.
The dance was in full and boisterous swing—and the
laughter and the frolic and the fun. Again and again
the trampling of feet resounded, and the shrill cries of the
lasses pierced the night.
At ﬁrst, Kuba gave ear; but presently he became oblivious
of all things. A drowsiness seized upon him, and carried
him off into, as, it were, a clangorous darkness, as though
beneath swift swirling murmurous waters. But when the
dance grew noisier, and the tumult and hubbub of the
stamping heels seemed about to beat all to shivers, he
stirred slightly: his soul peered up out of the dungeon where
it lay; roused from oblivion, coming back from inﬁnite
distances, it listened.
THE PEASANTS 260
At such times, Kuba would endeavour to eat a little, or
whispered low, but from the heart:
“Ceska, Ces, Ces!”
And now at last his soul was slowly withdrawing—wing-
ing its way through the universal frame of things. A new-
ﬂedged bird divine, it ﬂuttered around uncertainly at ﬁrst,
unable to soar, and at times with a revival of attachment to
that sacred earth, its body, where it fain would‘rest from
the weariness of ﬂight, and craved to soothe the pangs of
bereavement in the haunts of men. Back it went on earth
amongst his own, its loved ones, calling sorrowfully to its
brethren, and imploring their aid: but after a time, strength-
ened by the Divine power and mercy, it was enabled to soar
on high, even unto those mysterious ﬁelds of endless spring,
those inﬁnite unbounded fallows which God has made beau-
tiful with everlasting sunbeams and eternal joy.
And higher yet it ﬂew, and higher, yet higher, higher—
yea, till it set its feet
Where man can hear no longer the voice of lamentation,
nor the mournful discords of all things that breathe
Where only fragrant lilies exhale balmy odours, where
ﬁelds of ﬂowers in bloom waft honey-sweet scents athwart
the air; where starry rivers roll over beds of a million hues;
where night comes never at all
Where silent prayers go up for ever, like smoke of incense,
in odoriferous clouds; and the bells tinkle, and the organ
plays softly; and the ransomed people—Angels and Saints
together—sing the Lord’s praises in the Holy Church, the
divine and lasting City!
Yes, worn out and longing to be at rest, thither did the
soul of Kuba ﬂy away!


But in the house they all were dancing—enjoying them-
selves with the heartiest mirth and the best goodwill. Bet-
ter still than the evening before, the good cheer being dealt
out more generously, and the hosts more pressing. And so
they danced till they could dance no more.
261 AUTUMN
The place was in commotion, like a cauldron set upon a
great ﬁre. Did the enjoyment show any signs of ﬂagging,
at once the band set to with renewed zeal; and the guests,
like a ﬁeld stirred by the wind and waving, sprang up and
began to dance anew with fresh ﬁre and song and din and
tumult.
Now were their souls quite melted within them by the vol-
canic enthusiasm/of their host; their blood seethed hot,
reason was almost giving way, their hearts were beating with
the wildest frenzy. For them, every movement now seemed
a dance, every cry a song, and every look a glance of
ecstasy!
And so it went on all night long, and even till morning.
But the day rose, dull and still: the rays of dawn appeared
together with dense dreary masses of clouds. Ere the sun
had risen, the world grew very dark and dismal. And then
the snow came down: at ﬁrst whirling, ﬂuttering, scanty—
as when the needles fall from pine-trees on a windy day;
until it set to falling in earnest.
Then, as though coming through a sieve, the snow de-
scended in perpendicular ﬂakes, straight down, equally dealt
out, monotonous, noiseless, covering roofs, trees, and hedges,
and all the land, as with an enormous covering of white
feathers.
The wedding was really at an end at last. True, they
were to meet again at the tavern in the evening, “to wind
up”; but for the present they decided to return home.
Only the bridesmen and bridesmaids, with the band to
lead them, drew up in the porch and sang in unison a short
song, in which, declaring themselves the devoted servants of
the wedded couple, they wished them good night—in the
morning!
It was then that Kuba laid his soul at the sacred feet of
the Lord Jesus. . . .
END OF PART I
THE PEASANTS
WINTER
CHAPTER I
INTER had come.
\ In the ﬁrst days, it was but trying its strength—-
wrestling with the autumn, and howling far away
in the livid distance, like some ravenous monster.
Now dawned those chilly glacial days, days of dismal
and mournful dejection, lit with a dribbling feeble light;
corpse-like days, when the birds ﬂew away to the woods with
cries of dread, and the waters babbled fearsomely, rolling
sluggishly on, as if palsied by the terror of the cold; and
the very country-side seemed to shudder. and all that was
therein to look in awe towards the north and its unfathom-
able depths of clouds.
As yet the nights were as those in autumn, full of dreary
sighs and soughs; sounds as of struggling, and sudden
hushes; the howl of dogs; the cracking snaps of freezing
timber; the sad voices of shelter-seeking birds; horrible
calls from weird woodlands and crossways, invisible in
the dark; and the beating of eerie wings, and shadows
lurking beneath the walls of the stupeﬁed cottagers.
At evening, from time to time, the huge crimson bulk of
the setting sun would still peer out of the west, going down
ponderously—a globe of molten iron, whence blood-red
ﬂoods would gush forth, with smoke-like pitch-black vapours
rising round them, looking like a grand and gloomy con-
ﬂagration.
They said: “The winter is growing harder, and ill winds
will be rising soon.”
And indeed the winter did grow harder—every day,
every hour, every minute.
Directly after the fourth of December (the day of St.
3
THE PEASANTS 4
I
Barbara, patroness of a holy death), the ﬁrst of the winter
gales began blowing in short whiffiing puffs. They skimmed
along the ground, with a baying like that of hounds hot
on a trail. They bit into the ploughed ﬁelds, snarled about
the bushes, worried the snow-drifts, tore at the orchard
boughs, swept along the highways, sniffed in the streams;
and here and there, with but little ado, they ruined every
thatch and fence that was in poor condition. After which
they ﬂed, still baying, away to the forest lands; and after
them out of the dusk came the great winds on the very
same evening, their long sharp tongues lolling out of their
wheezy jaws.
All night they blew, howling across the ﬁelds like packs
of famished wolves. They did their work well, too. Ere
morning the stark hardened earth had been quite stripped
of its tattered and scattered covering of snow; only in
places, in hollows and ditches, could a few white rags be
seen on the fences. The ﬁelds too had some shiny white
spots left; but the roads lay frozen deep—as it were, petri-
ﬁed—and the frost had bitten profoundly into the soil with
its keen fangs, so that it resounded with a metallic ring like
iron. But with the morning, the gales ﬂed to hide in the
woods, where they lurked, tremulous and shuddering.
The sky, too, was now overcast, ever with darker clouds,
which came creeping up out of every cavern, raising heads
of monstrous size, stretching forth long lean ﬂanks, throw-
ing their grey manes to the winds, baring gigantic discol-
oured teeth, and coming on in mighty battalions—From
the north: black, huge, all shredded and tattered, piled in
tiers, branching out like a score of overthrown forests, one
upon the other, separated by deep chasms, and with—so it
seemed—great streaks scattered over them of greenish ice,
as it were: these rushed forward with wild might and a
dull murmuring sound. From the west: those advanced
slowly—livid, enormously swollen bulks, which in places
shone bright as ﬁre; and they rolled one after another,
more and more persistent in their long advance, not unlike
ﬂocks of great birds. From the east came sailing ﬂattened,
5 W I N T E R
rusty-hued masses of vapour, monotonously the same, and
forbidding to the eye as mouldering carcasses that drip with
tainted gore. From the south, too, were wafted ancient-
looking clouds, reddish dark in hue, recalling clods of peat,
striped and motley to see, though dingy and dull, as if ver-
min burrowed within them. There were also clouds ﬂoat-
ing on high, seeming to descend from the pale quenched orb
of the sun, and forming dingy wisps, or spreading out in
manifold tints, as embers that are dying. And they all
came forward, built up mountains of prodigious height,
and concealed all the sky under a black seething ﬂood of
squalor and grime. .
The whole land had suddenly turned to darkness; a dull
silence prevailed on every side; all the lights had grown
dim; the bright eyes of the waters were glazing over; all
beings felt petriﬁed and stood in amazement with bated
breath. Up out of the earth surged the fear of what was
to come; the frost penetrated even to the marrow of the
bones, and every living thing trembled with the terror of
it. They saw the hare running through the village, with
shaggy fur standing ﬂuffy on end; they saw the ravens
alighting with hoarse croaks upon the granaries. and even
entering the houses. Dogs howled wildly outside in the
yard; men sped in fear to take shelter in their huts: while
along the pond the priest’s blind mare went to and fro with
the ruins of the cart, and struck against the fences, and
with a weird cry sought her way back to the stable.
The darkness began to be continual, murky and exceed-
ingly depressing; daily the clouds sailed lower; they came
creeping down from the forests, like thick volumes of dust,
and rolled along the ﬁelds like ﬂoods of turbid water: then,
coming to the village, plunged all things in a dingy ice-
cold fog. And suddenly there would come a rent through
the midst of the sky that shone dark-blue like the azure
mirror of a well: a wild wind whistled through the dim
space, the fogs at once were driven together on either side,
and by the shattered gateway thus made came a ﬁrst loud
blast, soon followed by another, a score, and hundreds.
THE PEASANTS 6
They howled on in troops, they poured forwards in tor-
rents that nothing could restrain; they rushed along as if
coming out of broken fetters, in raging bellowing multi-
tudes, striking at the gloom, dispelling it utterly, swallow-
ing it up or sweeping it away like rotten chaff.
And out and far over the ﬁelds, in screaming turmoil,
was driven the fog as froth before the wind.
The clouds, trampled down by the feet of the pitiless
storm, ﬂed and rolled off, to skulk in the woodlands and
forests. The sky was swept clean; once more, though
with dull and sullen mien, the day peered forth, and every
creature drew a breath of relief.
For nearly the whole of Sunday the gales blew on without
any surcease or abatement. In the day-time, they were
not yet quite intolerable; but the nights became beyond
bearing. These fell, bright and starlit, and it was then
that the gales played their most furious pranks. Folks did
not say (as they do when the wind is high): “Sure some-
one has hung himself,” but: “Fivescore men must be hang-
ing now!” What with the howling, the banging, and the
creaking as of a thousand empty wagons clashing at a
gallop over hard-frozen ice, no one could sleep a wink.
The huts creaked likewise. Often and again did the storm
come driving at the corners, heaving up the thatches, but-
ting at the doors: sometimes even breaking in the panes so
that they had to get up at night and stop them with
pillows: for it then rushed in with a sound like the squealing
of noisy swine—bringing along with it such ﬁerce cold as
benumbed the inmates under their eiderdown quilts.
None can say what the villagers suffered, in the course
of those days, of those nights.
Nor what harm was done abroad. The blasts bore down
the fences, plucked off the thatched roofs, and—at the
Voyt’s—blew down a shed that was all but new. They tore
the roof from Bartek Koziol’s granary, and carried it away
more than a furlong’s distance into the ﬁelds; they threw
down the chimney at the Vincioreks’; they wrenched a good
bit of boarding from the mill-roof: and as to the multi-
7 WINTER
tudes of minor losses, and the many trees uprooted in the
orchards and woods, who can tell them? Why, upon the
highway ‘alone, they tore up and cast across the road about
a score of poplars, that lay like as many murdered and piti-
lessly mutilated corpses!
The oldest inhabitant could not remember when the winds
had been so hostile and done so much injury.
Folk therefore kept at home, wrangling together beneath
the smoky rafters of their own cabins; for it was no light
matter to show one’s nose round the corner. Some of the
women, however, being less patient, would at times cau-
tiously step outside their enclosures and visit their gossip-
loving neighbours: ostensibly to spin in company, but in
reality to whet their tongues and give vent to their ill
humour. Meanwhile, the men were threshing stubbornly
on behind the closed granary-doors, and from morning till
late at night the ﬂails smote upon the ﬂoor. The frost
had nipped the corn; and so the grain was more readily
threshed out.
These gales brought with them more and more biting
frosts. With mighty strokes they had frozen all the brooks
and streamlets. The morasses were now solid. Even the
mill-pond was coated over with a sheet of bluish transparent
ice. Only close to the bridge, where the water grew deeper,
was it still in motion: all the rest of its banks were fettered
by the ice, and openings .had to be cut for drawing water.
No change of weather came till St. Lucia’s day.
Then the frost slackened somewhat; the winds paused to
take breath: they swept the plain more seldom and with
less boisterous fury; the grey sky grew smooth as a well—
harrowed ﬁeld’s vast hempen-coloured surface, and so low
that it seemed resting on the poplar tree-tops along the
road.
But presently, after the noonday Angelus, the frost in-
creased a little and the snow fell in large ﬂakes.
Dusk then came earlier, and the snow still fell thicker
and thicker, though drier and more powdery, until the
night closed in.
THE PEASANTS 8
By morning 'the snow was three good spans deep; it cov—
ered the whole land like a ﬂeece, veiled it under its own
white expanse, shaded with bluish tints; and still it con-
tinued to fall without intermission.
And so great a stillness came over the land that no noise,
no sound pierced the masses of down, now ﬂoating to the
ground. All had grown silent, dumb: as though, by some
miracle, all things had stopped in awe, listening to the
all but inaudible rustle of the falling ﬂakes, so quietly
ﬂoating earthward—a dim ﬂickering whiteness, unceasingly
descending!
The night was now a whitish obscurity, a glimmering,
pearly, immaculate dawn, like the ﬁnest bleached wool on
earth; this glimmering from out of the inﬁnite abyss—as it
were, the frozenshimmer of the light of all stars, con-
densed and ground to dust in its downward ﬂight from
heaven—now besprinkled the whole country; and soon the
pine-woods were shrouded, the meadows disappeared, the
highways vanished, and all the village was lost in the sil-
Very haze and blinding dust, and nothing more was to be
seen but streams of sifted snow, wafted down as still and
smooth and soft as cherry-blossoms in a moonlit night!
At three paces’ distance, there was no making out either
huts or trees or fences, or any human face; human voices
alone, like butterﬂies on wearied wings, ﬂitted about in the
nebulous whiteness. _
This went on for two whole days and nights. In the
end, the cabins were all snowed up, and rose, each like
a snow-covered hill, with a long tress of smoke waving
from its top. Roads and ﬁelds had become one vast plain:
the orchards were all ﬁlled with snow, even above the tops
of the enclosures; the pond had become quite invisible be-
neath the avalanche and, in place of the ground, there was
but a pale, ﬂat, impassable, miraculous plain of down.
The snow fell still, though now more dry and scantier.
At night the stars would twinkle athwart its curtain: by day,
at times, the blue sky would show beyond the whirl of
ﬂoating specks and ﬂitters; voices sounded more sonorous
9 WINTER
and came no longer mufﬂed through the veil. The village
seemed to wake up a little, and folk began to stir themselves.
Some even attempted to drive out in sledges, but soon re-
turned, ﬁnding the ways impracticable. Here and there,
they dug paths through the snow from cabin to cabin;
every heart rejoiced. Especially the children were beside
themselves with delight; and dogs rushed about every-
where, barking, licking the snow, and scampering with the
urchins, who swarmed on to the roadways, clamoured in
the enclosures, shouted, pelted one another with snowballs,
built horrible monsters, and dragged each other about on
toboggans; their joyful cries and merry sports ﬁlled all the
place with din. Roch had to give up teaching that day,
for keeping them in the house over their primers was im-
possible.
About the third day, the snow ceased as twilight
fell; and though there were still a few ﬂakes, they were like
the shakings out of an empty sack of ﬂour—nothing to'
speak of. But the sky was overcast, crows ﬂapped their
wings about the houses and alighted on the roads; the night
came down starless and leaden, its obscurity diminished only
by the whiteness of the frosty snow—and as still as one
shorn of strength to the uttermost.
“Let but the slightest wind spring up, and we shall have
a snow-storm,” muttered old Bylitsa the next morning, as
he peeped out at the window.
Hanka lit the ﬁre on the hearth, and looked into the pas-
sage. It was early yet: all over the hamlet, the cocks were
crowing. The twilight was still dusky, as if lime and soot
had been mingled and spread over the world; but in the
east there glowed a heap, as it were, of ash-covered embers.
The cold in the room was so keen, so damp and bitterly
piercing, that Hanka had to put on her clogs in the house
over her bare feet. On the hearth, there was scarce any
ﬁre at all; the green juniper brushwood only crackled and
smoked. Hanka hacked a few chips off a board, poked
some straw under them, and at last got the ﬁre to blaze.
“Enough snow has fallen for a whole winter,” the old
THE PEASANTS 10
man said again, blowing on the window, crusted over with
a thick coating of greenish ice.
The eldest boy, now entering on his fourth year, began
crying in bed; and from Staho’s lodgings on the other side
of the hut, angry voices, the weeping of children, and the
slamming of doors were heard.
“Oh, Veronka is already at her morning prayers!” Antek
remarked satirically, as he wound round his legs the bands
he had previously warmed at the ﬁre.
“Ah. well,” the old man mumbled, “she has learned to
talk—and she talks. A little too much perhaps, but she
means no harm.”
“Means no harm! And does she mean no harm when
she beats her children? Does she mean' no harm when she
leads poor Staho a dog’s life, with never a good word for
him?” Thus Hanka made reply, as she knelt down by
the cradle to suckle her little baby, which was crying and
kicking its legs about.
“Since we came, three Sundays have gone by: not one
day has passed without a quarrel and ﬁghting and curses.
She a woman? No, she’s a brute. . . . But Staho too is a
mollycoddle, who lets her swinge and cuff him at will. He
works like a horse, and she treats him worse than a dog.”
The old man cast a deprecating look at Hanka, and was
about to say a word in Veronka’s behalf, when the door
opened and Staho himself, ﬂail on shoulder, peeped in.
“Antek, will you come and thresh? The organist told me
to get someone for his barley, which 'is dry and good, and
comes splendidly out of the husk. . . . Philip begged me
to take him; but if you will, here’s work for you.”
“Thanks kindly,” was Antek’s reply; “but I am not going
to work at the organist’s. Philip will do very well.”
“Please yourself. Good day.”
At her husband’s refusal, Hanka had started up; but she
at once bent down, her head over the cradle, to hide the
tears that gushed forth.
“What! in this fearful winter, so poor that we have only
a few potatoes and salt, and having not a stiver to bless
ll WINTER
himself with . . . he refuses work offered! Sits all day
long in the hut, smoking cigarettes and brooding! . . . Or
else roams and prowls about like one distraught, seek-
ing . . . what? The wind perhaps? 0 my God, my God!”
she sobbed in her distress. . . . “And now, even Yankel will
trust us no more: and we shall have to sell the cow. .
True, it is not beseeming that he should work on another
peasant’s land. . . . But what—what can we do?—-Lord!
were I a man, I would not spare myself nor' shirk toil, but
work till my arms dropped. . . . Alas! poor thing that I
am, what can I do?” And she set about her household
duties, now and then casting a furtive glance at Antek, who
sat close to the hearth, with his eldest son on his lap,
wrapped in his sheepskin, and chafed his little feet with a
hand warmed at the ﬁre, but sighed and stared moodily into
the blaze the while. The old man was peeling potatoes
at the window.
Silence had arisen between them, disquieting, pregnant
with hidden griefs, and heightened by the stiﬂing sensation
of misery. They would not look into each other’s eyes, nor
talk; their words trailed off into plaints, their smiles faded
and went out; in their looks ﬂamed suppressed reproaches;
in their pallid emaciated faces harsh feelings were to be
read, and their minds burned with bitter resentment. Three
weeks had passed since they had been turned from Boryna’s
door: so many long days and nights, and they had every
detail of the expulsion yet distinct in their memories. The
injury was a fresh as ever, the stubborn sense of revolt as
strong.
The ﬁre was now burning merrily, and its warmth spread
through the room, till the frost melted on the window-
panes, and the snow in the chinks outside the hut trickled
down in water, while a little moisture oozed from the hard-
beaten ﬂoor.
“Those Jews . . . are they coming?” she asked at length.
“They said they would.”
And again not one word more. Indeed, who should speak
ﬁrst? Should Hanka? . . . She, who durst not open her
THE PEASANTS 12
mouth, lest the gall that ﬁlled her heart should ﬂow forth
in spite of herl—Or Antek? What had he to say? That
he was miserable? They both knew that. He never had
been prone to make friends; and as to pouring out his heart,
even to his own wife, he had no wish to do that! Besides,
how could he speak, now that his soul was eaten up with
hatred, and every memory made him writhe and clench
his ﬁsts in such rage that he would willingly have vented
it upon the whole village!
He now treasured no longer the sweet recollection of
Yagna, any more than if he had never known her, than if
he never had held in his arms the girl whom he now could
tear in pieces.
And yet what he felt was not hatred. “Some women”
(thus he thought of her) “are like stray dogs, always ready
to follow anyone Who offers a bigger morsel, or shakes a
stick to be obeyed.” Even these thoughts were not very fre-
quent: in presence of the avalanche of deadly wrongs done
him by his father, he forgot hers. The old man was guilty
of all: yes, it was his father—the villain, the tyrant, the
thorn in his side that ever rankled deeper and more cruelly!
—-it was through him—~through him !—-that all had come
to pass.
Every evil inﬂicted, every suffering that he had undergone
in these days, was garnered up in his bosom, and formed
a horrible rosary of pangs and tortures; but he incessantly
told the beads in his mind, that his memory of them might
be fresh.
Of his poverty he made little account. He was a stal-
wart fellow: needed but a roof over his head, and no more.
“Let my wife,” he thought, “see to the children.”-—What
stung him above all the rest was the utter injustice shown
to him. This he felt, continually more inﬂamed, as the
rubbed sting of a nettle. What! In but three weeks, all
the hamlet had come to look upon him as though he were
an unknown intruder. No one spoke to him, no one looked
in at his door, nobody had even a word of kind greeting for
him. He felt himself an outlaw.
13 ‘ WINTER
Well, if they did not come, he was not the man to beg
them. But neither would he hide in a corner—far less
yield an inch of the way to any. If they cared to have
a ﬁght, why, then, let them have it! . . . But now, why
was all this? Because he had fought his father?—Aha!
was that unheard of in Lipka? Did not Joseph Vahnik
ﬁght his father every other day? Had not Staho Ploshka
broken his father’s leg? And yet no one had a word of
blame for either! No, it was only he they were shocked at.
Of course: “Whom God favours, His saints favour too”;
and Boryna was as a god in Lipka!
All that time, breathing only revenge and the thought
of it, he had lived on in a fever of excitement. He did not
take to work, lost thought of his poverty, forgot all about
the morrow: broken down after the agony gone through,
he merely crawled hither and thither—a self-tormentor
everywhere. Now and again he would rise in the night,
to go about and roam along the roads or crouch hidden in
dark corners, dreaming of vengeance, and swearing that
he would never forgive.
They took breakfast together without one word; and he
sat with eyes of bewilderment, ruminating the past—thorny
bitter provender, hard to chew!
By now the day was getting on, and the ﬁre had gone out.
A cold whitish light from the snows outside shone through
the partly thawed panes: the chilly dismal glare lit up
every nook and showed the room in all its wretched
nakedness. I
Heavenslf By the side of such a hut, Boryna’s cabin
was a mansion. Nay, any of his father’s out-houses, even
the cow-byte, was ﬁtter for human abode. It was a foul
sty, not a welling-place; a heap of rotted logs, dried dung,
worthless ubbish! Not a single board to cover the bare
ground, ose clay was honeycombed with holes ﬁlled up
with froze mud and sweepings, whence an odour worse
than a ma ure-heap exhaled whenever the ﬁre-place warmed
the room. Above this quag of a ﬂoor rose the walls, warped
and mould down which the damp trickled, and in whose

THE PEASANTS 14
dark corners the Frost shook his hoary beard: walls
with numberless holes, stopped with clay--or even, in some
places, straw and cow-dung. The low ceiling hung down
like a torn old sieve; there were fewer boards in it than
holes, stopped with bundles of straw. Only the furniture
and household utensils, together with the holy images on the
walls, to some extent concealed this state of dire destitution;
whilst the great press, and the horizontal pole across the
room on which the clothes were hung, hid the wickerwork
partition that separated the room from the byre. . . .
Hanka soon got through her work, though she had not
to hurry: one cow, a heifer, a young pig and a few geese
and fowls forming all her live stock, and indeed all her
wealth. She dressed the boys, who presently went out into
the passage to play with Veronka’s children; the sound of
their frolics was soon heard. Then she tidied herself up
a little, as she expected the dealers, and would have to go
to the village afterwards.
She particularly wished to talk the matter of the sale over
with Antek beforehand; but she could not venture to speak
ﬁrst. He, still sitting by the ﬁre that burned no more, was
staring into the distance with a mien so sombre that it
made her afraid.
What could it be that ailed him?
She took off her clogs, lest their dlatter might annoy him,
and cast in his direction more and more frequent glances
full of affectionate disquietude. "\
“Ah,” she thought, “it is harder, far harder‘for him than
for other men!” and a great desire came over! her to ques-
tion him, to try and guess his sorrows, and \mourn over
them with him. Already she was standing by his side,
ready with words of kindness, welling up from‘, her loving
heart. But then, how could she speak to him, \if he paid
no more heed to her than if she were not there? She heaved
a sigh, for her heart was very heavy. Good fGod! how
much better off so many another woman was—elven though
without a roof she could call her own! Should {he raise his
voice—nay, even his hand—against her, well, she would at
l5 WINTER
least know she had a living man by her side, and not a log
of wood. “But he! . . . Not a word! Now and then he
growls, as an angry dog would—or looks at me so that my
blood runs cold. I cannot talk with him, nor open my heart
in converse with him at all. A wife—what is that to him?
A pair of hands to tidy the cabin—to cook his food—to
nurse his children! Does he care for me in any wise? ever
caress me, pet me, treat me tenderly, or even chat with
me? All that has no interest for him: he keeps his mind
aloof from all around him, makes himself as a stranger,
and succeeds so well that he sees nothing that goes on. Yes,
let the poor wife bear every burden on her own shoulders:
suffer alone—come and go—trouble about all things: he
will never pay her with one gracious word!”
She could no longer keep back her tears, the bitter over-
ﬂow of her grief, and went out to the byre beyond the par-
tition wall, where, leaning against the manger, she wept in
silence; but when the cow Krasula, with a deep breath, set
to licking her head and shoulders, she burst out into loud
lamentations.
“And I shall lose you too, my poor beast! . . . They
will come. . . . They are coming. . . . They will bargain
for you . . . and then throw a rope round your horns . . .
and lead you off, you that give us our food!” she murmured
low, putting her arm round its neck, and turning with all
the affection of her wounded heart towards this creature
that felt for hen—No, this could go on no longer.—-The
cow was to be sold; then there would be nothing for them
to eat! . . . And he refused to seek work! Had they not
asked him to thresh? and he would not go. He might have
earned one zloty ten kopeks daily. . . . That would have at
least bought salt, and a little lard to make up for the milk
that was to fail them now.
She returned to the dwelling-room, ready to speak her
mind.
“Antek !” she cried, in a hard, determined voice.
Silently he raised his bloodshot eyes to hers, with a gaze
of such immense anguish and sorrow that she was over-
THE PEASANTS l6
whelmed with dread, while her heart thrilled with com-
passion. '
“Did you say they had come for the cow?”
“They are surely on the way; dogs are barking down
theref’
“No, that is in Sikora’s enclosure,” she said after having
gone out to look.
“They promised to come in the forenoon, and we have
only to wait.”
“Oh, must we sell?”
“Alas! we want money, and our pasture-land is not
enough for Krasula and the heifer too—Yes, we must,
Hanka; what’s to be done? I am sorry to lose the cow,”
he went on in a low voice, and with such sweetness of tone
that Hanka felt spellbound, while her heart went pit-a-pat
with great joy and hope: at that moment, she cared neither
for the loss of the cow, nor any of their other misfortunes.
And she gazed earnestly into his beloved face, listening to
that voice of his which entered into her like a ﬂame, and
kindled such delightful feelings within her.
“Ah, yes, we must. Well, the heifer remains to us. She
will calve about Mid-Lent, and so we shall have a little
milk then,” she chimed in, wishing only to hear him speak
further.
“And if we should lack provender, we’ll buy some.”
“Oat-straw perhaps: our rye will last till spring—Father,
pray open our potato-pit: we must see if the potatoes we
have are not frost-nipped.”
“Father, stay where you are, the work is too hard for
you: I’ll do it.”
He rose, took his sheepskin down from the pole, and
went outside.
The snow was almost as high as the roof, for the cabin
stood in an open place, almost out of the village, a ﬁeld’s
length from the road, and with neither hedgerow nor
orchard to keep the snow away. Several wild gnarled
cherry-trees grew in front of the windows, but they were so
buried in the drift that their branches alone stood protrud-
l7 WINTER
ing like human ﬁngers twisted and bent by some disease.—
Earlier in the day, the old man had already cleared away
the snow in front of the cabin, but he had at the same
time covered the mound 1 so deep that it was impossible to
distinguish it in the snow—Antek set vigorously to work:
the snow stood as high as a man, and—though lately fallen
——it had caked together and hardened so much that it had
to be cut out in lumps; and he sweated enough ere the
potato-pit was dug open. But he worked willingly, now
and then throwing a few ﬂitters at the children, who were
playing outside the threshold. At times, however, he would
pause in his work to lean back against the cabin-wall and
look around. Then he would heave a profound sigh, and
his soul would once more go astray like a sheep lost in the
shadows of the night. The sky was all covered with a
whitish cloud, which hung at no great height. The snows
lay extended like a huge soft ﬂeece, forming, as far as the
eye could reach, an immense plain, white with a tinge of
blue; the air, misty with suspended crystals of frost, seemed
to wrap the whole world in a delicate pellucid tissue. As
Bylitsa’s hut was on rising ground, one saw thence the whole
village spread out in a bird’s-eye view: those lines of snow-
clad mounds, like huge mole-hills, straggling away in long
strings round the pond, none completely bare, but all hid by
the white sheet spread over them. Here and there a granary
wall stood out, darkly prominent; ruddy-brown coils of
curling peat-smoke went up; or a few trees peered out, grey
beneath the dazzling mantle in which they were enveloped;
and athwart this world all of silver tinges, voices travelled
swift and sharp, heard together with the ﬂails’ monotonous
rutta-rutta-rutta, drumming underground, as it were. The
ways were all snowed up; no one fared along them, nor
did any living thing darken the silvery expanse of the ﬁelds.
The hazy distances melted into one another, so that sky
and earth were undistinguishable, save where the forest
1Over the potato-pits, dug deep as a protection from the cold,
mounds are raised to protect them still more effectively—Transla-
tor’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 1B
made a faint blue stain on the white, as if some cloud were
hanging at the horizon.
Antek’s gaze wandered but for a little while over those
snowy wastes; it presently returned and sought his father’s
cabin; and in the search his attention was diverted by a cry
from Hanka, who had gone down into the potato-pit.
“Ha! they are not frozen! Vahnik’s store has been so
frost-bitten that half must be~given to the swine to eat;
and ours—ours is quite untouched!”
“That is good news—Pray go out and see, for if I mistake
not, the jews are coming at last, and we must take the cow
out of the byre.”
“You are right: it is the Jews—who but they? Yes, it
is.—Poisonous creatures!” she exclaimed with abhorrence.
Along a pathway just visible by the marks of Staho’s
boots, made when he went out in the morning, there came
two jews from the tavern, heavily plodding along, followed
by half the dogs in the village (that greatly enjoyed this
opportunity to bark at them) until Antek arrived and drove
them away.
“Oh, how do you do?——We come late, on account of the
snow—Such drifts !--No driving through them, no getting
through on foot even, I tell you. They have had to employ
forced labour to make the road passable through the
forest.”
To these attempts at conversation he replied nothing, but
made them enter his hut to warm themselves a little.
Hanka, having cleaned the cow’s soiled ﬂanks and milked
away what had gathered since the morning, brought her
through the room into the yard. The cow made resistance,
,unwilling to go out; on passing the threshold, she sniffed,
stretched her head forth into the air, licked the snow, and
on a sudden burst into long plaintive lowing, pulling so
hard at the rope that old Bylica could scarcely hold her.‘
Hanka broke down. Seized with an unbearable pang, she
burst out crying, as did the children too, holding to their
mother’s skirt.
Nor was Antek in much better mood. He ground his
l9 WINTER
teeth, leaned back against the cabin wall, and stared
doggedly at a lot of crows that had assembled on the snow
dug from the pit. The dealers meanwhile jabbered in
Yiddish to each other, and proceeded to feel the cow and
examine her critically.
The whole family, sick at heart, turned away in deep
dejection from the beast tugging at her halter and vainly
looking to her masters with great frightened eyes, and low-
ing in vain.
“O Lord !-—Was it for this, Krasula, that 1 fed you so
well, and cared for all your wants, that these men should
now take you to the slaughter-house, and destroy you!”
And in agony she struck the cabin wall with her head.
Alas! Wailing and lamenting were of no avail; for
"What needs must be—no man can ﬂee,” as the saying is.
“How much?” the elder of the couple, a grey-bearded
jew, asked at last.
“Three hundred zloty.” 1
“What! for that scraggy brute three hundred?—
Anthony, is aught the matter with you?”
“Scraggy? Say ye no such word, or ye shall rue~it!
Scraggy! Look but at her—so young scarce in her ﬁfth
year—and in such goodly condition!” So spoke Hanka,
enraged.
“Pshaw! Pshaw! Who doth business, a word shall not
anger him—Say thirty roubles!”
“I have spoken.”
“And I shall speak. Thirty-one? . . . Well, thirty-one
and a half.—Thirty-two?—Then let it be thirty-two and a
half. . . . It’s a bargain?”
“I have said.”
“My last word: three and thirty!”--“Take it or leave it,”
added the younger Jew phlegmatically, looking round for
his staff, while the elder buttoned up his gaberdine.
Thereupon Bylitsa said, patting the cow’s neck: “For
such a beast as thisl—O men, fear ye not God? A cow as


1 In view of the bargaining that ensues, this must be counted as
45 roubles—Translator’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 20
large as a byre!—Why, her hide alone will be worth half a
score of roubles—O ye swindlers! ye murderers of Christ!”.
But now the jews began to chaffer eagerly, violently.
Antek stood stubbornly to his price; and though he gave
way a little, it was but little. Indeed, the cow Krasula
was very valuable; and had he been selling it in spring and
to another peasant, he would have got ﬁfty roubles at least.
But “Necessity drives to the mart, with Poverty drawing the
cart." This the jews were perfectly aware of; and though
they shouted louder and louder, and struck their hands in
Antek’s with greater zeal to conclude the bargain, their
offers rose by at most half a rouble each time.
Finally it came to this pass, that they started home in
high dudgeon, and Hanka was leading the cow back to her
shed, while Antek himself was angered and ready to re-
nounce selling the beast at all--when lo! back they came
again, and shrieked and swore that they could not possibly
offer a higher price, and struck their hands in Antek’s
again . . . till at last the man agreed to forty roubles,
\plus two zloty for old Bylica, as the holder of the rope.
They paid on the nail; the old man led the cow after
them to the tavern where their sledge was waiting. Ac~
companied by the children, Hanka went with Krasula as
far as the road, stroking her muzzle every now and then,
affectionately bending over her, and quite unable to conceal
her grief and afﬂiction. .
She stood long upon the road, looking at Krasula as she
was led away, and pouring out execrations on those un-
christened “Yellow Ones.”
To lose such a cow as Krasula was !-—-No wonder if the
poor woman felt her bosom overﬂow with gall!
When she came back, she said: “It is as if one of us
had been borne to the churchyard”; and she still continued
to peep into the empty stall, or to gaze through the window
at the pathway marked by the hoofs which had but now
passed there; and often and often did she give way to her
distress, and shed tears again and again.
“Now then, will you have done?” Antek cried out, seat-
21 WINTER
ing himself at the table where the money lay. “Why, the
woman is for all the world like a calf; doth naught but
weep and blubber.”
‘ “ ‘He that suffereth naught will for nothing have
thought,’ ” was Hanka’s reply. “You suffered nothing,
when you gave poor Krasula up to those jews to be
ﬁltchered.”
391;“Aye, you’d rather have me open my own bowels to get
swau money!”
.ERQ‘And now we remain like the very last of hired servants—
:ftitl’te Dgiads—without one drop of milk, without one crumb
comfort! This—this is what my share of my own
‘house and home have earned for me.—Merciful heavens!
Other men work as hard as oxen, and bring something home;
and this man sells the very last thing the cow, my marriage
portion, all I had from my family!” she went on in un-
controllable excitement.
“Being a fool and without understanding, you may bel-
low at your ease—Here’s money for you. Pay what you
owe, buy what you need, keep the rest.” He pushed the
roubles over to her, but, taking ﬁve from the heap, put
them into his pocket-book.
“And why take so much money with you?”
“Why? I am not going to start off with nothing but my
staff.”
"‘Start off? and whither?”
* isthf‘Anywhither, if it be but away from here. I will seek
and not rot here in Lipka.”
N .Zf’téfg‘Awaj/f’ A dog is barefoot everywhere—‘Where’er the
’ poor man goes, the wind against him blows.’—-Ah! and l
to stay here alone, say? Am I?” And, raising her
twice, she approached him with a threatening mien, not
knowing what she did; he meanwhile took no notice of her,
occupied as he was in taking down his sheepskin, putting
his girdle on, and looking for his cap.
“Work for the peasants here? That I will not,” he de-
clared. “No: though I should starve; I will not!”
“The organist is in want of a thresher.”

THE PEASANTS 22
“That great man!—-A calf who bleats in the choir, and
is good for naught else; whose eyes are always on the
farmers’ money-bags, and who lives on what he gets out of
them by begging or by lying!”
“ ‘Who has no goodwill shirks his duty still!”’
“Enough! You’re saucy!” he cried out in anger.
“When do I say a word to oppose you? You always & -
as you please, and I am nowhere!” '
“I shall apply at the manors,” he said presently, img»
gentler tone. “I mean to inquire about service to be hard,
and perhaps may get something by Christmas. would rather be a common ploughman elsewhere than ﬁat
here, where the wrong done me stares me in the face at
every step. That I cannot bear. I have enough of it--
enough of being pitied by some, and looked upon by
others as a mangy dog!” As he spoke, he waxed angrier
and more highly wrought and Hanka, seized with terror,
stood petriﬁed and motionless: she had never yet seen him
in such a state.
“Farewell. I shall return in a few days.”
“Antek!”—-The word was a despairing scream.
“What would you?” He turned upon the threshold.
“Do you grudge me even a friendly parting word?”
“Is it caresses you mean? Oh, I am in no mood for
them just now.” And he went out, slamming the door.
Uttering a hissing sound between his shut teeth, he
walked on quickly through the snow with his staff. Tia? “"
crisp surface crunched underfoot. He looked round at
cabin. Hanka stood against the wall, dissolved in teajatsyj"
through the other window, Veronka was watching them. 1,. 1;
“Good for nothing in the world but weep, weep, again !—-Now, forwards and away!” he said, with a glahﬁe'
that swept the snowy wilderness round him. Seized with a
strange longing, he felt himself urged on, rejoicing in the
thought of unknown hamlets and a new life in a fresh world.
The feeling came upon him unexpectedly, and bore him
away, as a suddenly swollen torrent carries with it a weakly-
23 . WINTER
rotted shrub, that can neither make head against it nor
remain motionless.
An hour before, so far from making up his mind to go,
he had never so much as entertained the thought. Ah! but
,ngw he would ﬂy—ﬂy away like a bird, go anywhither—to
forests, aye, and to the undreamed regions beyond them.
@uly, why should he stay here to waste his life? what had
wto expect here? The memories of the past had eaten him
dried his heart: for what reason, then, should he cleave
themP—The priest was a good man, and had pointed out
*éléarly to him that he stood no chance in an action against
his father, which would besides be costly—Vengeance?—
That might wait till the right time: no man had ever yet
wronged him with impunity. So now . . . let him go on
-—straight before him, no matter whither, if far enough from
Lipka!
But whither ﬁrst of all?
He now stood at a bend of the poplar road, gazing, not
without some hesitation, over the ﬁelds which faded in the
misty remoteness. “I shall go through the village and
along the road beyond the mill.” And he at once started
that way.
Half a ﬁeld’s length before striking off the road, he had
to turn aside; for under the poplars and down the middle of
the way a sledge was rushing straight in his direction, with
a cloud of snow-dust and a sharp jingling of bells.
It was Boryna, driving with Yagna. The horses tore
along with lusty hoofs, the body of the sledge tossed like
a feather behind them. The old man whipped them be-
sides to make them go faster, and urged them on. He was
speaking some words, too, and laughing! Yagna was talk-
ing in a loud voice, when she suddenly beheld Antek. Each
for an instant looked into the other’s eyes—and then had
gone past. The sledge ﬂashed by, and was engulfed in the
snowstorm it had made; Antek stood in the same spot, look-
ing round at them, and motionless. Now and again they
appeared out of the cloud of snow-dust; Yagna’s dress
THE PEASANTS ' 24
ﬂuttered red in the wind; now the bells would tinkle louder,
and again fainter, inaudible, lost somewhere on that vast
white plain, beneath the arch of frosted boughs and between
the colonnade of dark trunks that sustained them. . . .
These stood, as it were, drooping in a row, in their long weary uphill procession towards the forest. But Antek always aware of her eyes. They ﬂoated before him; appeared, in the midst of the snow—everywhere—with look of terror and of sadness; dreamy and pleased at keen of glance and laden with the hot ﬁre of life! 1
He felt his soul extinguished, so to speak, veiled in“?
mist, frosted over and chilled to the core: but the deep-blue
eyes were shining bright within him. Hanging his head, he
dragged himself on with slow steps. More than once he
glanced round, but nothing was visible beneath the poplar
colonnade, save the blur of a snowy whirlwind ﬂeeing away
with a tinkling of far-off bells.
Oblivion of all things came over him, as though he had
lost his memory by some strange happening. He stared
helplessly, not knowing what to do . . . or where to go
. or what had come to pass. He was as one in a dream
——a waking dream, which he cannot shake off.
Almost unconsciously, he got to the tavern, passing several
sledges full of folk, amongst whom he recognized no one,
though he looked carefully.
“Where is that crowd of people bound for?” he asked
Yankel, who was standing in the doorway.
“For the court. There’s a lawsuit with the Manor about
a cow, and herdsmen assaulted: you know the affair. Those
are the witnesses; Boryna started before.”
“Will they win?”
“Why should anyone lose? The complaint is against the
Squire of Vola, and the Squire of Rudka is to be judge.
Why should a Squire lose?-—Besides, the folk will have an
excursion, will improve the roads, will enjoy themselves;
and the townsmen too need to do some business. So every-
body will gain a little.”
Antek was not listening to Yankel’s mockery. He
25 WINTER
ordered some strong vodka and, leaning against the bar,
stood musing there for a full hour, without even tasting the
hquon
“Is anything ailing you?”
“What should ail me?——Let me into the private bar.”
“Impossible. Dealers are there—great merchants, who
have purchased another clearing from the Squire; that in
Vilche Doly. They must have rest; nay, it may be they
are sleeping now.”
“I’ll pull the scurvy rascals out by their beards!” Antek
cried, and rushed madly to the private bar; but ere he got
there, he changed his mind, and took his bottle to the dark
est nook in the room.
The tavern was empty and still, save for the Jews talking
together in their jargon, Yankel running to serve them, or
someone coming in to order a glass, toss it off, and withdraw.
It was now past noon, and the frost no doubt increasing;
for the sledge-runners creaked in the snow, and the tavern
,grew colder. But Antek remained in a brown study, un-
able to make out what was going on within him and around.
He took a dram, then another; but those eyes! They
were always with him—dark-blue, turquoise-blue!-—and so
very near that his eyelids all but touched them.—-A third
dram, and they grew brighter still, and seemed to whirl
about, as lights borne from one part of the room to another!
--A cold shudder went through him; terriﬁed, he started to
his feet.
“Pay up, you!” shouted Yankel, blocking the way out.
“Pay up! I give you naught on trust.”
“Out of my way, you dog’s-blood Jew, or I kill you!”
Antek shrieked, with such furious violence that Yankel
changed colour and shrank away to let him pass.
He banged the door and rushed out.
CHAPTER II
a rushlight had been kindled and whisked abou’t
among the shadows; what brightness there was van-
ished soon, and it grew dark again, and looked as if the
snow were gathering and about to fall once more.
In Antek’s hut it was extremely murky and cold and
cheerless. The children played upon the bed, and prattled
in whispers to each other. Hanka was so uneasy, she knew
not what to do. She went ﬁdgeting about the place, or stood
outside with burning eyes, gazing over the snow. But
neither on the road nor in the ﬁelds did any living creature
meet her sight; only a few sledges were just visible, crawl-
ing away from the tavern to vanish both from the eye and
the ear, lost in the abyss of limitless white.
She sighed. If there were but a beggar passing by, that
she might have someone to speak to!
She set to calling together the fowls that had dispersed,
seeking to roost on the cherry-trees, and made them return
to their usual roosting-place; but, on going in, had some
words with Veronka. What did it mean? The woman had
set down in the passage a pail of hog-wash for her swine,
which the dirty beasts had splashed about, and there was a
large pool right in front of Hanka’s door!
Without going in, she cried through the closed door:
“You who hold yourself such a good housewife, see to your
pigs, or tell your children to do so. I will not dirty my-
self with mud for your sake!”
“Oh, she has sold her cow, and so she is going to raise
her voice here, is she? She cannot bear mud now, the
grand lady! “Yet her dwellirég is a pigsty!”
6
TOWARDS noon it had cleared up a little, but only as if .

27 WINTER
“Never you mind about my lodgings or my cow!”
“Then never you mind about my pigs; do you hear?"
Hanka slammed the door: what could she reply to such a
fury? One word said to her was sure to bring more than
twenty in return—She bolted the door, took out the money,
and began to make up her accounts with inﬁnite trouble,
blu dering again and again. She was still upset; full of
res wtment against Veronka, 0f disquietude about Antek.
Ofte _, too, she fancied she could hear Krasula lowing; and
thenlat times memories of her girlhood at home came back
to her.
“T'tue it is, though, too true, that our dwelling is like
a pigfty!” she muttered, looking about the room—But
there! . . . There they had a ﬂoor, and the walls were white-
washed, and all was warm and clean, and everything was
in abundance. . . . And the work there, was it much? . . .
Yuzka washed the things after dinner; Yagna spun, or
looked out of the bright frostless windows. . . . What did
she nehd, that she had not? . . . All the corals of Boryna’s
deceased wives were hers now; and petticoats, and kerchiefs,
and linen in plenty. She had not to trouble, not to earn
anything, and could eat her ﬁll of fat things! And Staho
had said, moreover, that Yagustynka did all the work for
her; that she lay in bed till broad daylight. and had tea for
breakfast, because, forsooth, “potatoes did not agree with
her!" . . . And the old man did nothing but make love
and fondle that woman as if she were a little child. . . .
The thought roused a storm of rage in her; she started
up from the chest she sat on and shook her ﬁst.
“Oh, the spoiler, the harpy, the wanton, the trull!” She
screamed so loud that old Bylica, dozing close to the ﬁre-
place, started up in alarm.
She was calm in an instant. “Father, pray cover the
potatoes with straw, and then heap the mound with snow:
there is going to be a hard frost,” she said, and returned to
her accounts.
But somehow the old man’s work did not get on. There
was much snow, and he had little strength—And then, he

THE PEASANTS 28
felt uneasy: he had held the rope, and two zloty were for
him: should he have them? They had been lying there on
the table, glittering and almost new, as he well remembered.
“Perhaps they will give them to me,” he thought. “To
whom else do they belong? My arms are stiff with holding
the rope, Krasula pulled so hard; I held on nevertheless. And how I praised her to the cattle-dealers! Oh, I e
them hear me! . . . Peter, the eldest boy~—I should buy im
a mouth-organ at the very ﬁrst local feast. . . . And‘ the
younger one too should get something. . . . And Vero ka’s
little ones too, naughty troublesome brats though they are.
. . . And for myself, some snuff—strong—such as stirsione’s
inwards! Staho’s snuff is good for little, does :rotf'eVen
make me sneeze.” U! .
But these musings affected his work so much that‘s-when
Hanka came round in an hour’s time, the straw was only
just covered with snow. 1.
“Why, you eat enough for a man, and work less'tt "\ a
child!” she said. I 7'13
“Ah, Hanka, I am working hard, but I just stopped a
moment to breathe: I shall ﬁnish instantly—in‘gtantly!" he
stammered, greatly abashed. - \
“The twilight is coming down from the forest, the frost
is growing harder, and the pit looks as if swine had been
rooting there. Go ye into the hut and tend the babes.”
She herself set to work, and with such energy that the
pit was very soon covered up and splendidly heaped over
with snow.
But when she had done, it was already dusk; the dwell-
ing had become colder; the damp clay ﬂoor, stiff with the
frost, clattered beneath her clogs; and once more the frost
painted its patterns on the panes. The children, too,
whimpered low; but she did nothing to quiet them, for
she was in haste. She had to cut straw for the heifer, and
feed the pigs, that came squealing and nuzzling against
the door, and give water to the geese. Besides, she must go
over the accounts again—ﬁnd how much she was to pay, and
to whom. At last all was done, and she prepared to go out.
w WINTER
“Father, you will light the ﬁre, and take care of the
babes.--Should Antek come back, there is cabbage for him
in the saucepan on the 'hob.”
“Yes, yes, Hanka, I shall see to everything—The cabbage
is on the hob; yes, I shall see, I shall see to it.” '
“Ah !—About the rope-money, I have taken it. You do
not want it, surely? You have food to eat; you have
clothing. . . . What more do you need?”
“Yes, Hanka, yes; I have everything—everything,” he
replied in a low voice, turning quickly round to the children,
lest she should see his tears fall.
As she went out, the cold gripped her. A bluish dark-
ness was spreading on every side, dry and peculiarly trans—
parent. The sky was clear as crystal, with unclouded
horizon, and a few stars already twinkling on high.
On her way, Hanka mused. She thought she would try
to ﬁnd some sort of work that Antek could do, and not let
him 3c._§;;;iyay.—But now his last utterance came back to
he, andinade her faint with alarm. For never in her life
could she leave her village to live elsewhere; nofnever
could she abide among strange folk!
She gazed on the road, the houses scattered along it, the
orchards scarce seen above the snow, and the immense ﬁelds
all around, now growing grey in the twilight. The silent
ice-cold evening fell faster and faster: star after star came
out, as if someone up there was sowing them by handfuls;
and upon the glimmering earth, glimmering in snowy-white
expanses, the cabin lights began to shine, smoke shed its
scent through the air, men went slowly about the ways, and
voices seemed skimming very low along the groundf
“All this has grown into me, is part of me; and I will
not stray about the world like a wandering wind. Oh, no!”
she said with energy to herself, walking now somewhat
slower; for from time to time she met with caked snow
that broke and let her in up to the knees.
“This is the world which our Lord has given me—mine!
Here will I live and here will I die—If we can but hold
out till the spring! . . . Say that Antek refuses to do any
_THE PEASANTS 30‘
work. Well, I shall not be forced to beg. I will take up
spinning—or weaving—or anything I can turn my hand to,
and not let misery conquer me. VerOnka, I know, earns
enough by her weaving to put money by.” ~
Such were her thoughts as she entered the tavern, where
Yankel was as usual nodding over a book. He paid no
attentionto her till she set the money before him; then he
smiled in friendly wise, helped her to reckon the sum right,
and even offered her some vodka. But he said no word to
her either of Antek’s debt to him or of the man himself,
until she was about to depart; when he asked her what her
husband was doing.
She replied that. he was seeking work.
“He would be useful in the village. They are putting up
a saw-mill here, and I need someone experienced in carting
timber.” '
“My husband would never go into tavern service.” -'
“Is _he such a great man as that? Then let him vislumber
and sleep l—But ye have some geese: if ye will, fatten them
a little, and I will ‘purchase them when yule-tide comes.”
“I cannot sell vany; I have but enough for breeding.”
“Then buy some gOSIings for the spring; as soon as they
are well fed up, I’ll take them. And if you care, you may
have all on\ credit here, and you will pay me in geese—A
running account . . .” _ '
“No, I shall not sell any geese.” I
“Oh, but you will, when the money from your cow is
gone . . . and sell them cheap, too!” a .
“Scurvy one! you’ll not live to see the) day!” was her
mental comment as she went out.
The air was so frosty now, it made the nostrils tingle.
The heavens were scintillating, and a bleak piercing blast
blew from the woods. Nevertheless, she kept her course
right in the middle 'of the road, gazing with interest at all
the cabins. Vahnik’s, next the church, had all the candles
lit; from. Ploshka’s enclosure came a hum of voices and the
I
31 . WINTER
squealing of swine; at the priest’s, the windows shone bright,
and several horses pawed the ground impatiently in front
of his veranda; at the Klembas’, too, opposite the priest’s,
lights were gleaming, and you could tell, by the crackling of
the crunched snow, that someone was going to the byre.
Further, in front of the church, where the village forked out
and seemed stretching forth two arms that clasped the pond
in their embrace, but little met the eye beyond a few lights
on a dusky white background, in which dogs were heard to
bark.
Heaving a sigh as she glanced over at her father-in-law’s
cabin, she turned off from before the church to pass between
two long fences that separated Klemba’s orchard from the
priest’s garden, and together formed a road leading to the
organist’s. This was little trodden and so much over-
shadowed with underwood on either side, that ever and anon
showers of snow fell on her from the trees she brushed
against.
The dwelling was situated in the background of the priest’s
court-yard, and had no other separate cartway.
Hanka was presently aware of an outcry and the sound of
sobbing, and beheld outside the entrance a black box and
various articles scattered on the snow—a feather-bed, some
wearing-apparel, and so forth. . . . Magda, the housemaid
at the organist’s, stood by the wall, crying bitterly and
screaming aloud. _
“They have turned me out! They have driven me forth!
Like a dog! Out into the world, the wide, wide world!
Whither shall I go now—bereft of all—oh, whither?”
“You swine, you swine, scream not thus at me!” cried a
voice from the open entrance-passage; “or I’ll take a stick,
and make you hold your peace pretty quickly. Begone this
instant, and betake you to your Franek, you jade!—Ah,
how are you, Hanka? . . . My dear, this business you see
was to be expected since autumn. And I pleaded with that
wench, I talked to her, implored, watched over her; but who
can guard a wanton? When we all were sleeping, out she
THE PEASANTS 32
would go a—walking . . . and has walked so well that now
she has a bastard for her pains!—-How often did I say:
‘Magda, take care; consider: the man will never marry '
you’ . . . and she would declare to my face that she had
naught to do with him! And when I saw the creature
changing form and swelling like leavened dough, I said to
her: ‘Go to some other hamlet, hide yourself, ere people
see your shame.’ Did she listen? No.-—And to-day, while
milking in the byre, she was taken with great pangs and
upset the milking-pail; and my girl Franka ran to me in a
fright, crying out that something had befallen Magda.
Good Lord! such a disgrace, and in my housel—Take your-
self off now, or I’ll have you cast out on to the road!” she
cried again, coming out in front of the house.
Magda left the cabin wall and, with many a sob and
moan, set to making all her things into a bundle.
“Do come in now; it is cold—But you! leave no trace
behind you!” shouted the dame, as she went in.
She led Hanka in through a long passage.
There was a very large low room, lit by a big ﬁre that
burned bright on an open hearth. Red as boiled crayﬁsh,
the organist, in his shirt-sleeves rolled up to the elbows,
sat baking altar-breads at the ﬁre. Every now and then he
dipped a ladle into a dish of thin half-liquid paste, and
poured the contents into a cast-iron mould, which he then
closed, squeezing it till the hot paste hissed.1 He then placed
it on the ﬁre, supporting it on an upright brick set there,
and, opening and turning it round, took out the newly
baked bread, which he cast upon a low bench just by. Here
sat a little, boy, trimming the edges of each of the oblong
loaves with scissors.
1This is the instrument used to make the Altar-breads (or Com-
munion Breads well knOWn outside the Catholic pale, but much
thicker; the Catholic Altar-breads are semi-transparent).—In
Poland, the organist goes round the parish at Christmas-time, of-
fering packets of these breads with his good wishes, and receiving
such gifts as may be offered to him. This practice naturally entails
some contempt towards him on the part of peasants.-Tra12slator’s
Note.
33 WINTER
Hanka greeted them all, and kissed the hand of the
organist’s wife.
“Sit down and warm yourself—And now, what news?”
Unable to ﬁnd at once the words she wanted, and feeling
ashamed, she gave a timid side-glance into the other room,
where, opposite the door, and on a long table, stood a white
pile of altar-breads, pressed down with a board. A couple
of girls were making them into packets, each tied with a
paper wrapper for distribution. From the unseen portion
of the room came the monotonous tinklings of a harpsichord
twangling under some unknown performer’s ﬁngers—and
suddenly breaking off with a jarring discord that gave Hanka
gooseﬂesh and made the organist exclaim:
“There, there—quite wrong: you’ve ‘eaten a fox!’-—-Re-
peat from ‘Laudamus puerz'.’ ”
“Are you making these for Christmas already?” she asked,
feeling it would be discourteous to sit silent.
“We are. The parish is big and straggling; and, as all
the altar-breads have to be taken round before Christmas,
we must begin betimes.”
“Are they of pure wheat?”
“Pray taste them.”
She gave her one that was still hot from the mould.
“l scarcely dare to eat of it.” She took it with a corner
of her apron, holding it up to the light with awed and
respectful scrutiny.
“Why, what curious designs are stamped upon it!”
“On that ﬁrst circle, to the right, you see our Blessed
Lady, St. john, and our Lord. On the other there is the
manger, the rack, the cattle, the Child on its couch of hay,
St. joseph, and again our Lady; and here are the Three
Wise Men, kneeling.” Such were the explanations of the
organist’s wife.
“Yes, yes; I see—Oh, how wonderfully these designs are
made!”
She wrapped the altar-bread in a kerchief and put it in
her bosom—A peasant had entered and told the organist
something; at which he cried:
THE PEASANTS 34
“Michael! They have come for a christening: take the
key and go to the church. His Reverence knows and will
come, but Ambrose must stay to serve the company.”
The harpsichord became mute, and a tall pale lad passed
out of the room.
“My brother’s orphan boy. Practises to learn playing
with my husband, who teaches him gratis. We must make
a sacriﬁce, and do something for our own ﬂesh and blood.”
Little by little, Hanka became more communicative, and
at last brought out the story of her sufferings and troubles,
though piecemeal and with much hesitation. It was the
ﬁrst time she had been able to speak openly of all that had
passed.
.They listened and talked to her with sympathy; and
though they took good care not to mention Boryna’s name,
they showed her so much sincere compassion that it made
her weep very copiously. Now the organist’s wife, being a
clever intelligent woman, understood what Hanka wanted,
and came out the ﬁrst with a proposal.
“Listen: you may perhaps have a little spare time.—
Would you spin some wool for me? I thought I would get
it done by Pakulina, but ’tis better you should do it.”
“May God reward you! I was indeed in want of work,
but durst not ask for it.”
“Well, well, no thanks: folk ought to help their
neighbours. The wool is carded, and weighs about a
hundred pounds.”
“Yes, I shall spin it, and am well able. Why, when with
my parents, I not only spun thread but wove cloth and
dyed it. We never had to buy garments.”
“Look at it: how soft it is! and how dry!”
“’Tis beautiful wool. From the Manor sheep, belike.”
“Ah, and should you happen to need ﬂour or groats or
pease, pray let me know; you shall have all you want, and
I will settle when I pay you.”
She then took her into a store-room full of sacks and
barrels of corn, and ﬂitches of bacon hanging from the
walls. The rafters bore long skeins of spun yarn in
% WINTER
clusters, and on the ﬂoor thick rolls of linen cloth lay piled
up. As to the strings of dried mushrooms, the cheeses, the
jars crammed with various good things, the shelves groan-
ing under huge round loaves, and the other articles of house-
hold consumption, who could tell them all?
“You shall have the smoothest yarn that hands can make,”
said Hanka. “And thanks once more for all your kindness.
But I fear I shall be unable to carry all that wool by
myself.”
“It will be taken over to you.”
“That is well, for I have still to go about the village.”
She again thanked her, but now with something less of
warmth and expansiveness: envy was gnawing at her heart.
“ ’Tis our people gives them all they have, carries it to
them, and produces the same . . . and their store-rooms
overﬂow by our gifts! Besides, who knows how much
money they have out at high interest? Ah, ‘Who has sheep
to shear, he shall have good cheer.’ . . . It were harder work
for them to produce all this—Well, well!” So she thought
on her exit from the house, whence Magda had now disap-
peared with all her things; and as it was getting late, Hanka
quickened her pace.
Where—and of whom—could she inquire about work for
Antek?
When on her father-in-law’s farm, she had found every-
body friendly; people were constantly coming to visit her,
either to get some service done or to exchange kind looks
and words. And now there she was, standing out in the
cold, and knowing not to whom she could 'go!
She stopped in front of Klemba’s, and of Simon’s too:
but she was loath to enter, for now she recollected how
Antek had told her not to make any calls. “People can do
nothing, and will give no assistance—only pity; and that
they would give just as well to a dead dog!” he had said.
“How true, oh, how true he spoke!” she said, remember-
ing the organist and his wife.
Oh, had she but been a man! She would have set to work
at once, and put everything to rights. She would not then
THE PEASANTS 36
have had to whine and lay bare her wounds that her
neighbours might pity her!
She experienced in her soul a devouring, a ravenous
craving for work, and such a concentration of force as
stiffened her frame and gave ﬁrmness and speed to her
steps. She also felt a longing to pass near her father-in-
law’s cabin, were it but to look at the premises from with-
out, and satisfy the desire of her eyes! But in front of
the church door she turned away to follow a narrow path
that led over the frozen pond to the mill; and she walked
fast, not looking to right or left—careful only not to slip
on the ice, determined to pass swiftly by and see nothing,
lest her heart should be wounded again by the remembrance
of the past. But she failed. Somehow, just opposite
. Boryna’s, she stopped suddenly, and could not take her
eyes away from the lights that glimmered in the Windows.
“It is ours—ours! . . . How can we possibly go from
here? . . . The blacksmith would seize it instantly. No! I
do not budge hence. Here shall I stay, like a watch-dog,
whether Antek stays or not! . . . His father is not im-
mortal; and other changes too may come about. . . . I
will not see my children despoiled, nor will I go from the
village.” These thoughts passed through her mind, as she
gazed upon that snow-covered orchard, and the faint out-
lines of buildings beyond: the silvered roofs, the dark-
tinted walls, and—in the background, behind a shed—the
sharp cone of a haystack.
The night was still, cold, black-hue, oversprinkled with
a sand of starsfit seemed, and wrapping the snowy earth in
silvery folds. The trees stood drooping under the weight
of snow that bent them down, as if slumbering incom-
prehensibly in the stillness which ﬂooded the world: white-
sheete'd phantoms, vapoury, yet rigid. Every voice had
died away; only something—was it the breathing of those
entranced inanimate trees? was it a murmur from the quiver-
ing stars?—something there was that trembled in the air.
And there stood Hanka, forgetful of the minutes which went
37 WINTER
by, forgetful of the sharp intolerable cold, her eyes staring
on that homestead, greedily drinking the sight of it, taking
it all into her heart, absorbing it with all the strength of her
insatiable dreams.
A sudden crackling in the snow woke her up: someone was
coming by the same path across the pond, and in a little
she looked upon Nastka.
“What, you, Hanka?”
“Why such amazement? Am I dead, and is it my ghost
you see?”
“What fancy has taken hold of you? I had not seen
you for a long time, and was surprised—Which way are
you going?”
“To the mill.”
“My way too; I am taking Matthew his supper.”
“Is it a miller’s trade he is learning there now?”
“A miller’s? No, indeed! They are building a sawmill
here in such great haste that they are now working at it even
at night.” '
They walked on together, Nastka prattling away, but
careful to say no word about Boryna; and Hanka, though
she would have been glad to hear, feeling that she could not
possibly ask.
“Does the miller pay well?”
“Matthew gets ﬁve zloty ﬁfteen groschen.”
“So much as that?”
“No great wonder, since he is at the head of everything.”
Hanka said no more till, passing in front of the smithy,
whence a ruddy light ﬂowed through the unpaned window,
crimsoning the snow, she muttered:
“That Judas! Never in want of work to do!”
“He has engaged an assistant, and is himself continually
travelling. Also he is with the Jews in that forest business,
and occupied with them in deceiving the people.”
“Do they cut down the clearing yet?”
“Are you dwelling in the woods, that you do not know?”
“Not so; but I am not greedy for village news.”
THE PEASANTS 38
“Well, let me tell you, they are cutting down a bit of the
forest that was already bought.”
“Of course; our folk would never permit them to fell the
trees on our clearing.”
“Even for that, who would interfere? The Voyt holds
with the Manor folk, and the Soltys too, and all the
wealthier men.”
“True. Who is it can get the better of a rich man? or
who can overcome him?——-Well, Nastka, pray look in at our
home.”
“Farewell—Yes, I shall bring distaff and spindle one of
these days.”
They separated in front of the miller’s dwelling, and
Nastka went on to the mill, down below, while I—lanka
passed through the yard into the kitchen. She had great
trouble in getting there; a number of dogs swarmed round
her, barking and driving her to the wall. Eva came to
protect her and usher her in; and just then the miller’s
wife arrived, saying:
“If you have business with my husband, he is in the
mill.” '
She met him coming back to his house; he took her to the
family room, where she immediately paid all she owed for
meal and groats.
“You are living on your cow, hey?” he said, throwing the
money into a drawer.
“What would you have?” she replied, offended. “One
cannot live on stones.”
“Your goodman is a sluggard, let me tell you.”
“So you say. But what work is he to do? where? with
whom? Tell me.”
“Are no threshers needed here?”
“Of course such work is not to his taste; he was never
yet a common farm-labourer.”
“I am sorry for the man. He’s headstrong, without re-
spect for his father, and ﬁerce as a wolf; all the same, I am
sorry.”
“I—l have heard—that you, Sir Miller, have work to be
39 WINTER
done; perhaps you might employ Antek. . . . I beseech
you . . Here she fell a-weeping and imploring him
very earnestly. .
“Let him come—Mind, I do not ask him. Work there
is, but hard work. To hew the trees into logs—ready to be
sawn.”
“That he can do: few men in the village as well.”
“That’s why I say, Let him come—But you, my woman,
you do not look after him properly. Not at all.”
She stood amazed, having no idea of what he meant.
“The fellow has a wife of his own. Children too. And
yet he is running after another man’s wife.”
Hanka turned white; the words were a thunderbolt.
“It’s true what I say. He wanders nightly. Has been
seen out more than once.”
Her relief was immense, and she breathed freely again.
She knew all about it . . . how he was driven to wander by
the memories of the wrongs suffered. Oh, she understood
him well! but the folk had painted things the colour they
preferred.
“It may be that work, if he sets to it, will drive love-
making’from his mind.”
“He is a farmer’s son . . .
“Oh, yes! Quite a Squire, is he not? And he would pick
and choose, just like swine before a full trough. If he is so
hard to please, why did he quarrel with his father? why run
after Yagna? For think of the sin and the shame of it!”
“Sir!” she exclaimed, hastily. “What on earth are you
thinking of?”
“I only say the thing that is. All Lipka knows. You
may ask,” he rapped out jerkily, in a loud voice; for he was
a very impulsive man, who always liked to blurt out things
just as they were. '
“Well, but may he come here?” she asked, almost in a
whisper.
“He may. To-morrow, if he cares—What ails you? what
are these tears for?”
“Nothing . . . nothing but the cold.”
.9,
THE PEASANTS 40
And she went away, with slow, heavy footsteps, scarcely
able to crawl along. The world had grown dark for her,
the snow was grey now, she could not ﬁnd the path she came
by, and tried in vain to brush away the tears that were
freezing on her lashes. So she walked on, wrapped in dark-
ness, very sudden—and dolorous—O Lord! how dolorous!
“He, in love with Yagna! . . . With Yagna!” She stood
breathless, her heart ﬂuttering like a shot bird.
“But perhaps it is a falsehood; the man may have lied!”
In her fright she clung to this possibility and clutched at it
with both hands.
“Lord! was there not enough of misery and humiliation
already, but this—this too must fall upon my wretched
head?” She gave way to her grief for a moment, moaning
aloud; then, to overcome it, began to run as though wolves
had been on her track, so that she entered her hut all panting
and more dead than alive.
Antek had not returned.
The little ones were on their grandfather’s sheepskin,
spread out as a rug before the ﬁre-place, and he was making
a little windmill to amuse them.
“Hanka, they have brought wool—brought it in three
sacks.”
She opened them, and at the top of one found a loaf, some
bacon, and at least half a gallon of groats.
“God bless her for her generous heart!” she said, much
moved, and thereupon prepared a plentiful supper, and after-
wards at once put the children to bed.
The whole cabin was very quiet now. On Veronka’s side
they had gone to bed already, and her father had fallen
asleep in his pallet near the ﬁre. But Hanka remained in
front of the hearth and span.
She span long and far into the night, even to the ﬁrst
cock-crow, and as she twisted the thread, so too she revolved
in her mind the miller’s words: “He is running after
Yagna.”—Yagna!
The spinning-wheel hummed busily, monotonously, tran-
quilly. Night, with frozen face; looked in at the window,
41 WINTER
and rattled at the panes, and sighed, pressing close against
the wall. The cold came creeping out of the corners, caught
at her feet, spread itself in hoary blotches over the clay
ﬂoor; crickets struck up their ditty, somewhere behind the
hearth, and only held their peace when either of the children
cried out in his sleep or turned in his bed. Yet more intense
grew the frost, clutching all things and pressing them in his
iron claws: many a time did the planks overhead crack and
creak, and ﬁssures were cloven in the old bulging walls with
a noise like a pistol-shot, and ﬁbres in some beam broke,
with a rull report. Surely the cold had penetrated even to
the house-foundations; they shuddered at times, it seemed,
with the pain of it, and the hut itself shrank together, crouch-
ing and quaking in the dreadful frost.
“Why did the thought of this never come to me? Aye,
she—so well-favoured, so well-knit, so comely to behold!
And I—a poor thin creature, merely skin and bones! Have
I the power to attract him? dare I even try? If I should
give my heart’s blood, it were naught: he cares no whit for
me. What am I to him?”
Helplessness, still but torturing—how cruelly torturing!
—-now took possession of all her being. She was even be-
yond shedding tears. She felt as if she were a shrub that
the frost is killing, that is as unable to avoid its doom as to
cry for help or to protect itself: anguish was riving her soul
as the frost rives the shrub. Resting her head on her wheel,
she dropped her hands and looked out into vacancy, musing
on her lot. Long, long did her reverie last, with only at
times a few burning tears falling from her heavy eyelids on
to the wool, there to freeze into a rosary of anguish—tears,
as it were, of blood.
The next day she rose somewhat calmer. This was of
course; the storm had had time to blow over. What the
miller said might or might not be true; but should she droop
and complain, now that everything was on her shoulders-—
the children, and the house matters, and all the trouble and
woe?
Who would see to things, unless she did? She knelt down
THE PEASANTS 42
before our Lady of Sorrows, and prayed fervently; and,
begging our Lord to set things to rights, she made a vow
that she would go on foot to Chenstohova in the spring, and
have three masses said, and—as soon as she should be able-—
take a great lump of wax to the church for tapers to be
made of it.
Greatly relieved by this vow, she was able to do plenty
of spinning; but the day, though bright and sunny, seemed
immeasurably lengthy to her, and her anxiety about Antek
increased.
He came at last, but only in the evening, at supper-time,
and looking so worn and subdued, and greeting'her so
kindly! He had bought some rolls for the little ones.
She almost forgot her suspicion. And when he also went
to cut straw for fodder, and helped her with the animals,'she
felt tenderly and deeply agitated.
However, he neither told her where he had been nor what
he had done, and she did not venture to question him.
When supper was over, Staho came in: a thing he fre-
quently did, in spite of Veronka’s prohibition; and a little
later, quite unexpectedly, who should drop in but old
Klemba? They were not a little surprised, for since their
expulsion no one in the village had been to call upon them
yet: it seemed clear enough that he had come on some busi-
ness or other.
But he told them quite simply that he had come to see
them because nobody else came.
They were sincerely and deeply grateful.
Sitting one alongside of the other on the bench in front
of the ﬁre, they then entered into grave and serious con-
versation, while old Bylica now and then put more fuel on
the hearth.
“A pretty_sharp frost, is it not?”
“So sharp,” said Staho, “one can hardly thresh without
sheepskin and gloves on.” .
“The worst is that wolves are about!”
All stared at Klemba in astonishment.
43 WINTER
“Oh, ’tis quite true. Last night they were at the Voyt’s,
burrowing under the sty. Something must have frightened
them away, for they did not get at the pig: but the burrow
ran quite beneath the foundations; I went myself at noon
to see. There must have been ﬁve of them at least.”
“That, beyond all doubt, betokens a hard winter.”
“Yes, the frosts have only just begun, and behold, the
wolves are here!”
“Near Vola,” Antek said, with much animation, “on the
road beyond the mill, I saw tracks of a whole pack, crossing
the way slantwise; but I fancied they were the Manor
hounds. Very like, they were wolves.”
“Went ye as far as the clearing?”
“Not so; but I hear it said they are only felling the wood
bought close to Vilche Doly.”
“The keeper told me the Squire will not take a single man
from Lipka to work there: punishing them, I suppose, be-
cause they stand up for their rights.”
“Who is to cut down the trees, if not the men of Lipka?”
Hanka asked.
“My good Hanka, there are folk in plenty seeking work,
begging for work. Are there few in Vola itself? few in
Rudka? and in Debica, are the paupers fewer? Let the
Squire but lift up his voice: he will ﬁnd hundreds of able-
bodied peasants who will swarm round him the very same
day. So long as they fell trees only on the purchased
land, let them do so by all means; there is but little of it,
and besides, it is too far from our village.”
“What if they set to work on our1 forest too?” Stach
inquired.
“That we will not permit!” Klemba replied, brieﬂy and
with emphasis. “We will ﬁght it out, and the Squire shall
learn who is the stronger—he or all the people. Yes, he
shall learn.”
1 Our here means only, of course, “that part of the forest on which
we claim to have a right to cut wood for fuel, and which the Squire
cannot sell without our permission.”
THE PEASANTS 44
Here they dropped the subject, which was a matter too
burning to please anyone; but not before old Bylica
had, in stammering and hesitating (tones, had his say about
it:
“I know that generation of the Squires of Vola, I know
them well: they will steal a march upon you somehow.”
“Let them try,” said Klemba. “We are not little children.
They shall not succeed.” And no more was said.
Then they spoke of Magda, and how the organist had ex—
pelled her. Here again, Klemba gave his decision:
“Aye, the deed was not very charitable. But then one
cannot force them to set up an inﬁrmary in their home for
Magda, who is neither kith nor kin to them.”
The talk then became desultory, and the guests left them
somewhat late. As he went, Klemba, after his short-spoken
and simple fashion, told them, “if they lacked of aught,
just to let him know, and he would behave as a neighbour
should do.”
And now Antek and his wife were alone.
Hanka hesitated a long time; but at last, after many
timorous catchings of the breath, she asked him if he had_
found any work. k
“No. I was at more than one manor, and looked about
me there, and among the folk too; but I found nothing.”
This he said with a low voice and eyes on the ground; for
though he had indeed wandered about, he had done nothing
more, and made no attempt to get work.
They went to bed. The children were asleep by this time;
they lay at the foot of the bed for the sake of greater
warmth. Darkness reigned, save for the moonbeams that
darted through the sparkling frozen panes and threw a lu-
minous band obliquely athwart the room; but the two could
not sleep. Hanka tossed from side to side, considering
whether she had better tell him about the sawmill now, or
wait till the morrow.
“Yes, I went seeking work. But even had I found some-
thing, I would not have left the village. To go astray about
45 ' WINTER
the world like a masterless dog is not to my liking.” So he
whispered, after a protracted silence.
“Why, that is just what I too was thinking—just the very
same as you!” she said joyfully. “Why go away and seek
for bread, when we can get quite good work here at home?
The miller assured me he had something for you to do at
the sawmill, and that you might begin to-morrow. You
would get two zloty ﬁfteen groscbe'n!”
“What?” he snarled. “Did you go a-begging to him?”
“No, no,” she explained in much fear. “I only went to
pay what I owed him; and he told me himself he intended
to send for you.”
Antek did not answer. The two lay motionless and
speechless side by side; but sleep ﬂed from their eyes. They
were thinking, thinking, down in the mysterious depths of
their minds; sometimes breathing a sigh, or at others letting
their souls melt away in the dull dead stillness. Outside,
far, far and faint on the country-side, they heard dogs bay-
ing, and cocks ﬂapping their wings, and crowing at midnight,
and the muffled murmur of the wind soughing overhead.
“Do you sleep?” She crept a little closer to him.
“No—Slumber has forsaken me.”
He was on his back, his hands clasped behind his head.
So near her! yet in heart and thoughts so far off! He
lay very still, almost without breathing, forgetful of every-
thing; for once more Yagna’s eyes shone out of the dark—
deep blue in the moonlit night.
‘Hanka approached him yet nearer, and rested her burning
face upon his shoulder. No suspicions now remained in her
heart, nor any regrets, nor the least drop of bitterness; only
true love, faithful affection, full of trust and self-surrender.
And she came close—close to his heart.
“Antek,” she asked him with a thrill of eagerness, “will
you go to work to-morrow?” She was so fain—so longing
to hear his voice, and converse with him, heart to heart.
“Perhaps I shall. Yes, I must go; I must.” But his
mind was ﬁlled with other thoughts.
THE PEASANTS 46
“Pray, Antek, go. Go,‘ I pray you.” With a tender
appeal, she put her arm around his neck, and sought his
lips, which hardly breathed, with the burning kisses of her
mouth. '
Not the least emotion did he feel. He paid no heed to her
embraces, he was noteven aware of her at all, as with eyes
wide open he gazed into those other ey‘es—Yagna’s eyes.
CHAPTER III
Antek on as a workman, and, leaving him in the yard
amongst great piles of logs, went to Matthew, who was
just then getting some timber placed in the sawmill, and
setting the saws in motion. After a few words with him, he
called out to Antek:
“Then you are to work here, and obey Matthew in every-
thing: he is my deputy.” So saying, he walked away, for a
very bleak and piercing wind was just then blowing from
the river.
“I suppose you have no ax?” Matthew inquired, after com-
ing down and greeting him in a friendly way.
“I have brought a hatchet: I was not aware . . .
“You might as well use your teeth. The wood is frozen
hard, and brittle as glass: a hatchet would not bite into
it. For to-day, I’ll lend you an ax; but you will have to
whet it. And to a ﬂat edge, mind.—Bartek, get to work
with Boryna and let this oak-log be ready presently: the
other will have been sawn in no time.”
From behind an enormous log that lay in the snow, there
rose up a tall and wiry but stooping ﬁgure of a man, wearing
clogs and red-striped trousers with a pipe in his mouth, a
grey sheepskin cap on his head, and a tawny leather furred
jacket on his back. Resting himself on his ax, he whistled
through his teeth, and exclaimed merrily:
“We are going to be wedded together. All right. We shall
be a happy pair, and never fall out or ﬁght!”
“A ﬁne forest. The trees are as straight as tapers.”
“Aye, but full of knots all the same. ’Tis awful . . . as
if the timber had been sown with ﬂints. The days are
few, when the ax is not notched by them. You mustn’t
IT was not very early in the morning when the miller took
,)
47
THE PEASANTS 48
sharpen your ax quite smooth, but draw it along the grind-
stone, whetting it on one side only. That makes the edge
stronger, you see. And deal with the iron as when you
want to manage somebody—you ﬁnd which way he is to be
taken, and how; and then you lead him like a dog on a
string—The grindstone is in the mill, by the groat-bin.”
In a very short time indeed Antek was at work, cutting
off the projecting spurs, and hewing the log to a rectangu-
lar shape along marks made with tar by Bartek. But he
was taciturn and moody, and resentful of having—he, who
was a Boryna!—-to do the biddings of such a one as Matthew.
“Not bad, your work, not bad at all!” Bartek remarked.
And indeed his work was excellent: the art of fashioning
logs was not unknown to him. But it was hard labour for
one unaccustomed to it, and after a time he was out of
breath, and perspiring to such an extent that he took his
sheepskin off. But the frost was hard and held pitilessly;
he had constantly to stand and work deep in the snow; his
hands were so benumbed, they almost stuck to the ax-handle,
and the time seemed so long to him, he could scarcely hold
out till noon.
Yet he would take neither bite nor sup for dinner, only
dry bread and river water; nor would he even enter the
mill, for fear lest he should meet some acquaintance, come
to bring corn and awaiting his turn. He stayed out in
the frozen air, sitting close to the wall as he crunched his
bread and gazed up at the sawmill shed, built over the river,
one of its sides touching the main building, so that the
stream from the four mill-wheels swept under it with a
great rush of green water, making the shed above to vibrate.
But he had not yet rested properly, nor had a good
breathing-space, when Matthew, who had dined with the
miller, shouted as he came out:
“To work, men! To work!”
So, much against his will, and groaning over the shortness
of his noonday rest, he was forced to pull himself together
and once more take up what he had to do.
All were in lively movement and worked briskly; the frost
49 WINTER
was so intense, and Matthew urged them with so much zeal.
The mill clattered unceasingly; beneath its wheels, all
overgrown with icicles like a long greenish mane, the stream
went rushing noisily on. The saws rasped away with con-
tinuous crackling harshness, as the sound of one biting glass
to bits, and they spat the yellow sawdust forth. Matthew
was everywhere, active and indefatigable, always shouting
and urging the toilers to hurry Up. He ﬁlled with whole
place, nimble as a goldﬁnch pecking at hempseed; his short
red-striped spencer, his grey sheepskin cap, were seen ﬂy-
ing about over the trodden snow covered with chips, where
they were getting the logs ready—ordering, scolding, laugh-
ing, joking, whistling, and working as hard as any; but for
the most part on the platform close to the saws. For this
sawing-shed had no side-walls, only a roof; so that its whole
interior was visible from outside. It rose above the river
on four stout piles, against which the current rushed with
such force and fury that the roof, made of reeds and resting
only on those piles, often trembled like a wisp of straw in
a gale.
“A good craftsman he is, that fellow!” quoth Antek, with
unwilling recognition.
“And well paid too!” Bartek growled in reply.
They beat their arms against their chests to keep off the
increasing cold, and went on working silently.
Of workmen there were enough. Two were at the saws,
rolling the sawn logs down to the yard and dragging up
fresh ones; two more were cutting off the one end of each
log that had been left untouched, and making the sawn
planks into piles or carrying into a shed those too thin to
bear the outside cold; and a couple of others were stripping
the bark off oak and ﬁr and pine logs. To these last, 'Bar-
tek used often to shout in jest:
“Devil take you, how ye skin them! Ye’ll be past-
rnasters in dog-ﬂaying, belike!”
But they objected to such jokes, for they never had any-
thing to do with the dog-killer’s craft.
All these men Matthew kept so hard at work that they
TI-IE PEASANTS 50
could only seldpm and by stealth ﬁnd means to run round to
the mill, warm their freezing hands, and come back at a
gallop, pressed hard by the work itself.
Twilight was nearly over when Antek crawled home, so
weary and broken that every bone in him ached. After
supper he went to bed at once and, falling asleep, slept as
one dead.
Hanka had no heart to inquire about anything, but tried
to make him as comfortable as she could, keeping the chil-
dren quiet, asking her father to make no noise with his
boots, and walking barefooted in the room herself; and when
he prepared at daybreak to go to work, she boiled a pot of
milk for him to take with potatoes for breakfast, that he
might feed better and be warmed.
“Confound it!” he declared; “my bones ache so, I cannot
move about.”
Bylitsa remarked that this was only because he was not yet
accustomed to, and that -it would soon pass off.
“Of course it will pass off: I know that—Hanka, will you
bring me my dinner?”
“I will, I will: why should you come hither so far?”
He then started at once, the work being due to begin with
the day.
Many a day of hard and weary toil followed.
Whether the frost baked the ground at the height of its
ﬁerceness, or the gusts and snow-charged gales were blowing,
or a thaw came, and they were forced to stand the livelong
day in the melting slush, while the bleak damp cold entered
their very marrow, or the snow fell so that Antek could
hardly see his ax—they had to work all day long till every
vein and sinew of the body ached with weariness: the four
saws devoured the timber so fast that the men were hardly
equal to supplying them; and Matthew was driving them on
besides.
But what exasperated him was not the work; for, as wise
men say, “Whatever you take to well, can give comfort even
in hell.” No: what he could not bear was Matthew’s posi-
tion of superiority, and his continual sneers.
51 » WINTER
The others had got used to these; but he could not help
boiling with indignation each time; and more than once he
uttered so fierce a snarl that the overseer’s eyes ﬂamed. And
then, of set purpose, he would begin to criticize everything
about Antek: not openly to his face, but always animadvert-
ing on anything imperfect in his work, till the latter tingled
all over and felt his ﬁsts clench of themselves. He never-
theless restrained himself, damped his ﬁres, and simply put
all these things by for future remembrance, being well aware
that Matthew only awaited an opportunity to oust him from
his place.
Now, though Antek cared little for his work in itself, be
was resolved not to be put down and triumphed over by
any man alive.
And the outcome of all this was that their mutual hatred
grew deadlier every day: Yagna, like a festering wound,
being at the bottom thereof. Ever since last spring, possibly
since last Carnival, both had alternately followed her, each
trying to get the better of the 0 her, secretly indeed, yet well
aware of the other’s attempts. Matthew, however, worked
in the open, telling everyone of his love, while Antek was
compelled to hide his feelings, and let a dull, yet burning
jealousy devour his heart.
There never had been much love lost between them, and
they had always looked somewhat askance at each other,
and would boast great things in the presence of third parties,
each holding himself to be the strongest fellow in the whole
village. And now that this mutual hate had grown to such
an extent in a few weeks, it had came to pass that neither
would address the other; they passed by, glaring like angry
wolves. '
Matthew was not a bad fellow, nor even of churlish dis-
position. On the contrary, he had a good heart, and an
open helping hand. His only defects were too much self-
conﬁdence, and a tendency to set himself above others, to-
gether with a belief in his irresistibility with the other sex.
No girl, he thought, but must give way to him; and he said
so, and bragged of it, and was the ﬁrst of men in his own con-
THE PEASANTS - 52
ceit. He now also enjoyed telling folk that Antek worked
under his orders, and looked up to him humbly lest he
should be expelled.
For those that knew the latter, it was surprising to mark
how he kept himself calm, and stooped to behave so humbly
as he did. But there were those who said there was some-
thing brewing under all this; that Antek had never yet over-
looked an insult, and would one of these days take his ‘re-
venge. These were even ready to bet that Matthew would
soon ﬁnd out that he was (as they say) biting at a very sour
apple.
Antek, of course, who never looked in anywhere, was ig-
norant of all that was said. He used to pass by without
speaking even to his acquaintances, always going straight
home after working-hours. But he, too, felt that there was
something about to happen, and he saw plainly through
Matthew’s doings.
“But I’ll beat yc'i into such a jelly, you carrion, that the
very dogs will ha: 2 none of you, and you’ll never brag
any more!” Such was the cry that escaped him one day at
work. Bartek heard and said:
“Take no thought of him; he is paid to drive us, and he
does.” The old man had not caught the meaning of that cry.
“I cannot brook even a dog that barks without cause!”
“You take it all too much to heart; it heats your liver,
and makes you, as I see, toil too feverishly.”
“No, I work like that on account of the cold,” he answered,
wishing to make some reply or other.
“Let us do all things slowly, step by step. Slowly; for the
Lord Jesus, who might have made the world in one day only,
chose to do so in a whole week; with one day of rest. Why:
should you be so anxious to wear yourself out for the miller
or anyone else’s sake? Who forces you?-—Matthew is a
watch-dog, nothing more: why take his barking amiss?”
“I spoke as I felt,” Antek said; and then, to change the con-
versation, “Where were you last summer?” he asked. “I
did not see you in the village.”
“I worked a little, saw something of this God’s world,
53 ‘ WINTER
looked about me, and ﬁlled my soul with spiritual food,”
he answered deliberately, whilst hewing the other side of
Antek’s log, now and then straightening himself, and stretch-
ing his limbs till the joints cracked: always pipe in mouth.
“I was working with Matthew at the new Manor; but he
drove too hard, and it was springtime in the land, and the
sunshine smelt sweet. So I left him. There were folk going
that way down to Kalvarya; 1 so I went with them to gain
the indulgences and see a bit of the country.”
“Is it far to Kalvarya?”
“ ’Tis beyond Cracow.-—But I did not get so far. In a
village where we stopped to dine, there was a peasant build-
ing a hut, and he knew as much about building as a goat
knows about pepper! He made me angry; I swore at the
man, for he was wasting good timber—and in the end I
stayed on with him. In a couple of months I had built him
a house like a villa; and for that he would perforce have
me wed his sister, a widow that had ﬁve acres of land hard
by.”
“Old, I dare say.”
“Not young, ’tis true; but still comely enough. Rather
bald, to be sure; lame, too, with a cast in her eye; and
smooth of face to look upon, as a loaf nibbled by mice for
a fortnight. But a pleasant woman, and a kind one; gave
me lots of good things to eat—now scrambled eggs with bits
of sausage, now vodka and lard, now other dainties. And
she took to me so that I might have shared her cot any day,
had I cared.”
“Why did you not? Five acres are always worth having.”
“Oh, I had no mind for any woman. Of petticoats I have
long had more than enough. They are always crying out
and screaming, like magpies in a hedge: you say one word.
and they bang a score at your head, like a handful of peas.
You have your reason to go by; they have only their
1A town close to which stands a monastery on a high hill, with
the stations of the Way of the Cross, made in imitation of those
in Jerusalem. After Chenstohova, this is the greatest place of pil-
grimage in Poland-Translator’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 54
tongues. You talk to them, thinking to be understood: and
they neither understand nor heed you, but jabber foolishness
only.-—-They say our Lord created woman with only half a
soul. It must be so—and the devil has supplied them with
the other half.”
“Perhaps,” Antek put in sadly, “some women may be in-
telligent."
“Some crows may be white, but none has ever seen any.”
“Tell me: were you ever married?”
“I was! Oh, yes, I was!” He stopped short, straightened
himself, and his grey eyes looked far, far away. He was an
old man, dry as a wood-shaving, but sinewy: and straight
too, save when at times he drooped, and the pipe wobbled
about in his mouth, and his eyes, as now, blinked with quick
ﬂutterings.
“Time for the next logl” cried the man at the saws.
“Hurry now, Bartek! Don’t dawdle there! The saws are
stopping!” shouted Matthew.
“He’s a fool—wants things done quicker than possible.
“ ‘There comes a rook to church;
“A priest am I!” he screeches,
And croaks from pulpit-perch,
And fondly thinks he preaches,’ ”
Bartek grumbled, as in anger; but some other emotion had
taken hold of him, and his rests were more frequent, and
he sighed at times, looking southward for noon.
Luckily it came then: the women were there, with the
dinners in the pots they carried. Hanka appeared from be—
hind the mill. The saws ceased their raSping, and they all
went to eat in the building, Antek, who knew the miller’s
man, going to his room. At present he did not avoid folk,
nor turn away from them, but would look them in the face
with eyes that made them turn their own away.
In a room too hot almost to breathe in, there sat several
persons in sheepskins, talking joyously. These were people
from villages at some distance, who had brought corn that
was to be ground while they waited. They had crammed
55 WINTER
with peat the little stove that was already red-hot, and were
smoking cigarettes and chatting, so that the whole room
was as dim as it was hot.
Antek seated himself on a sack near the window and, with
the pot between his knees, he fell to with great zest, ﬁrst
upon the dish of cabbage with peas, and then upon another,
made of potatoes mashed with milk. Hanka, crouching on
the ﬂoor by his side, looked tenderly on him. Hard work
had made him thinner, and in places the skin had peeled off
his face: yet to her he seemed the handsomest man on earth.
Yes, just as he was: tall, straight-limbed, lithe; slender-
waisted, broad-shouldered, supple; his face a long thin oval,
his nose like a hawk’s beak, but only slightly curved; his
eyes full, a greyish green, under eyebrows that seemed drawn
with charcoal from temple to temple in one straight line, and
were terrible to behold when he knit them in angry mood;
his forehead lofty, but half covered with hair that fell over
it, straight down, like a mane, dark almost to blackness; and
that upper lip of his, clean-shaven after the peasants’
fashion, disclosing a row of white teeth within crimson
borders, like a string of ivory beads! Oh, she was never
tired of gazing upon him!
“Could not your father bring the dinner? You have to
go so far every day!”
“He had to remove the dung from our heifer’s stall; and
besides, I preferred to come myself.”
And she always managed to do so, for the mere sake of
gazing at his comely form.
“Any news?” he asked, as his dinner came to an end.
“Nothing much. I have spun one sack of wool, and taken
the yarn—ﬁve hanks of it—to the organist’s wife. She was
very much pleased—Our little Peter is not well: he won’t
eat and is hot and feverish.”
“He has only overeaten himself.”
“Surely, surely—Oh, and Yankel came to buy our geese.”
“Will you sell them?”
“A likely thing, indeed! To buy others when spring comes
round?”
THE PEASANTS 56
“Do as you choose. I leave all that to you.”
“And at the Vahniks’ there has been a ﬁght again, and
his Reverence has been sent for to reconcile them—And they
say that the calf at the Paches’ has choked itself with eating
carrots.”
“That’s all one to me,” he growled impatiently.
“—-And the organist came collecting sheaves,” she said
after a while, with a tremble in her voice.
“What did you give?”
“Two handfuls of carded ﬂax, and four eggs—And he
said that, if we wished, he would let us have a wagonful of
‘oat-straw, and wait till summer for payment. But I did
not accept: why should we take aught from him? And
moreover, we have a right to your father’s pasturage. We
had only two cartloads—far too few for so many acres . . .”
“I will not remind him of it, and I forbid you to do so.
For the spinning you do, take the oat-straw from the organ-
ist. If you will not, then sell all our live-stock. So long as
I live, never will I ask my father for anything whatsoever.
-—Do you understand?”
“I do, and shall apply to the organist.”
“Your work, together with mine, will perhaps suffice.—
Hanka, no weeping here: they see us!”
“I am not weeping—Antek, pray ask the miller for half
a hectolitre of barley to grind: if we bought it ready ground,
it would cost more.”
“Good. I will tell him to-day, and stay on here one of
these evenings to see it ground.”
Hanka left him, and he remained, smoking cigarettes in
silence. They were just then talking of the Squire of Vola,
and of his brother.
“His name is Yacek: I knew him well!” Bartek exclaimed,
coming into the room.
“Then of course you know he has returned from foreign
parts.”
“No, indeed. I thought he had died long ago.”
“He is here; arrived a fortnight back.”
“Yes, he has come, but—so folk say—not quite in his
57 WINTER
right mind. He refuses to live at the Manor, and has gone
to dwell in the pine-forest, where he does everything for
himself—cooking, sewing, and all. Everyone wonders at
him. In the evening he plays on his violin: they often and
often meet him on the roads near certain graves, where he
sits and plays tunes.”
“I was told he goes from hamlet to hamlet, asking people
for news of one Kuba.”
“Kuba?—Many a dog is named Tray!”
“He gives no surname, but seeks the man Kuba, who
carried him off a battle-ﬁeld, it seems, and saved his life
once.”
“There was a Kuba at our farm who went out with the
nobles in the last insurrection; but he’s dead,” Antek
observed, rising to his feet; for Matthew was already shout-
ing outside:
“Come out, you: are ye to make dinner last till tea-
time?”
Antek, much rufﬂed, rushed out, and cried:
“Do not spend breath in vain, we all can hear you!”
“He is too full of meat, and eases his belly with shouting!”
was Bartek’s remark; and someone added:
“The noise he makes is but to curry favour with the
miller.”
Matthew went on grumbling: “They must dine and en-
joy long chats at their ease,—-must they notP—these grand
fellows, these big farmers, who haven’t one whole pair of
breeches!”
“Take that, Antek; that’s for you!”
“Hold your peace, and let not your tongue clack so, or
I’ll cut it out for you!” Antek had raised his voice, ready
now for anything. “And never a word more about farmers!”
Matthew darted a murderous look at him, but replied
nothing. For the whole day, he mutely watched Antek’s
work with“ the most rigid scrutiny, but without ﬁnding any-
thing against him He worked so admirably well that the
miller himself, who came round several times a day to look
over the work done, could not ﬁnd any fault with it, and
THE PEASANTS 58
at the ﬁrst weekly payment raised his wages to three Zloty.
At this Matthew, in a towering passion, bad words with
the miller, who answered: “I am satisﬁed both with him
and with you, and with every man who works well.”
“You have raised his wages merely to spite me!”
“I have done so as in justice bound, and want all men to
know I am just. Why, he is worth as much as Bartek, if
not more.”
“Then,” Matthew threatened, “I throw the whole damned
business up. You may do the work yourself!”
“Do so, if you choose. If my black bread is not to your
taste, go seek rolls elsewhere. Young Boryna will take your
place, and that at four zloty daily,” the miller said, with a
laugh.
Matthew cooled down immediately, seeing that bullying
was out of the question. He gave up his persecutions, put
his dislike for Antek deep into his pocket (though there it
burned like a live coal), and also became less exacting, less
of a taskmaster for the men. This they were not slow to
perceive, and Bartek presently remarked to the others:
“He’s like the dog that snapped at a man’s boot, got
kicked on the muzzle, and fawned on him. Aye, he thought
he was the favourite, and knows now he will have to go as
soon as a better man is found.”
Both to the rise in wages, and to Matthew’s knuckling
down, Antek was indifferent; he cared for all that as much
as for the year gone by. It was not for the money’s sake,
but to please Hanka, and for his own satisfaction, that he
was working. Had he made up his mind to lie on his back
all day long, he would have done so, no matter what came
of it.
Thus day after day, week after week slipped by, till Yule-
tide, in hard incessant labour. Little by little, his mind
grew calmer—frozen up, as it were: so far was he from
resembling the man he had been. Folk marvelled at this,
and judged him diversely. But the change in him was only
external and for the eyes of men: within he remained as he
was before. He worked now, and toiled hard, gave his
59 WINTER
wife every groscben he earned, stayed at home of evenings,
was kinder than ever, silent, peaceful; played with his
children, helped his wife at home, nor ever said a cross word
to anyone. ' But all this did not avail to hoodwink Hanka.
His transformation pleased her, indeed, and she fervently
thanked God for it, watching over him, attentive to the
looks in his eyes to ﬁnd out what he desired—the most
attached and thoughtful of servants. But she would often
note a mournful gleam in his eye, and overhear a low sigh
that escaped him. Then her arms dropped to her sides, and
her heart died within her as she sought in her mind, think-
ing whence the evil that was to come would proceed. Well
did she know that something terrible was fermenting within
him—something that he repressed only by putting forth his
whole strength—something ,that crouched secretly, sucking,
sucking the life-blood of his soul!
But whatever he felt, good or evil, he said nothing. After
his work he returned straight home, choosing the longer way
by the other side of the pond, that he might not pass near
his father’s home, not meet with . . . someone.
Someone!
Therefore, too, he stayed at home on Sundays, although
Hanka besought him to come to church with her. He feared
a meeting with Yagna; he felt that he should not stand it,
that he never could resist.
Besides, he had heard from Bartek, with whom he was
not on unfriendly terms, how the village folk were always
busied about him; how they watched and spied upon him at
every step, as on a thief. And he had himself more than
once seen eyes that peeped at him round corners, with swift
peering glances,—glances which would have loved to pen-
etrate his very soul, to search all that was therein, and
explore it through and through.
“The wretches! But they shall get nothing out of me,
nothing!” he would say bitterly, all the more stubborn in
his hate because he kept more aloof from everyone.
“I need no one; I am on such terms with myself that I
can scarcely bear my own companionship,” he would reply
Q
THE PEASANTS 60
to Klemba, when the latter reproached him for never com-
ing to see them.
This was true, most true; he could hardly bear to live on
thus, continually holding himself down with all‘his might,
breaking his soul in as with an iron curb, and keeping it
under the strictest control. But he felt himself giving way
with sheer weariness of the struggle; ever more and more
frequently there came over him the longing to throw every-
thing up and yield to his fate—happy or miserable, it
mattered little to him. He was disgusted with life, and
devoured with sadness—inﬁnite sadness, which, like a bird
of prey, had sunk its talons deep into his mangled heart.
To bear the yoke thus was irksome beyond words: he
choked and strained in bonds, as a horse tethered in a
paddock, or as a chained-up dog might do.
He thought of himself as a fruit-tree, broken by the
gales, condemned to die, withering slowly in the midst of a
blossoming orchard full of lusty life.
And Lipka—Lipka went on as usual. There were chris-
tenings, as at the Vahniks’; betrothals, as at the Klembas’
(though now they had no music, they took as much enjoy-
ment as was allowed in Advent); then in some families there
was a death, as at that other Bartek’s, whom his son-in-law
had beatenlso fearfully that he pined away and lay moaning
until at last refreshed in Abraham’s bosom. And Yagust-
ynka had once again brought another action against her
children for breach of contract. Many another thing was
going on besides, something new in nearly every hut, and
folk had plenty of matter for gossip, and for laughter and
for sorrow. And throughout the long winter evenings, the
women gathered together and spun in many a cabin. And,
Lord! how they all did laugh and chatter and wrangle, till
the noise of their jollity was heard far out on the road!
Everywhere there was no end of squabbling, of striking up
friendships, of wooings, of trysts outside the homesteads;
of turmoils and ﬁghtings and sweet converse: as in an-ant-
hill or in a beehive, so the folk swarmed and buzzed within
their cabins.
61 WINTER
Yes, everyone lived as he pleased, as seemed best to him
and was ﬁtter both to himself and his neighbours, and
according to the commandments of God.
And he, Antek, stood alone, outside of them all, cut off
from hUmanity; like a strange bird, hungry, yet afraid, that
will perhaps ﬂap its wings outside the lighted windows, and
long to draw nearer to the corn-ﬁlled stacks—and yet does
not: only wheels around, listens, feeds on its hunger, gulps
down its thirst, and never will draw nigh!
Unless—unless God should deign to work in him a change
that might last for ever, and make him a new creature!
Alas! of such a change he dreaded as yet even to think.
One morning, only a few days before Christmas, he met the
blacksmith; who, though Antek would have passed him by,
blocked the way and, stretching out his hand, said to him
kindly and in a slightly sad tone:
“And I expected you’d come to me as to a brother. I
could have talked with you and aided you, little as we have
at home.”
“Why did you not come ﬁrst?”
“What? intrude and be driven away like Yuzka?”
“You were right. ‘He that suffereth naught will for
nothing take thought.’ ”
“ ‘Suffereth naught!’ Is not my grievance the very same
as yours?”
“How dare you tell me such a bare-faced lie? Am I a
witling in your eyes?”
“As I love the Lord God, I have spoken naught but the
truth.”
“ ‘The fox, it is a cunning beast:
’Twill run and sniff and turn and twist,
And with its tail
It sweeps its trail,
That none may nose the scent of it,’ ”
said Antek, with contempt. .
“Your grievance is, I know, that I went to the wedding.
It is true that I did not refuse. But how could I? The
THE PEASANTS 62
priest himself urged and pressed me not to offend God,
making division between the children and their father.”
“Ah, ye went at the priest’s bidding, did ye? Tell that
to him that will believe you, not to me.—-—Oh, but ye wring
out of the old man all ye can wring, as the price of your
friendship: he does not send you away empty-handed!”
“‘Who takes not what is offered him’s an ass,’ ” the
blacksmith quoted. “But I’ll not argue that with you. All
Lipka will tell you—why, you may ask Yagustynka, who is
always with the old man—that I press him to make it up
with you. It will come about . . . he will calm down .
and we shall arrange matters.”
“Try to reconcile dogs, not him and me: do you hear?
I never thought of quarrelling with you; but now, let me
alone, you and your reconciliations !—-Look at him! A
ﬁne friend indeed! Never would you reconcile us, unless to
get the last coat off my back !—Once for all, I tell you: let
me alone, and do not come in my way; for if I ever fall
into a passion, I’ll tear your red hair off your scalp, and
play the devil with your ribs: aye, and your good friends,
the gendarmes, will not prevent me. just remember that.”
He turned on his heel and went off, not even looking
round at the smith, who stood with mouth wide open in
the middle of the road.
“The rotten liarl—Hand in glove with the old man, to
come and talk to me of friendship! He that would make
beggars of both of us, if he could!”
It took him some time to cool down after this meeting;
especially as everything that morning went wrong with him.
He had scarcely begun chopping the logs, when a knot made
a notch in his ax; then, just before noon, a piece of timber
crashed upon his foot, and only failed to crush it’ by a rare
good chance: he had to pull his boot off and cool his swollen
foot with ice. Matthew was, moreover, in bad humour that
day, ﬁnding fault with everybody: this was badly done, that
done too slowly; and, as for Antek, "he took every pretext to
grumble at him.
Everything went wrong; even the barley that Eranek was
63 WINTER
to have ground, and about which Hanka was always trou-
bling, had not been done yet, the excuse being press of work.
At home, too, things were not quite right. Hanka was
distressed and tearful, for little Peter lay sick of a burning
fever, and she had been forced to call in Yagustynka to
fumigate him.
She came just at supper-time, sat by the ﬁre, looked fur-
tively about her, and would have liked to gossip very much,
but that they received her attempts very coldly ; and so she
presently set to trying her healing powers on the boy.
“I am off to the mill,” Antek said, taking his cap; “unless
I see the barley ground myself, it never will be done.”
“Could not Father go in your stead?”
“I shall be far more likely to get it.”—He went off in a
hurry, ill-humoured, out of sorts, tossed about like a
solitary tree in a storm. Besides, everything at home en-
raged him—especially those prying ferret eyes of Yagustynka.
The evening was still and not frosty, with but few stars
to be seen—only one or two, twinkling far away as through
a veil. The wind blew from the woods, with a dull humming
murmur, betokening a change of weather. Dogs barked
dispersedly about the hamlet, smoke trailed along the road,
and the air, though bleak, was damp.
Christmas being at hand, there were plenty of people at
the mill. Those whose corn was being ground waited in the
passage; the others stayed in the room of the miller’s man.
These formed a circle round Matthew, who was telling them
something very funny, at which they every now and then
burst into laughter. Antek did not care to cross the thresh-
old, and went out to look for Franek at the mill.
“He is on the dam,” they said, “squabbling with Magda—
you know—the Wench the organist turned out.”
“The miller,” another peasant told him, “has threatened
to send him away, if he is ever again seen in the mill with
Magda; for she used to spend her nights there. But, poor
thing! where else has she to go?”
And someone else added, jestingly: “ ‘What in March we
pursue, in November we rue!’ ”
THE PEASANTS 64
Antek sat down to wait, close to the place where the
ﬁnest ﬂour was ground, and opposite to the half-open door
of the waiting-room. There he could discern Matthew’s
shoulders, and the heads of the others all turned towards
him and intent on what he was telling them. But for the
clatter of the wheels, he could have even made out what was
said, though he had no curiosity that way.
He threw himself on to some sacks of corn, and presently,
out of sheer dejection and weariness, began to doze.
The mill clattered away, ﬂapping, throbbing, and in full
activity in every one of its compartments; the wheels beat
as if a hundred washerwomen were all using their hats with
might and main ; the water swirled past them with a bubbling
hullabaloo and, churned up into boiling foam and snowy
ﬂakes, rushed on to the river.
For hard upon an hour, Antek stayed there, expectant,
but at last made for the yard to go and seek Franek and
also to rouse himself up somewhat, feeling overcome with
slumber. The way out led through the waiting-room, which
he was just going to enter, and his hand was upon the latch,
when what he heard Matthew saying made him stop on a
sudden.
“Yes, the old fellow boils the milk and tea, and takes it to
her in bed! They say that he, along with Yagustynka, does
all the kine want done for them, and will not let her soil
her hands; nay, that he has bought something for her in
town, lest she catch cold by going out behind the barn!”
Here followed a burst of loud laughter, and then a hail-
storm of jests. Antek, by an instinctive movement, returned
to where he had sat before and, ﬂinging himself again upon
the sacks, gazed vacantly at the streak of ruddy light that
came from the door which stood ajar. Now he could hear
no more, for the din made the talk inaudible; a grey mist of
ﬂour-dust rose and dimmed everything round him; the
lamps, which hung by cords from the ceiling, twinkled
through the white fog, and glowed athwart it, as yellow as
cats’ eyes, and vibrated continually. But he was too rest-
65 WINTER
less to stay seated; again he rose, and quietly and on tiptoe
approached the door, and bent his ear.
“. . . She explained everything!” Matthew said. “Domina
ikova assured him that the girl had been in a hurry,
scrambling over a fence. . . it was a thing that very
frequently happened . . . had occurred to herself when a
maiden. A most convenient explanation! And he believed
her, the old ram! Such a clever man! and he believed her.”
The laughter became a hurricane; they all were in parox-
ysms, and made the house ring again.
Nearer and nearer crept Antek, now almost on the very
threshold, pale as a corpse, with ﬁsts clenched, crouching and
gathered together for a spring.
When they had done, Matthew continued: “But as to
what they say of Antek’s being on too friendly terms with
Yagna, I happen to know that to be false. I myself heard
him whining like a dog outside her bedroom door, till she
drove him out with a besom! He stuck to her like a burr
to a dog’s tail, but she got rid of him for all that."
Someone here inquired: “Did you see that? In the
village they talk otherwise.”
“Did I see?——Why, I was in there with her, and she her—
self complained how he teased her!”
“You lying cur!” Antek shrieked, as he darted past the
threshold.
Matthew instantly sprang at him. But, swift as thought.
Antek was upon him with the leap of a wolf. One hand
clutching at his throat, stopping both breath and voice, the
other grasping his belt, he whirled him up in the air like a
bush you root out, burst open the door with a kick, and
rushed with him beyond the sawmill to the river-fence,
against which he hurled him with such fury that four rails
broke like reeds, and Matthew fell into the stream like a
log!
A great tumult and clamour ensued, for in that spot the
river was deep and swift. They hastened to the rescue and
got him out at once, but he was insensible. The miller
THE PEASANTS 66
came running in directly and sent for Ambrose, who came
in at once. The people from the village assembled in
crowds, till Matthew was conveyed into the miller’s house;
he swooned again and again, and spat much blood. And
as they feared he could not live through the night, the
priest was sent for.
Antek, as soon as Matthew had been carried out, coolly
took his place by the ﬁreside, chatting with Franek, who
had turned up; and when the folk were back in the room
again, and things a little more quiet, Antek spoke out, so
loud that all could hear him:
“If anyone shall a second time bait and mock me, I will
do the like to him, yea, and more also!”
No one answered a word. They only gazed upon him in
profound wonder and respect. How had it been possible to
lay hold on such a man as Matthew,’ lift him up as easily
as a bundle of straw, carry him out and hurl him into the
river? So stupendous a feat had never yet been heard of.
They might have fought together, wrestled, and one in the
end have overcome the other, with breaking of bones even,
or the crushing out of life: that was quite a usual thing.
But no: he had taken the man, just as you take a puppy by
the ears, and thrown him into the river! That the rails had
broken his ribs, that was nothing; he might get well. But
the shame of it, the shame, was what Matthew would never
be able to bear: he was disgraced for all his life.
“Really, really, my dear fellow,” one man repeated to
another, “never yet has such a thing been!”
Heedless of their talk, Antek got his meal ground and
went home about midnight. He saw the lighted window of
the room at the miller’s where they had taken Matthew.
“Foul dog!” he said as he glanced that way, and spat on
the ground in hatred, “ye never will boast again of having
been with Yagna in her bedchamber!”
Hanka had not yet gone to bed, and was spinning when
he came in; but he told her nothing. In the morning he
stopped away from work, feeling sure they had turned him
’67 ' WINTER
away. But he had scarcely breakfasted when the miller
came in.
“Come and work. Your quarrel with Matthew is your
own business: I have naught to do with it. But the saw-
mill must go on working as before, till he is well—You
will now be overseer, and have four zloty a day and dinner.”
“I do not accept. Give me what you gave Matthew, then
I will: and do his work as well as he.”
The miller ﬂew in a rage, and wanted to bargain, but he
was obliged to give in: .What else could he do? He took
him on at once, and walked away.
Hanka, who had been told nothing of what had occurred,
was much puzzled at all this.
CHAPTER IV
was in a state of feverish excitement and bustling
activity.
It had again frozen during the night, and as the frost
came after a couple of mild days and damp fogs, the trees
were all covered over with a moss-like growth of glassy
crystals. The sun had come out of the clouds, and shone
in a clear blue sky, with only the thinnest and most trans-
parent veil of haze; but it shone palely, coldly, like the
Host in the Monstrance, warming nothing. The frost had
grown harder as the day advanced, and of such severity
and penetration that it almost took the breath away, and
raised a cloud of condensed vapour round every living be-
ing. Yet the world was steeped in bright sunshine, and
radiant with glittering splendour; on every side the spar-
kling snow seemed oversprinkled with a dew of diamond-
like scintillation. The surrounding ﬁelds, buried under
their white pall, lay refulgent, but dead. Now and then a
bird passed, ﬂapping over their pure expanse, while its
black shadow glided along the ground below; or a covey of
partridges clucked amongst the snow-laden bushes, with
timorous watchfulness and stealth, drawing near to the
dwellings of men and their cornstacks crammed with grain.
Elsewhere a hare would show its dark form, leaping through
the drifts, or standing on its hind legs, or gnawing to get at
the garnered corn, but—alarmed by the barking of the dogs,
——scamper back to the great forest, where every tree was
tufted with hoar-frost.
A keen piercing cold, luminous with glacial sheen, now
shimmered over the whole world, and plunged it in ice/
bound stillness. '
SINCE daybreak on Christmas Eve, the whole village
68
69 W l N T E R
Not a single cry broke the hard silence of the country—
side, no living voice resounded, no breath of wind whispered
amongst those glistening arid ﬁelds of snow. Only at rare
intervals, from the roads half buried in the drifts, did faint-
voiced bells and the stridulous creaking of a sledge strike
the ear, so feeble and so far off that they were all but
inaudible, and no one could tell whence it came or whither
it went, ere the sound again faded into utter silence.
But all along the Lipka roads, on either side of the pond,
the folk were noisy and swarming. The air itself wafted
something of festive joy, and the people, nay, even the
cattle, were full of the same. Through the frozen air that
carried sound so well, there ﬂoated cries like musical tunes;
laughter out of many a merry throat echoed from one end
of the hamlet to the other, awakening like gaiety of heart;
dogs rolled madly about on the snow, and bayed with glee,
and pursued the crows that hung about the cabins; horses
whinnied in unseen stalls; and cows in their byres bellowed
tunefully. One might almost fancy that the snow crackled
more crisply and briskly underfoot, while the sledge-runners
sounded sharp along the hardened and glass-smooth roads,
and the smoke went up in blue pillars straight as arrows, and
the cabin-windows winked in the sun till they fairly dazzled
you. Noisy children were all about, and the hum of talk
was heard, and the cackling of geese that swam about in the
holes made in the ice; and people were calling, calling to
one another. On the roads, round about the homesteads and
their belongings, folk were passing everywhere; and through
the snow-whitened orchards gleamed the red petticoats of
women going from hut to hut and, as they went and grazed
the trees or shrubs, receiving a shower of silvery dust.
On this day, even the mill did not clatter. Indeed, it
was silent during the whole festival; but a pellucid ice-
cold stream, led out by the sluices, ran with babbling
melody; and beyond this, somewhere far away, the cries of
a ﬂock of wild ducks, wheeling in the air, arose from
marshes and moors.
Every cabin—Machek’s, Simon’s, the V oyt’s, and who can
THE PEASANTS 70
say how many more?--was now being aired and scoured and
scrubbed, and the rooms, the passages, and even the snow
in front of the huts, were strewn with fresh pine-needles; in
some dwellings the hearths, grown black and dingy, had
also been whitewashed. In all the huts they were busy
making bread, especially the strucle, or Wheaten bread, with
poppy-seed-sprinkled crust; and this seed was also being
pounded in mortars for other much-liked dainties.
Yes, Yule-tide was at hand: the feast of the Divine Child,
the joyful day of wondrous goodwill to men; the blessed
respite from the long never-ending round of labour, to
arouse the souls of men from their wintry torpor, and shake
off the grey dullness of everyday life, and make them go
forward joyfully and with a glad thrill of the heart, to meet
the day of our Lord’s Nativity.
At Boryna’s, too, the same activity, and quick going to
and fro, and bustling preparation, prevailed as elsewhere.
Boryna himself had been in town since the morning, to
make purchases. Pete, a man whom he had taken as
groom after Kuba’s death, accompanied him.
They all were very busy inside the cabin. Yuzka, hum-
ming a tune, was cutting out of coloured paper some of those
curious ﬁgures which they stick for decoration either on the
beams or on the picture-frames, making them look as if
painted in brilliant colours. Yagna, her sleeves turned up
almost to her shoulders, was kneading in the trough with
her mother’s aid; now preparing the long strucle, and loaves
of the ﬁnest ﬂour (she was hurrying, for the dough had
already risen, and she had to fashion the loaves instantly);
now casting an eye on Yuzka’s work; now seeing to the
honey-and-cheese-cakes, that were rising under warm cover-
ings, and awaiting their turn for the baking-oven; and now
ﬂying round to where the ﬁre roared up the chimney.
Vitek had been ordered to see to the ﬁre and keep it well
fed with logs; but they had seen him only at breakfast:
afterwards, where was he?-—Both Yagna and Dominikova
looked for him about the premises, and called him, but in
vain; he never. answered. The naughty lad was away be-
7! WINTER
yond the haystack, out in the ﬁelds, under the bushes where
he was setting snares to catch partridges, and covering these
over with thick layers of chaff, both to conceal them, and
as a bait. Lapa accompanied him, and also Bociek, the
stork that he had taken care of, and healed, and fed, and
taught a number of tricks, and made such a friend of that
he had only to whistle in a peculiar manner for it to come
to him as obediently as Lapa—with whom, besides, it got on
in perfect harmony, and they used to hunt rats together in
the stable.
Roch, whom Boryna had taken to his home for the
holidays, had been and was still in church, where, in company
with Ambrose, he had spent the morning decorating the
altar and the walls with pine-branches that the priest’s
servant brought to them.
It was near noon when Yagna had ﬁnished kneading all
the loaves, and was now placing them on a board, patting
them into shape, and daubing them over with white of egg,
lest they should crack in the oven. Just then Vitek came in,
crying out: “They are bringing us the Kolendy!”
Since early dawn, Yanek, the organist’s eldest son—the
one who was at school—had been taking altar-breads round,
in company with his younger brother.
When they came in, and said: “Praised be Jesus Christ!”
Yagna turned and saw them.
She was greatly confused at the room being in such dis-
order and, hiding her bare arms beneath her apron, asked
them to sit down and rest, as they had heavy baskets, and
the younger one bore several packages besides.
They said they could not. “We have still to go over
half the village, and but' little time for that.”
“At least stay awhile, Mr. Yanek, and warm yourself: it
is so bitterly cold!”
“And,” Dominikova proposed, “perhaps you will both
take a little hot milk.”
They made excuses, but at last rested themselves close to
the window. Yanek was unable to take his eyes off Yagna,
till she hurriedly pulled her sleeves down over her arms:
THE PEASANTS 72
at which he turned crimson like a beet-root, and fumbled in
his basket for the altar-breads. He took out the ﬁnest and
largest packet, in a gilt paper wrapper, and containing
several coloured wafers, also shaped like altar-breads.
Yagna, holding her hands under her apron, took the packet,
laid it on a plate beneath the cruciﬁx, and then brought
him a good gallon measure of linseed, and six eggs.
“Have you been back here long, Mr. Yanek?”
“Only three days: since Sunday.”
“Is not that book-learning a very tedious thing?” Domini-
kova inquired.
“Not very; but then it is only to last till spring.”
“Your mother told me—I remember ’twas on my wedding-
day—you were going to prepare for the priesthood.”
“Yes, I—l am.—-After Eastertide,” he answered, in a low
tone and with downcast eyes.
“Lord, what a consolation that will be to your parents!
To have a priest in the family! And what an honour to
the parish!”
“Have you any news?” -
“None; and that is good news. Everything goes on
quietly with us, as is usual amongst farmers.”
“Yagna, I should willingly have come over for your
wedding, but they would not let me.”
“Oh,” Yuzka exclaimed, “what a merry-making that was!
Why, there was dancing for three days running!”
“Kuba died then, I am told.”
“Yes, he did, poor wretch! Lost so much blood, he passed
away before the priest came to shrive him. They say in the
village that his soul is doing penance—that there is now
some creature wandering about and groaning by night along
the Ways and where four roads meet, and hard by crosses,
waiting for God to have mercy on it. It must be Kuba’s
soul: whose else?”
“What is this you say?”
“Naught but the truth. I myself have 'seen nothing, and
so cannot swear to it. But there may be things in the
world that man’s mind is unable to see through, no matter
73 WINTER
how keen. For these are the works of God, not of man.”
“I am sorry Kuba died. The priest himself wept when
he told me.”
“A most upright servant he was: quiet, religious, hard-
working, never taking what was not his, and always ready
to share his last garment with a poor man.”
“Continual changes in Lipka. Every time I come back
here, I ﬁnd things quite altered—I was at Antek’s to-day.
His children are ill, misery is knocking at their door, and
he himself is so changed, so thin, I hardly knew him.”
To these words there was no answer. Yagna quickly
turned her face away, and set about putting the loaves on
the shovel, whilst her mother darted him such a glance that
he felt he had touched on an upleasant subject. With a wish
to mend matters, he was seeking to start another, when
Yuzka addressed him with a blush, and asked for some of
his coloured wafers.
“I want them for the ‘globes’ we hang up. We had some
from last year, but they were quite spoiled in the racket of
the wedding-feast.”
Certainly he would; and he gave her more than a dozen,
of ﬁve different tints.
“So many! O Lord! I shall have enough to make not
only ‘globes,’ but ‘moons’ too, and ‘stars’!” she cried in
great glee. Yagna whispered to her, and she came, blush-
ing, her apron over her face, to offer him six more eggs in
return for his gift.
Boryna had meanwhile returned, and came in, Lapa and
Bociek following him, along with Vitek.
“Shut the door this instant,” cried Dominikova, “or the
cakes will get cold!”
“When women set to putting things in order,” Boryna
said jocosely, as he warmed his freezing hands, “men must
seek lodgings, even at the tavern. The road was like glass,
the sledge ran splendidly, but it was so cold we were nearly
frozen in our seats—Yagna, give Pete something to eat.
He has been nigh freezing to the marrow in his soldier’s
greatcoat.—-Tell me, Yanek, are you home for long?”
‘THE PEASANTS 74
“Till Twelfth Night.”
“You must be a great help to your father, both at the
organ and in his office. It is so cold, he can hardly wish to
leave his warm bed, now that he is getting on in years!”
“But that’s not why he did not come to you himself:
our cow has calved to-day, and he is forced to stay and
tend her.”
“That’s good for you: you will have milk all the winter
through.”
“How now, Vitek, have you watered the colt?”
“I have myself,” said Yagna, “but it would not drink at
all, only frisked about; and it teased the mare so, I had to
take it away to the biggest stall.”
Yanek and his brother took their leave, but the former
had his eyes ﬁxed on Yagna to the very last: he saw she
was still more lovely than in autumn, when yet unmarried.
It was therefore no wonder that she had so completely
overcome her old husband, who could see nothing in the
world but her. They said truly in the village that his love
had made a dotard of him. Hard and unyielding as he was
to everyone else, Yagna could do with him whatever she
pleased; he obeyed her in everything, saw things only
through her eyes, and took her advice, and her mother’s too.
Nor had he any reason to regret the results. His farm was
in good order, everything prospered, he had every comfort,
someone to complain to and talk things over with ; and his
only care in the world was now Yagna, to whom he cast up
his eyes as to some holy image. .
Even now, whilst warming himself by the ﬁre, he looked
lovingly in her direction, and had ready, just as before the
wedding, sweet affectionate words for her; all his thoughts
were to give her pleasure.
Yagna, indeed, cared as much for his love as for last
year’s snow. Just now she was moody, and out of patience
with his transports of tenderness. Everything harried her,
and she went about, angry and cold as a February wind,
throwing work on her mother, or on Yuzka, and spurring
her husband himself to exertions by some sharp word: she
75 WINTER
herself went to the other lodgings, she said, to see about the
stove, and to the stable to tend the colt; but, in reality, to be
alone and think of Antek.
For Yanek had reminded her of him, and now Antek was
as present to her mind’s eye as if he were there before her
in the ﬂesh. During hard upon three months she had seen
nothing of him—except that once, when she was driving out
along the Poplar-road. Yes, time had ﬂowed by like a
river: the wedding, the home-coming, her various,occupa-
tions and the cares of her household duties, had left her no
time to think of him. Out of sight, out of mind; and her
acquaintances had avoided all mention of his name. And
now, she knew not why, he had surged up suddenly before
her with so sad and reproachful a look that her very soul
within her was shaken and distressed—“I have done no harm
to you,” she said within herself; “why, then, are you haunt-
ing me thus, like a spectre, like a ghost?” And she
attempted to wrestle with her memories of the past. She
marvelled why his ﬁgure alone came back to her so-—not
Matthew’s, not Staho Ploshka’s, not any of the others—-
only his! Had he given her a love-charm that was now
putting her beside herself, and tormenting her with the
pangs that she felt?
“What is he doing now, poor fellow? what is be thinking
of? . . . And there is no means of having speech with him,
none !—Certainly, it is a grievous sin—Dear Jesus! It is
a thing forbidden; so the priest told me in confession—Oh,
but if I could only speak to him once more—speak even in
presence of a third personI—No, no: never, never, never!
. . . I am Boryna’s until death!”
“Yagna!” her mother called; “do come: we have to take
the loaves out.”
She ran back to the house, hurrying and bustling, and
seeking to forget. But in vain: everywhere she saw his eyes,
and those black overshadowing brows of his—and those
red, red lips . . . how ravenously eager, and how sweet!
She set to work with feverish activity, putting the place
in order; and in the evening she went to the byre, a place she
THE PEASANTS 76
scarcely ever visited. But all would not do. He was always
there——there before her.——A great craving arose within her.
tearing her heart to shreds; and her soul was so sorely
tempest-tossed that she at last came to Yuzka, sedulously at
work making “globes,” and, sitting down upon the chest by
her side, burst into a passion of tears.
Her mother and her husband were alarmed and sought to
calm her; they tried to soothe her as one soothes a spoiled
child; they caressed her, they looked lovingly into her eyes:
all was of no avail. She cried till she could cry no longer.
And then, suddenly, she felt a change and, rising from her
seat in a strange humour of merriment, began to talk and
laugh, and almost burst into song.
Boryna stared at her in wonder, and so did her mother.
Then they exchanged glances full of meaning, and went out
to whisper together in the passage. They came back gay
and joyful, and embraced and kissed her with the most tender
affection.
“Do not lift that kneading-trough!”, exclaimed Domini-
kova earnestly; “you must not. Matthias will do that for
you!”
“Why, I have often lifted and carried many a heavier
thing!”
She did not understand.
Boryna would not let her touch the trough; he carried it
himself. And a little later, when she was in the bedroom,
he took the opportunity of taking her in his arms and tell-
ing her something that Yuzka was not to hear.
“Both mother’s head and yours are turned! What you
suppose is not the case: you are both wrong.”
“These are things that we know something about, and
there is no mistake here—Let me see. It is Yule-tide now.
. . . Then—then it will be only in ]uly.——Dear, dear! in
harvest-time!—Yet let us thank God that it has come to
pass in any case.” He would have embraced her again, but
she shrank away from him in a temper, and ran to her
mother to protest. The old dame, however, asserted that
there was no mistake.
77 WINTER
“There is, there is! ’tis naught but your fancy!” Yagna
cried in hot denial.
“You ,are not glad of this, it seems?”
“And why should I be glad? Have we not enough
troubles, without this too thrown in?”
“Do not complain, or the Lord will punish you!”
“Let Him, let Him!”
“But what have you to complain of?”
“That I do not wish it: that is all!”
“Look, Yagna: if you have a child, then, in the case of
your husband’s death (which Heaven forfend!) it would
have an equal part with the other children as his heir;
and possibly all the land might come to it in the end . .
“Land, land, land! Ye think of naught else; and to me
it is naught!”
“Because you’re as yet a silly child, and your head is full
of nonsense. A man without land is like a man without
legs: he crawls about and cannot get anywhere—But, at
any rate, say nothing of this to Matthias; it would vex him.”
“I shall say whatever I like. What do I care for him?”
“Then do so, if you are such a fool; yes, tell everybody
about it!—Go rather, set to work; take the herrings out
of the water to soak them in milk; it will make them less
salt. And tell Yuzka to pound some more poppy-seed;
there is yet much work, and the day is far spent.”
So it was. Evening approached, the sun had sunk behind
the forest; its setting glow stretched along the sky in blood-
red streaks, and all the snows were ﬁery and as if over-
sprinkled with live coals. The hamlet had quieted down.
Folk were still fetching water from the pond, and chopping
ﬁrewood; at times sledges went past like a whirlwind, men
ran across the pond, gates creaked on their hinges, and
voices were heard here and there; but the movement was
slowing down as the ﬁres of sunset died out: with the pallid
livid hues now overspreading the plain, the quiet also
spread, the land sank to rest, and the ways had fewer and
fewer passers-by. The far-off ﬁelds now lost in murky
darkness, the winter evening reigned over the country; the
THE PEASANTS 78
cold increased, the snow crackled louder underfoot, and all
the panes were embellished with frost-patterns and fantastic
traceries.
Slowly the village was vanishing in grey snowy shadows,
melting away; neither huts nor fences nor orchards could
be made out; only a few lights twinkled, more thick than
usual, because everyone was busy preparing the meal of
Christmas Eve.
In every cabin, from the richest to the very poorest of
all, preparations were being zealously made; in each family
room, at the corner next the east, they had placed a sheaf
of corn; the tables were strewn with hay beneath blwshed
linen napery; and they looked out eagerly through the win-
dows for the appearance of the ﬁrst star.
The sky, as is often the case when it freezes, was not
very clear when evening began to fall; it had seemed to veil
itself as soon as the last glow had burned out, and was
hidden in the gloom of many a dusky wreath.
Yuzka and Vitek, terribly chilled, were standing outside
the porch, on the watch for the appearance of the ﬁrst star.
“There it is!” Vitek suddenly exclaimed. “There it is!”
Boryna and the others, and Roch last of them all, came
out to see.
Yes, it was there, and just in the east, having pierced
through the sombre curtains which hung round about it: it
shone forth from the dark-blue depths, and seemed to grow
larger as they gazed upon it; gleaming brighter and brighter,
nearer and nearer, till Roch knelt down in the snow, and the
others after him.
“Lo, ’tis the star of the Three Wise Men,” he said; “the
Star of Bethlehem, in whose gleaming our Lord was born.—
Blessed be His Holy Name!”
These words they pioust repeated after him, gazing up
with eager eyes at the bright far-off witness of the miracu-
lous Birth—the visible token of God’s mercy, visiting the
world.
Their hearts throbbed with tender gratitude and glowing
faith, while they received and absorbed into their hearts
79 WINTER
that pure light, the sacred ﬁre—the sacrament to ﬁght with
and to overcome all evil!
And the star, seeming to grow larger still, rose up like a
ball of ﬁre, from which beams of azure brightness shot down
like the spokes of a mystic wheel, darting its rays upon the
snows, and twinkling with radiant victory over darkness.
Then after it there came forth other stars, its faithful
attendants, peering out in innumerably dense multitudes-—
ﬁlling all the heavens, covering them with a dew of light,
and making them, as it were, a mantle of dark azure, strewn
with silver motes.
“And now that the Word is made Flesh,” said Roch, “it
is time to take our meal.”
They went in, and took seats for supper at a high long
bench.
Boryna occupied the ﬁrst place, then Dominikova and
her sons (for they had arranged to eat together); Roch sat
in the middle, Pete, Vitek, and Yuzka after him, and Yagna
at the very end; for she had to see about the service.
The family room was now in utter' and solemn silence.
Boryna, having made the sign of the Cross, divided an
altar-bread with each of those present, and all partook of
it with reverence, as representing the Bread of Life.
“Christ,” then said Roch, “was born at this hour; there-
fore let every creature feed upon this holy bread!”
And though they had eaten all day long only a little
dry bread, and were very hungry, they all ate slowly and
with due decorum.
The ﬁrst dish consisted of sour beet-root soup, with
mushrooms and potatoes in it. After this came herrings,
rolled in ﬂour and fried in oil. Then there was a dish of
cabbage and mushrooms, also seasoned with oil. And, to
crown the feast, Yagna had prepared a most dainty dish—-
buckwheat meal, mixed with honey and fried in oil of
poppy-seed! With all these dishes, they ate common dry
bread: it was not becoming, on such a great fast-day, to
eat either cakes or strucle, these containing butter or milk.
They ate for a considerable time, and there was but
THE PEASANTS 80
little conversation; only spoons clattered and lips were
smacked. Boryna wanted to get up and help Yagna, but
her mother would not have it.
“Let her be,” she said; “it will do her no harm. ’Tis the
ﬁrst Yule-tide at which she presides; she must learn and
accustom. herself.” .
Lapa, whimpering at times, was poking its head against
thighs and knees, fawning and wagging its tail, in hope of
getting sooner fed. Bociek the stork, whose place was in
the passage, ever and anon pecked at the wall, or uttered
its klek-klek-klek, to which the hens at roost responded.
The meal was not over yet, when someone tapped at the
window.
Dominikova cried out: “Let no one in, no, nor even
look that way! It is the Evil One: he will enter, and then
stay here all the year round!”
The spoons dropped, and they listened in dismay, as the
tapping was repeated.
“It is Kuba’s soul!” Yuzka whispered.
“Say no foolish things: someone in need is there. On this
day, none should suffer hunger, or be without a roof over
him.” So saying, Roch got up and opened the door.
It was Yagustynka, standing humbly on the threshold,
who wept abundantly, and begged to be let in.
“Oh, give me but a corner, and what you leave your dog!
Have pity on a poor old woman! . . . I was waiting for my
children to ask me; I waited in vain, starved with cold in my
hut. . . . O Lord! I am now a beggar-woman; and they
leave me here, forlorn, without a morsel of bread—worse
off than a dog! . . . And their cabin is full of people and
of noise. I crept thither, looked round the corner and in
at the window. . . . It was all of no use.”
“Well, sit ye down with us. Better had it been to come
when evening fell, and not expect favours from your chil-
dren—They will- rejoice when they drive a last nail into
your coffin, to make sure you will not come back to them.”
Thus Boryna spoke, and very kindly made a place for her
by his side.
81 WINTER
But she was unable to eat anything, however heartily
Yagna, the least stingy of housewives, pressed her to take
some food. It was impossible; she sat drooping, bent,
crouching, taciturn, her trembling body showing how much
she suffered.
The place was now cosy and quiet, pervaded by an
atmosphere of kindliness and of solemn piety, as if the Holy
Child were lying in the midst of them.
A huge ﬁre, continually supplied with fresh fuel, was
droning up the chimney, lighting the whole apartment;
against its blaze the glazed images shone dazzlingly, the
panes loomed black in the night. And now they seated
themselves in front of the ﬁre, on the long bench, and talked
together in hushed and serious tones.
Presently Yagna made coffee, with plenty of sugar in it,
which they sipped at leisure.
After a pause, Roch took out a book, round which he
had wound his rosary, and began to read to them in a low
voice that was full of deep emotion:
“Lo, a new thing hath come to pass to-day: a Virgin
hath brought forth a Son: our Lord hath in the town of
Bethlehem, not least of judah’s cities, entered this our
world in poverty, within a wretched byre, on hay, amongst
the cattle, which were all His brethren on this night. And
that same star, which now is gleaming, gleamed upon the
Child, showing the way unto the Three Wise Men: who,
albeit black and heathens, yet were kind of heart, and
came from far-off lands, across wide rolling seas with gifts;
and thus bore witness to the Truth. . .
He continued reading a long time and his voice took the
intonations of a prayer, almost of a chant or the singing of
some holy litany. They listened to him in pious stillness,
their souls silent and attentive, their hearts thrilling under
the fascination of the miraculous, with the sincerest gratitude
to God for the favours conferred upon them.
“Ah, sweet jesus! Didst Thou then deign to be born
in a stable, in that far-off country, amongst ﬁlthy jews and
cruel heretics—and in such poverty—and in such wintry
TIIE PEASANTS 82
frost! O poor, poor Holy One, O sweet Child!”--—Such
were their thoughts, and their bosoms throbbed with pity,
and their souls ﬂew away like birds, over land and sea, to
the place of the Nativity, to the Manger and the Crib over
which the Angels sang—and to the Sacred Feet of the:
Child jesus. There they fell, with all the might of their
ﬁery faith and trust in Him; and they surrendered them-
selves to Him—His faithful servants for ever and ever.
Amen!
As Roch went on reading, Yuzka, who was a good, kind,
impressionable girl, fell to weeping copiously over our Lord’s
unhappy lot. Yagna, too, wept with her face in her hands
and her head hidden behind Andrew, who was listening close
by, with mouth wide open, and so greatly struck by what
he heard, that he repeatedly pulled Simon by his sleeve, say-
ing: “Lo! do you hear that, Simon?”
When it was over, some remarks were dropped:
“Poor Child! not even a cradle!”
“I marvel that He did not freeze.”
“And that our Lord was willing to bear so much pain.”
“Because,” Roch answered, “it was only by His sufferings
and sacriﬁce that He could save His people: which had He
not done, Satan would assuredly have been master of the
world and lord of every soul.”
“Of this and these he is pretty much master and lord as
it is,” Yagustynka muttered.
“Sin is master, wickedness lord; and these are the helpers
of Satan.”
“Ah, well, whosoever it may be, one thing is sure: an ill
fate has power over man.”
“Speak not thus, lest ye sin: ye are blinded by wrath
against your children.”
The rebuke was stern, and she did not dispute its justice.
The others also were silent, and Simon rose to withdraw;
but his mother, attentive to everything, noticed him.
“Wither away so fast?” she hissed. .
“Out—-I feel too hot in here,” he faltered, taken aback.
. “Going to Nastka—to divert yourself, hey?”
83 WINTER
“Would ye forbid, or hold me back?” he growled, but
threw his cap back on to the chest where it had been.
“Return with Andrew to our but: we have left the place
to the care of Providence. See to the kine, and stay there
for me; when I have rejoined you, we shall all go together to
church.” These were her orders; but as the lads were slow
to obey, she did not repeat them; rising at once, she took
an altar-bread from the table.
“Vitek, light the lantern; we are going to the kine. In
this Yule-tide night, all the animals understand what men
‘ say, because our Lord was born in their midst. And who-
soever shall, being without sin, speak unto them then, him
will they answer with a human voice: this day they are the
equals of man, and they are our fellows. And therefore
we shall go and share the altar-bread with them.”
All made for the byre, Vitek leading, lantern in hand.
The cows were lying in a row, leisurely chewing the cud;
but the approach of the lantern and the voices caused them
to snort and scramble heavily to their feet, turning their
great heads away from the light.
“You, Yagna, are mistress here; it is yours to divide this
bread amongst them: so will they thrive and not take any
sickness. But let them not be milked till to-morrow eve—
ning, or they will give no more milk at all.”
Yagna broke an altar-bread into ﬁve pieces, made the
sign of the cross over each cow between her horns, and laid
the thin bit of wafer upon her broad rough tongue.
Yuzka wanted to know whether the horses were also to
get their share of the bread.
“It 'inust not be; there were no horses in the byre where
Christ was born.”
When they had returned, Roch spoke thus:
“Every being, every meanest blade of grass, every little
pebble, nay, even the star that is all but unseen to the eye-—-
everything feels to-day, everything knows that the Lord is
torn.”
l “My God!” Yagna exclaimed. “What! even clods and
stones?”
1
|
THE PEASANTS 84
“I speak sooth: it is so. Everything has its soul. All
beings in the world have feeling, and await the hour when
jesus, taking pity on them, shall say:
“ ‘Awake, O soul, and live, and merit Heaven!’—-Yes, and
the tiniest worm, the swaying grass even, can after its fash-
ion have merit, and praise the Lord in its own way. . . .
And to-night, of all nights in the year, they all rise up, full
of life, and listen, waiting for His Word!
“And to some it comes now, but to others not yet: they
lie patient in the dark, expecting the dawn; stones, water-
drops, clods, trees, and whatever God has appointed each
of them to be!”
Mute, they all pondered over the words he said; for he
had spoken, and in sapient wise, and words which touched
the heart. Yet both Boryna and Dominikova had doubts as
to the truth of these; and, much as they turned them over
and over in their minds, they could not clear up the matter.
For, though God’s Omnipotence was indeed marvellous and
beyond all thought, still—that everything should have a
soul !--this was what they could not grasp. But now, the
smith having come in with his family, they set these thoughts
aside.
“We shall sit up with you, Father, and then go together
to midnight mass,” he said.
“Sit down,” said Boryna; “it will be more pleasant with
you. We shall be all together, save for Gregory.”
Yuzka looked indignantly at her father, for she thought
of Antek: but she durst not say anything.
Once more they took their seats on benches by the ﬁre;
but Pete went out into the yard to chop ﬁre-wood against
the coming great Day of Rest, Vitek taking the chopped
wood in his arms and piling it up in the passage. ‘
“Ah! but I had forgotten!” cried the smith. “The Voyt
ran and asked me to tell Dominikova she was to come a
once; for his wife is in travail and screams so that she is
likely to be conﬁned this very night.”
' “I would have liked to go to church with you all; bu
Since you say she screams, I must look in.”
85 WINTER
Having whispered with the smith’s wife, she hastened
away, for she was an expert in these matters, and to many
had done more good than the doctors.
Various legends relating to the day were told by Roch:
one of them was as follows:
“Long ago—as many years back as from now to Christ’s
Birth—~a certain wealthy husbandman was walking home
from market, where he had sold a couple of fatted calves,
and had the money concealed in one of his boots. He bore
a stout cudgel and was stout himself—perhaps the strongest
fellow in his village. But he was in a hurry to get home
ere nightfall, because in those. days thieves used to hide in
the woods and waylay true men.
“This must have been in summer, for the greenwood was
fragrant and resounded with many a sweet song; a mighty
wind rocked the trees, and there was an uproarious rustling
overhead. Now, therefore, the man went along in haste,
looking around him and fearing. But he saw only young
and old pines and oaks standing side by side, and never a
living soul. Yet he feared, for he was approaching a cross,
and close by was so dense a thicket, the eye could not see
to pierce it: there thieves were mostly wont to hide. So
he crossed himself and, saying prayers in a loud voice, ran
on as fast as he could.
“He had without hurt passed oUt of the wood of tall trees,
and had gone through the undergrowth of dwarf pines and
of juniper-bushes. Already he could see the green of the
open country, hear the streamlets babbling and gurgling
along and the lark singing on high; and he noted men
ploughing and ﬂocks of storks winging their way over the
marshes; nay, he had even caught the scent of the cheery-
orchards in blossom: when out of the last of the thickets the
robbers cam leaping upon him! They were twelve, all
armed with,1 nives. Bravely he fought, and though they
soon overp vvered him, he would not give up his money, and
shrieked f help. So they threw him down, put their knees
on his chest, and were going to slay him. Suddenly, they
were allji’struck motionless, and remained so—bending over
THE PEASANTS 86
him, knives in air, full of rage, but, as it were, turned to
stone !--And at that same instant all things around also be-
came still as death. The birds, silent, ﬂoated moveless in
air—the streams rested—the sun rolled on no more—the wind
fell dead—the trees remained as they were bent by the wind
—-and the corn also. And the storks seemed ﬁxed in the
sky, with outstretched wings . . . and the ploughman re-
mained with whip raised over his horse where it stood . . .
and the whole region, as if terror-struck, became immobile
like a picture.
“How long this lasted, none can tell, but it endured until
men heard upon earth the Angels’ chant:
‘Christ comes: fear Him, 0 ye mighty!’
when immediately all things began to move again. But
the thieves took the warning given them by this prodigy, and
released their victim; and they went together, following the
voices they heard, to the stable; there they paid homage to
the new-born Babe, along with all the creatures which lived
on earth or in air.”
They wondered much at the legend told them; but pres—
ently Boryna and the smith began to talk of other matters.
After a time, too, Yagustynka, who had all the time sat
silent, spoke out, and with no pleasant words.
“Oh, ye talk, ye talk, ye talk: and wherefore, but only to
make time pass? Were it true that of old there came from
heaven those who protected the wretched and saved them
from the oppressor: then why do they not come now too?
Is there now less of poverty, less of misery, less of torture
and of pain? Man is like a poor bird, unarmed, and let
loose to ﬂy about the world. The hawk, the beasts of prey,
and want of food slay it; and him Crossbones always takes
in the end—And ye prate of mercy, and feed fools with
promises, deluding them and saying that salvation is at hand!
—-Ah, who is at hand?—Antichrist! and he will deal out
justice, and He will have mercy, even as the hawk has mercy
on the chickens!”
8? WINTER
Roch started up. “Woman!” he cried in a thundering
voice; “do not blaspheme! do not hearken sinfully to the
whispers of the Wicked One, that will drag you down to your
damnation and to everlasting ﬁre!”-—But he fell back upon
the bench, and could speak no more for the sobs that
choked his voice, and shuddered from head to foot with
horror and with sorrow for that lost soul. And when some-
what calnier, he set the truth before her with all the power
of a ﬁrm believer, striving to bring her back into the right
way.
He spoke to her long—very long; and as well as a priest
in the pulpit.
Meanwhile Vitek, having been greatly struck to hear that
cattle possessed human speech on Christmas Eve, called
Yuzka away quietly, and they went both of them to the
cow-house.
Holding each other by the hands, trembling with awe,
and crossing themselves more than once, they slipped in
amongst the cows.
Down they knelt by the side of the largest one, that they
.looked on as the Mother of the Byre. Out of breath, agi-
tated, with tears in their eyes and dread in their hearts, as
if they were in church and during the Elevation—they never-
theless were upheld by strong trust and a lively faith. Vitek
put his mouth to her ear, and quavered in a low voice:
“Hist! Grey One! Grey One!”
But she only gurgled inaudibly, and went on chewing with
a roll of her tongue and a smack of her lips.
“Something strange has come upon her: she answers
naughtV’
Then they knelt by the next cow, and Vitek, who by this
time was on the verge of weeping, called earnestly to her:
“Spotted One! Spotted One!”
They both approached very close to her mouth, and lis-
tened, holding their breath; but never, never a word!
“Ah! no doubt we have sinned, so we shall not hear her
speak. They answer only such as are sinless; and we are
sinners I”
I
THE PEASANTS 88
“True, Yuzka, true! we are sinful, we have sinned. O
Lord! so it is! Aye, I stole some bits of string from master
once. And an old strap besides. . . . Yes, and also . . .”
He could go no farther; remorse and repentance for his faults
shook the lad with a convulsion of tears and sobs; and
Yuzka, following his example, wept from the bottom of her
heart. They cried together, and would not be comforted till
they had laid bare before each other all their “manifold
sins and offences.” ,
At home, no one remarked their absence, for all were pi-
ously singing hymns—not Christmas carols, which it was
not deemed proper to strike up until after midnight.
‘ On the other side of the house, Pete was having a wash
and making a grand toilet. He had completely changed
his clothes, Yagna having brought him another suit of his,
that he had put by in the store-room.
But what a cry arose when he appeared before them, clad
——no longer in his military cloak and grey uniform—but in
the usual garb of a peasant!
“They laughed at me and nicknamed me Grey Dog,” he
faltered; “so I have changed my clothes.”
“Change your speech, and not your garments!” Yagus-
tynka snarled.
“That likewise he will get back, since his soul has re-
mained Polish.”
“And what marvel if he should forget something, after ﬁve
years far away, never once hearing his mother-tongue
spoken?”
Here they broke off their talk; the high-pitched tinkle of
the mass-bell was now heard in the chamber.
“We must be off: it is ringing for the shepherd’s mass!”
And in a very short time all had set out, save Yagustynka.
She stayed to watch the house, and still more to loose the
reins in solitude to the bitterness of her heart.
The mass-bell meantime rang, rang, rang, like the quick
twitter of a bird, calling them to church. -
Out of their cabins they poured; now and then a ruddy
refulgence shone from the opening and closing doors, with a
89 WINTER
ﬂash as of lightning. In some huts, the ﬁre was put out or
covered. In the dark night, as they hurried on, a voice
would be heard, or a cough, and the crunching of shoes on
the snow, and the holy words of mutual greeting: and on
they went, deeper and deeper into the dark-grey blackness,
till only their footsteps sounded in the frozen air.
From afar they now began to perceive the glowing church-
windows, and the great door thrown open and pouring forth
light, and the people surging in—billows on billows, slowly
ﬁlling the aisle, decorated with Christmas trees of many a
kind; crowded along the white walls, swarming in front of
the altar, ﬁlling the pews in an ever-rising ﬂood, rolling and
undulating to and fro with the incoming human tide, which
brought in along with it a fog of condensed breath-vapour,
so ,thick that the altar-lights shone dim and scarcely seen
through its folds.
And still the people came in, came in continually.
They arrived from Polne Rudki in a compact mass, great
tall fellows, ponderous, yet active, all ﬂaxen-haired, all clad
in blue-black capotes; their women comely, every one of
them, adorned with “double” aprons, and having for head-
gear caps underneath red kerchiefs.
Next came in straggling knots of twos and threes, the men
of Modlitsa: poor sickly wretches, strengthless creatures, in
grey patched capotes, and all bearing sticks, for they had
come on foot. Of these the common tavern joke was that
they lived on mud-ﬁshes only, because their lands were
miry and intersected with marshes, and their garments smelt
of the peat they used for fuel.
From Vola, too, came some, by separate families. like the
juniper-bushes that always grow in thick clumps and close
together: none of them tall, but all of middle height, stumpy
and not unlike sacks of corn, yet lively fellows: great
talkers, most stubbornly litigious, given to ﬁghting, and
spoilers of the forests. They were in grey capotes, with
facings of black braid, and red girdles.
There, too, was the “nobility” of Rzepki, which, as evil
tongues say, “has only a bag and a bundle, one cow for ﬁve
THE PEASANTS 90
and one cap for three”; they came all in one band, taciturn,
looking down and askance at everyone they met. Thei'
womenfolk, dressed like manor-people, very much pranked
out, very handsome, white of complexion and voluble of
tongue, walked in their midst, and were treated by them with
the utmost courtesy.
Directly after them entered the men of Przylek, tall,
slender and strong as trees in a pine-forest, and so decked
out as to make the eye water: white capotes, red waistcoats,
shirts adorned with green ribbons, breeches striped with
yellow bands; and they pushed forwards, giving way to no
one, till they got quite close to the altar.
And then, almost the last of all, like so many squires, in
walked the people of Debie. They were but few; each went
apart from the others, strutting proudly forwards, and took
his place in the pews next to the high altar, having prece-
dence of everyone; self-conﬁdent, because wealthy. Their
womenfolk carried prayer-books, and wore white caps tied
under the chin, and jackets of dark-coloured cloth—And
then there were also men from the more remote hamlets,
from many a little cluster of huts, from sawmills, and from
manors too—but who could count them all?
And in this multitude, pressed and surging and rustling
like a wood in a breeze, the white capotes of the Lipka men
and their women’s red kerchiefs were conspicuous.
The church was full, even to the very last place in the
porch, and anyone who came late had to pray outside under
the trees in the cold.
Now the priest began the ﬁrst mass, and the organ pealed
forth, while all the people swayed to and fro, and bowed
down, and knelt before the Divine Majesty.
There was a deep hush; fervent prayers went up; every
eye was ﬁxed on the priest, and on the one taper that burned
high above and in the middle of the altar. The organ played
soft music, fugues and harmonies so touchingly sweet that
they sent a thrill to the very heart. At times the priest
turned to the people with outstretched hands, uttering aloud
certain sacred Latin words; and the people too extended their
91 WINTER
arms, sighing audibly, and, bending down in deep contrition,
struck their breasts and prayed with fervour.
Then, when the ﬁrst mass was over, the priest mounted
the pulpit, spoke of the sacred festival, and exhorted them
to ﬂee all things evil: his words went to their hearts like ﬁre,
and sounded like thunder through the church. Of his hearers,
some sighed, some beat their breasts; others were sharply
stung by remorse, and others again—those in particular who
were of amatory disposition—fell a-weeping. For the priest
spoke with true zeal and eloquence, his words went straight
to the heart and mind; and however drowsy the heat in the
church had made more than one, even these could not but
listen to him.
Just before the second mass, the organ pealed out again,
and the priest intoned the famous carol:
“Come to meet Him—come to greet Him!”
and the people started up from their knees as one man, with
a billowing swirl, took up the tune, and roared in unison,
with a loud blast from each man’s lungs:
“Jesus in the manger laid!”
The Christmas trees vibrated and shook with the din,
and the lights ﬂickered in the enormous volume of sound.
So united were they, in souls and faith and voices, that
it seemed as if a giant were trolling forth that tremendous
chant that rolled, carrying every heart along with it, to the
sacred feet of the Divine Child!
When the second mass was over, the organist struck up
one Christmas carol after anotherhand to such lively leaping
measures that it was all they could do to hold back from
leaping too; but at any rate they all.turned round to the
organ-loft, and shouted the words in tune and time with the
music. .
Antek alone was not singing with the others. He had
come with his wife and with Staho’s family, but had let
them go on before him, he himself standing close to the pews.
THE PEASANTS 92
He had no mind to take his old place among the farmers in
front of the altar, and was looking for a place somewhere
else, when he perceived his father coming in with all his
family, pushing forward to the centre of the nave, with
Yagna going ﬁrst of them all.
He shrank back behind a young ﬁr-tree, and thenceforward
never took his eyes off her. She sat down at the end of a
pew close to the side gangway; and he, unconsciously obey-
ing instinct, pressed forward with stubborn jostling, till he
was close to her; and when all knelt down during mass, he too
knelt and bent forward so that his head touched her knees.
She at ﬁrst took no notice of him: the rushlight she was
using to read by shed so faint a glimmer round, and the ﬁr
boughs concealed him so well that he could not be seen. It
was only at the Elevation, when, going down on her knees,
she beat her breast and bowed her head in adoration, that
she happened to look in his direction—and her heart sud-
denly stopped beating, and she was petriﬁed with joy.
She durst not look a second time. What she had seen was
but a dream to her; a vision—a “false creation,” and no
more.
She closed her eyes and remained long on her knees, with
head bowed down, and body bent forward—almost beside
herself with excitement. At last, however, she seated her-
self and looked him straight in the face.
Yes, it was really he—Antek—his face very haggard and
bronzed; and those eyes of his, so bold and daring, now
looked into hers with such sorrowful tenderness that her
heart was smitten through and through with affectionate ap-
prehension, and the tears came to her eyes. '
Like the other women there, she sat stiffly, apparently
reading in her book in which she saw not a single letter,
nor even the page before her. What she did see was his
face—his eyes, so sad, so full of appeal, ﬂashing, blazing,
bright as stars, coming between her and the rest of the
world. She felt lost and helpless—and he was kneeling by
her side; and she heard his quick breath and felt it hot,
and was aware of the clear, yet awful might which went forth
93 , WINTER
from him, seized upon her heart, bound it to him as with
cords, thrilling her at once with pleasure and dismay—with
a vertiginous shuddering, and a cry for love so potent that
her every limb quaked, and her heart beat wildly like some
poor bird nailed in sport by the wings to a barn-door!
The second mass was now over, and the people were all
singing together, and praying and sighing and weeping; but
these two, as if beyond this world, heard nothing, saw noth-
ing, thought of nothing but each other.
Dread -— joy -— affection — remembrance -— enchantment
—desire!—-all these feelings alternately glowed within them,
passing from one to the other, and knitting them in one, so
that they felt themselves one being, and their two hearts
throbbed in unison, and one ﬁre ﬂamed in the eyes of each.
Antek came yet a little nearer, leaned his shoulder against
her hip (and a hot ﬂush surged over her, and she was nigh
to swooning); and as she knelt again, he ﬂung these words
-—words that might have been brands of ﬁre—into her ear:
“Yagna! Yagnal”
She shook, and almost fell fainting; his voice pierced her
through and through with keen rapture—with a sharp-edged
delight.
“Come out some evening . . . come out . . . behind the
haystack . . . I shall be waiting there every night. . . .
Fear not . . . I must speak to you. . . . ’Tis urgent.—
Come.” This he said in an impassioned whisper, very close
to her—so close that his breath was like a ﬂame upon her
face.
She replied nothing: the words stuck in her throat. Her
heart was palpitating so violently that she thought everyone
near her must have heard it. But she made a gesture as if
she would go that very instant where he wished, where her
love was urging her . . . behind the haystack.
The church was resounding with the joyful thunder of
the carols, when she came a little to her senses, and looked
round at the people and the sanctuary.
Antek was there no more. He had withdrawn unnoticed,
and was slowly walking out into the churchyard. ~
THE PEASANTS 94
There he stood’in the frost a long time, “beneath the! belfry,
that he might cool down a little and breathe some fresh air.
But his bosom was so overﬂowing with gladness, there was
in him such an exultation, such a triumph of power, that he
never even heard the chant that welled out from the open
church door, nor the faint echoes which repeated it from
the bells above. No, he took no heed of anything what-
soever. . .
Seizing a handful of snow, and swallowing it greedily, he
leapt over the wall and into the road—rushing away, out on
to the' country-side, wayward as the blast.
CHAPTER V
' I ‘ HE Boryna family returned from church very late;
and but a few minutes later, they were all in bed,
snoring loud. All except Yagna alone. Wearied
though she was, she did not fall asleep. She turned on her
pillow, she even threw the blanket over her head: it was of
no avail; sleep would not come. In its stead there came a
sort of nightmare, and fell upon her, and crushed her with
its weight. She could neither breathe, nor cry out, nor jump
from her bed. There she lay, numb, drowsy, in. that half-
awake state when the mind spins out memories all the while
and goes over the world with them—rising far above the
earth, arraying itself in the sun’s splendour, and yet no more
capable of any activity in itself than is a reﬂection in clear
wind-rippled water.
Thus it was with her: though she did not fall asleep, yet
her mind was wandering about like a bird through the days
of the dead past, through those times that were now no more,
and lived only in memory. She was back again in the
church, with Antek kneeling beside her, and speaking——
speaking—and burning her with those eyes of ﬂame, and
ﬁlling her with a sweet torture and dismay! . . . And then
appeared the ﬂushed and threatening face of the priest, and
his hand stretched out over the people . . . and the lighted
tapers. . . . Then came other reminiscences—old ones: her
meetings with Antek . . . their kisses—their embraces .
till she was full of such a fever of excitement and delecta-
tion that she stretched and pressed herself down on the
pillow with all her might. . . . And then, once more, she
heard, clear and distinct, the words: “Come out! Come
out!” And it seemed to her that, rising at the call, she
walked, walked on, skulking along through the brushwood
Q
95
THE PEASANTS 96
in the dark, shaken with terror, followed by a hue-and-cry,
and an awful wind blowing after her among the shadows.
And so this went on unceasingly, one impression after
another . . . and a third . . . and a fourth . . . and so on,
beyond counting: she could in no wise either get rid of
these fancies of hers or control them. A nightmare had her
in its clutches; or . . . was it Satan preparing her to sin by
tempting her thus?
It was broad day when she got out of bed, and she felt as
though she had spent the night on a rack. Every bone in her
ached; she was pale, worn out, unspeakably miserable.
’ The frost had slackened a little, but the weather was dull.
Now and again it snowed; and then a great wind ’would
spring up, worry the trees, and go whistling down the road.
The village, however, was lively and full of the gladness of
Yule-tide, and the roads swarmed with folk. ‘Some were
dashing by in sledges; some talked outside their huts or
went visiting their neighbours; and the children played
about in the lanes, and there was everywhere noise and
merriment in plenty.
But of merriment there was little in Yagna’s heart. For
all the joyous ﬂickering of the ﬁre on the hearth, she felt
cold: moody in spite of all the mirth and din around her,
and the gay songs of Yuzka, ringing through the cabin.
Though amongst her own people, she was alone—so terribly
alone that she was afraid to look upon them.
And frequently, whilst letting her fancy listen to Antek’s
passionate whispers, she could not help hearing at the same
time certain other words that went to her soul with no less
force: '
“To all such God’s wrath is reserved, and everlasting
damnation!”——She could distinctly hear the priest’s voice,
and see his glowing face, and his hand stretched out in a
threatening gesture.
She quailed at the vision, feeling acutely the depth of her
guilt—“Then I will not go, I will not! It were a mortal
sin, a mortal sin!” she repeated to herself, striving to ﬁnd
in these words the strength to resist and a shield against evil.
97 WINTER
But then her soul revolted with the pain of it; for indeed
she was attracted to him with all the might and bent of her
vital forces, and turned towards him as a snow-burdened
tree turns towards the sun in spring.
But the fear of sin had still the upper hand, and she did
her best to forget him—forget him for ever! . . . She now
stayed at home, fearing to go anywhere about the premises,
lest he might be lurking about and call to her. . . . For
would she then be able to resist, and not to follow his voice?
She set about diligently to perform her home duties; but
there was little to be done. Yuzka managed all; besides,
the old man was always after her, unwilling to have her
put her hand to anything.
“Rest yourself; do not work too much, lest some untimely
harm come upon you!”
So she did nothing, and only wandered aimlessly about
the cabin, or looked out of the windows—at nothing—or
stood idle in the passage. Meanwhile her longing and her
desire increased continually; and her irritation as well. She
was angered by her husband’s watchful eyes, angered by the
joy and liveliness that ﬁlled the place; angered even by
Bociek the stork, walking about the hut, and ﬂapped her
apron to drive it away. At last, when she could bear things
no longer, she chose a convenient opportunity, and ran over
to her mother’s hut. But she went there straight across the
pond, looking round in fear, lest he should be lurking some-
where behind a tree.
Her mother was not at home; she had only looked in
early in the day, and then returned to attend the Voyt’s
wife. Andrew sat smoking by the ﬁreside, while Simon
dressed himself in the bedroom.
Back in her old place, amongst her own furniture and sur-
roundings, a change came over her and her irritation dis-
appeared. She was once more in her element, and began
instinctively to move about and do things: going to the
cow-house, straining out the milk which had since the morn-
ing been standing in the pail, throwing corn to the fowls,
sweeping the room, setting things in order, and meantime
TI—IE PEASANTS ' 98
keeping up a brisk conversation with her two brothers; for
Simon, having put on a new capote, had now come in, and
was doing his hair before the looking-glass.
“So carefully dressed?—Whither away?”
“To the village, to meet a few lads at the Ploshkas’.”
“And . . . will mother let you go?”
“I shall not everlastingly ask her leave: my reason is my
own; so is my will.”
“Surely, surely,” Andrew chimed in timorously, looking
out into the road.
“You are to know,” the other cried with a bold air, “that
what I do, I will do in spite of her. To the Ploshkas’, aye,
and to the tavern as well, will I go, and drink with the
other lad.”
“ ‘A calf wants but its mother’s teat, yet wanders every-
where for it. So with the fool, whose will’s his rule,’ ” she
murmured to herself, not caring to contradict him, nor
indeed paying much heed to what he said. She was to re—
turn home now, and had so small a mind to do so, that it
was almost with tears that she took leave of them, and
dragged herself slowly away.
At her cabin, it was still noisier and merrier than before.
Nastka had run in, and was laughing so gaily with Yuzka
that Yagna could hear them out in the road.
“Do you know? my rod has blossomed!” she cried to
Yagna as the latter entered.
“Your rod? what rod?”
“The one I cut on St. Andrew’s night, planted in sand
upon the stove—and behold, it has blossomed! I looked
at it yesterday, and there was not a single blossom yet.”
She brought the pot of sand to show her; there stood in
it a rather large spray of a cherry-tree, studded with deli-
cate blossoms.
“Oh, .what fragrant pink ﬂowers!” said Vitek wistfully.
“So they are, so they are!”
All crowded round, and gazed on the sweet-scented spray
with great joy and wonder. But just then Yagustynka came
99 WINTER
in, now again her former self, loud of speech, bold, and
always seeking an opportunity to sting someone to the quick.
“Aye, Yuzka, the rod has blossomed, but not for you:
what you need yet is the strap, or a good stout cudgel!”
Thus she spoke at once on entering.
“For me, for me, it has blossomed!” she cried. “I myself
cut it on St. Andrew’s night: I myself!”
“But,” Yagna explained, “you are as yet too young; no
doubt it has foretold Nastka’s marriage.”
“We both together put it in the pot; but I cut it, and so
it has blossomed for me!” Yuzka insisted, while the tears
sprang to her eyes, because her right to the prediction was
not admitted.
“Plenty of time before you, Yuzka, to run after young
men and wait at stiles for them: let your elders go ﬁrst,” said
Yagna, smiling at Nastka._ “So, Yuzka, be Quiet. Here’s
news for you all: that Magda who was at the organist’s gave
birth in the church porch last night!”
“Can such a thing be?”
“It can, for it has been. When Ambrose went out to ring,
he stumbled over the girl.”
“O Lord! and she did not die of cold?”
“No, not she; but her child did. Yet she all but died
herself. They took her to the priest’s dwelling, and they
are tending her still. But . . . ’twere better they had let her
alone. What has she to live for? Can aught of good come
to her now?”
“Matthew told me that when the organist turned her away,
she was always at the miller’s, and staying there overnight,
till at last—probably by the miller’s directions—her Franek
beat her and sent her ﬂying.”
“Well,” said Yagustynka, “what was he to do with her?
Frame her like a picture and hang her up, hey?——Franek is
like his fellows: ‘He of oaths made a lot; what he wanted
he got—and then kept them not.’ Not faultless he, not by
any means: but the organist is by far the worst of all.
While she was well, they’made her work as much as a yoke

THE PEASANTS 100
of oxen ploughing: she alone did everything for them. And
now, as soon as she is ill, they have driven her away! A
murrain on such folk!”
“But,” Naska cried, “wherefore did she yield to Franek?”
“And you also would yield to Yasyek, were you but sure
that the banns would follow!”
Nastka took offense at this, and a quarrel seemed immi-
nent, but Boryna came in at that moment, and they said no
more.
“Do ye know about Magda? She is still living, but in a
dead faint. Had she been left there the space of another
‘Pater,’ Ambrose says, she would have turned up her toes.
Roch is rubbing her with snow, and giving her to drink; but
they think she will not be well for a long time.”
“And whither is she to go then, poor thing?”
“No doubt the Koziols will take her to their home: she
is a kinswoman of theirs.”
“The Koziols, indeed! Why, they have naught them-
selves but what they can ﬁlch or get by cheating: how could
they nurse her? And here we have so many wealthy men
and landowners, and none will come forward to help her!”
“Yes, yes,” Boryna said; “farmers have endless treasures,
and everything falls to them from the sky, and their only
business is to help everyone! What, shall I gather all the
needy on all the highways, bring them in here, and feed and
nurse them, and pay the doctor for them, perhaps, into the
bargain?——Ye are old, Yagustynka, and the wind blows in
your headf’
“I say not that anyone can be forced to aid the needy;
but yet men are not beasts, nor should they be left to
perish out of doors.”
“Well, things in this world are as they are, and must re-
main so, and ye will not change them.”
“Long ago, before the war—in the days when the nobles
were masters, there was, I remember, a hospital in the village
for poor people. Yes, and it was in the very house where
the organist dwells now. And I remember, too, folk had to
pay to keep it up—so much out of every acre they had.”
101 WINTER
Boryna was annoyed and surly: he did not care to discuss
the matter, and closed the debate with:
“Talking of this will do as much good as incense burnt
to bring the dead to life.”
“True, no good at all. On him that feels no pity for the
cries of those who suffer, their tears too will have no effect.
The thriving man thinks that all in this world goes well and
as God has commanded.”
To this Boryna gave no reply, so Yagustynka turned to
Nastka.
“And what about Matthew’s ribs? Any better?”
“Matthew? why, what has befallen him?”
“What!” Nastka exclaimed; “do ye not know of it? It
came to pass ere Yule-tide. . . . Your Antek ﬂew at him,
took him by the throat, carried him out of the mill, and
dashed him against the fence so hard that the railing broke.
He fell in and was like to drown. Now he is ill, and spits
blood, and cannot move. Ambrose says he has four ribs
broken, and his womb is out of place.1 And now he is al-
ways moaning and groaning.”
She burst into tears.
At the ﬁrst words, Yagna had started up, struck with the
feeling that the ﬁght had been about herself. But presently
she sat down again upon a chest, pressing her lips to the
cherry-blossoms to cool them.
Those of the house were astounded: though the incident
was the talk of the whole village, no whisper of it had yet
come to Boryna’s cabin.
He growled: “Like has fallen foul of like—one ruffian
of another. No great harm done!”
“But,” Yagna inquired after a pause, “why did they
ﬁght?”
“On account of you!” the old woman said, with a spiteful
snarl.
“Pray speak the truth!”
“It is as I say. Matthew was at the mill, boasting in
1Compare this anatomical error with what Falstaff says, “Henry
IV,” Part 2, Act IV, Sc. 3.—Traizslator’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 102
the presence of some men that he had been with you in your
bedroom. . . . And Antek heard, and gave him a beating.”
“Spare me yourijests; l have no mind to hear them!”
“Will you not believe me? Then ask the whole village;
they will tell you the same. Did I say that Matthew was
speaking true? Nay, I only repeated the village talk.”
“He is a liar . . . a foul liar and a villain!”
“Who can protect you from evil tongues? They will
often slander you beyond the grave.”
“’Tis well . . . ’tis well he beat him! . . . I fain would
add to the beating!” she hissed vindictively.
“Oho! The chicken’s claws turn a hawk’s talons!”
“Aye! for the lie he told, I would kill him on the spot, the
false hound!”
“To everyone I say he lies, but they believe me not, and
backbite you.” .
“Oh, but Antek will silence them—cut their tongues out!”
Yagustynka leered at her maliciously. “Is he to ﬁght the
whole world for you, eh?”
“O you judas woman, you! With your sly hints and
whispers, and the joy you take in giving pain!”
Yagna was now in a towering passion; perhaps she had
never yet been so angry in her life. What she felt would
have been beyond bearing, but for Antek’s conduct that she
now heard of. She was ﬂooded with tenderness, and un—
speakable gratitude ﬁlled her heart that he had so well taken
her part and avenged her. Nevertheless, she exhibited so
much ill temper at everything that went on in the house,
and rated Yuzka and Vitek so sternly for every triﬂe, that
old Boryna felt uneasy, and came to sit by her side, stroking
her face and asking:
“What is it ails my Yagna?”
“What should ail me? Naught.—-Let me be: would ye
make love before everybody?” And she pushed him roughly
away.
“He would soothe and blandish and cuddle her, would he?
That withered fellow, that spent worn-out old man!” she
thought, and a feeling of strong dislike welled up within
103 WINTER
her. Not till now had she noticed his age; now, for the
ﬁrst time, there came to her a sense of loathing, a deep-
seated repugnance, almost hatred. She now looked upon
him with glad concealed contempt; for he had really aged a
good deal in these last days: his hands were shaking, and
he dragged his feet and stooped.
“That nerveless old driveller!”
She shook herself with disgust, and set to thinking all
the more intensely of Antek. No longer did she strive
against the memories that pressed upon her, nor seek not to
hear those sweet tempting whispers of his.
The day dragged on, intolerably slow. Every minute she
would go out into the porch, or as far as the orchard behind
the hut, and look through the trees at the ﬁelds beyond . . .
or lean against the wattled fence which stood between her
and the village road that ran past the farm buildings. With
wistful looks, she would scan the country-side—the snow-
covered landsr-the dark forest at the sky-line. . . . But
she took note of nothing, so deep was she plunged in the
joyous knowledge that be cared for her, and would let no
one do her wrong.
“And he would serve anyone the same! What a man he
is, what a ﬁghter!” she thought with tender admiration.
“Oh, if he came in sight now, I could not resist him for one
instant!”
The haystack stood close by, near the road, but at some
distance within the ﬁeld. Flocks of sparrows chirruped
round it, and took shelter in a great hole that had been
scooped out of one side. The farm-lad, though ordered by
Boryna to go up and take the hay always from the top, had
not cared to do so, but pulled truss after truss out of the side,
till enough had gone to form a sort of small den, in which
two persons might easily ﬁnd room.
“Come out—come out behind the haystack!” Her mind
was continually repeating Antek’s petition. But now she
ran back to the hut; the bells were beginning to ring for
Vespers; and she herself had a longing to go to church, in
theJVague hope of meeting him there.
THE PEASANTS 104
Him she did not meet: but instead, in the very entrance,
she saw Hanka, greeted her, and held back for her to put her
hand ﬁrst into the holy water stoup. But Hanka neither
made answer nor stretched out her hand to the stoup, but
passed on, darting out of her eyes a look at her—a deadly
look! as though she would have stoned her willingly.
Yagna’s eyes grew dim. Such a slight! so open an exhibi-
tion of hate! Yet, from the pew in which she seated her-
self, she could not help ﬁxing her eyes on that pallid face.
“Antek’s wife—and so haggard, so ghastly to see! Well,
well!” But her thoughts soon wandered away from Hanka.
They were singing in _the choir, and the organ played sweet
music, so low and soft and mysterious that it absorbed all
her attention. Never, no, never had she felt so happy in
church, so serenely blissful! She did-not even say prayers;
her book lay before her unopened; her beads were in her
hand, but she did not tell them. She sighed dreamily, and
looked up to see the shadows creeping slowlyin through the
windows, and to gaze on the pictures, the scintillating lights,
the gilded woodwork, and the now scarce visible many-
coloured decorations. Amongst all these marvels, her soul
soared up, lost itself in the painted skies, in the chanted
prayers and the faint dying melodies that she heard. Dis—
solved in a serene ecstasy, oblivious of everything round
her, she fancied she saw the saints come down out of their
pictures, approach her with smiles of inﬁnite kindness, and
stretch forth their hands in blessings over her and over all
the people.
She ceased to dream only when Evensong was at an end
and the organ hushed. The silence roused her from her
trance; unwillingly she rose and went out with the others.
And now again, at the church-door, she met with Hanka,
who stood and faced her as though intending to speak-—-but
'only darted a look of hatred at her and went out.
“What, does the silly woman think to daunt me by glar-
ing?” was Yagna’s mental comment as she walked home.
Evening had fallen now—quiet, dull, holy. It was murky
outside; the stars’ faint light shone dim in the hazy sky;
105 WINTER
a little snow came down, ﬂake by ﬂake, looking like long
ﬂuffy threads, and noiselessly ﬂuttering past the window-
panes.
In the cabin, too, it was quiet and somewhat dull. Simon
had come as soon as evening had closed in—ostensibly to
visit them, but really to meet with Nastka; and the two sat
side by side, talking in low voices. Boryna was not home
yet. Yagustynka sat on one side of the ﬁre-place, peeling
potatoes. On the other, Pete was playing a tune on his vio-
lin, very gently, but with such sad notes that now and then
Lapa would whine, or vent a long—drawn howl. Vitek was
there too, along with Yuzka. After a time, Yagna, Whom
the tune made nervous, called out from the bedroom:
“Pete, pray leave off: that music of yours is too dismal!”
And the violin sounded no more. But presently it was
heard anew; for subdued strains, all but inaudible, now came
from the stable, whither Pete had withdrawn; and there he
continued playing far into the night. When Boryna came
in, supper was getting ready.
“Well, the Voyt’s wife is brought to bed. Folk are.
swarming there so that Dominikova has to drive them off,
they come in such crowds. Yagna, you must go and see her
to-morrow.”
“Instantly—l will go instantly!” she cried, excited and
eager all at once.
“Very well; and I’ll go with you.”
“Ah! Perhaps to-morrow will do better.” And she
added, to explain her quick change of mind: “Yes, I should
prefer going in the day-time. The snow is falling, it is dark,
and you say there are so many people.”
He acquiesced; all the more readily because the smith’s
wife and children entered the hut just then.
. “Why, where is your goodman?”
“At Vola. The threshing-machine there is out of order,
and the manor blacksmith cannot put it to rights.”
“Somehow,” Yagustynka observed, in tones full of signif-
icance, “somehow he goes very often to the manor now,"
“Have ye any objection?”
THE PEASANTS 106
“None in the world. I only note one thing and another,
and watch to see what will come of it all.”
Her words failed to set tongues wagging; no one cared to
talk loud. Each spoke to his neighbour in drowsy whispers;
all were heavy with sleep, of which they had had too little
the night before. They supped, too, with but little relish,
and looked (not without surprise) at Yagna, who was in high
spirits, bustling about the room, pressing them to eat, even
after they had laid down their spoons, bursting into laughter,
no one knew why, and sitting down beside the girls and talk-
ing nonsense, to break off on a sudden and run out to the
other lodgings . . . and return when she had got only as
far as the passage. Truth is, she was racked with a fever of
anguish and dread. The evening wore away sluggishly,
wearily, whilst her longing to go out behind the hut—to
the haystack—grew ever stronger and stronger. Yet she
could not make up her mind to go. She feared to be seen
——she feared to commit sin. She was putting forth all her
power of self-control, and trembling with the agony of ef-
fort; her soul cried out for liberty like a chained-up dog;
her heart was rent within her. No, no! she could not bear
it! . . . Perhaps he was standing there . . . looking about
for her . . . he might be prowling round the cabin. . . . Per-
haps, hidden in the orchard, he was even then looking mat
the window at her . . . and imploring . . . and pining
away with sad desire! . . . Then she thought she would
run out, but only for a minute . . . only to say one word,
to tell him he must not come to her nor she to him, for it
was a sin. . . . And now she was looking for her apron to
put it on . . . and now she made for the door. . . . But
there something caught hold of her by the n'ape of the neck,
as it were, and pulled her back—Yagustynka’s eyes followed
each of her movements, like a sleuth-hound.—-Nastka too
looked strangely at her—And the old man tool—Did they
know? had they found out anything? . . . “No, no; I will
not go out to-day.”
Lapa, barking outside the hut, roused her at last from
the state of obsession she was in. The cabin was nearly
107 WINTER
empty. Only Yagustynka sat there, dozing by the ﬁreside.
Her goodman, too, was standing at the window and looking
out; for the dog barked more and more furiously.
“No doubt, Antek, no longer able to wait, had now . . .
She broke off in terror.
But only old Klemba stood there in the doorway. Be-
hind him, shaking and stamping the snow off their clothes
and boots, came Vinciorek, Gregory “the Lame,” Michael
Caban, Franek Bylitsa (Hanka’s uncle), Valenty “the Wry-
mouthed,” and Joseph Vahnik!
Boryna marvelled much at this deputation, as it seemed
to be, but said not a word, except to answer their greetings.
He shook hands all round, bade them be seated on the
benches he pushed forwards, and offered his snuff-box.
They all sat down in a row, and took a pinch, nothing
loath; one sneezed, another blew his nose, a third wiped his
eyes, the snuff being of ﬁrst-class strength. . . . They then
looked round them, and some spoke a few words—about the
snowy weather, about hard times—while others assented with
grunts and nods: all, however, approaching at leisure the
object of their visit.
Boryna shifted uneasily on his bench, stared at them, and
attempted by various means to draw them out and learn
what they would have of him.
He failed. They sat there in a row, hoary—headed clean-
shaven old men, nearly of an age, hale as yet, though bowed
down by years and labour; ponderous as moss-grown
boulders in the ﬁelds, rugged, tough-sinewed, ungainly, but
hard-headed and shrewd, they fought shy of speaking be-
fore the time, and approached the matter in hand circui-
tously, as sagacious sheep-dogs do a ﬂock they aim at driving
through a gate.
At length, however, Klemba cleared his throat, expector-
ated, and said with a digniﬁed mien:
“How long shall we hang back and beat about the bush?
We come to know if ye are on our side or not.”
“Without you we cannot decide aught.”
“For ye are the ﬁrst man amongst us all.”
’)
THE PEASANTS 108
“And wisdom has been given you by our Lord.”
“And though ye have no ofﬁce, yet are ye the leader of
us all.”
“Also our common interests are at stake.”
Each man had his say, and every one was so compli-
mentary to Boryna that he turned red, held up his hands in
deprecation, and exclaimed:
“Kind friends, I do not even know as yet what brings you
hither!”
“Our forest! After Twelfth Night, they intend to cut it
down.”
“I know they even now saw timber at the mill.”
“But that belongs to Jews in Rudka, as we thought ye
knew.”
“I did not: I have little time to go about and question
folk.” ,
“Yet ye were ﬁrst to make complaint against the Squire?”
“Because I thought that he had sold the timber of our
clearing.”
“Why, whose else? say whose!” Caban interrupted.
“That on the land he bought himself; his own.”
“Aye, but he also has sold the timber of Vilche Doly, and
they are now to cut it down!”
“That he can only do if we agree!”
“And yet the trees are marked already; they have meas-
ured out the land, and will begin to fell the timber after
Twelfth Night”;
“If ’tis thus”—Boryna paused to reﬂect—“if so, then we
shall enter a complaint before the commissary.”
“ ‘From seed-time to harvest, complainant, thou starv-
est!”’ Caban muttered; and Valenty “the Wry-mouthed”
chimed in:
“ ‘In dying condition, folk need no physician.’ ”
“A complaint will do this mUch: ere the official prohfbi-
tion is issued, there will not remain a single stump of the
wood—our wood—Remember what they did at Debitsa!”
“ ‘The wolf that tastes a single lamb, with the whole ﬂock
its maw will cram.’ The manor folk are like the wolf.”
109 WINTER
“This,” Boryna said, “must be prevented.”
“Matthias, these are words of wisdom. To-morrow, when
mass is over, the farmers are to meet at my cabin and see
what we should do; and they have sent to ask you to come
over with good advice.”
“Shall they all be there?”
“Yes, and just after mass.”
“To-morrow?—'-What can I do?—-You see, I must be to-
morrow at Vola without fail. Kinsmen of mine are dividing
land there, quarrelling and bringing actions one against
another. I have promised to arbitrate there, so that the
orphans shall suffer no wrong. So I must go; but I agree
to stand by the meeting’s decision.”
They left the hut somewhat dissatisﬁed. He had approved
them and agreed with all they said; but they had the im-
pression he was not sincerely holding with them.
“You will decide as you choose,” he was thinking; “I
shall be clear of it. Neither the Voyt, nor the miller, nor
any of the foremost men here follow you. . . . The Squire,
if he knows I am not hostile to him, will compensate me
more willingly for the cow; and he may come to an under-
standing with each of us separately—They are foolish: it
were better to let him cut the very last sapling down—and
’then go to law—lodge a complaint—get an in junction—and
so wring out of him far more than he would have given by
any agreement.”
Long after everyone else was in bed, Matthias still sat
up, poring over a board on which he had made calculations
with chalk, and revolving many things in his mind.
The next day, immediately after breakfast, he ordered the
sledge to be got ready.
“As I said last night, I am off to Vola. Yagna, take good
care of the house; if anyone should ask after me, say I was
obliged to go.,—And do not forget to look in at the Voyt’s.”
“Will ye come home late?” she asked, concealing the joy
she felt.
“About supper-time: perhaps later.”
He put on his best suit, which she brought him from the
THE PEASANTS 110
store-room. Instead of a button, she passed a. ribbon
through his shirt button-holes and tied it; she helped him
to dress, and hurried Pete on, with feverish impatience to
get the horses harnessed in a trice. She was all the time
in rapid movement, and her heart cried out for gladness:
her goodman would be absent for the whole day, and was
to return late. . . perhaps only near midnight! While
she would remain alone!——And at dusk—at dusk—she could
go out—out behind the haystack! Aha! . . . She exulted
in her soul; her eyes beamed with laughter, she stretched
and drew herself up; shocks as of tingling and burning elec-
tric ﬂuid went through her with most exquisitely sweet
torment. . . . And then, all at once and unexpectedly, a
strange feeling of dread took hold of her, and a dead hush
came over her soul, and she looked on, as one dazed, at
Boryna, as he put on his cap and gave his orders to Vitek.
“Oh, pray, pray, take me with you!” she whispered low.
“But—~but,” Boryna stammered in astonishment, “who
will take your place at home?”
“Yet take me.——It is St. Stephen’s feast to-day, and there
is little to do. Take me; I feel so dejected here!” And she
begged so hard that—much as he wondered at her whim—he
made no further difﬁculties. A few minutes later, she was
ready, and off they set from the hut, the sledge swaying and
sweeping round with all the might of straining hocks and
beating hoofs.
CHAPTER VI
in some snow-drift!”
“In such a storm as this, how could I go faster? I
had to grope my way along, for the snow blew in my eyes
so, I could not keep them open; and it drives along the roads
so thick that it hides everything two paces away.”
“Your mother at home?”
“Surely; where else, in such villainous weather? She was
at the Koziols, this morning. Magda is in a bad way,
though, and like to go to the churchyard, ‘the priest’s cow-
byre.’” So answered Yagna, shaking the snow from her
clothes.
“Any gossip abroad?” he inquired, chafﬁng her.
“Go out and ask, and ye will know. I did not run thither
to gossip.” ,
“Do you know that the Squire is here?”
“Here? In such a storm it were hard to keep a dog out
of doors; and he has freely chosen to come?”
“ ‘Who must, will go, even through storms ,of snow.’ ”
“Yes, who must.” She smiled sceptically.
“He himself promised; no one asked him,” Boryna an-
swered sternly. Then he set aside a barrel hoop he was
working at, and got up to look out at the window; but such
a hurricane of snow ﬁlled the air, whirling and swirling out-
side, that neither trees nor fences were visible.
“1 think the snow is not coming down any more,” he
added, more gently.
“No, it is only blown and swept about so, that one cannot
see one’s way,” Yagna replied, warming her hands, and set-
ting to wind the thread from a spindle on to a reel. Her
husband, after again peeping out of the window, and listen-
ing with still greater impatience, took up his work.
“I THOUGHT,” he muttered sourly, “you’d been lost
111
’THE PEASANTS llZ
“Yuzka—where is she?” he asked presently.
“Gone to Nastka’s, no doubt; she is always there.”
“The girl’s a gadabout—never at home for the space of a
‘pater.’ ”
“She says staying at home is wearisome.”
“Wants to divert herself, the little chit!”
“No; to shirk her duties, rather.”
“Can ye not forbid her?”
“I? Once I did; and was abused and railed at for my
pains. Ye must give her orders yourself: mine are of no
account.”
To this complaint Boryna paid little attention; he was
listening with extreme impatience. But no human voice
was audible outside, only the gale blowing, roaring here and
there, and smiting the walls till they vibrated and groaned
again.
’ “Going out?” she asked.
He made no answer, hearing the front door open; and
immediately Vitek ran in, out of breath, and crying out,
as he entered:
“The Squire has come!”
“Only now? Shut the door, quick!”
“I can hear the jingling of his harness-bells still.”
“Did he come alone?”'
“I could only distinguish the horses, the air was so thick.”
“Run this instant and ﬁnd out where he has stopped.”
“Shall ye go to him?” she asked, with bated breath.
“Not until he has asked to see me; I shall not 'invite my-
self. But without me he can do nothing.”
There was a pause: Yagna winding up threads, counting
them and making them into skeins, while her goodman, so
impatient that he could not work any longer, laid the things
down and was preparing to go out . . . when in bolted
Vitek! ‘
“The Squire is at the miller’s, in his front room—and his
horses stand in the yard.”
“How have you dirtied yourself so?”
“The wind blew me into a snow-drift.”
113 'WINTER
“Say rather you were ﬁghting with other young rascals
in the snow!”
“No, it was the wind!”
“Aye, aye: tear your clothes, do: you’ll get such a beat-
ing from me as you’ll remember!”
“But it’s true what I say. It blows and blusters so, one
can scarcely keep one’s feet.”
“Get away from the ﬁre-place; you will warm yourself
enough later.—Go to Pete, tell him to do some threshing;
and you are to help him—not run about the village like a
dog with its tongue lolling out.” . .
“I go,” he answered sulkily; “but I must ﬁrst bring ﬁre-
wood, as mistress ordered me.” He sorely wished to tell
what he had seen in the village. Going out, he whistled to
Lapa, but the dog, curled up by the ﬁreside, paid no heed
to him. Boryna, dressed to go, went about the cabin, poked
the logs, peeped into the stable, looked out of the window,
and waited with growing restlessness to be sent for; but no
one came.
“He may have forgotten,” Yagna hazarded.
“Forgotten ?-—Forgotten me?”
“Perhaps. Ye trust the blacksmith so, and he is such a
liar.”
“You are a fool. Speak not of what ye do not under-
stand.”
Offended, she became mute. He tried in vain to bring
her round with kind words, and at last he too lost his tem-
per, snatched up his cap and strode out, slamming the door.
Yagna, having supplied her distaff with ﬂax, sat down by
the window, and began to spin, with a glance from time to.
time at the tempest of snow that raged outside.
The wind howled deafeningly. Great clouds of powdery
snow, as large as houses, torn and tattered and formless,
were whisked about in every direction, and again and again
broke upon the cabin walls, making every beam and rafter
tremble, rattling the contents of the sideboard, and swing-
ing to and fro Yuzka’s “globes” and “stars” that dangled
overhead.
THE PEASANTS 114
A draught, piercingly cold, came in through the doors and
windows, making Yagna throw her apron over her shoulders,
and Lapa more than once shift his place for a warmer nook.
Vitek entered noiselessly, and said, not without hesitation:
“Mistress!”
“Well?”
“Do you know, the Squire has driven over with stallions!
Carriage-horses they are, black as night, with red netting
and plumes on their heads, and tinkling bells about their
ﬂanks; and they shine like the gildings in the church. And
how they did ﬂy past! Oh, faster far- than the wind!”
“Of course—They are not peasants’ horses: they be-
long to the manor.”
“O Lord! I never saw such wonderful beasts!”
“Could they be otherwise, with no ﬁeld-work to do, and
feeding on naught but oats?”
“Ye are right, mistress—But should we feed our ﬁlly
so, and dock her tail, and harness her together with the
Voyt’s mare, would they go as well as these?”
The dog started up in alarm, and barked.
“Someone is in the passage: see who it is.”
But ere Vitek could do so, a man, crusted over with snow,
appeared on the threshold, “praised God,” beat his cap on
the leg of his boot, and looked round the room.
“Pray let me breathe a space and warm myself here,” he
gasped.
“Be seated,” she replied, in some confusion. “Vitek, put
more logs on the ﬁre.”
The stranger sat dOWn on the hearth, warmed himself,
and lit a pipe.
“Is this the dwelling of Boryna—Matthias Boryna?” he
asked, consulting a paper.
“It is,” she answered, fearing she might have to do with
someone of the police.
“Is your father at home?”
“My husband is gone to the village.”
“Allow me to wait here a little, warming myself by the
ﬁre: I am quite frozen.”
115 WINTER
“You are welcome: neither bench nor ﬁre will lose
thereby.”
He took off his sheepskin coat, but had evidently been
chilled to the marrow, for he shivered all over, rubbed his
hands, and drew nearer and nearer still to the ﬁre.
.“This year,” he remarked, “we have a bitterly hard
Winter.”
“Of a truth, it is not mild—May I heat a little milk for
you?”
“No, thanks; but I should like some tea.”
“We had some not long since, in autumn, when my good-
man had pains inside, and I got some from town for him;
but it is all run out, and I cannot say where I could obtain
any here.”
“Why,” Vitek put in, “his Reverence is drinking tea all
day long.”
“Would you run to him and borrow some?” a
“No need. I have some by me—if you would give me
some water. . . ”
“I shall boil some at once.”
She placed a pot on the ﬁre, and returned to her spinning,
but spun no more; while she seemed to be twirling the spin-_
dle, she was scanning him with great curiosity—Who could
he be? what did he want? Was he a man of the police,
making out some list? the paper he was always consulting
seemed to point to that—His apparel, too, was not of her
class: grey and green, like the hunting-dress of a manor-
house footman. . . . But again, he was wearing a peasant’s
sheepskin and cap !-—-He might possibly be an eccentric fel-
low, or perhaps a world-ranger.
Thus she pondered, exchanging glances with Vitek, who,
apparently gazing into the ﬁre, scrutinized the stranger, and
was much surprised to hear him try and make friends with
Lapa.
“Pray beware: that dog bites!” he could not help ex-
claiming.
“Fear naught!” he said, and, with a singular smile, he
patted the dog’s head, come to rest on his knees.
THE PEASANTS Il6
Presently Yuzka came in and, soon after, Vavrek’s wife,
-and several other neighbours; for already the news had been
spread abroad that a stranger had come to Boryna’s hut.
But he continued warming himself, paying no attention
to the people or their whispers and remarks. When the
water in the pot boiled, he took some tea out of a piece of
paper, poured the tea in, took a white mug down from the
shelf, and drank the tea thus made, nibbling at a lump of
sugar the while, and walking about the room, examining the
pieces of furniture, or standing in the midst and eyeing the
people with such sharp glances that they felt confused.
“Who made these?” he asked, pointing to the wafer
“globes” that dangled from the ceiling.
“I did!” Yuzka sang out, turning very red.
He resumed his walk, Lapa following him step by step.
“And who did these paintings?” he inquired, stopping
before a few of the cut-out ﬁgures that were on the picture-
frames and the walls.
“They are not painted, but cut out of paper.”
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed.
“I do, for I cut them out myself.”
“And did you invent them?”
“Of course, but every child here can do as much.”
He said nothing further, poured out some more tea, sat
down by the ﬁre again, and a pretty long silence ensued.
The folk slunk away; night was coming on, and the storm
had abated. At times an angry gust would still rush by,
but at rarer intervals and with less fury, like a bird that a
long ﬂight has worn out.
At length, Yagna put her distaff aside, and began to pre-
pare supper.
“Was one james Soha ever in your service?”
“Is it Kuba you mean?—Aye, he was, but he died last
autumn, poor man!”
“Your parish priest has told me so.—Lord God! I have
been seeking him for ever so long in all the villages around,
and ﬁnd him dead!”
“Have you sought for our Kuba?” cried Vitek, greatly
ll7 - ‘WINTER
touched. “Then ye are surely brother to the Squire of
Vola.”
“How do you know that?”
“People have often told me his brother was back from a
far-off land, and seeking a certain Kuba in all the country-
side: but no one could tell who that Kuba was.”
“Soha was his other name; I learned only to-day that he
was dead, and had been in your service.”
“Yes,” Vitek sobbed; “he was shot, and died—died of
loss of blood!”
“Was he long with you?”
“Ever since I can remember.”
“An honest fellow, I suppose?” he asked hesitatingly.
“Oh, the whole village will tell you how honest he was:
all wept at his funeral, all, even his Reverence, who would
take no money for the burying—He taught me my prayers,
and how to use a gun, and was like a father to me. . . .
Sometimes, too, he would give me a ﬁve-kopek bit—Relig—
ious he was, and a quiet man, a hard worker, and one that
his Reverence has praised many a time.”
“Is he buried in your churchyard?”
“Where else should he be?” Vitek returned. “I know
the place; Ambrose set up a cross there, and Roch wrote
about him on it. Even were it covered with snow, I could
ﬁnd it for you.”
“Then let’s start at once, to get there ere nightfall.”
The stranger put his sheepskin on, and stood there in a
brown study for a time. A man of many years, somewhat
stooping, grey-haired and withered. His rugged face had
a clayey tint, with a deep scar in one cheek from a bullet,
and another, long and ﬁery, on his brow. His nose was
long, his beard tufted and scanty, his eyes dark, deep-sunk
and glowing; a pipe was always in his mouth, and he was
always reﬁlling it.-—Waking up at last from his reverie, he
bethought himself of offering money to Yagna, who put her
hands behind her back, and ﬂushed crimson.
“Pray take it: nothing in the world is given for nothing.”
“In the world, that may be the fashion,” she retorted,
THE PEASANTS 118
with wounded pride. “Am I a jewess or a trader, to take
money for a little ﬁre and water?”
“Well, God reward your hospitality! Tell your husband
that Yacek from Vola has been here: he will remember me.
I shall be here again some day, but am now in haste, for
night is near. God be with you!”
“And with you also!”
She would have kissed his hand, but he snatched it away,
and hurried out of the cabin.
The darkness was coming down slowly over the land.
The great gale had gone down, but from the hillocks of
drifted snow that lay across the road, there blew a dry
powdery dust, like ﬂour shaken out of a cloth. Above, all
was now tranquil: huts and gardens came clear and distinct
out of the livid blur of the uprising dusk.
The village, lethargic during the blizzard, had started up;
the ways were full of passers—by, the gardens of voices;
here and there they were clearing away snow from before
the huts, or cutting holes in the ice and carrying water
from the pond; gates were opening and a few sledges plough-
ing their way through the snow. Crows—an infallible
sign that the weather was about to change—appeared, hop-
ping about the huts.
Mr. Yacek gazed round him with interest, asking at times
about the people they met or the huts they passed by, and
walked so fast that Vitek could scarcely keep pace with him.
Lapa ran on in front, barking gaily. -
In front of the church, the snow was piled up in such
great masses that it went over the fence completely, and
was as high as the boughs of the trees. They were accord-
ingly compelled to go round the priest’s dwelling-house,
outside of which a troop of urchins were running to and
fro, shouting and snow-balling each other. Lapa barked
at them; one boy caught it by the neck and threw it into
a feathery steamy drift. Vitek rushed to the rescue, but
they pelted him so hard, he could scarcely get away; and,
having retaliated as best he could, he ran to rejoin Mr.
Yacek, who had not waited for him.
119 WINTER
With difﬁculty they plodded through as far as the
burying-ground. Here, too, the snow was often as high as
a man, and the black arms of the crosses were only just
above the surface of the white mounds that covered the
graves. The place was somewhat exposed and there was
some wind here. Now and then, wafting the powdery snow
hither and thither, it hid all things from sight, except the
naked trees waving their shattered branches and looming
with dark trunks through the cloudy veil. All the ﬁelds
around were one plain of pure white; and just beyond the
churchyard, hard upon a score of people could be seen going
along the deeply covered road, bending forward under very
heavy burdens that they bore. When the wreaths that hid
them now and then were swept away, and the wind fell,
women’s red petticoats were seen clear and distinct, strag-
gling units on the plain.
“Who are these? Are they returning from some fair?"
“No, they are komomz'kz',l and have been to the forest to
get ﬁrewood.”
“What, are they carrying it on their backs?”
“Surely. As they have no horses, their shoulders must
bear the load.”
“Many such in the village?”
“Not a few. Only the gospodarge have land; the others
live in lodgings, and go out to work, or take service on
farms.”
“Do they often go out to fetch ﬁring?”
“The manor allows them to come twice a weekvwith bill-
hooks and take as much dry wood as they can break off and
carry in their bundles. The gospodarze alone have the
right to go to the forest with a cart, and use an ax on the
trees. . . . We have often and often, Kuba and I, gone there
together, and come back with a splendid tree in the cart!
1Peasants form two classes: the gospodarze, or landowners, who
have at least a hut and enclosure of their own; and komonzikz’, or
lodgers, who must work even for the lodgings they occupy. These
are very poor, and looked down upon by the others.-_Translator’s
Note.
THE PEASANTS 120
Kuba knew well how to fell a hornbeam, and conceal it
so amongst the ﬁrewood faggots that even the keeper never
caught him,” he said, not without pride. '
“Was he long in pain? Tell me all.”
This Vitek did, nothing loath, Mr. Yacek putting some
questions to him from time to time, now stopping short,
gesticulating and exclaiming aloud. The lad thought his
manner strange, could not make out what he meant, and
was beginning to feel terror besides: it was getting so dark;
the whole churchyard looked as though clad in a huge
shroud, and murmuring with eerie voices. So he ran on
in front and, with eyes starting from their sockets, looked
about for the cross that marked Kuba’s grave. At last he
found it, close to the fence, and near the scattered tombs of
those slain in the insurrection—“the War”—where he had
prayed on All Souls’ Day.
“Here it is, and the name, written on the cross: James
Soha.”—He spelt it out, following every one of the great
white letters with his ﬁnger. “Yes, Roch wrote that, and
Ambrose made the cross.” '
Mr. Yacek gave him a couple of zloty, and bade him run
home. So he did, and scampered away, but stopped once
to Whistle for Lapa, and glance back to see what the stranger
was about.
“Lord! The brother to the Squire, kneeling at Kuba’s
grave!” he ejaculated, stupeﬁed. But night was coming on
fast, and the trees, bending down over him, shook their
heads in “a weird way; so he went back to the village at a
run, and by a short cut; only stopping near the church to
take breath and look at the money he had safe in his closed
ﬁst. The dog caught up with him, and they went back at
leisure to the cabin.
Close to the pond he met Antek, returning from his work.
The dog rushed to fawn on him, whined with delight and
barked, and Antek caressed it kindly.
“Good dog! good dog!——Whence come you, Vitek?”
He told him of all, omitting the money given.
“Come one of these days and see my children.”
12! WINTER
“Yes, yes; I have made a cart for little Peter, and another
funny ﬁgure besides.”
“Do not forget to bring them—And here is something for
yourself.”
“I’ll come this very day, but ﬁrst I must see if master
is home yet.”
“Is he out?” Antek inquired, with poorly assumed indif-
ference.
“At the miller’s, taking counsel with the Squire and a
few more.”
“Mistress at home?” he asked, lowering his voice.
“Aye: busy at work. I’ll just look in there and be back.”
“Yes, come to us!” he said, and would have made more
inquiries; but, though it was late, people were still about;
moreover, the boy, a feather-headed fellow, might blab and
let things out. So he walked on swiftly, looking round
when near the church to see if he was watched, and then
turned aside, taking a path that ran by the granaries.
Vitek meanwhile made for the cabin.
Boryna had not come yet: the family room was in
shadow, save for the brands which glowed dully on the
hearth. Yagna was preparing the evening meal, and in
evil humour; for Yuzka had gone off again somewhere, and
there was so much to do, one did not know what to begin
ﬁrst. She gave no heed to what Vitek said, until he men- '
tioned Antek’s name; it arrested her attention and she
paused in her work.
“Tell no one that he gave you money!”
“Since mistress forbids me, I’ll not breathe a word of it!”
“Here are ﬁve kopeks more, for you to remember.—Did
he go home?”
Without waiting for an answer, she suddenly ran out
into the porch, calling for Pete, whilst she peered into the
orchard and court-yard, with searching, yet frightened
glances. She even went out to look beyond the shed and
about the haystack. No one was there. . . . This quieted
her, but also tried her patience. She rated Yuzka for not
having given the cows their drink, and for her continual
THE PEASANTS ' 122
idleness; to which the little girl, being bold and ﬁerce and
by no means tongue-tied, was not slow to answer back.
And they had a quarrel, each saying very sharp things.“
“Cabble, gabble your ﬁll! your father is coming, and his
strap will silence you!” she threatened her, lighting the
lamp, and taking up her spinning again. Yuzka went on
grumbling, but no one replied to her; Yagna had just
heard, she thought, someone passing outside the corner
window.
“Vitek, look outside; I think that one of our swine has
got out of the sty and is in the orchard now.”
But he assured her he had driven them all in and made
the door fast. Yuzka went to the other side of the hut and
brought tubs, Pete helping her, for the cows to drink from;
then she ran for the milking-pails.
“I myself shall milk them; after so much labour, ye need
restf’
“Yes, milk them, do! Once more ye will leave the
udders half full!” Yuzka snapped at her.
“Hold your peace, you had best!” she cried in a fury,
as she put her clogs on, tucked up her petticoat, and went
to the cow-shed with a couple of pails.
Night had fallen, the wind was hushed, the white snow-
mist settling down. But the sky above hung black, starless,
’ packed close with small low-lying clouds; the ﬁelds loomed
a dark grey; an oppressive lull prevailed everywhere. Not
a voice was heard in the village, nor any sound but the
hammers, beating, clinking, clinking, beating, on the anvil
in the forge.
In the byre it was close and dark; the kine were drinking
the water, and noisily licking, with mufﬂed gurgles, the
bottom of the tubs as they emptied them.
Yagna groped and found the milking-stool, sat down by
the ﬁrst cow in the row, felt her udder, wiped it clean, and,
propping her head against the animal’s ﬂanks, began her
work.
The milk spurted rhythmically into the resounding pail;
the hoofs of the horses pawed in the adjoining stable; from
123 WINTER
the cabin, muffled, yet audible, came the noise of Yuzka’s
chattering.
“Aye, she babbles and babbles, but does not peel the
potatoes!” Yagna muttered, bending a most attentive ear;
for now the snow outside was crackling under——it seemed
to her—the steps of someone coming from the shed. . . .
They stopped . . . all was still again . . . they approached
——the snow crackled louder.-—Turning her head toward the
glimmering outlines of the open door, she saw a ﬁgure dimly
silhouetted there.
“Pete!” she cried.
“Hush, Yagna, hush!”
“Antek!”
Motionless, palsy-stricken at the sight and words, she
could not articulate one syllable, nor even think. In-
stinctively she went on milking, but the milk squirted on to
her petticoat, or fell on the ground. A ﬁt of fever had
seized upon her; a gust, as it were, of ﬁery ﬂame swept
through all her being, ﬂashing lightnings before her eyes,
tearing at her heart-strings with delicious pain. And then
something caught her and throttled her so, she had like to
fall dead on the spot.
“Ever since Yule-tide,” he whispered, “I have been as a
watch-dog, waiting and watching for you, there, by the hay-
stack . . . and you! did not come once.”
That voice of his! Strangled, passionate, ﬂaming with
love, it overwhelmed her with the might of its clamorous
outcry to her heart, and of the sweet irresistible ﬁre it bore.
He stood facing her, leaning (as she could feel) against the
cow’s ﬂank, bending down and gazing upon her—so near
that she could feel his hot breath upon her brow.
“Do not fear me, Yagna. No one has seen; fear nothing
. . . I could bear it no longer, it was impossible: day and
night and always, you stand before mine eyes, Yagna-—
Will you not say one word?”
“What—what can I say?” she faltered tearfully.
Then they both were silent. Emotion made them mute,
and the very closeness of one to the other, the very solitude
THE PEASANTS 124
in common that they had so much desired, now took all
power from them, and weighed them down—a burden de-
lightful indeed, but fearful as well. They were irresistibly
drawn to each other, and yet it was now so hard to bring
out a single word! Their desire was mutual, and yet
neither could stretch forth a hand!
The cow, swishing her tail as she drank, struck him more
than once in the face, until he caught it in a ﬁrm grasp.
Then he bent down over Yagna still lower, and whispered
again:
“Sleep I cannot—nor eat—nor do aught without you, O
Yagna!”
“Things are not easy for me either.”
“Yagna! did you ever think of me at all?”
“Was I able not to think? You arise in my thoughts
always . . . I know no longer what to do.—-Is it true that
ye did smite Matthew?”
“It is. He lied, slandering you: I have stopped his
mouth. . . . And I will deal likewise with anyone who does
so.”
The cabin-door slammed: someone came out into the yard
at a run, straight for the cow-house. Antek had but just
time to leap the manger and crouch there.
“Yuzka ordered me to take the tubs back; we must get
the food ready for the swine,” said Vitek.
“Take—take them all!” she answered, huskily.
“Nay; Lysula has not ﬁnished hers yet; I shall return
for it.” He hurried away, and they heard him bang the
house-door.
Antek emerged from his hiding-place.
“He is coming back, that imp! I shall go to the hay-
stack and wait. . . . Will you come to me, Yagna?”
“I fear . . ”
“Come, oh, come . . . if but for an hour or so.--l shall
wait for you,” he entreated.
He came behind her, still sitting beside the cow, threw an
arm round her breast in a strong embrace, bent her head
back and kissed her mouth with so powerful an intake of
125 WINTER
the breath, that she herself could not breathe. Her arms
fell to her sides, the pail rolled along the ground. But,
straining up towards him, she kissed him back with such
wild vehemence that they both closed as in a death-grapple;
each fell into the other’s arms; and so they remained awhile
locked in that one mad, frenzied, delirious kiss.
At last he tore himself away, and slunk out of the byre.
She would now have sprung after him, but he was on the
threshold and vanished like a shadow into the night. Yet
still she could hear his muffled whisper, and it wrought on
her senses with such ﬁery and commanding power that she
looked around, astounded to see him no more. No, he was
not there—only the kine. chewing the cud and whisking
their tails. She looked out into the yard, where—beyond
that threshold—reigned night impenetrable, and silence was
lord, save where the forge-hammers beat and clinked afar.—
But he had been there, had stood by her side, had hugged,
had kissed her. Her lips were yet burning, the ﬂame was
running through her still, and an unuttered shout of glad-
ness echoed within her heart—“Antek!” she cried aloud;
and the sound of her own voice brought her partly back
to her senses—She set to milking as fast as she could, but
was so dazed that she more than once sought the udder be-
tween the beast’s forelegs, and was so beside herself with
gladness that she never knew her face was wet with tears
till, as she returned to the cabin, the cold air blew on her
cheeks. She brought the milk. but forgot to strain it out,
and ran round to the other side of the hut under the im—
pression that she had something urgent to do. . . . What it
was, she could not remember: the one thought that ﬁlled
her mind was that Antek waited for her by the hayrick.
She took a few steps about the room, threw her apron over
her head . . . and went out.
Very quickly did she round the hut, gliding along out-
side the windows, to the narrow passage between orchard
and shed, which was nearly roofed over with drooping
snow-laden branches that bent so low, she had to stoop
down as she passed.
THE PEASANTS 126
Antek awaited her by the stile; he leaped forward, raven—
ous as a wolf, and half carried, half dragged her to the
rick near the roadside.
But that day they were doomed to disappointment.
They had scarce got into the rick and joined lips in a kiss,
when, stern and loud, Boryna’s voice resounded.
“Yagna! Yagna!”
They sprang apart, as if struck with lightning. Antek
darted away, and ran crouching along the fence; Yagna
hastened back to the court—yard. The boughs had torn her
apron off her head, and she was covered all over with snow;
but this she did not remark. She rubbed her face with
snow, took up an armful of ﬁrewood from the shed, and
walked deliberately into the cabin.
Old Boryna eyed her askance and somewhat strangely.
“I went to see about Sivula; she is lying down and
lowing.”
“But where have ye got covered with so much snow?”
“WhereP—Oh, there’s a lot of it hanging like beards
down from the eaves; if you do but touch them, down they
come!” She gave the explanation jauntily, but turned her
face away from the ﬁre, lest he should see her ﬂaming
cheeks.
But she could not hoodwink Boryna. Without looking
her straight in the face, he could perceive very well that
she was blushing crimson, and that her eyes glowed fever-
ishly. A sort of vague uncertain suspicion crept into his
mind, and his jealousy snarled and crouched within him,
like a dog ready to bite. He pondered and thought very
long, and at last concluded that Matthew must have met
her and pushed her against the fence.
Nastka coming in just then, he thought he would get her
to speak.
“Ah! What have I heard?—-Your Matthew is well and
up by now, as it seems?”
“Well and up, indeed? Alas!”
“Someone told me he had met him in the village this
evening ”
127 WINTER
“’Tis all mere talk. Matthew can hardly move, cer-
tainly not rise from his bed. He spits no more blood,
though; Ambrose cupped him to-day, and prepared him a
drink—~lard melted in strong vodka—and they are both
taking the medicine together so heartily that one can hear
their songs from the road!”
The old man put no more questions, but remained sus-
picious.
Yagna, tired of the moody silence, and abashed by his
ﬁxed prying stare, related to him every detail of Mr. Yacek’s
Visit.
He was greatly amazed; and, at a loss to conceive what
it meant, he took no small pains to ﬁnd out, pondering
every word. He ﬁnally decided that the Squire had sent
Mr. Yacek to make sure what the Lipka folk thought about
the matter of the clearing.
“But he never so much as asked one word about the
forest!”
“When such a one begins, he leads you on and on, as
with a rope, and you know neither when nor how, but you
tell him all. Well do I know that brood of manor-folk!”
“He asked only about Kubaand the ﬁgures stuck upon
the wall.”
“ ‘To ﬁnd the road, he walks along a side-path.’ Yes, in
all this there is some trick or other of the manor-folk.
What? the brother of the Squire troubling about Kuba?
’Tis true, this Yacek is, they say, not quite sound of mind
--always wandering about the villages, playing his violin
where holy ﬁgures stand, and talking senseless talk—Did
he say he would come again?”
“He did, and asked about you.”
“Well, well, this is beyond me.”
“And had you a talk with the Squire?” she asked him
pleasantly, wishing to turn his mind away from what had
just occurred.
He winced, as though stung in some most tender part.
“No. I was at Simon’s.” And he said no more.
So they sat together in gloomy silence until supper-time,
THE PEASANTS 128
when Roch came in. He sat down by the ﬁre, according
to custom, but would not eat. When they had done, he
said, in a low tone:
“I have not come here for myself. They tell me, the
Squire is deeply offended with the Lipka folk and will not
employ one peasant of the village to hew down his trees.
I have come to ask if this is the truth.”
“In God’s name, my man, how should I know? It is
news to me!”
“But a council was held at the miller’s to-day; the news
has come thence.”
“The Voyt, the miller, and the smith were there: not I.”
“How so? They tell me that the Squire was here to-day
to see you, and you went out with him.”
“I have not seen him, and I speak the truth: believe me
or not, as you choose.”
But how this truth had stung him, and the fact that he
had been slighted had stung him, he did not say.
The very thought exasperated him; he held his tongue
nevertheless, ruminating over the bitter grievance, and con-
trolling himself with a great effort, lest Roch should guess
at what he felt. '
I—Iow now? He had been waiting, be! and they had held
their council, and left him out of it! That he would not
pass over.—-A nobody in their eyes, he would show he was
somebody in the village. . . . It was the miller’s doing: he
had made a fortune by wronging the people, and was now
above everyone. That cheat! of whom he knew enough to
send the fellow to prison! . . . And the Voyt, forsooth!
one ﬁt rather to feed cattle than command his betters—a
vile drunkard, whose ofﬁce, if they only elected him, Am-
brose might take, and ﬁll it as well as he! . . . The black-
smith too, his pestilential son-in-law! Let the brute but
come again to Boryna’s cabin! . . . And then the Squire
-—that wolf, always prowling and sniﬁing round to snatch
what he could from the people! A noble, dwelling on the
peasants’ lands, selling the peasants’ forests, living but by
the peasants’ sufferance; and he durst come there to plot
129 WINTER
against them! Could not the wretch understand that a
ﬂail would strike as hard on a noble’s back as on anyone
else’SP—However, he let none of these thoughts escape him
in words. They pained him exceedingly, they tortured
him; but that was his business and no one else’s. And,
remembering presently that such silent brooding in the
presence of a guest was unseemly, he rose and said:
“Ye bring strange news; but if the Squire be resolved
and will not change his mind, I see no means of forcing
him.”
“True; yet if some honourable man were to set before
him the harm the people would suffer thereby, he might
decide otherwise.”
“I,” Boryna exclaimed tartly, “will by no means inter-
cede!”
“But consider: there are a score of Komorm'ki here, all
eager for work to do. Ye know them, and know how
severe this winter is. Some have their stock of potatoes
frozen, and are out of work. Ere spring comes, the misery
among them will be frightful. Even now, many families
have only once a day warm food to eat. They all reck-
oned that, when the Squire had his trees in Vilche Doly
felled, there would be work enough for everyone. And
now it is said that he has vowed he would not take one
man from Lipka, being angered because they brought a
complaint against him to the commissioner.”
“That I signed myself; and I will stand by it. He shall
not fell one sapling without our consent.”
“If so, then he will perchance not fell any trees.”
“None, at least, on our land.”
“But,” Roch faltered, “what will become of those poor
men?”
“I cannot help their fate, nor give up our rights that
they may work for him. I may stand up to defend others
from wrong; but when I am wronged, who will be on my
side? My dog, perhaps?”
“Then I see ye are not a friend of the manor.”
“A friend of myself—and of justice. Of naught besides.
THE PEASANTS 130
And I have other matters to think upon. lf Voytek or
Bartek has no food to eat—that is the priest’s affair, not
mine! With the best will, I cannot alone provide for all.”
“But help to provide . . . and help not a little,” Roch
replied, sadly.
“Try carrying water in a sieve: how much will ye bring
in? ’Tis even so with poverty—And to me it seems a di-
vine ordinance that some should have possessions, and others
only the air they breathe.”
Roch bowed his head and went out, much grieved. He
had expected less harshness towards human sufferings from
Boryna. The latter saw him to the gate, and—as customary
with him—went round to give a last look at the cows
and horses ere going to bed.
Yagna, murmuring her evening prayer, was beating up
the contents of the feather-bed she was making, when Mat-
thias, coming in, cast a piece of cloth at her feet.
“Ye lost your apron: I found it by the stile!” he said,
very quietly, but with such harsh emphasis and a look so
keen and searching that she was petriﬁed with fear, and it
was some seconds before she could stammer out some words
to explain things.
“’Twas . . . ’twas that Lapa. . . . Mischievous brute!
. always making off with something . . . took my clogs
to his kennel the other day—Always up to some mischief!”
“Lapa?—l see.——Aye, aye,” he muttered with grim irony,
positive that she had lied to him.
CHAPTER VII
N Twelfth Night, which that year fell on a Monday,
the folk were slowly ﬁling out of church, even be-
fore Vespers were over. For they heard from the
tavern the music and singing, and made their way towards
the inviting sounds. It was now that, for the ﬁrst time since
Advent, music was permitted; now, too, that Margaret
Klemba and Vincent Soha celebrated their betrothal. The
latter, though bearing the same name as the deceased Kuba,
denied any relationship with him, being of those who pride
themselves on their acres alone.
Also, it was whispered that'Staho Ploshka (who had since
the potato-harvest been making up to Ulisia, the Soltys’
daughter) would surely that evening come to the point and
settle everything with her father over a bottle. The latter
was known to have objected to the match, not wishing for a
son-in-law such a quarrelsome fellow, ﬁckle besides, never
on good terms with his parents, and demanding either four
whole acres of land or two thousand zloty in cash and a
couple of cows into the bargain, as Ulisia’s dowry.
That day, too, was the christening at the Voyt’s; and
though the festivities were to be held at home, most who
knew him expected that, as soon as the company should be in
convivial mood, he would adjourn to the tavern and stand
them drinks there all round.
Besides these attractions, there were also greater and
more serious matters, which concerned all the people
equally.
They had, as it happened, learned after High Mass from
the people of the other hamlets that the Squire had already
engaged all the hands he needed at the clearing: ten from
Rudka, from Modlitsa ﬁfteen, about eight from Debitsa,
131
THE PEASANTS 132
and of the “nobility” of Rzepki1 hard upon a score; from
Lipka, not one single man. It was a fact, for the forester
had been at High Mass, and had told them so.
The poor were in consternation.
There were indeed in Lipka a great many wealthy families.
And there were others, too, not so well off, but to whom this
mode of earning money did not appeal. And others, again,
though in distress, would never own to it, in order to keep
up appearances and friendly relations with the wealthy men
with Whom they invariably held—But there were also the
Konwmz'kz’, and such as possessed only a hovel to live in.
Of these, some worked on the farmers’ threshing-ﬂoors, some
wielded axes at the saw-mill, some did any work that came
to hand, and (with the help of the Lord) scraped together
enough to live upon. And, besides these, there were still
ﬁve families that could get no work at all in the village:
these had been looking forward to tide the Winter over by
work done on the clearing.
What were they to do now?
The winter was terrible. Few of them had any savings;
some had even ﬁnished their stock of potatoes, and starvation
was staring them in the face. They had to wait till spring,
with no help in sight: small wonder, then, that they were
sorely troubled in mind. They assembled in their huts to
discuss matters, and in the end came to Klemba in a body,
begging him to go with them to his Reverence, and seek his
advice. Klemba excused himself, pretexting his daughter’s
betrothal. Others whom they tried shirked the troublesome
duty, wriggling out of it like eels, and caring only for them-
selves and their own proﬁt. This enraged Bartek (him of
the saw-mill), who, though he had work, was always on the
side of the poor. He therefore took with him Philip, who
1 Here and there in Poland, one ﬁnds villages whose inhabitants
hold aloof from the otlizr peasants, and keep strictly to themselves;
types very different from the others; haughty, reserved, and gener-
ally very poor. In old days, their forefathers were ennobled and
grants of land were made to them for distinguished military service;
and these are the remnants of their posterity-Translator’s Note.
I33 WINTER
lived over the water, Staho (old Bylitsa’s son-in-law), and
Bartek Koziol and Valek the Wry-mouthed: with these
four he went to beg his Reverence to plead for them with the
Squire.
They were closeted with him a considerable time, and only
after Vespers did Ambrose hurry to tell Kobus that they were
in conference with the priest, and would come over to the
tavern.
Evening was falling meanwhile; the last ﬁres of sundown
were burnt out in the west, save for a few grey ashes that
glimmered red like dying brands; and the country-side was
slowly being wrapped in the mantle of the night. No moon
was up as yet, but from the hard-frozen snow some chill icy
gleams were reﬂected, making things appear as if shrouded in
a winding-sheet. Stars peeped forth from the overhanging
darkness—specks that swelled and shrank tremulously in the
deep space, and shone bright with sparkling reﬂections on
the snow. And the frost grew so bitter that men’s ears tin-
gled and the slightest noise seemed to echo over all the land.
But in the huts the ﬁres blazed, and folk went busily
about their evening duties: when in the yard and the enclo-
sures, they bustled with furious haste, the frost burning their
faces like a hot iron and strangling the very breath within
them; but all was very quiet in the streets and lanes.
Not in the tavern, however. Here the musicians made a
joyful noise, ever louder and louder. People were there,
come from almost every hut: some to look about them, some
(whom neither betrothals nor serious affairs interested) al-
lured by the scent of the vodka. Women to whom solitude
at home was irksome, and girls fond' of romping with boys
and hearing the band play. had slipped away stealthily be-
fore the gloaming, ostensibly to take the men home with
them; but they stayed on themselves. Children too, espe-
cially boys in their teens, had followed their fathers; whis-
tling to one another about the messuages, they had gathered
in groups, loitering inside and outside the tavern porch, in
spite of the cruel frost which bit them.
The tavern was well crowded. A big ﬁre roared up the
TI-IE PEASANTS 134
chimney, ﬂooding half the public room with blood-red light.
Each man, on entering, stamped to clean his boots on the
hearth, warmed his numbed hands, and then went to seek his
own set in the throng: no very easy matter, for, notwith-
standing the ﬁre and the lamp hung over the bar, it was
dark enough in the corners. In one of these the musicians
sat, playing only now and then, and not very willingly: the
dances had not properly begun yet, though an impatient
couple or two were already whirling round and round.
The walls were lined with people, sitting at tables all
along them, and in separate companies. But few of these
drank much; they conferred together, and looked with a
wistful eye on all who came in.
There was most noise about the bar, where Klemba’s in-
vited guests and Soha’s kinsmen were standing; but even
these were for the most part talking, and behaving with
great propriety, as was the right thing at betrothals.
Many darted furtive glances towards the window, where
about ﬁfteen men of Rzepki were sitting at table; they had
come before any, and still kept their places. No one in-
sulted them, but no one showed them goodwill either, except
Ambrose, who made friends with them at once, drank much
vodka, and told them as strange stories as they could swallow.
Close by stood Bartek of the saw-mill, with his friends, tell-
ing them what his Reverence had said, and inveighing loudly
against the Squire. He was noisily supported by Voytek
Kobus, a wiry little man, so ﬁerce that he was all the time
banging his ﬁsts on the table and boiling over with rage.
This he did on purpose, guessing that the Rzepki men there
present were going to fell the trees next day. Not one of
them, however, took up his provocation, but they talked
among themselves as if they had ‘heard nothing.
Nor did any of the gospodarze there take it much to heart
that his Reverence had been unwilling to plead for them with
the Squire. On the contrary, the more noise the others made,
the more these avoided them, turning away among the crowd.
This was not difﬁcult, the throng being so thick and making
so much din that each man could, at his ease and regard-
135 WINTER
less of his neighbours, choose the society he preferred.
' Only Yagustynka passed from group to group, here with a
word of mockery, there with a merry jest, or whispering low
some bit of gossip—but always attentive to go where bottles
passed round and glasses clinked.
After a time, and by slow degrees, the people’s fancy
turned to merry-making. The noise had by now become an
uproar, the glasses jingled oftener, the door opened inces-
santly to let new guests in. At last the musicians, being
well plied with liquor by Klemba, struck up a brilliant
mazur; and Soha, with his Margaret, led off, followed by as
many couples as cared to dance. '
These were not many in number. Most of the folk, seeing
the ﬁrst dancers in the place—Ploshka, Stach, Vahnik, the
Voyt’s brother, and many more—sitting and talking in nooks
and corners, preferred to hold joyous converse together, or
to jeer, half aloud, at the “nobility” of Rzepki, to whom Amp
brose was constantly paying court.
Then Matthew appeared, leaning on a stick, drawn from
his bed for the ﬁrst time by his longing for society. He at
once ordered vodka boiled with honey, took a seat by the
fireside, and set to drinking and joking with his acquaint-
ances. Suddenly he stopped. Antek was standing in the
doorway; who, seeing him, drew himself up proudly and,
after shooting one glance at the man, would have passed
on as if he did not exist.
But Matthew exclaimed excitedly:
“Boryna! come hither to me!”
“Come ye yourself, if ye have aught to say,” was Antek’s
curt reply: he thought the other meant to attack him.
_“I would; but I cannot walk yet without a stick.”
Antek, mistrusting him, passed on with an ominous frown;
but Matthew caught him by the arm, and made him sit down
at his side.
“Seat yourself here.—-You have shamed me before all
men; you have beaten me so, they had to call the priest in!
But I bear you no grudge, fellow, and come ﬁrst with words
of peace—Here, drink with me, boy! No man had ever
THE PEASANTS I36
beaten me, and I thought no man could—Wondroust
strong you are, truly !—-To toss up a man like me as a truss
of straw . . . good heavens!”
“Ye were ever harrying me as I worked. . . . And then
ye let out foul speech: it made me furious, I knew not what
I did.”
“Yes, you speak true, and I confess it: not from fear, but
with a willing mind—But how ye did clapperclaw me!
Why, I lost my best blood, and have many a rib broken.
. . . Well, to you, Antek, I drink—W hat, man! forgive and
let hate die! I, too, forget all . . . as well as my shoulders
will let me! . . . But are you indeed stronger than Vavrek
of Vola?”
“Did I not, on Indulgence Day, last harvest-time, thrash
him so that I hear he is not well yet?”
“Vavrek! They told me that, but I would not believe it.
. . . Here, you jew! Rum! And ‘essence’ to ﬂavour it
this instant, or I trounce you soundly!”
“But . . . ye vaunted of something .in public,” Antek
said, lowering his voice; “surely it was not true?”
“Nay, I spoke out of spite and at random. Nay, how
could that be true?”—But, as he made this denial, he held the
bottle to the light, looking through, lest Antek should read
the truth in his eyes.
They drank once, then once more; then it was Antek’s
turn to stand treat, and they emptied their glasses anew.
And so they sat, quite as brothers, and on such friendly terms
that all in the tavern were amazed. Matthew, who had
taken more than a drop too much, yelled to the musicians to
play faster, stamped and roared with laughter, and then
spoke in Antek’s ear.
“So much is truez‘l did long for her to be mine; but she
scratched me so, I was like one dragged face down through
the brambles. Yes, she preferred you, I know it well; and
even had she not, she would never have cared for me.
’Tis hard to lead an ox against its will. And I was sorely,
how sorely! stung with jealousy. The girl is wonderfully
1W ' WINTER
fair—none fairer in the world. But how she ever could
marry that old man—and to your hurt—I cannot think!”
“To my hurt? Aye, and for my perdition too!” Antek
began, but stopped short. Here his memory kindled within
him such a ﬂame that he muttered an inaudible oath, and
said no more.
“Peace, lest tale-bearers hear you!”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing that I could hear; but others might.”
“It is unbearable—my heart is torn asunder!”
“I tell you: while ye can, get the better of it!” he said,
cunningly striving to win his conﬁdence little by little.
“Can I do so? Since love, far worse than sickness, burns
in the bones, festers in the heart, and ﬁlls me with such
craving, I can neither eat nor work nor sleep, and would
like to dash my brains out to rid me of my life!”
“Oh, I know all about that. Lord, how I once ran after
Yagnal—But when love comes, there is one thing to be
done: marry, and it will at once pass away and vanish. If
one cannot have the wife, why, then, the sweetheart: and
immediately desire will be quenched, and love will die.
I tell you the truth, and‘am not without experience,” he
added, with pride.
“And what,” Antek asked, sadly, “what if it shall not
pass even then?” ‘
“That,” he returned scornfully, “is the lot of none but
those that sigh in groves, and lurk round corners, and
tremble to hear a petticoat rustle!”
“What you have said is true,” Antek replied, in deep
thought
“Come, man, drink to me: my throat is dry even to the
bottom thereof—The foul ﬁend take all women! Such a
one, so weak you could fell her with a breath, will lead the
strongest man as a calf led with a rope, rob him of strength
and reason, and make him a laughing-stock to all! She-
devils they are, every one of them, and the spawn of Satan,
I tell you !---Now, drink to me!”
THE PEASANTS 138
“Here’s to you, brother!”
“God bless you!—-I say, a ﬁg for all that devil’s spawn!
. . . But ye know what they are, well enough.”
They went on drinking and talking. Antek was some-
what ﬂustered; and never having had one to whom he could
tell his sorrow, he now felt a burning desire to make a clean
breast of it. And though he refrained and controlled him-
self, he dropped a signiﬁcant word or two here and there;
these, though he gave no sign, Matthew noted well.
And now the fun in the tavern was growing to its height.
The band worked away with might and main. One dance
followed another; drink was quaffed at every table; all
raised their‘voices', often in diSpute, so that the public room
resounded with the hubbub; and the feet of the dancers
drummed on the ﬂoor like the beating of ﬂails.
Klemba and his party now adjourned to the private room,
and there too the noise was no triﬂe; but Soha continued
dancing furiously with his Margaret, and at times went out
with her into the open air, with their arms round each other’s
waists. '
Bartek of the saw-mill and his people, who still stood
where they had been before, were -now at their second bottle,
with Voytek Kobus shouting insults into the ears of the
Rzepki Folk.
“Nobles in rags and tags, with naught but bundles and
bags?’
“With but a couple of kine, the common property of the
whole village!” another screamed.
“Long lousy locks warrant well-born wights!”
“See them, the jews’ hirelings!”
“Let them be leashed with the manor hounds! Both scent
a good thing from afar!”
“What they scented, they now have got!”
“They come to snatch away the work that is our due!”
“The good-for-nothing vagabonds! They come because
the jews would hire them no more.”
To these shouts some added gestures, shaking their ﬁsts
139 WINTER
and pressing forward in full cry; and they were soon sur-
rounded by a ring of angry peasants in liquor. But they
said not a word, and sat close together, with their sticks
clenched in their hands, drinking only beer, munching the
sausages they had brought with them, and eyeing the peas-
ants with a bold undaunted stare.
A ﬁght would perhaps have taken place, but that Klemba
now came upon the scene, soothing, beseeching, explaining
matters; and the older men, and Ambrose with them, spoke
in the same sense. At last Kobus ceased to taunt them, and
the others were taken away to the bar for a drink. The
band played a tune, and Ambrose set to telling them the
most incredible tales—about the wars, and Napoleon, and
Kosciuszko—and funny things that made them almost split
their sides with laughter. '
And presently Klemba’s party poured out of the private
room, coming in a body to join in the dance; which in-
creased the uproar to such an extent that no voice could any
more be distinguished in the universal clamour.
Heated with liquor, they waxed merrier and yet merrier,
the young people capering and footing it lustily, while their
elders huddled together where they could, hustled and driven
back by the dancers, who whirled round in a constantly ex-
panding circle.
The band played enthusiastically now, and the dances
went on with a lively swing, though the partners were so
many, there was scarce room to turn; they pushed and
shoved one another, laughing and shouting gaily, making the
ﬂoor groan, and the bar with the glasses and bottles jingle
to their tread. '
In short, it was a splendid festival, in which everyone was
taking his fair share.
Winter was now at its height. Those weary arms that had
so long delved the ground, were resting now; those forms
once bowed, bowed down no longer: all were equal in
freedom and repose, and the blithe thought that each enjoyed
his own separate and distinct individuality. Even so in
THE PEASANTS 140
the forest, the trees that in summer-time present only a
confused mass of greenery stand out clearly when the
winter snow has fallen and veiled the earth, and each
particular tree—be it oak or hornbeam or aspen—is at
once recognized. ‘
just so was it here and now with the village folk.
Antek and Matthew alone remained in their places, sitting
side by side, like good friends, and talking in low voices of
many a thing. At times one or another of the men would
join them, and say a few words. Staho Ploshka came; so
did Balcerek, the Voyt’s brother, and all those foremost
young men in the place who had been bridesmen at Yagna’s
wedding. They felt at ﬁrst embarrassed, uncertain whether
Antek would not receive them with some sarcastic speech.
But he shook hands with all, with friendly looks beaming in
his eyes; and they presently came round him, listened to all
he said, and were again as friendly as they had been of old,
when he was foremost among them all. Yet, remembering
that only the day before these very men would have slunk
from his way if they had seen him at a distance, he could
not repress a bitter smile at times.
“We never see you now! The tavern knows you no more,”
said Ploshka.
“At work from dawn till night, when can I ﬁnd time?”
Then they went on to discuss other village topics—their
fathers, the lasses, the hard winter weather. Antek spoke
little, glancing at the door whenever it opened, in the hope
of seeing Yagna coming in. But when Balcerek told them
of the meeting held at Klemba’s concerning the forest, he
roused himself and inquired what they had decided.
“Ah, what indeed? They whined and complained and
lamented . . . and decided at last that they ought not to
allow it to be felled!”
“Men of straw!” cried Ploshka. “What can be expected
of them? They meet, drink vodka, groan, sigh . . . and the
outcome of their meeting is as last year’s snow. The Squire
may safely cut down every tree in the forest.”
141 WINTER
“That,” Matthew put in, curtly, “cannot be allowed.”
"Who is to prevent him?” they all asked.
“Who? Why, you!”
“But,” said Ploshka, “we are not free to act. Once I
spoke—father silenced me. The business was not mine, but
theirs, the husbandmen’s. I was to let it alone, and blow my
own nose. And really, they have the right to speak so.
All is in their hands: we have no more say in the matter
than the farm-servants.”
“And that’s unjust.”
“The younger generation ought to have a share in the
land and the management.”
“And our elders to retire on an allowance.”
“1,” Ploshka exclaimed, “have served in the army, my
prime is passing, and yet my father refuses me what is my
own!” .
“It is time we all had what’s ours.”
“All here are wronged.”
“Antek most of all.”
“Let us set matters to rights in Lipka!” said one, in a
hoarse voice. This was Simon, Yagna’s brother, who had
but just come, and was standing behind the others. They
eyed him with astonishment, as he pushed forward and
spoke hotly of the wrongs he had to suffer. But as he met
the young fellows’ eyes, he blushed very red, unaccustomed
as he was to speak in the presence of many, and also stand-
ing as yet somewhat in awe of his mother.
“’Tis Nastka has taught him thus much sense,” they
laughed. Thereupon Simon said no more, but withdrew to a
shady corner; and Gregory Rakoski, the Voyt’s brother,
though no great speaker and somewhat given to stammering,
began to hold forth.
“Our fathers keep the land to themselves, and their children
out of it. This is wrong and iniquitous. But the worst is
that they manage things foolishly. If they had come to an
agreement with the Squire, the question of the forest would
have been settled long ago.”
THE PEASANTS 142
“How’s that? For every ﬁfteen acres of forest, he offered
only two of his land, and we had a right to four.”
“A right? That is a question to be decided by the
ofﬁcials.”
“Who take the Squire’s part.”
“Not so. The commissioner himself advised us not to
accept two acres: so the Squire will have to offer more,” Bal-
cerek observed. , _
“Hush now,” said Matthew; “here comes the smith, and
an old man along with him.”
They turned and saw in the doorway the smith, who was
arm in arm with an old man. Both had been drinking, and
they pushed forward, straight on to the bar, where they,
however, remained but a short time, the jew ushering them
into the private room.
“They have been feasting at the Voyt’s.”
“What, was the christening to—day?” Antek inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Ploshka explained; “all our elders are there.
The Soltys was godfather, and the godmother, Balcerek’s
wife: Boryna, it seems, was offended and refused.”
“But who,” Balcerek cried, “is the old man here?”
Gregory enlightened him: “He is Mr. Yacek, brother to
the Squire of Vola!”
They all stood up to look at him. Mr. Yacek was press-
ing forward slowly, evidently seeking someone. At last his
eyes met Bartek of the saw-mill, and he went with him to the
wall against which the men of Rzepki sat in a row.
“What does the man want here?”
“Oh, he is always wandering about the villages, talking
with peasants—sometimes helping them—playing on his
violin, teaching the girls to sing songs: he must be a little
crazy.”
“Pray, Gregory, go on with what you had to say.”
“Ah. about the forest?—-I was saying that we should not
leave the matter in the hands of the old men: they would
bungle it.”
“Well, but,” Antek said with decision, “there is only one
thing to be done: if they set about felling our timber, we
I43 WINTER
must all of us go and drive them away, until such time as the
Squire shall come to terms.”
“That is just what they said at Klemba’s.”
“Said, yes: but what can they do? No one will go with
them.”
“The husbandmen will.”
“Not all of them.”
“All, if Boryna leads them!”
“Which is doubtful.”
“Then,” Balcerek cried hotly, “let Antek be our leader!”
The proposal was enthusiastically assented to. But Greg—
ory, having seen something of the world, and having a little
book-learning, set to point out to them, like the scholar that
he was, that violence would be no remedy; that all would
end in court, and with sentences of imprisonment; and that
the right thing was for the people to apply to a lawyer
from the town.
But no one agreed with what he said; some even jeered at
him. This put him in a great rage, and he said:
“Ye complain that your fathers are fools, whilst ye your-
selves are as great fools as they, and talk nonsense, all of you,
like children at their games.”
Someone here said: “See, Boryna has come, with Yagna
and some girls.”
Antek, who had intended to answer Gregory, left him un—
answered at the words.
They had come late, after supper. The old man had long
resisted Yuzka’s whimperings and Nastka’s entreaties, for he
wanted Yagna to join with them in begging him. Now, she
had said at once, after dinner, that she would go to hear
the band play, and he had told her sternly that she should
not set her foot out of doors!
She did not ask him a second time, but cried in corners,
and slammed doors, and rushed about by ﬁts and starts, in
a gusty way. And when they had supper, she would eat
nothing, but set about getting ready to go, and taking her
best skirt out of the chest to try it on.
What was the man to do? He swore a lot, talked, said
THE PEASANTS 144
again that he was not going anywhere—and ﬁnally he had
very humbly to ask her forgiveness and, willy-nilly, go to
the tavern.
He entered with a haughty imposing mien, saluting few
of those present, for few of his equals were there, most of
them being at the Voyt’s for the christening. He looked
round carefully for his son, but missed him in the crowd.
Antek gazed on Yagna all the time, as she stood by the
bar, while the lads crowded round her begging for a dance.
She refused them all, but chatted gaily with them, now and
then casting a quick glance here and there. Very lovely did
she look that night, and they all eyed her with admiration,
the fairest amongst all the women. Yet Nastka was there,
arrayed in red, like a tall hollyhock; and Veronka Ploshka,
like a peony in bloom, stately and self-possessed; and Soha’s
daughter, a mere chit of a lass, but so slender and lithe and
sweet to look upon! and many another strapping well-
favoured girl, who pleased the lads—as did Mary Balcerek,
divinely tall, shapely with ﬁrm white ﬂesh, and the very
best dancer in the village; but not one of them, not a single
one, could vie with Yagna.
By her beauty, her attire, and her marvellous turquoise
eyes, she surpassed them all, as the rose does the hollyhock,
the peony or the poppy-ﬂower, making them appear paltry
and plain beside it: so was she above and beyond them,
every one. And that evening she had dressed herself as for
a wedding: had donned a skirt of rich yellow, striped with
white and green; and her bodice of deep-blue velvet, em-
broidered with gold thread, was cut low, disclosing half of
her bosom; and on her chemise of ﬁne linen, with dainty
frills, frothing and foaming abundantly about her throat
and hands, there hung many a necklace of coral and amber
and pearl-like beads. And her head was adorned with a
silken kerchief of turquoise-blue, with pink spots, the corners
of which ﬂoated down on to her neck behind.
For this ﬁnery and sumptuousness of adornment, the
women’s tongues wagged against her with bitter reviling.
But she cared not a whit for all they said: she had beheld
145 WINTER
Antek. Colouring with delight, she turned to her husband,
to whom the Jew had said something. He thereupon went
over to the private room, and remained there.
This was precisely what Antek had been waiting for. He
at once elbowed his way through the throng, and welcomed
them with easy familiarity. But Yuzka sullenly turned her
back upon him.
“Have ye come for the band, or for Margaret’s betrothal?”
“For the band,” Yagna replied, in a voice husky with emo-
tion.
They stood for a while side by side, speechless but breath-
ing fast, and casting side-glances at each other. As the
dancers jostled them and drove them towards the wall, Simon
took possession of Nastka, Yuzka drifted away somewhere
or other, and the couple remained alone.
“How I have waited day by day . . . waited for you!” he
whispered.
“How could I come? I am watched closely,” she an-
swered, with a thrill, for their hands had somehow come to-
gether, and they stood at close quarters, hip touching hip.
They both turned pale, their eyes gleamed, and within them
other and ineffable music was striking up.
“Pray let me go, and stand away a little,” she begged; for
they were surrounded with people.
He did not reply, but took her round the waist in a ﬁrm
grasp, pushed the crowd aside, and, entering the circle of
dancers, called out to the musicians:
“An obertas, boys, and a ﬁrst-class one!”
And how they struck it up, and how the bass-viols growled!
For well they knew that Antek, when in a good mood, was
lavish of drinks and of money.
His comrades and friends all followed his lead—Ploshka,
Balcerek, Gregory, and the rest: while Matthew, whose ribs
would not let him join them, stamped upon the ﬂoor and
shouted encouragement.
Dancing recklessly, Antek soon took the place of the fore-
most couple, and rushed on, faster and faster still, thought
of nothing, cared for nothing whatever, for Yagna was
THE PEASANTS I46
pressing close to him and entreating him tenderly, again
and again, the while gasping to ﬁnd her breath:
“More, Antek! Pray, yet a little more!”
They danced long, very long, stopping only to take breath
and drink a glass of beer; then once more they started off,
never noticing that folk were watching them, and whisper-
ing—or even uttering aloud—their disapproval.
But Antek no longer cared for anything in the world, now
that he felt her at his side, and pressed her to himself till
she closed—closed with delight—those clear blue eyes of
hers: he had forgotten himself completely—forgotten men
and the whole world of men. His blood was at boiling
point, and he knew his strength to be waxing within him,
bold, invincible, and ﬁlling his bosom full of the sense of
force. As to Yagna, she was entirely plunged in the ob-
livion of love. He was carrying her off along with him—
a ﬁery dragon !---and she neither made nor could make re-
sistance; so masterful was he, bearing her on in his strong
embrace, that now and again her eyes would be darkened,
and she could think of nothing else but the bliss, the unut—
terable joy of her youth: the blackness of his brows, his
unfathomable eyes, and the crimson allurement of his
mouth!
And the violins were all the time playing, as in an end
chanted dream, a tune as genial as the harvest breeze, a
tune that turned the blood into ﬁre, and made the heart to
throb with mighty gladness; and the bass-viols rumbled
with a quick jerky cadence, forcing the feet of the dancers
to accompany their lilt: while the ﬂute warbled as entranc-
ingly as a blackbird in the springtime, and opening the
heart so, and ﬁlling it with such rapture, that you quivered
all over, your brain swam, you breathed no more, you longed
to weep, to laugh, cry out, hug, kiss—and ﬂy away some-
where, out, out into the vast world!
So on they danced, till the tavern shook, and the barrels
on which the musicians had their stand shook too.
In the circle of dancers there were about ﬁfty couples,
swaying from wall to wall. Sometimes the lamp would
'Ml47 ' WINTER
burn low or go out quite; and then the brands on the hearth
V would ﬂing their ruddy blood-red glow on the dim forms
v that ﬂitted by, so vague that one could in no wise know
which-they were—men or women. One saw but waving
capotes, skirts, ribbons, aprons, ﬂushed faces, bright eyes,
and a mad din of clattering, singing and shouting—all
[mingled together in one whirling, twirling, swirling, call-
. ing, bawling,~brawling, stamping, tramping, ramping mass!
- ‘Of them all, Antek was the most boisterous and the live-
' liest, beating the ﬂoor with noisy heels, wheeling hither and
thither like a whirlwind—falling down in homage, so that
' they thought he had stumbled—up again with a shout or
a__ song for the musicians to take up after him—he passed
round and round, a hurricane that scarce any could follow.
For a full hour he continued thus, indefatigably. Others
[fell out, exhausted; the musicians’ hands were weary with
playing: he threw them money, urging them to play as fast
as he could dance. In the end, he and Yagpa were almost
the only couple that held out.
The women were loud in their amazement at such be-
haviourand, while they censured it, expressed their pity for
, Boryna; which Yuzka overhearinO, and moved more by
> hatred for her stepmother than by her grudge against Antek,
Went to tell Boryna what was going on. But the latter,
deep in matters of village politics with the elders and with
his son-in-law, scarcely heard what she said.
I “Let them dance: the tavern is surely for that,” he said.
She returned, disappointed, but set to watch them care-
fully. They were then just after a dance, standing at the
bar, in company with many lads and lasses. It was a merry
moment; for Ambrose,'now completely drunk, was telling
_ them such tales that the girls threw their aprons over their
heads, and the lads laughed” uproarious'ly; And Antek was
~treating them all round—drinking to them ﬁrst, pressing
them to drink, taking the boys’ arms in a friendly squeeze,
and putting caramels into all the lasses’ bosoms by handfuls
4—that he might deal likewise by Yagna.
' Thus they were all diverting themselves pretty well; all
THE PEASANTS 148
the company was in the gayest key. Even the “nobility”
of Rzepki had left their table, having made it up with the
Lipka folk over some glasses. Several of them, too, had
offered to dance, and the girls had not refused them: their
behaviour was so much more reﬁned, and they asked them
with so great courtesy. '
Antek’s set revelled apart from the others. They were of
the younger generation, and of the ﬁrst people in Lipka.
As to him, though he talked with them all, he had no idea
what he was talking about—neither knew nor cared: he
concealed nothing, and could conceal nothing, for he could
not help doing what he did then. But it was all the same to
him! He continually whispered in Yagna’s ear, pushing
her nearer and nearer to the wall; his arm was round her
waist, her hand in his; he could scarce restrain himself from
kissing her in public. His eyes wandered, with a wild look,
a tempest raged in his heart, and he would have dared to
do no matter what, reading, as he did, in those turquoise-
blue eyes of hers, her admiration and her love. It raised his
pride to heights unknown, and he felt himself so exalted
that he must needs cry and shout aloud in ecstasy. Then
he drank again, and forced Yagna to drink, till her clouded
mind no longer knew what had come to pass. Only at
times, when the music paused, and there was a lull in the
tavern din, did she return a little to her senses, and look
around in terriﬁed bewilderment, seeking help—~she knew
not whence. At such moments, she would even have ﬂed;
but he was close by, gazing on her, and the ﬁre in his eyes
kindled in her such love that at once she forgot everything.
This went on for a pretty long time. Antek stood drinks
to all the company, whom the jew served very willingly,
chalking up every litre twice upon the door.
Their heads were now turning, and they all went to
dance together, thinking it might sober them a little; and
Antek with Yagna led the dance.
At that moment, out of the private room came Boryna,
whom the women, shocked at what was going on, had
brought to see. Instantly he understood everything, and
149‘ WINTER
was transported with rage. He buttoned up his capote,
seized his fur cap, and pushed on to Yagna. They made
way for him, shrinking from the old man’s face, pale as
death, and his eyes that glared with fury.
“Home!” he commanded in a loud voice, as the couple
approached, and tried to seize her arm. But Antek, spin-
ning on his heel, bore her away, so that she could not free
herself from him.
And then Boryna, leaping forwards, broke through the
ring of dancers, tore her from Antek’s arms, and never let
her leave his grasp till they were out of the tavern. He
had not so much as glanced at his son.
Thereupon the band ceased playing; a sinister silence fell
upon them all, and they stood as though petriﬁed. All
saw that some awful thing was about to take place; for
Antek had gone out after them, pushing the throng aside
like sheaves of corn and rushing into the night. But the
sudden and intense cold made him giddy; he stumbled over
a tree-trunk that lay in front of the house, and into a snow-
drift. Rising swiftly, however, he came up with them
at the turning of the road by the pond.
“Go your ways and let folk be!” the old man cried, turn-
ing upon him.
Yagna ran shrieking into the hut; but Yuzka put a heavy
cudgel into her father’s hand, screaming:
“Down with that ruffian, dad! down with him!”
“Let her go . . . let her go!” Antek vociferated, quite
beside himself, coming on with clenched ﬁsts to the attack.
“Off,'I say! or, as there’s a God in heaven, I kill you like
a dog! Off!” the old man cried again, ready to strike a
crushing blow. . . . And Antek instinctively shrank back:
his arms fell to his sides. A sudden panic had taken hold of
(him; he shuddered with dread, and let his father go slowly
home.
‘ \He had no longer even the thought of leaping after him
as he went away, but stood trembling, distracted, and cast—
ing bewildered looks around. No one was there; the moon
I . .
shone, the sn‘ows sparkled, a sombre whiteness made things
THE PEASANTS '150
just visible. He could not understand what had taken place,
and only came partly to his right mind a little later, when
brought back to the tavern by the friends who had come out
to render assistance, having heard there had been a ﬁght
between him and his father.
The merry-making was all over now, and the people were
going to their homes, for it was late. The tavern had now
emptied itself, but there were, along the road, a few shouts
and cries. No one remained but the folk of Rzepki, who
were to spend the night there, and to whom Mr. Yacek was
playing such weirdly and wailingly mournful airs that they
sighed as they sat listening, elbows on table and arms prop-
ping chins. Antek moped all alone in a corner, apart from
the others: talk with him was out of the question; for when
they spoke, he would not answer. There, then, he sat dazed
and stunned, and the jew reminded him in vain that the
house was about to close: he neither made out nor heard
what was said. It was only at Hanka’s voice, who had been
told he had again come to blows with his father, that he
roused himself.
“What do you want?” he snarled.
“Come home. It is late,” she said beseechingly, restrain-
ing her tears.
“Go yourself. With you I will not go.-—Away, I tell
you!” he cried in a threatening voice. Then, on a sudden,
moved by some unaccountable impulse, he came close and
hissed in her ear: “Were I chained and fettered in a prison
cell, I should still be more free than with you beside me—
far more!”
Hanka withdrew at once, weeping bitterly.
The night was moonlit and serene. The trees threw long
bluish-silvery shadows. The frost nipped very hard, mak-
ing the fence-hurdles crackle from time to time, and a sort
of quiet rustling sound rise up from the scintillating snow.
Save for this faint susurration in the still night, all the land
lay silent. The villagers slept; no light came fromfany
window, not a dog barked, mill and mill-strelgm were alike
soundless. Antek could just hear—faint like ' sound heard
151 WINTER
in sleep—the husky voice of Ambrose, singing (according
to his wont when drunk) in the middle of the road.
With slow and heavy steps, he plodded round the mill-
pond, stopping at times to cast bewildered looks from side
to side, and listening with dread to his father’s awful words,
that were still ringing in his ears. Still, too, did he see
those stern, ﬁerce, baleful eyes: they pierced him like a knife!
lnstinctively he winced before them: terror gripped him by
the throat, his heart sank within him, and his hair stood
on end. And they blotted out from his thoughts all the
impetuosity of erewhile—-all his headstrong love and pas—
sion—everything but mortal dread, trembling dismay, and a
wretched sense of weakness and despair.
After a time he unconsciously set his face homewards.
As he went, a pitiful cry, a voice of lamentation, reached
him from near the church. Someone just beneath the statue
which stood in front of the lich-gate lay on the snow, with
arms outstretched as one cruciﬁed; but in the shade which
fell from the churchyard wall, he could not discern who
it was. He stooped down, thinking it was some homeless
wanderer, perhaps overtaken by drink. And there, implor-
ing the mercy of God, lay Hanka!
“Come home . . . the cold is fearful .v, . come, Hanka!”
He spoke with entreaty, his soul melting strangely within
him. She answered nothing. Then he lifted her up and
took her home.
All the way, they were mute. But Hanka wept grievously.
CHAPTER VIII
like a tomb. No weeping, ,no clamour, no invectives:
but a sinister silence dwelt there, telling of rancour
and suppressed resentment.
Everybody in the house was now taciturn, veiled in gloom,
living in the continual expectation of some awful thing about
to take place, as under a roof that one knows may at any
time crash down upon one’s head.
Neither on his return to the hut, nor even the next day,
did Boryna say a single sharp word to Yagna. Nor did he
complain to Dominikova: he kept silence about all that
had happened.
But the paroxysm of anger he had felt made him ill: he
was unable to rise from his bed, had continual qualms, a
stitch in his side, and ﬁts of fever now and then.
“ ’Tis nothing much; only the liver is inﬂamed, or per-
haps the womb has changed position,” was Dominikova’s
diagnosis, as she rubbed his side with hot oil. He replied
nothing, but groaned heavily, staring at the rafters above.
“It was not Yagna’s fault, indeed it was not!” she said,
speaking low, lest they should hear her from the other room.
She felt extreme uneasiness at his saying no word to her
about the happenings of the night before.
“Whose then?” he muttered.
“What evil has she done? Ye left her, and went away to
drink in the private room; the band played, and all the
folk danced in the other. What then? Ought she to have
sat alone in a corner? She is a young healthy woman, and
needs to be amused. Well, he was urgent, and she danced
with him. Could she help it? In the tavern, everyone has
the right to choose his dancer. He—that wretch! choose
Q FTER that Twelfth Night, Boryna’s house became
152
153 WINTER
her, and would not leave her alone . . . all out of spite
against you!”
“ ’Tis good ye rub me to set me on my legs again; but I
will take no lessons from you. I know the truth of the
matter quite well.”
“Are ye so wise? Then should ye know that a young
woman in good health needs some pleasure. She is not a
log of wood, neither is she an old dame: she married a
man, and a man she must have. Not a decrepit veteran,
with whom she can only tell her beads! No, no!”
“Yet ye gave her to me in marriage: wherefore, then?”
he asked, with a sneer.
“Wherefore? And who was it came whining like a dog?
Was it I who implored you to take her? Did I entice
you . . . or did she? Why, she might have wedded anyone,
aye, and of the ﬁrst in Lipka: so many were after her!”
“After her, yes; to wed her, no.”
“Yelping cur! May your tongue rot off!”
“Ah! the truth is a stinging nettle to you!”
“ ’Tis no truth, but a wicked lie!”
He drew up the blanket over his chest, turned his face to
the wall, and answered not one word more to all her heated
arguments; only, when she at last burst into tears, he whis-
pered mockingly:
“ ‘If a woman’s tongue fail, she thinks tears will prevail.’ ”
On the point in discussion, he had come to a strong con-
viction. Whilst he was laid up, the things he had heard
of old against Yagna had all come back to him: he had
pondered them well in his mind, gathered them together,
and thought them over.-—And now such bitter exasperation
took hold of him for his inability to quit his bed, that he
would toss upon it all day with silent angry curses, fol-
lowing, with the ﬁerce eyes of a falcon, every step that
Yagna took. She, pale and drooping, would go about the
house like a sleep-walker, looking at him with the wistful
eyes of an ill-treated child, and sighing so deeply that he
could not but feel some compassion for her—though her sighs
inﬂamed his jealousy still more.
THE PEASANTS 154
And so things dragged on in the but till Sunday. She,
who by nature was extremely sensitive, could hardly bear
it any more, and, like a delicate ﬂower that feels the ﬁrst
touch of frost, began to pine and waste away. Daily she
looked worse and worse, could sleep no more, was unable to
sit still, and spoiled all she did, her work slipping through
her ﬁngers. She lived in perpetual dread besides. The old
man still kept his bed, moaning, saying never one word of
kindness to her, but ﬁxing his gloomy hostile eyes upon her
constantly, until she could no longer support it. Life was
a burden. And also she was deeply distressed and anxious
at getting no more news from Antek. Since Twelfth Night
he had never come, though more than once, in spite of the
mortal fear she was prey to, she had repaired to the hay-
rick. Of course she durst ask no one for news of him.
And by this time she loathed her cabin so heartily that she
would several times in the day run out to see her mother.
But Dominikova was mostly either visiting patients or in
church, and, when at home, had only sour looks and bitter
reproaches for her. The lads, too, went about moody and
sullen, ever since their mother had taken a ﬂax-swingle to
Simon for having spent four whole Zloty in drink at the
tavern on Twelfth Night! To get through the day some-
how, Yagna would also look in at the neighbours’; but with
them too she felt ill at ease. Without telling her to begone,
they let their words drop sparingly, sifting them, so to
speak: all were very, very sorry that Boryna had fallen
ill, and had much to say against the evil times in which
they lived.
Yuzka, too, did all she could to annoy her at every step.
And Vitek feared to chatter as he had used to do, now his
master was of such grim humour. So no conversation was
possible with anyone; she had no solace, no diversion at
all, save with Pete of an evening, when he played the violin
quietly to her in the stable after his day’s work, old Boryna
having forbidden him to play in the hut.
The winter, moreover, was so severe with daily frosts and
blizzards that she often could not go out at all.
.155 WINTER
But when Saturday came round, Boryna, though not yet
quite well, dragged himself out of bed, put on warm clothes
against the intense cold, and ventured out.
He called at several huts, ostensibly to warm himself, or
to talk of business, and now chatted willingly with some
that he would formerly have passed by without a word.
He always managed to bring the conversation round to the
tavern incident, giving the whole affair a comical turn: he
had, he said, been most ridiculously tipsy that night.
Wondering, they agreed with him, nodding sagacious
heads; but they were not taken in, all the same. They knew
too well that headstrong pride of his, for which he would
let himself be roasted alive without uttering a cry.
They quite understood that he came on purpose to give
the lie to any malicious tales that might have been cir-
culated.
Old Simon, the Soltys, even told him as much quite
frankly, as his custom was:
“ ‘Fiddle-de-dee, ﬁddle-de-dee!—One fable and two make
three.’ Gossip is like ﬁre: ye shall not quench it with your
hands—~only burn them.——Let me repeat to you what I said
before your wedding: ‘He that takes for a wife one that
might be his daughter, for his pains gets a ﬁend who will
scorn holy water.’ ”
He went home, offended. Yagna, thinking all was over
now he had got up, felt relieved, tried to talk and look
sweet and be loving and joke with him as before. But he
met her advances with so crushing a word that she shud-
dered to hear it; and no change in him took place with
time. He no longer caressed or petted her at all, nor an-
ticipated her wishes, nor cared to win her smiles. If any-
thing was in disorder, he would scold her and drive her to
work like a common servant-girl.
And thenceforward he took everything in hand again,
looked after all by himself, and saw to everything with his
own eyes. For days together, after his recovery, he
threshed corn with Pete, and winnowed it in the granary,
scarcely ever leaving the premises even for an instant. His
THE PEASANTS 156’
evenings, too, he spent at home, mending harnesses, or re-
pairing domestic implements. She could take no step out
of doors without his going to look for her; and he went so
far as to lock up her Sunday clothes and keep the key in his
pocket-
How she suffered, how she suffered! Not content with
rating her soundly for the slightest shortcomings, with never
a word of praise, he treated her just as if she were not the
mistress of his house. It was with Yuzka alone that he
took counsel about what was to be done, explaining what
she did not understand, and ordering her to have an eye
to everything. For days together, she did nothing but
spin at home, almost distracted. She went to complain to
her mother, who set herself to plead for her, but in vain.
“She was mistress,” Boryna replied, “and did whatever
she pleased, and lacked naught. But she has failed to act
up to her position: let her now try something else! And,
hark ye! tell her that, so long as I can move my limbs, I
will defend what is mine, and not suffer myself to be a
laughing-stock, or branded with the name of cuckold! Let
her bear that in mind!”
“But, good heavens, man! she has done you no injury
whatever!”
“Oh, if she had, I should speak and act otherwise! It
is enough for me that she has had to do with Antek!”
“Why, ’twas at the tavern . . . in a dance . . . in the
presence of everyone!”
“Oho! Only at the tavern? Indeed?” For he shrewdly
guessed that at the time when he found her apron, she had
been out to meet Antek.
No, he was not to be talked over. His faith in her was
gone, and his mind quite made up about her. At last:
“I am,” he said, “a kind-hearted and a good-natured
man: all know that. . . . But ‘strike me a blow with a whip,
I at once hit back with a cudgel!’ ”
“Hit the guilty, all right: but beware of hitting wrong.
Every wrong cries out for vengeance.”
“When I- defend my right, I do no wrong.”
157 WINTER
“Aye, but ﬁnd out betimes how far your right extends.”
“Is this a threat?”
“I say what I think. Ye are too self-conﬁdent: take heed.
‘Who to another gives an evil name, himself deserves the
same.’ ”
“I have enough of all your proverbs and your lectures!”
Boryna angrily rejoined.
Seeing the man’s stubbornness, Dominikova gave up the
attempt, and did not try again. She hoped the storm would
blow over and things take a better turn; but he did not for
an instant swerve from the line he had taken up; he never
wavered in his severity, and even tasted a grim pleasure in
it. Sometimes, indeed, hearing Yagna weep of nights, he
instinctively started up to go to her side—but, remembering
in time, would walk to the window and look out.
A couple of weeks elapsed in this way, without any change.
Yagna was wearied out, melancholy, and so wretched-
looking that she could scarcely bear to be seen by people;
she was ashamed before the whole village, for everyone
knew what was going on at Boryna’s.
This cast a deep and mournful shadow on his home, and
it became the abode of apprehension and of silence.
Few people, it is true, came to call upon them. The
Voyt, offended at Boryna’s refusal to come to his child’s
christening, no longer darkened his door. Now and then,
Dominikova’s sons looked in; Nastka came with her dis-
taff, but chieﬂy to see Yuzka or meet Simon. Roch, too,
now and again showed himself there, but never for a long
visit, seeing such sullen gloomy faces.
The smith alone came every evening, and for a long stay,
each time embittering the old man against Yagna as much
as he could: for he had again got into Boryna’s good graces.
Yagustynka, besides, dropped in frequently, enjoying their
quarrels, and adding fuel to the ﬁre with great relish.
Dominikova, present daily, daily preached to Yagna the
duty of winning her husband back by submission and hu-
mility.
It was of no use. Y agna could not humble herself; for
THE PEASANTS I58
her life, she could not. On the contrary, she felt more re-
sentful every day, more inclined to revolt against his rule.
Yagustynka did a good deal to make this inclination
stronger. She said to her one day:
“O Yagna, I do grieve for you—aye, as though you were
my own daughter! That hound, to ill-treat you so! and
you bear it all like a lamb! Another woman would not
behave in that wise. Oh, no!”
“And how then?” She put the question with some cur—
iosity, having more than enough of the present state of
things.
“You will not overcome evil with good, but only make
the evil worse. He uses you as a common wench, and ye
let him. He has locked up your things, they say; he dogs
every one of your footsteps, and never gives you one word
of comfort; and you, what do you do? Sigh, moan, and
wait for Heaven to set matters right. Ah, but Heaven helps
those that help themselves! Were I in your place, I know
well what I should do. First, I should ﬂog Yuzka till she
gave up meddling with the household. Are ye not the mis—
tress hereP—Then, I would not yield in aught to the good-
man. Will he have war? Then let him have war till he
is sick of it. Aye, aye! Let him but get the upper hand,
and he will soon come to beating you . . . and how far he
will go afterwards I cannot tell.”
“But ﬁrst of all”--here she lowered her voice and spoke
in her ear—“let him be as a calf weaned from its mother.
Let him perforce keep himself to himself, and be like a dog
left outside on the threshold. Ye will soon see how much
milder and better-behaved he will grow.”
Yagna turned aside to hide her scarlet blushes.
“What, ashamed? Foolish girl! Why, all do likewise,
and will ever do so: this is no new discovery of mine. A
dog follows a piece of bacon: even so, and more so. does a
petticoat allure a man! Of an old man, this is still truer,
he being more self-indulgent, and less likely to ﬁnd comfort
elsewhere—Do as I say, and ye will thank me soon—And
as to what folk say of you and Antek, do not take it to
159 WINTER
heart; were you white as driven snow, they still would think
you sooty. But it is the way of the world: all rise against
the meek, if they but crook their ﬁnger; and who is proud
and determined may do what the devil he pleases, no one
will dare to raise his voice against him, but all will fawn
upon him like curs. The world belongs to the strong, the
dauntless, the resolute—Oh, they slandered me not a little
in my time . . . and your mother as well—About Florek
. a matter well known to all.”
“Let my mother be!”
“Ah, well! may she ever remain a saint in your eyes. . . .
We all must needs hold someone for a saint.”
She went on with these instructions. Little by little, and
unasked, she began to tell her things about Antek—things of
her own invention, but interesting. Yagna listened with
greedy ears, though careful not to betray herself in any
wise. But she thought well all day of the advice given; and
in the evening, when the smith, and Roch, and Nastka were
present, she said to her husband:
“Hand me the key of my chest: I must air my things.”
He was ashamed to refuse, with Nastka tittering at his
side; but after she had put the clothes back, he stretched out
his hand for the key.
“In the chest there are only my own garments: I am quite
able to keep the key by myself!” she boldly replied.
That evening marked the commencement of a new state
of things in the cabin: life there became a hell. As stubborn
as the old man was obstinate, to any rebuke of his she re-
plied in a voice that might be heard out in the road. She
pounced upon Yuzka wherever and whenever she could, and
more than once inﬂicted so severe a beating on her that the
girl ran crying to complain to her father. And complaints
were of no avail: she persecuted her still more ﬁercely after-
wards, when Yuzka had not obeyed. Her evenings she de-
cided to spend on the other side of the passage, leaving her
husband alone, and ordering Pete to come there and play to
her, and accompany the ditties she would sing till late at
night. And on Sundays, dressed in her very best clothes, she
THE PEASANTS I60
went to church without waiting for Boryna, and talked to
the farm-servants on the way.
Wondering at this transformation, he raged and fumed,
but did his best to withhold the knowledge of it from the
village. She was not to be put down; and, little by little,
he began to overlook her whims in order to have a quiet life.
“Why, good dame,” he once exclaimed to Yagustynka,
“she was even as a lamb before—the gentlest of ewe-lambs;
and behold, she butts now like a ram!”
“She has waxed fat, and is too full of fodder!” Yagustynka
replied with indignation; she always took the part of anyone
that asked her advice. “But let me tell you, ye should
drive out these humours of hers with a stick betimes, lest
ye may not prevail later, even with a club!”
“Such was never the custom of the Borynas!” he returned,
in a lofty way.
“Yet methinks,” she spitefully remarked, “that even the
Borynas will have to come to that!”
A few days later, just after Candlemas, Ambrose came in
the afternoon to tell them the priest would come the next
day for the K olendy 1 visit.
All the morning they were busily engaged in a general
cleaning. The old man, to avoid hearing Yagna continually
abuse and upbraid Yuzka for all she did, had gone out to
sweep the snow about the premises. The rooms were given
fresh air, the walls cleared of cobwebs; Yuzka strewed the
porch and passage with yellow sand, and they all arrayed
themselves in their very best attire; for the priest was now
not far off, officiating at neighbour Balcerek’s.
Presently his sledge stood outside the porch; and he, with
his surplice over his fur, and accompanied by two of the
organist’s sons in choir-boys’ robes, entered the cabin. Be-
fore him, Boryna carried a deep plate, full of holy water.
He said some Latin prayers, sprinkled the rooms, and then
went out to bless the farm-buildings and all the man’s pos-
1K olendy. An annual ceremony of blessing the house and farm
and the live stock—Translator’s Note.
161 WINTER
sessions, passing round and saying the sacred words aloud,
the organist’s boys walking on either side of him, singing
Christmas carols, and untiringly ringing and swinging their
little jingling bells. Boryna carried the holy water before;
the others walked behind, in procession.
All being over, he returned to the cabin to rest; and while
Boryna, aided by Pete, was putting ﬁfty litres of oats,
and half as many of pease, in the priest’s sledge, he was
listening to Yuzka’s and Vitek’s prayers, which they repeated
to him in the cabin.
They knew them perfectly. Who had taught them? he
wondered.
“Kuba taught me my prayers; Roch, my catechism and
by primer!” the lad answered boldly. The priest patted
him on the head, and gave each of them a couple of pictures.
Then he told them to obey their elders, never neglect prayer,
and beware of sin. “For Satan, whithersoever we go, is on
the watch, ready to drag us down to hell.” Then, raising
his voice, he concluded with a solemn warning:
“And this I say unto you, that nothing, no, nothing is
hidden from the eye of the just God. Beware therefore of
the day of judgment and of doom: repent ye, and mend
your ways whilst it is yet time!”
The two children burst into tears, feeling as at church dur-
ing a sermon. And Yagna’s heart throbbed with dread, and
a deep blush overspread her face; she knew those words were
meant for her, and as soon as Matthias returned she left the
room, without daring to raise her eyes to the priest.
“I should like to have a talk with you, Matthias,” he said,
when they were alone together. Motioning him to a seat by
his side, he cleared his throat, offered him snuff, used a
beautifully scented pocket-handkerchief, and, making his
ﬁnger-joints crack one‘ after another, began quietly:
“I have heard—yes, Matthias, I have heard of what took
place in the tavern not long ago.”
“Aye, indeed,” the old farmer returned, with a pained
look; “it was public enough, to be sure.”
THE PEASANTS 162
“Do not go to the tavern, and do not take your women-
folk thither: how often have I forbidden it! I wear my
lungs out in beseeching you. . . . No usel—Well, ye have
received what you deserved.—-Nevertheless, I thank God
most heartily that in all this there has been no very grievous
sin. I repeat: no grievous sin.”
“None?” Boryna’s face brightened: he did not distrust
the priest.
“But I have also been told that you are punishing your
wife very severely for what has happened. This is not just.
and injustice is a sin. A sin.”
“How’s that? I am only holding her in with a tighter
hand. I am only . . ”
Here the priest interrupted him, saying excitedly: “Antek,
not she, was at fault! It was to spite you that he forced
her to dance with him; evidently he wanted a scene. A
scene.” Of this he felt quite sure: Dominikova, in whom
he reposed much conﬁdence, had given him her account of
things—“What else had I to say to you ?—-Ah, yes! Your
ﬁlly wanders loose about the stable. You must tie her up,
else one of the horses may injure her with a kick. Last year
I had my mare lamed that way. . . . Whose is her sire?”
“The miller’s.”
“I was sure of it—knew it by her colour and the white
spot on her forehead—A ﬁne ﬁlly!-—But, as to Antek now:
you and he should be reconciled: your disagreement is
driving that young fellow to evil ways.”
“I did not begin the quarrel,” Boryna replied with deci-
sion, “and I am not going to beg him to end it.” '
“The advice I give you it is my duty as a priest to give.
As to taking it, follow what your own conscience says.
Only mark this well: he is going to his destruction, and you
let him go. He drinks continually in the tavern, is a ﬁre-
brand among the young men, incites them to revolt against
their elders, and—as I hear—is plotting harm to the manor
folk.”
“Of that I knew nothing.”
163 WINTER
“One tainted sheep infects the ﬂock. And these plots
against the manor may result in great evil to the village
people.” But on this point Boryna was doggedly mute;
so the priest changed the subject, and said ﬁnally:
“Union, my dear friend, is the only thing. Union.” He
took snuff, put his fur cap on, and added: “Union and
brotherly love make the whole world go round. And that
is why the manor would willingly come to an agreement
with you. The Squire told me as much: he is a good man,
and would fain arrive at a neighbourly understanding with
everyone . . .”
“When a wolf is your neighbour, you can only come to an
understanding with a club or an ax!”
The priest started, shocked at the words, and looked him
steadily in the face; but, seeing the cold relentless expres-
sion of his eyes and his set lips, turned away hastily, and
rubbed his hands, much upset.
“I must away. Allow me to repeat that you ought not
to set your wife against you by severe treatment. She is
young—ﬂighty, too, as women are—and you should deal
with her wisely, and justly as well: be blind to one thing,
deaf to another, and overlook a third. Thus ye may avoid
unpleasant scenes, which might have most evil consequences.
Yes: our Lord has a special blessing for peacemakers. For
peacemakers.—Oh! what on earth is this?” he suddenly ex-
claimed, much startled; for the stork, hitherto standing mo-
tionless by the chest, had unexpectedly pecked with all its
might at the priest’s well-polished boot.
“It’s only a stork, that remained here in autumn, with a
broken wing, and Vitek took care of it, and nursed it till
it got well again. Now it stays in the hut with us, and
catches mice as well as any cat could do.”
“Really? I never yet saw a tame stork. Curious, most
curiousl”
He bent down to give Bociek a caress; but this it would
have none of, and with curved neck meditated another
sly attack on the priest’s boot.
THE PEASANTS 164
“Upon my word, I like it so much that, if you would sell
it, I would gladly buy it of you.”
“Sell it? Not I. But the lad shall take it at once to
your Reverence’s house.”
“I will send Valentine for it.”
“Ah, but no one save Vitek may touch it, and it obeys
him alone.”
They called the boy in; the priest gave him a zloty and
told him to bring it in the evening, after the round of the
parish had been ﬁnished. Vitek cried much and, after the
priest’s departure, took Bociek with him to the byre, where
he blubbered aloud till dusk; then Boryna came to silence
him and remind him that the bird had to be taken; Vitek
unwillingly obeyed, but his heart melted in his breast, and he
went about, his eyes swollen with tears and like one half-
witted, now and then running to the stork, gathering it in
his arms and kissing it, weeping sorely all the while.
So, when the priest was home at nightfall, he wrapped
Bociek up in his own little capote, to protect it from the
cold, and (together with Yuzka, for the bird was too heavy
for him alone to carry) took it over to the priest’s:
Lapa accompanying them, and barking moodin all the
way.
Now, the more the old man weighed the priest’s words, and
his strong and evidently sincere assertions, the more satis-
ﬁed and tranquil did he become: so that, slowly and by im-
perceptible degrees, he changed his attitude towards Yagna.
Yet, though things returned to their former state, the
former peace of mind, the deep quiet trust of old, was there
no longer.
As when a broken vessel has been repaired with wire
woven around it, it indeed looks whole, yet somehow leaks
and lets the water through, though the place of leakage is
invisible to the eye: so was it likewise in that hut: from
within that reconciliation, and through unseen ﬁssures, the
secret mistrust it contained came forth by drops; and though
resentment was no more so keen, suspicion still remained
alive and undying.
165 WINTER
Hard as he tried, the old man could not quite rid himself
of his distrust. Almost unwittingly, he constantly had an
eye on Yagna’s every motion; and she, on her part, never
forgave his past anger and bitter words, and boiled with re-
sentment that now too she could not but notice how keenly
vigilant his eyes were.
Perhaps, too, the certitude that he was watching and put
no trust in her made her dislike him more violently, and
love Antek more.
She had managed things so dexterously that they often
met by the haystack. Vitek was their helper in this. Since
the loss of his stork, his master’s displeasure troubled him
not at all, and he had quite gone over to Yagna. She, on
her side, gave him better food to eat, and Antek very often
had a few kopeks for the lad. But their chief abettor in
this was Yagustynka, who had so crept into Yagna’s good
graces, and had so won Antek’s conﬁdence, that.they simply
could not do without her. She brought messages to and fro,
protected them from surprises on the part of Boryna, and
kept good watch over him. All this she did out of pure
hatred for people. She wreaked upon others her revenge
for the harsh treatment meted out to her. Though she de-
tested both Antek and Yagna, she detested still more the
old husband, who was one of the rich men in the village.
And yet she had for the poor not less of hatred and even
more of scorn!
In truth, she was diabolically wicked . . . and possibly,
as folk whispered, evil in a yet more unearthly sense.
“They will,” she often said to herself, “one day ﬂy at
each other, and ﬁght it out like mad dogs.”
In winter there was but little to do; so she used to go
with her distaff from hut to hut, listening to the talk and
setting folk by the ears and laughing with impartiality at
everyone. None durst close their doors on her, partly out of
fear of her tongue, partly because she was thought to have
the evil eye. At times, too, she looked in at Antek’s, but for
the most part she met him on his return from work, and
brought him news from Yagna.
THE PEASANTS 166
About a fortnight after the priest’s visit, she saw the
young man on his way past the pond.
“Do you know? Old Boryna said many things to the
priest against you.”
“Of what new thing has he been yelping?” was his con-
temptuous answer.
“He says you stir folk up against the manor, and that the
gendarmes ought to arrest you.”
“Let him but try! Ere they get hold of me, I would
make such a ‘-Red Cock’ perch on his roof, that his place
would burn down to the ground,” he replied in a great rage.
She at once ran to tell the old man, who thought the news
over for a time, and then remarked: “ ’Tis like him, the
villain! He is the very man to do such a thing.”
He said no more, not wishing to take counsel with a
woman; but to Roch, who came in the evening, he told all.
“Do not believe whatever Yagustynka says: she is an evil-
minded beldame.”
“Yes, it may be all a falsehood: yet such things have been.
Old Prychek burnt his father-in-law’s hut down for dealing
unjustly by him in dividing the land. True, he went to
prison, but he burnt it down. . . . And Antek may do the
same. And he must have said something; she could not
have made it all up.”
Roch, who was a kind-hearted man, felt greatly pained,
and tried to advise him.
“Make it up. Let him have a little land for himself: to
live, he needs the wherewithal. Besides, that would steady
him, and leave him without excuse for quarrels and threats.”
“No! Were I even to be quite ruined—made a beggar——
no! Beg I may, but, so long as I live, not one inch of my
land will I give up. . . . That he struck me and used me
shamefully, I could forgive, though hardly and with pain;
but should he attempt such a thing as this . . . !”
“Is it meet to take the tattle of a gossip so to heart?”
“I do not believe it, not I!-—But what maddens me, what
makes my blood run cold, is that it might be true!”
167 WINTER
He sat with ﬁsts clenched, motionless and numb, at the
bare possibility of so heinous an act. He had no proof of
Yagna’s guilt, nay, he felt really sure she was innocent. But
he shrewdly guessed that in his son’s hatred for him there
was more than mere resentment for the land withheld; that
the wild reckless look he had seen in Antek’s eyes came from
some other cause. And he, too, was instantly aware of the
same feeling within himself—of cold, revengeful, implacable
hate. He turned to Roch, and muttered:
“There is not room enough in Lipka for us twain!”
“What—what can ye mean?” Roch cried in alarm.
“God forbid he fall into my hands, if I seize him in the
act!”
Roch did his best to calm him and bring him round, but
to no purpose.
“Ah, he would burn me out, would he?——That remains to
be seen!”
Thenceforward he had no peace. Every evening he
watched in secret, hiding behind corners, making the round
of the house and messuages, looking under the thatches; and
often, waking up at night, he would listen for hours together
or, jumping out of bed, go round the premises with his dog.
And once he saw certain faint traces about the haystack,
where the ground had been trampled. Later, he found marks
of footsteps near the stile, and became more and more con-
vinced that Antek had been there at night, and was only
seeking an opportunity to set the rick on ﬁre. For as yet he
had no thought of any other possible outrage.
He purchased a very savage dog from the miller, chained it
up in a kennel under the shed, and made it more savage still
by starving and baiting it. At night he would set it free,
and then it would bark furiously and set upon anyone it
met. It bit several people so seriously that complaints were
lodged against Boryna.
But this vigilance and these precautions made the old
man weaker and weaker, though his eyes glowed with fever-
ish excitement.
THE PEASANTS 168
He had determined to speak and complain to no one any
more; this very greatly increased the intensity of his suffer-
ings.
It also prevented anyone from guessing the cause of his
restless behaviour.
That he watched so carefully over the premises, and had
bought that dog, and made those nightly rounds, found an
easy explanation. That winter, wolves had multiplied to an
extraordinary degree; almost every night, they would ap-
proach the village in packs, and the inhabitants often heard
them howl; not infrequently, too, they scratched holes under
the byres, and carried off something here and there. More-
over, as was common enough just before the spring, cases of
theft became more rife. A peasant in Debitsa had been
robbed of a couple of mares; in Rudka, a hog had been
stolen; elsewhere, a cow was missing. Therefore did many
a man in Lipka scratch his head, and get better locks, and
keep good watch over his stables; for the horses there were
the very best in the district.
So the days went on, slowly, regularly, like the hands of
a clock—only neither to be pushed forward nor set back.
Not only was the winter uncommonly severe, but the
weather was also unusually changeable. There were such
frosts as the oldest inhabitants had never known; sometimes
the snow would fall in immense quantities; then it would
thaw for whole weeks together, so that the ditches were
ﬁlled with water, and the ﬁelds stretched out, black and
desolate: after which there would be whirlwinds and snow-
drifts such as the land had never seen as yet—and then a
spell of serene calm weather, when the lanes swarmed with
children, and the folk were glad, and the old people basked
against the warm sunny walls.
In Lipka things went on according to the everlasting ordi-
nance. He that was predestined to death died; whoso was to
vbe glad rejoiced; he that was fated to be sick confessed his
sins, and awaited the end. And so, with the help of God,
they continued to live on, from day to day, from week to
week.
I69 WINTER
Meanwhile, every Sunday, the band played loud in the
tavern, and there they danced, quarrelled at times, or even
came to blows: wherefore the priest chid them sternly from
the pulpit, and many troubles came of it. Klemba’s daugh-
ter married, and they enjoyed themselves, dancing for three
whole days; and—so folk said— Klemba had to borrow ﬁfty
roubles of the organist to pay the expenses. The Soltys,
too, gave a fairly good banquet at his daughter’s betrothal
to Ploshka. Elsewhere there were christenings, but not
many now: numbers of women were expecting a child in
spring.
It was then that old Prychek died; after but one week’s
sickness he died, poor man! at only threescore and four
years of age. All the village went to his funeral, for his
children had made a grand funeral feast.
In certain huts they came together to spin, and so many
girls and farm-lads were there that they enjoyed themselves
perfectly, with plenty of laughter and gladness; especially as
Matthew, now quite well again, was mostly present, and the
life of the party wherever he went.
The village was thus alive and humming with continual
gossip and scandal; invectives now and then, and bickering,
or only bits of interesting news. And from time to time
there would come one of those D{iads who had seen and
could tell of many a place and thing; and such a one would
stay with them for many a week.
"Or, again, a letter would sometimes come in from some-
body’s boy in the army. Oh, then !—-how it was read over,
and commented on, and talked about, with lasses’ sighs and
mothers’ tears, for whole weeks and more!
What other topics were there? Well, Magda had taken
service at the tavern; and Boryna’s dog had bitten Valek’s
boy, who had threatened to bring an action; and Andrew’s
cow, stuffed too full of potatoes, had choked and swollen so
that Ambrose had to slaughter her; and Gregory had bor-
rowed a hundred and ﬁfty roubles of the miller and given a
meadow in pledge for the sum; and the smith had bought a
couple of horses, a fact that made folk wonder very much;
THE PEASANTS 170
and his Reverence had been ill for a whole week, a priest
from Tymov coming to take the services in his place. They
talked of thieves besides; old twaddling women babbled of
ghosts; much was spoken about the wolves that were said
to have killed some of the manor sheep; about household
matters besides, and happenings in far-off countries, and I
know not what more—beyond telling or remembering. And
always there was something new, to make the day and the
long evenings full of interest.
So it was, too, at Boryna’s home; only he stayed in the
house continually, and neither went out himself nor would
let his family go anywhere. Yagna was wretched about it,
and Yuzka grumbled angrily all the day long. The cabin
life tired her mortally. The only solace she had was that
he did not forbid her to go spinning to those huts (but to
those only), where no young folk dwelt. Most of the time,
therefore, they stayed moping at home.
One evening—it was towards the end of February—several
people had come in, and were all sitting together in the other
lodgings, where Dominikova was weaving canvas cloth by
lamplight, and the rest of the company crowded round the
ﬁre-place, because it was very cold. Yagna and Nastka spun
till their spindles hummed. Supper was preparing. Yuzka
pottered restlesst about the room, and the old man sat by
the chimney-corner, pipe in mouth, pufﬁng away, and think-
ing deeply.
The stillness was irksome to them all. Only the ﬁre
crackled, a cricket chirped in a corner, the loom whirred at
regular intervals: but no one spoke. It was Nastka who
ﬁrst broke silence.
“Are you going to spin at the Klembas’ to-morrow?”
“Roch has promised to be there, and to read a book about
our kings of old.”
“I should like to go, but I cannot tell as yet,” she replied,
with a questioning glance at her husband. \
“Oh, pray do let me go, Father,” Yuzka begged.
He did not answer. The dog was barking loud outside,
171 WINTER
and in came Yasyek, nicknamed Topsy-turvy, looking about
him apprehensively.
“Shut the door after you, you gaby!” Dominikova shouted
at him. “This is not a cow-byre.”
“Do not be so frightened,” Yagna added; “no one will eat
you—Why do you look round so?”
“Because of that stork. . . . He is somewhere in hiding,
belike, ready to peck at me!” he stammered, peering into
the corners in alarm.
“No,” Vitek growled in reply, “he will harm you no more:
Master has sent Bociek away.”
“And I cannot tell why ye kept the bird at all: he did
naught but mischief.”
“Be seated, and give over grumbling,” Nastka said, making
room for him by her side.
“Ha!” Vitek exclaimed complainingly, “whom did he ever
hurt save fools and strange dogs? He would walk the room,
strutting like any Squire. . . . And he caught mice . . .
and was never in the way. . . . And now they have sent him
from us!”
“Be comforted: you will tame another when spring comes
'round, since you care so much for storks.”
“Not I! This same one will ever be mine. I have a con-
trivance to bring him to me, as soon as we shall have warm
weather: he cannot choose but come.”
Yasyek was most inquisitive as to Vitek’s contrivance; but
the latter told him rudely that what he could not ﬁnd out
by himself he would not be told, and that only a fool could
be so greedy of another’s contrivances.
For this he was rebuked by Nastka, who took Yasyek’s
part; and indeed he was much in her thoughts. True, he
was rather foolish, and the village folk laughed at him; but
then he was an only child, with ten acres of land; whereas
(as she well knew) Simon had only ﬁve, and very possibly
his mother would not let him marry her; so she kept on
good terms with Yasyek, holding him in reserve, should
Simon fail.
THE PEASANTS 172
He was sitting by her side, staring at her, and thinking of
something to say, when in rushed the Voyt, who had by this
time made it up with Boryna. He called out from the
very threshold:
“News for you! You are to appear in court to-morrow
at noon.”
“In the action about my cow?”
“Aye, against the manor.”
“I must be off betimes to-morrow; it is a long way.
Vitek, go this instant to Pete and get everything ready.
You are to go, too, as a witness—Is Bartek notiﬁed?”
“I have brought all the summonses from the court bureau
to-day: there will be a lot of you together. And if the
manor is at fault, let it pay up.” .
“Pay it must !—Such a cow as that!”
“Come with me into the other rooms,” the Voyt whispered;
“I have to talk with you.”
They went out, and remained so long that Yuzka had to
take supper in to them.
The Voyt, as he had more than once done already, en-
treated him not to make enemies of the manor folk, to put
matters off, see how things would turn out, and beware of
joining with Klemba and his party. Boryna had hitherto
seemed to waver, calculating chances. He did not refuse to
listen, but did not care to join the Voyt’s side, still feeling
indignant at the slight offered him by the Squire, when he
had come to the miller’s lately.
Seeing that he made no impression, the Voyt tried allur-
ing him with a bait.
“Ye know that I, with the miller and the smith, have
come to an agreement with the manor: that we are to cart
the trunks to the saw-mill and, when sawn into planks, to
the.town.”
“Yes, yes, of course I know: tongues wag about it quite
enough, and say you prevent folk from earning any money.”
“Much do I care! But let me tell you now what we three
have settled. Hearken to what I say.”
173 WINTER
The old man shot a glance at him and listened attentively.
“We want you to be one of us. You shall cart the very
same quantity of timber. Ye have a good pair of draught-
horses, the wagoner will only have to drive, and the proﬁt is
certain. Payment is by the cubic metre. You will have
earned ﬁvescore roubles ere it be possible to work in the
ﬁelds.”
Boryna pondered long. “When do you begin work?” he
asked.
“From to-morrow. They are already cutting down timber
in the nearest clearings. The roads are fairly good, sledges
being still available. My man is to start off on Thursday.”
“A plague upon it! If I but knew whether my action 'will
succeed to-morrow!”
“Only join us, and all will be well.-—I, the Voyt, have
spoken.”
Boryna remained plunged for a while in dubious musings;
he eyed the Voyt with attention, chalked something on the
bench, scratched his head, and said ﬁnally:
“I am with you in this undertaking.”
“Good. Come to the miller’s to-morrow, after the judg-
ment, and we shall talk the matter over further. I must be
off now, to get my sledge-runners tinkered up at the black-
smith’s.”
Away he went in high glee, assured that he had, by this
offer of partnership in cartage, bought the old man over to
his side.
Truly, though, the miller might make one with the manor:
his land was not on the village register, nor had he any
rights over the forest. So too might the Voyt, whose lands
had been taken from the clergy by the Russians; so might
the smith: but not he, not Boryna! He said: “Cartage is
one thing, and the forest dispute is another. Ere an agree-
ment is come to, or we have a complete rupture, many a day
must elapse. Why not, then, get my immediate proﬁt out of
the partnership, and yet hold fast to our rights? There are,
in any case, some scores of roubles of clear gain. I should
THE PEASANTS 174
have to keep the servant and feed the horses, in any case.”
. He. smiled, rubbed his hands, and chuckled over the
situation.
“They have no more sense than so many sheep, thinking
to take me in like a silly calf. Silly themselves!”
In rare good humour, he went back to his womenfolk.
Yagna was out of the room. She had, they told him, gone
out to feed the swine.
He talked gaily, bantered Yasyek and Dominikova, await-
ing his wife the while with increasing uneasiness. She was
absent very long. Quietly and without a word, he went out
into the yard. The lads were in the barn, making ready the
sledge for the morrow’s ride. He looked into the stables, the
byre, the sties: Yagna was nowhere to be seen. For a time
he stood waiting under the eaves in the dark. It was a
sombre night with a cold howling gale, great dark clouds
chasing each other across the sky and, from time to time,
some white ﬂakes falling.
Presently a dusky ﬁgure loomed in the path beyond the
stile. Dashing forward, Boryna leaped the stile, and whis-
pered ﬁercely:
“Where have you been, say?”
Yagna, though scared, carried it off boldly:
“ ‘Govering my feet.’ Would you pry into everything?”
she said with a inocking laugh, and went in.
He spoke no more about that; and when they went to
bed, he said in a quiet friendly tone, though without raising
his eyes:
“Would ye like to go to the Klembas’ to-morrow?”
“Surely, along with Yuzka—Unless ye forbid.”
“I must go to the law-court, and leave my house to the
care of Providence. It were better ye should stay at home.”
“But will ye not be back by dusk?”
“I fear not. Perhaps only late in the night. It looks
like snow, and we may have hard work coming home. But
if ye will go, you may; I do not forbid you.”
CHAPTER IX
to fall. The day rose, cloudy and very boisterous;
grains of snow came down, minute, like unsifted
groats; and the gale, gaining in strength as the morning ad-
vanced, and constantly changing its direction, howled loud
and dismally.
The weather notwithstanding, Hanka had set out with her
father and several Komomikz' immediately after noontide,
to get dry wood for fuel in the forest.
The gusts raged over the ﬁelds, shaking the trees, blowing
clouds of fallen snow into the air again, whistling and shriek-
ing, and casting them down once more, as when a linen cloth,
full of white hemp peel, is shaken out. Everything was lost
to sight in the raging turmoil.
Once clear of the village, they went forward in single, ﬁle
along the pathways between the sown crops, towards the
pine-forest, now scarce visible through the falling snow.
The wind, increasing in intensity, smote upon them from
every quarter, dancing wildly round them, and buffeted and
struck them so violently that they could hardly stand. They
crawled along, bending down towards the ground; while it
rushed on, gathered up dry snow mingled with sand, and
returned to dash it in their faces.
Slowly they plodded onward, making half-audible sounds,
and rubbing their hands with snow; for the piercing frost
went through and through their thin garments; and the nu-
merous snow-drifts around the piles of stones or the trees
were continually blocking the way, and had to be turned,
thus lengthening their journey a good deal.
Hanka walked foremost, often looking back at her father,
bowed down, and with his head in a shawl. He was dressed
THE snow had been, since early morning, threatening
175
THE PEASANTS 176
in a cast-off sheepskin of Antek’s, and girt with a band of
straw; and he dragged along at the tail, panting, forced every
now and then to stop, rest, and wipe his eyes, which were
watering with the blast. Then he would hasten on, crying:
“I am coming, Hanka, I am coming; fear not, I shall not
lag behind.”
Certainly he would have much preferred staying in the
chimney corner. But when she, poor thing! went out in
such weather, how could he remain at home? Besides, it
was unbearably cold in the hut; the children shivered and
shuddered all the time; they could not cook anything, and
ate only dry bread.
Hanka, with set teeth, walked on in front of the K amor-
niki.—-Yes, it had come to that: Filipka, Krakalina, old
Kobusova, Magda, Kozlova, the very poorest in the whole
place, were now her companions.
She sighed to think of it: yet it was by no means the ﬁrst
time she had been out thus with them.
“Let it be so! Let it be so!” she said in a hard whisper,
striving for strength and patience.
Since it had to be, well, she was willing; she would go and
seek for ﬁrewood along with those paupers, and never weep,
nor complain, nor beg anyone to help her.
And, indeed, to whom could she go? They might give
her something, but with it also a word of pity . . . such pity
as might well wring the life-blood out of the heart! . . .
No: the Lord jesus was trying her, had sent her a cross:
perhaps He would reward her ere long. . . . And, in any
case, she would bear all—never give way or let anyone pity
or mock her!
In these last times, she had suffered so much that every
part of her shook with agony, each crushing her with its
own particular pang.
It was not because of her poverty and the slights that
went with it, the hunger in her cabin, and the food, insufﬁ-
cient even for the children; not because Antek drank his
earnings away in the tavern with those boon companions of
his, caring nothing for his family, and often (when he had
177 WINTER
crept home by stealth, like a vagabond dog) answering any
word of remonstrance with a blow. She could forgive all
that. “He was out of sorts, and his mood would pass, if
she did but wait patiently.”—-But that he was unfaithful 'to
her, that she could not forget!
No, she could not! What, with a wife and children, yet
mindful of neither, and so utterly absorbed in her!
The thought tore at her heart like the red-hot pincers of
mediwval tortures.
“He loves Yagna, he dotes upon her: she is the cause of
all this!” .
And the anguish of neglect and scorn and contumely; and
her shame, her jealousy, her craving for revenge—all these
monsters were incessantly tormenting her and plunging
theif venomous fangs into her heart!
“Have mercy, O Lord! Spare me, O jesus!” she would
groan in spirit, raising to Heaven those eyes of hers, red with
ever-falling tears.
She quickenezl her pace; the gale was so high upon the
hills not yet sheltered by the forest, that she felt intolerably
cold. The women with her, on the contrary, slackened their
steps and now lagged behind—blurs almost unseen in the
mist of swirling whiteness. The forest was near; and when
that mist cleared up for an instant, it suddenly appeared on
the snowy plain like a huge wall of trunks in serried array.
“Come on faster,” she called out impatiently; “we shall
rest when we get to the wood.”
But they were in no hurry, stopping frequently, and
crouching down on the snow, heads away from the wind, like
a covey of partridges, while they talked together.
To her call, Filipka answered in surly fashion:
“Hanka is like a dog speeding after a crow-thinks she
will get it if she hastes.”
“Poor thing!” murmured Krakalina, sympathetically;
“how she has come down in the world!”
“Oh, well, she was warm enough at Boryna’s, and has
tasted good things: let her now taste things that are evil.
Some starve all the years of their lives, yet none pities them.”
THE PEASANTS 178
“There was a time when she would not have bid us good
day.” '
“My dear, there is a saying: ‘Wealth gives a wreath to
the brow; poverty, wings to the feet.’ ”
“Once I would have borrowed a mallet of her, and she
said it was for her own use alone.” ~
“True, o‘ en-handed she was not, and she thought not a
little of herself, as do all the Boryna folk; but I am sorry
for her, nevertheless.”
“To be just, that husband of hers is a scoundrel.”
“Were it any business of mine, I’d take Yagna to task on
the high road, rate her, curse her, and swinge her soundly.”
“That too may come to pass—worseﬁstill, peradventure.”
“The woman’s of the brood of Paches. . . . And her
mother was just the same in her youth.” '
“Let us on: the wind is falling, and may go quite down
ere nightfall.”
Presently they all entered the forest, and separated, but so
as to be within call for the home-coming. And the gloomy
depths swallowed them up so entirely that they soon could
see hardly anything of one another.
It was a vast forest of old pine-trees, all standing close
to each other, straight and slender and strong; whose trunks.
overgrown with whitish-green lichens, looked like pillars of
verdigris-stained copper, peering forth amidst green verdure,
ﬂecked with grey, in impenetrable ranks. Chilly mournful
sounds rose up from the snow underfoot; overhead, athwart
ragged pine-boughs, as through a broken thatch, the sky
was visible.
The wind blew above them; but at times all seemed as
still as in a church, when the organs suddenly cease to play,
and the chants are heard no more, and nothing is audible
save deep sighs, the shuffling of feet, the mumbling of pray~
ers in a faint dying hum: so the forest stood motionless, mute,
listening, as it were, to a far-away thundering—to the wild
cry of the ravaged ﬁelds which, rising up from some remote
spot, was heard only as a feeble moan.
By and by, however, the gale struck the forest with all its
179 WINTER
force—struck against its close-set trunks, assailing its depths,
shrieking in its dim nooks, and ﬁghting an army of giants.
——Only to be defeated: its might gave way, collapsed, grew
weak, died in the compact undergrowth of brushwood. The
forest itself -was unmoved; not a single branch waved, nor
did any trunk vibrate; within, the silence was deeper yet,
still more awful; only a bird or two was heard to ﬂutter
about in the shadows.
But, now and again, there would come a squall of light-
ning swiftness and power, like a hungry falcon swooping
down upon its prey: it took hold of the tree-tops and, with
an overwhelming shock, trampled and crushed and shattered
them in roaring frenzy. Then did the forest, as if roused
from slumber, wake up and shake itself and, shuddering
from one end to the other, rock its trees, swaying with a dull
but hurtling and ominous clangor; it rose again, stiffening
and straightening itself once more, uttering a terrible cry,
and struggling like a wrestler blind and mad with rage; and
the hubbub rent the air, and there was ﬁghting within the
wood to its innermost depths. Every creature that lurked
and dwelt in the thick copses shrank back in dismay to its
lair; and, maddened with alarm, the fowls of the air ﬂew
wildly about in the midst of the snow-showers and avalanches
of broken snapped-off boughs that fell from the tree-tops.
And, after this, there would follow long death-silences, in
which heavy thuds were heard afar off.
“They are felling the trees in Vilche Doly; how fast the
work goes on!” old Bylitsa murmured, as he gave ear to the
dull throbbing sounds.
“Hurry, hurry! we must return before night!”
They plunged into a clump of tall young saplings, where
brushwood and scrub had so intermingled their thickly
tangled branches that they scarce could force their way
through. A sepulchral stillness reigned around; no sound
reached there; even light hardly ﬁltered through the thick
layer of snow which crusted the trees all over, hanging like a
roof overhead. This secluded nook was earthy-ashy grey,
very little snow having been wafted to the ground, which was
THE PEASANTS '180
strewn, knee-deep in places, with dry dead boughs; else-
where with great masses of green moss; with berry-shrubs,
yellow, faded, cowering close to the ground as in fear; and
with dried clusters of toadstools.
Hanka went about actively, breaking off the biggest
branches she could ﬁnd, cutting them all to the same length,
and then putting them into the open piece of canvas she
had brought; working with such ardour that she had to
take off her shawl, she felt so warm. In about an hour’s
time, she had gathered a bundle of faggots so large that she
could scarcely lift it. Her father, too, had made a pretty
large bundle himself, and tied it up with a cord, dragging
it along in search of a tree-stump, where he might with more
ease hoist it on to his shoulders.
They called out to the women; but the blast blew so
furiously through the vast forest that they could not make
them hear.
“Hanka, we must go back by the poplar-road: it will be
better than the cut through the ﬁelds.”
“Come, then. Keep your eyes upon me, and do not lag
too much behind.”
They at once struck off to the left, through a bit of old
oak-forest. But it was hard work getting on, the snow being
more than knee-deep here; and now and then came still
worse patches, where the leaﬂess trees were scanty and there
hung down from the mighty outspread branches huge long
beards of caked snow: here and there, too, some slender
sapling, covered with a- shaggy rusty fell of dead leaves,
would bend down, striking the earth in the whistling wind.
It was still blowing hard, with the air so full of snow that
there was no going any farther. Old Bylitsa’s strength at
once gave way, and he came to a standstill. Even Hanka
felt exhausted; but she only leaned with her bundle against
a tree, and sought for some better road.
“We shall never get through this way. Besides, there is a
marsh beyond the oak-forests. Let us go back through the
ﬁelds.”
181 WINTER
They somehow made their way back to the great dense
pine wood, where it was somewhat less gusty, and the snow
less deep. Then they came out upon the ﬁelds. But here
they were met by such a driving blizzard that they could
not see a stone’s throw in front of them. The wind was
constantly blowing towards the forest, whence driven back
as from a wall, it rushed again into the ﬁelds, where, strong
as ever, it caught up whole hillocks of snow, lifted them
bodily into the air like great white clouds, which it again
hurled against the trees. How it rushed to and fro in the
forest! how it eddied! how ﬁercely it smote upon them both!
and how they all but failed to reach the sown ﬁelds! The
old man fell to the ground, and she had to help him on, little
as she herself was able to keep standing.
Back they went to the forest, where, cowering behind some
trees, they took counsel together how to come back; for they
could not tell in which direction to turn.
“Along the pathway to the left: then we shall be sure to
come out on the poplar-road, just by the cross.”
“But I do not see the path at all.”
He had to give detailed explanations, for she feared to go
the wrong way.
“And can ye tell which way to take?”
“To the left, so far as I can guess.”
They trudged along, skirting the wood and a little within
it, to be sheltered from the assaults of the gale.
“Come quickly, night is falling fast.”
“I will, I will, Hanka; let me but breathe awhile.”
But it was no easy matter to win through. The path was
not to be seen at all; and besides, a terrible wind assailed
them from one side, pouring down avalanches. They took
shelter behind trees, crouched under juniper-bushes: all in
vain. It pierced to the very marrow of their bones, espe-
cially when‘ they,passed through some glen: the rustling of
the trees then would swell to shrieks, and the whole wood
sway and rock till the branches almost touched the ground,
lashing their faces at times; and now and then a young tree
THE PEASANTS 182
would fall with such a crash as one might think only a whole
uprooted forest could have made.
On they plodded as best they could, to reach the road soon
and be home before night: already the ﬁelds were turning
grey, and over the snowy wilds long dark streaks, like
wreaths of smoke, began to appear.
They got to the road at last and, half dead with weari-
ness, fell on their knees before the cruciﬁx.
It stood at the edge of the forest, close to the highway,
sheltered by four huge birch—trees, with their White smocks
of bark and boughs which dangled like tresses. On a
cross of black wood hung a cruciﬁed Christ, made of sheet-
iron, and painted with lively glowing colours. The winds
had partly tom the ﬁgure away, for it was suspended by
one arm only, and battered the cross as it swung, creaking
rustily, as with an appeal for succour and rescue. The
weather-beaten birches would conceal it, as they shook and
tossed to and fro; clouds of snow, too, drifted past, hiding
it under a white mist, through which occasional glimpses
of Christ’s livid body and bleeding face were seen, peering
forth from that pallid veil, and ﬁlling the heart of the be-
holder with compassion.
On this old Bylitsa gazed with awe and crossed himself,
but he durst say nothing; for Hanka’s face, set, stern, hard.
incomprehensible, was like the night now coming on, with
blasts, and dim dark snow-tempests: ominously mysterious.
He thought that she saw nothing, heeded nothing. And
indeed she sat lost in dreary thought, always revolving that
one fact—that Antek had been unfaithful. Within her
there was a tempest of sighs as heart-rending as that body
of Christ cruciﬁed—of tears frozen to ice, yet still burning
her to death—of clamorous outcries which agony was wring-
ing from her young life!
“Shameless! Without any fear of Heaven!--Her son-
in-law, guilty of incest!—O God! O God!”
The horror of it swept over her as a hurricane. At ﬁrst
dismayed, she presently seethed with angry resentful emo-
183 WINTER
tion—like the forest she had seen bowing to the blast, then
rising in fury to resist it.
“Let us go on . . . and faster!” she cried. Lifting her
bundle on to her shoulders and bending forwards under it,
she went forth into the road, never looking back upon the
old man, but urged forward by unquenchable implacable
resentment. '
“Oh, I will pay you for all this; yea, I will pay you in
full!” she said, wailing bitterly in spirit; and the bare
poplar-trees wailed along with her, as they did battle with
the storm.
“I have enough of this. If my heart were of stone, such
a blow would break it! . . . If Antek chooses, let him stay
abroad and take his ease in the tavern. But her I do not
forgive for the wrong she has done me: I will pay her . . .
and in full! Yes, even though I rot in prison for it.-—-If
such were to walk God’s earth unpunished, then were there
no justice in the world!” . . . Such were her thoughts.
But after a while her fury burnt itself out, and grew as
pallid as the ﬂowers seen when the window-panes are frosted
over. Her strength was now almost entirely spent, her bur-
den crushed her down; the hard knots on the pine-faggots
bruised her shoulders, and her back was aching sorely;
while her bundle, ﬁxed with a stick across her neck, pulled
hard at her throat, choking her so that she trudged on ever
more heavily and slowly.
The road was all covered with driven snow, and open to
the blasts on every side. The poplars, scarcely visible a
few yards away, stood in an interminable row, bowing and
bending with fearful cries and shrieks as the wind lashed
them; struggling as birds in a snare, that scream and beat
their wings in vain convulsive outbursts.
On the uplands, the wind had somewhat abated; but
down below, its rage was yet greater than before. Down
the road it swept, and on either side, and over the plain,
and away in the grey blurred distance. The hurricane still
raged here, as in a cauldron: a thousand eddying gusts kept
,THE PEASANTS 184
up a goblin dance; a thousand spheres of snow, wafted off
the plain, rolled along like enormous white whirling spindles;
thousands of snow-piles went moving over the ground;
thousands of ridges undulated forward, growing larger and
larger, higher and higher, as if they would reach the sky
and hide all things from sight—and then collapsed on a
sudden with a tumultuous uproar. \
The whole country-side looked like a boiling pan, brim-
ming over with white liquid, bubbling and frothing and
foaming and steaming; while, with the night, there came
multitudinous voices, rising up from the ground, hissing loud
overhead, thunderous afar off: sounds like the swishing and
cracking of many whips—-forest-music as the organ’s low
rumbling drone at the Elevation—wild long howls that
rent the air—cries as of birds, wandering and lost—horrible
noises as of unearthly weeping and sobbing; and then silence»
again—and then the keen dry whistling of the wind in the
poplars, that tossed to and fro in the turbid snow-charged
air, like fearful phantoms, raising their arms to Heaven!
And Hanka dragged herself along, almost groping her
way from poplar to poplar, often stopping to rest, and lis-
tening to those weird voices of the evening.
At the foot of one of those poplars, she saw a hare crouch,
dark against the snow. At her approach it ﬂed into the
‘ snow-storm, which seized it as with the talons of a bird of
prey; and it squealed pitifully in its clutch. Hanka cast a
glance of sorrowful compassion at the poor beast as it ﬂed.—
She could hardly move now, and with great difficulty lifted
one foot after another through the snow. The burden
weighed her down inexorably; and she often fancied she
was bearing on her back the winter, the snow, the winds—
everything, in a word; that she had everlastingly been thus
walking on, with her sad, bleeding, weary soul, and would
continue thus till Doomsday. The road seemed to be
lengthening out endlessly, the weight she bore crushed her;
she stopped to rest ever more frequently, and with ever
longer halts, half insensible as she was. Her face was burn-
185 WINTER
ing: she cooled it with snow, rubbed her eyes, braced her-
self up as well as she could, and went forward to plunge
again into that shrieking, bellowing conﬂict of the elements.
But she wept abundantly; the tears gushed forth from her
heart, that deep hidden fountain of sorrow: from the very
bottom of her heart thus torn asunder, there came the des-
perate outcry of a creature hopelessly lost. Yet from time
to time she would pray, uttering her prayers in a mournful
tone, and breathing them out in detached words and phrases.
So will a bird, freezing to death, now and again ﬂap its
wings; and then, bereft of all strength, alight upon the
ground, hop forward a little, chirp a little, and settle down
once more in mortal drowsiness.
And so she again set to hurry on with her last remaining
strength, stumbling into snow-drifts, sometimes sticking fast
in them, but always going onwards, seized and scourged with
a sudden fear and alarm, as she thought of her children.
And now the wind brought her a tinkling sound, and the
noise of sledge-runners and men’s voices, but so brokenly
that, though she stopped to listen, she could not make out
one word. Someone, however, was certainly driving in her
direction; and at last she saw the horses’ heads distinctly
through the snow-mist.
“It is father-in—law!” she whispered; for she had made out
the white spot on the ﬁlly’s forehead. Then she waited no
longer, but turned round to go on.
She had not been mistaken. Boryna, along with Vitek
and Ambrose, was on his way back from the district court.
They drove slowly, it being difficult to get through the
drifts: in some places they had been forced to alight and lead
the horses. They seemed to have been drinking, for they
were talking and laughing aloud, Ambrose now and then
trolling out some snatches of songs.
Hanka got out of their way, and drew her kerchief down
over her face, but could not prevent Boryna from recogniz-
ing her at once as he drove past, whipping his horses up to
get along more quickly. They dashed on, but were stopped
THE PEASANTS 186
by another snow-drift. Then he looked round and pulled
up. When she was again visible and abreast of his sledge,
he called out to her: '
“Throw your ﬁrewood in behind, and get up here: I’ll
take you home.”
She had been so accustomed to do his bidding that now
she did it instinctively.
“Bartek has given a lift to Bylitsa, who was sitting and
weeping under a tree; they are close behind us.”
She answered nothing, but looked round gloomin at the
raging chaos of night and snow-storm as she dropped into
the front seat, as yet only half conscious. Boryna eyed
her with careful scrutiny. She looked so wretched that now
she was a painful sight, with her livid frost-bitten face,
and eyes swollen with tears, and her mouth set in ﬁrm re—
solve. Shivering with cold and“ weariness, she vainly tried
to wrap herself up in her tattered shawl.
“Ye ought to beware: in such a condition, an illness might
easily take you.”
“And who will work in my stead?”
“What! go to the forest in such weather as this?”
“We had no more fuel at all, and could not cook our
meals.”
“Are your little ones well?”
“Little Peter was ill for a fortnight, but has quite re-
covered now, and could eat twice as much as I give him,”
she answered, now at her ease and recovering from her state
of prostration. Throwing her shawl back, she looked him
calmly in the face, without any of the scared meekness of
former times. The old man guessed that a transformation
had taken place in her, and wondered at it greatly: she was
no longer at all the Hanka of old. A sort of glacial repose
was now to be felt in her, and her compressed lips told of
inﬂexible ﬁrmness and strength. He no longer frightened
her as of old; she spoke to him as to an equal and a stranger,
without either complaint or reproach; she answered simply
and to the point, in a voice which spoke of much suffering
187 WINTER
endured, with a certain hardness in her tone which the tem-
pering ﬁre of hidden anguish had wrought; only the gleam
of her tearful azure eyes still betrayed an intensely emotional
soul.
“Ye have greatly changed.”
“Suffering shapes the soul as the smith shapes iron—
and sooner.”
Her reply amazed him so, he could ﬁnd nothing to say to
it, and turned round to Ambrose to talk about the lawsuit
with the manor. In spite of the Voyt’s promise, he had
lost, and had to pay costs into the bargain.
“I shall,” he said conﬁdently, “appeal and succeed.”
“That will be hard. The manor-folk have long arms, and
manage to succeed everywhere.”
“Against them too there’s a way—as there always is, if
one waits patiently for the right moment.”
“You are right, Matthias; but oh, how cold it is! Let’s
go to the tavern and warm ourselves.”
“Very well.—Having spent so much, I can spend a little
more—But ye should know that only a blacksmith should
‘strike while the iron’s hot.’ The man who would over-
come must take happenings coolly, and possess his soul in
patience.”
By the time they had come to the village, the “twilight had
deepened into thick darkness, and in the dusky air the houses
they passed by were indistinguishable; but the storm was
slowly subsiding.
Boryna stopped the horses at the path to Hanka’s cabin,
and got down to help her to get the bundle on her back;
when she had alighted, he said in her ear:
“Come round and see me—to-morrow, if you like. I
know you are badly off; that scoundrel drinks away all his
earnings, leaving you and the children to starve.”
“But ye drove us out; how can I dare return?”
“You speak foolishly—l tell you, come!”
Choking with emotion, she kissed his hand, unable to ut—
ter a word.
THE PEASANTS 188
“Will you come?” he asked, in a strangely kind and ten-
der voice.
“I will, and thankfully; since ye order me, I will come.”
He whipped the horses up, and at once turned off to the
tavern: while Hanka, not waiting for her father, who was
just alighting from Bartek’s sledge, hastened back to her
hut.
It was dark as pitch there, and seemed even colder than
out of doors. The children slept curled up in the feather-
bed. She set busily about to make the ﬁre and prepare
supper, but was all the while full of her extraordinary meet-
ting with Boryna.
“No! Were he on his death-bed, I must not go: Antek
would make me pay too dear!” she cried out angrily. But
other thoughts succeeded presently, some of revolt against
her husband.
Had anyone in the world made her suffer so much as he?
True, Boryna had made over land to that swinish woman,
and had driven them away. But Antek had fought with
him ﬁrst, and had been continually snarling at him, so that
the- old man lost patience. So long as he lived, he had the
right to do with his own land as he pleased—And how
tenderly he had asked her to come just now! . . . and in—
quired about the children, and everythingl—Yes, and never,
had not Antek gone after that woman, would there have been
half this misery and humiliation. . . . That at least was
not in any wise the old man’s fault.
And as she went on musing, her resentment against
Boryna began to abate.
In then came Bylitsa, half frozen and terribly exhausted.
He had to warm himself by the ﬁre for an .hour at least, be-
fore he could say how he had been unable to go any far-
ther, and possibly might have been frozen to death under‘
that tree but for Boryna.
“He saw me, and would have put me on his sledge; but
when I said you were on the road ahead, he left me to
Bartek, and drove on to catch up with you.”
“Was it so? He never told me that.”
189 WINTER
“He is not a hard man really, but would have folk think
he is.”
After supper, when the children had eaten as much as
they could, and were tucked up in bed again and asleep.
Hanka sat down by the ﬁreside to spin what remained of
the organist’s wool; and her father still continued warming
himself, looking timidly at her, clearing his throat, and
gathering courage to speak; which he did at last, though
with great hesitation.
“Prithee make it up with him. Think, not of Antek, but
of yourself and the children.”
“That is easy to say.”
“Boryna himself made the ﬁrst advances. . . . And see:
his home is now become a hell. . . . He will surely thrust
Yagna away from him; if not at once, he will very shortly.
. . . Yuzka can never manage so large an establishment.—
lf, when that comes to pass, you have found favour in his
eyes, it were well. . . . You can render him many a service,
and in good season . . . we know not what may happen
. . . he may ask you to return . . .”
As he spoke, she let the spindle go and, with her head
propped on the top of her distaff, began to think this over
and reﬂect upon her father’s advice.
He was now preparing to go to bed, but asked her, in a
conﬁdential tone:
“Did he talk to you by the way?”
She told him all.
“Pray go to him, my daughter; go to-morrow morning;
go, run to him, since he calls for you. Think but of your-
self and of the children. . . . Be on the old man’s side, and
kind to him. Be like the docile calf, which, folk say,
‘thrives, sucks much milk, and waxes stout.’ Remember that
‘spite never yet brought success to any man.’——As to Antek,
he will return to you. He is now possessed of a devil, and
driVen to and fro by him; but this will leave him soon, and
he will come back to you. Our Lord is watching to deliver
you from all these woes in His own good time.” .
He spent much time exhorting and trying to convince

T'HE PEASANTS 190
her; but she made no reply. Disappointed, he said no more,
but went to bed and lay silent. Hanka went on spinning
and pondering his words.
From time to time she rose to see whether Antek was com-
ing. Nothing was to be heard.
She worked, but did not get on well. The thread would
break, or the spindle slip from her hand, because she was
turning Boryna’s words over in her mind.
Peradventure it might prove true: the hour might strike
when he would call her back again!
And by slow, slow degrees there grew up in her mind the
desire—feeble at ﬁrst, at last invincible-for peace and
reconciliation with Boryna.
“We three are destitute: there will be a fourth presently
. _. and what shall I do then?”
She no longer took Antek into account, but considered
herself and children, and felt she must decide for them all—-
must and would.
If she could but once more get back that position of
housewife at Boryna’s and feel ground again, she thought,
she would take up her duties so thoroughly and earnestly
that nothing should ever prevent their perfect fulﬁlment.
and hope grew within her heart, and waxed so great, and
ﬁlled her with such strength and energy and courage, that her
eyes ﬂashed at the thought, and she felt all on ﬁre.
For a long space she enjoyed this waking dream of hers—
perhaps till midnight—and made up her mind to go to
Boryna the next day, and take the children along with her,
though Antek might forbid, and even beat her. She would
not obey him, but take the opportunity offered and go: she
was now aware of unconquerable power in herself, and
felt ready to ﬁght the whole world, if she must.
Once more she looked out of doors. The wind had quite
gone down; in the black night, the snow appeared dark
grey. Huge clouds passed in the sky, like rolling waters;
and out of the far-off woods, and from the invisible shad-
ows, there came a feeble murmur.
191 WINTER
Having put the light out and said her prayers, she began
to undress. ' .
Suddenly a distant stiﬂed noise rose out of the silence
around her, quivering—grew stronger and stronger, and at
the same time a ruddy glow shone athwart the panes.
She ran out in terror.
Somewhere in the midst of the village, a conﬂagration
had broken out: a column of ﬂame rose up, with smoke and
a swarm of sparks.
The alarm-bell sounded presently, and the cries rang
louder. .
“Up! Up! There’s a ﬁre!” she screamed to Staho in the
other lodgings, dressed in a hurry, and rushed forth into the
road, where she was met by Antek, running from the village.
“Where’s the ﬁre?”
“Can’t tell.-—Go in!”
“It may be at Father’s . . . ’tis somewhere very nigh!”
she stammered, mortally afraid.
“Blood of a dog! get in!” he bellowed, thrusting her into
the hut by main force.
He was covered with blood, bare-headed; his sheepskin
was rent in two, his face blackened and grimy, and his eyes
glowed like a madman’s.
CHAPTER X
N that same day, when work was over and the eve-
ning well on towards night, they began to drop in
at Klemba’s for the grand spinning-party.
Dame Klemba had invited elderly women, for the most
part, kinswomen or good friends of hers, and they had all
come in proper time, as careful not to be late as not to dis-
regard the invitation. r
First of all, according to her custom, came Vahnikova,
plentifully supplied with wool, and_carrying several spindles
under her arm. Then Golab, Matthew’s mother, with a
vinegar-face, always bound up, who always complained of
everything; after her, Valentova the talkative—a huffy
woman who cackled like a hen; and Sikora’s wife, a terrible
gossip, thin as a broomstick, and much interested in all her
neighbours’ quarrels. And then rolled in Ploshka’s wife,
tubby, red-faced, plethoric, always over-dressed, high and
mighty to everybody, and gifted with rare powers of speech,
which made her generally disliked. Afterwards there
quietly slipped in Balcerkova, skinny, undersized, withered,
and sly; an ill-tempered woman, and such a lawsuit-maker
that she was on ﬁghting terms with half the village, and
went to the law-courts every month. And now boldly
stepped in (uninvited, indeed) the woman Kobus, Voytek’s
wife, so malicious a gossip and so rank a shrew that folk
shunned her friendship as they would ﬁre. Also came,
breathing heavily and in a hurry, Gregory’s wry-mouthed
wife, a drunkard, a cheat, and given to practical jokes—-
especially such as did harm to her neighbours. Then old
Sohova (Klemba’s son-in-law’s mother), a very quiet
woman, most religious, and (Dominikova excepted) the one
who spent most time in church. There were others also, too
192
l93 WINTER
hard to describe, being as like one another as geese in a
ﬂock, and indiscernible, save by their attire. All these came
-—an assembly of matrons, each bringing with her something
or other: wool or ﬂax to spin, or hurds; some with linen to
sew, or feathers to make up for bedding—not willing to be
seen empty-handed, as if they had only come to talk.
They formed a large circle in the centre of the room,
under a lamp that hung from the ceiling; and they looked
like a clump of bushes, well-grown, mature, and blighted
by late autumn; for all were elderly, and all about the same
age.
Klembova welcomed them all with the same friendly greet-
ing, but spoke low; she was short of breath, her lungs being
in a bad state. Klemba, as a good sensible man, who loved to
be on pleasant friendly terms with everybody. said some kind
words to each, and set the tables and benches for them
himself.
Yagna arrived somewhat later, with Yuzka and Nastka,
and a few other girls, together with a sprinkling of young
men who dropped in subsequently.
It was a big gathering. The winter was a hard one, and
- the days irks‘ome to pass. People cared little to go to bed
as fowls to roost; that would give them overmuch time to
lie in bed till daybreak, and make their sides ache with
weariness.
They seated themselves, some on benches, others on chests.
Klemba’s sons, too, brought in tree-stumps from the yard
for the boys to sit down upon, and there was room enough
for all. The hut, though of no height, was very large, built
in the old style, most likely by Klemba’s great-great-
grandfather, and a hundred and ﬁfty years old or more.
It was already tottering with age, leaning slantwise like a
stooping old man; in places, the thatched eaves almost
touched the hedge beneath, and had to be propped up.
After a time, the talk grew louder and more general, while
the spindles twirled and whirled and hummed on the ﬂoor,
and a spinning-wheel buzzed here and there.
Klemba’s sons were four: tall slender striplings, with bud—
THE PEASANTS I94
ding mous‘taches. They sat close to the door, engaged in
twisting ropes of straw. The other young fellows were sit-
ting in corners, smoking cigarettes, grinning and joking with
the lasses, and making them giggle till the room rang again.
At last Roch, whom they had long expected, came in,
followed by Matthew.
“Is it windy still?” someone asked.
“No wind at all; the weather will change.”
“It surely is going to thaw,” Klemba added; “we hear
the forest moaning.”
Roch, who now taught a class at the Klembas’, and
lodged and boarded there, sat down to eat at a separate
table. Matthew greeted some of the company, but did not
so much as glance at Yagna, whom he made out he had not
seen, although she was straight in front of him. At that
she smiled faintly, with her eyes ﬁxed on the entrance door.
“Well, it has been blowing all day long, Heaven preserve
us!” Sohova said. “Some women have crept back from the
forest, half dead; and they say Hanka and her father, who
were among them, are missing.”
“Ah, yes,” Kobusova grunted. “ ‘Wherever the poor man
goes, the wind against him blows.’ ”
“Alas! Hanka has come down indeed . . .” Ploshkova
was beginning to say, but stopped and talked of something
else on seeing how red Yagna had turned.
“Has not Yagustynka been here?” Roch inquired.
“She is not wanted: our company takes no pleasure in
slandering and backbiting.”
“A wicked hag she is! This very day she set the Voyt
and the Soltys’ wives so by the ears that they fell to railing
and would have fought, had not the company prevented
them.”
“That’s because they let her talk as she pleases.”
“And there’s no one to pay her out for her spiteful words
and mischief-making.”
“Yet all know what she is: why listen to her snarls?”
“True: we never know when she is lying and when not.”
195 WINTER
“They let her, because they all enjoy hearing her talk
against someone else,” Ploshka’s wife concluded.
Teresa, a soldier’s wife, here called out: “Let her say
one word against me! She would pay it dear!”
Whereupon Balcerek’s wife said to her, sarcastically:
“Why, is she not telling tales against you in the village
all day long?”
“Repeat—repeat them, whatsoever ye have heard!” she
shouted, ﬂushing crimson: it was a matter of general knowl—
edge that she was on exceedingly intimate terms with Mat-
thew.
“I will, and to your face, when your goodman is back '
from the army.”
“Beware what ye say of me! What, will ye babble and
gabble here?” .
“Wherefore scream, when none accuses you!” Ploshka’s
wife cried out in rebuke; but Teresa was not soon appeased,
and she muttered to herself for a good while.
“Have they been here, with the ‘bear?’ ” Roch asked, to
change the subject.
“They are at the organist’s now, and will be here at
once.”
“Who are the performers?”
“Why, the sons of Gulbas and Filipka; who but they, the
rogues!”
“Here they come!” the lasses cried. In front of the
cabin, a long-drawn roar resounded; then various animals’
cries: cocks crowing, sheep bleating, horses whinnying: all
this to the accompaniment of a“ ﬁfe. Finally, the door
opened, and a young fellow came in, clad in a sheepskin
coat, turned inside out, and a tall fur cap, with his face so
blackened, he looked like a gipsy. He came pulling the
“bear” in question after him by a rope, covered all over
with shaggy brown pea-straw, save for a head of fur with
paper ears that he could shake at will, and a tongue that
hung out for more than a foot. To his arms were fastened
staves with pea-straw twisted round them, so that he seemed
THE PEASANTS I96
to go on all fours. After him went the other bear-leader,
wielding a straw lash in one hand, and in the other a club
that bristled all over with sharp pegs, to which bits of fat
bacon, loaves and bulky packets were stuck. In the rear
walked Michael, the organist’s boy, playing the ﬁfe, and a
number of youngsters with sticks, tapping on the ﬂoor and
shouting vociferously.
The bear-leader “praised God,” crowed, bleated, neighed
like a rampant stallion, and, lifting up his voice, spoke
thus:
“We, bear-leaders, come from a foreign clime, beyond the
' ocean and the endless forests, where men walk upside down,
use sausages for palings, and ﬁre to cool themselves; where
pots are set to boil in the sun, and where the sky rains
vodka: thence have we brought this savage bear! It has
been told us that there are in this village wealthy husband-
men, good-natured housewives—and fair maidens too. And
therefore from that foreign clime have we come, beyond the
Danube, to obtain kind treatment, have our needs supplied,
and something given us for our pains!—-Amen.”
“Show, then, what ye can do,” said Klemba; “perad-
venture there may be something for you in the larder.”
“Instantly—Ho, play the ﬁfe there; and you, bear,
dance!” the bear-leader cried. Then the ﬁfe poured forth
one of its sweetest tunes, and the lads tapped the ﬂoor with
their sticks, and shouted loudly in cadence, while the leader
mimicked the voices of many a beast, and the “bear”
jumped about as on all fours, twitching his ears, putting
his tongue out and in again, and running after the girls.
The bear-leader seemed to be pulling him back, and struck
with his lash at everyone within his reach, crying:
“Have found no husband yet, lass?--A rope’s end you
shall get, lass!”
The noise in the room, with the racket and scampering and
squealing,.waxed louder and louder; and the merriment grew
to its height, when the bear began to frolic wildly, rolling on
the ﬂoor, roaring, leaping for fun, and catching at the girls
with his long wooden arms, making them dance to the tunes
197 WINTER
played on Michael’s ﬁfe: the two bear-leaders, meanwhile,
and the lads who accompanied them, making such an up-
roar that the old cabin might well have fallen to pieces with
the horse-play and the din and fun of it.
Then, Klemba’s wife having treated them very bounti—
fully, they left the place; but far along the road came the
sound of shouting men and barking dogs.
“Who played the bear?” Sohova asked, when they had
quieted down.
“Could ye not ﬁnd out? Why, Yasyek Topsy-turvy.”
“How could I know him, with that shaggy head of fur?” '
“My dear,” Kobusova observed, “for such games as that,
the doodle has quite enough sense.” '
“Yasyek is not such a fool as ye make him out to be!”
said Nastka, taking his part. No one contradicted her; but
sly signiﬁcant smiles ﬂickered on many faces. They again
sat down and began chattering merrily. The girls, headed
by Yuzka, who was the least shy of them all, crowded round
the ﬁre-place where Roch sat, coaxing and teasing him to
tell them some such story as he had told at Boryna’s in
the autumn.
“Well, Yuzka, do you remember the tale I told you then?”
“Certainly: ’twas about the Lord Jesus and His dog
Burek.”
“If ye care, I will tell this evening about our kings of
old.”
They placed a stool for him beneath the lamp, made a
circle round him. and he sat in their midst like an old
hoary oak in a clearing, compassed about with a clump of
many bushes. He spoke deliberately and in a quiet voice.
A hush fell upon them all; only the spindles hummed
on, and the logs crackled now and again upon the hearth.
And Roch told them many a marvellous tale: of the kings
and the bloody wars of old; of the mountains amidst which
there now sleeps an army of enchanted warriors, awaiting
but the sound of the trumpet to start up and fall on the foe
and purge the land of evil; of the great castles, in whose
golden chambers white-clad enchanted princesses, expect-
THE PEASANTS 198
ing their deliverer, mourn in the moonlit nights; and of
those where music is heard nightly in the empty rooms, and
multitudes assemble there to dance, who at cock-crow van-
ish and go back to their tombs. They listened; the spindles
no longer twisted under their ﬁngers; their minds went forth
into that world of marvels, and their eyes ﬂashed, and tears
of ineffable rapture welled up, their hearts well-nigh burst-
ing their bosoms with longing and amazement.
Roch wound up by telling them of a king nicknamed by
his nobles the “Peasant King,” because he was humane,
' just and good to all folk alike; of his terrible wars, and of
his wanderings in the disguise of a peasant, when he went
about the land and lived with his people as a brother, so
that he knew of the evil things done, and could redress
the wrongs; and how, after that, that he might be yet more
at one with the peasants, he married a husbandman’s
daughter, Sophia by name, who dwelt nigh Cracow; and,
taking her to the castle in that city, he reigned there for
many years, the father of his people, and the best husband-
man in the country.
To all this they listened with rapt attention, not missing
one word, and even holding their breath for fear of inter-
rupting the stream of wonders told them. As to Yagna, she
was now quite unable to spin any more; her hands had
fallen to her sides, and with head bowed and one cheek
pressed on the top of her distaff, she ﬁxed her turquoise-blue
eyes on Roch’s face. He seemed to her like a saint, come out
\of a picture-frame; so holy he looked, with his grey hair, his
long white beard, and those pale eyes of his that seemed
to be gazing at something far away. She listened with all
her might—the might of an exceedingly impressionable
heart—so earnestly taking in all he said, that emotion hardly
suffered her to breathe. His words brought everything
plainly before her mind’s eye; and where he led, she too
followed in spirit—What struck her most of all was his
tale about the king and his peasant queen; oh, how beauti-
ful she thought it!
199 WINTER
“And did the king himself live so—together with the
peasants?” Klemba asked, after a long silence.
“He did.”
“Lord!” whispered Nastka; “if a king spoke to me, I
should die of fear!”
“And I would follow him all over the world to get one
word from him . . . one word!” Yagna cried, passionately.
They then put many a question to Roch. Where could
those castles be found? and that army? and those great
riches and beautiful things? and those kings, so mighty?—
where?
He answered, somewhat sadly, but with wisdom, pointing
out to them so many a deep truth and holy maxim that
they all sighed, and fell to reﬂecting on the ways of God’s
providence in this world.
“Yes,” said Klemba, “to-day is ours; to-morrow belongs
to the Lord!”
But Roch was tired, and needed some rest. As all were
higuly interested in the wonderful tales told, each began,
at ﬁrst in whispers, and then aloud, to tell of such things
as they too had heard.
One told one tale, another a second, and this reminded a
third of something else, each bringing in a fresh point
of interest. So the tales glided on like spun threads, and
softly as the moonbeams that light up the dead dark waters
in the secret woodlands—They told how a drowned woman
came back to suckle her hungry babe, whose cries had
drawn her; and how an aspen stake must be thrust through
the heart of a vampire in its cofﬁn, that it may not come
out to SUCk human blood any more; how there are noonday
phantoms that lurk in lanes between ﬁelds. to strangle chil—
dren. They spoke of talking trees, of horrible midnight
spectres, of hanged men, of witches, of bound souls, doing
penance upon earth—and of many another weird and awful
thing that made the hair to stand on end, the heart to
faint with horror, and all that heard to shudder, frozen
with dread. Then they sat mute, looking apprehensiver
THE PEASANTS 200
one at the other, and lending an ear: they fancied some-
one was walking about the loft over the ceiling, or lurked
hid outside the windows; that glaring eyes glowed upon
them through the panes, or dim shadowy forms skulked in
nooks and corners; and more than one made the sign of
the cross, and said prayers with chattering teeth. But this
mood was swift to pass away, like a cloud, when it has glided
over the sun and one has forgotten that it ever was there.
And they then set once more to chatter and spin long,
long yarns, which Roch heard attentively, till at last he
joined their talk, and related a certain fable about a horse.
“Once upon a time, a poor ﬁve-acre husbandman pos-
sessed a horse, whose nature was slothful and evil beyond
words. He was good to it, but that was of no use; he fed it
well, but it never was pleased. And it would do no work at
all, but pulled its harness to pieces, and lashed out so
viciously that no one could go near it. . . . At last its mas-
ter, seeing that kindness was of no avail, grew mightily
angry and, harnessing the horse to a plough, set it to
till a ﬁeld that had long lain fallow, thinking to wear it out
thereby, and weary it into obedience. It refused to draw;
then he gave it so sound a ﬂogging as made. it submit and
work. But it thought it had been grievously ill-used, and
the memory rankled, with craving to be revenged at a con-
venient season. And when the husbandman one day had
stooped down to set its hind legs free, crash! the horses’s
hoofs struck out and killed him on the spot; and it set
off to roam the world at liberty.
“Throughout the summer, things went fairly well with
him. He lay in the shade, or ate the corn on strangers’
lands. But winter came round, the snow fell, there was
little to eat, and he was pinched with cold. Therefore he
went farther' and farther away to get food. He had to
’run day' and night, the wolves following him close and often
biting his ﬂanks very deep. ‘
“Away he ran, and ran, and ran, even to the conﬁnes of
the winter—to a meadow where the weather was warm, the
grass knee-deep and over, and streamlets sparkled in the
201 WINTER
sun, with cool shadows moving to and fro upon their banks,
and a pleasant breeze blowing over them. He went 'to eat
that grass, for he was famishing: but, whenever he thought
to get a mouthful, it was only a mouthful of hard stones
he got: the grass had disappeared. Then he 'would fain
taste some water: it was there no more, but only stinking
mire in its stead! He sought the shade to lie down: it
ﬂoated away, and he was burned and baked by the sun.—
Then he would have returned to the forests: they too had
vanished! The poor horse neighed in distress, and other
horses answered him; and, following the sound, he at last
got beyond the meadow and came to a great farm-house.
All of silver it seemed to be, its panes as of precious jewels,
its thatch like the star-studded sky; and several folk were
there, going to and fro. He crawled after them, for now he
was willing to labour, no matter how hard, rather than
die miserably of hunger. But he lingered on all day in the
heat, and no one came to put a halter on him. At evening,
however, someone came out: it was the farmer. Now He
was the Lord jesus, the Great Husbandman, the Holiest! and
He said:
‘“‘You lazy one, you that have slain a man, you have
naught to do here. Not till they that curse you now shall
bless you, will I admit you into My stable.’
“ ‘I did but strike him back, because he beat me.’
“ ‘For that beating he has answered to Me; but I hold all
justice in My hands.’ ’
“‘I am so starved!’ the horse whinnied, ‘so thirsty! so
tormented with pain!’
“ ‘l have spoken. Away! and I will command the wolves
to harry and pursue you.’
“So back went the horse to the land of winter, and dragged
himself along in hunger and cold and exceeding great fear ;_
for the wolves—~the hounds of the Lord, as it were—hunted
him on continually, and scared him with their howls. At
last, one spring night, he stood before the gate of his mas--
ter’s dwelling-house, where he neighed, expecting to be re-
ceived. a
THE PEASANTS 202
“But at that sound the widow and her children rushed
out, and, snatching up sticks, staves and cudgels, they beat
him cursing him the while for his evil deed, whereby they
had come to great misery and destitution.
“Then went he back to the woods, knowing not what else
to do. The wild beasts came up against him, and he did
not defend himself, for he now thought death as good as
life. Howbeit, they only touched his sides, and the chief
amongst them said:
“ ‘Lo, you are too thin—naught but skin on your bones!
Eat you we will not, nor wear out our teeth to no purpose:
but we shall take pity on you, and help you.’
“They took him with them, and the next morning led
him to his master’s ﬁelds, and put him to the plough that
was standing there.
“ ‘They will plough with you, and make you wax stout;
and in the autumn we shall come and unharness you!’ So
they spake. '
“The widow came to the ﬁeld later; but though she cried,
‘A miracle!’ seeing him back and about to plough, the bit-
ter memory of what he had done soon made her revile him
and beat him as hard as she could. And this she did the
next day, and after, continually punishing him for his crime.
All the summer he toiled hard and in patience, knowing
that he suffered justly. Only after several years, when the
widow had taken another husband, and also purchased
some more land from a neighbour, did she relent toward:
the horse, saying unto him:
“ ‘You did us a grievous wrong; but since by your
means the Lord has blessed us with good harvests, and l
have got an able husband, and have bought some ﬁelds, I
fully and freely forgive you.’
“And behold, in that same night, while they were cele-
brating a christening-feast, the wolves, messengers of our
Lord, came, took that horse out of the stable, and led him
to the ﬁelds of Paradise.”
They wondered exceedingly at the narrative, and were
greatly exercised, thinking how the Lord always punishes
203 WINTER
evil and rewards good deeds, and watches carefully over all
things, as this tale about the horse clearly showed.
“Not even the worm that bores in this wall is hidden
from His eyes.”
“Nor even,” Roch swiftly added, “is any most secret
thought concealed from Him, nor any foul desire.”
Yagna started at the words; for Antek had just come in,
though noticed by few. Valentova was at the time relat-
ing such wonders about an enchanted princess, that the
spindles ceased from turning, and all sat motionless, listen-
ing in charmed silence.
And thus they spent that bleak February evening.
All their minds were on ﬁre, and blazed like roaring
resinous faggots; murmurs of emotional outbursts—fancies,
dreams, desires—ﬂuttered about the cabin like butterﬂies——
living, ﬂying ﬂowers.
They wove themselves such a web of marvels—so bright
with changing prismatic hues—that for the moment it quite
shut out the sad, grey, miserable world they lived in.
They went a-roaming over dark plains, lit up with phan-
tom lights; by silver streams, where eerie songs and mys-
terious calls and gurgling ripples resounded; through vast
woods, full of glamour—of knights, of giants, of castles
haunted by s'pectres, of dragons breathing ﬂames. They
stood horror-struck at those crossways where vampires
screech with laughter; where they that have hanged them-
selves utter the sobs of the lost; and where the souls of un-
christened children ﬂit and hover on bats’ wings. They
wandered through dim burying-places, following the shades
of such as do penance for self-murder; they listened to un-
canny voices in ruins of castles and churches; saw fearful
visions of terror pass by in endless procession; were pres-
ent at battles fought; and looked beneath the waters, where
the swallows sleep together in long festoons, to be waked each
springtime at the Blessed Virgin’s call, who gives them to
the world again!
Heaven and hell they passed through—through the dark
shadows of the wrath of God, and through the radiance of
THE PEASANTS 204
His tender mercy; through ineffable regions and times of
raptures, marvels, miracles; through worlds never seen but
in hours of ecstasy, or in dreams—when man looks and
gazes, is dizzy and spellbound, and knows not whether he
is still in this world or in the next!
It was then that, like an ocean before them, there arose
an impassable barrier—a barrier of enchantments and bright
wonders—between them and the real world, making it fade
away, with the cabin, and the thick black night—this
world of troubles, miseries, wrongs, tears, unfulﬁlled de-
sires—and opening their eyes to that other world, far more
majestic and beautiful than tongue can tell!
They had entered the world of the Fabulous; the life of
the Fabulous surrounded them with its rainbow tints; the
fables of Dreamland had become realities for them. They
were dying with a rapture in which they yet found a new
life—the great new life, abounding and sacred, merged and
plunged in the Miraculous: wherein all trees speak, all stones
are animated, all woods enchanted, and every sod of ground
instinct with unknown force: wherein all things great and
invisible and superhuman live their life—the sublime life
of the lnconceivable.
With uttermost longing and a yearning of ecstasy did
they aspire towards that life, uniting all things with its in-
frangible chain—fancy and reality, prodigy and wishes—-
in a bewildering procession of dream-existences, for which,
under the miserable conditions of their earthly days, their
weary crippled souls were insatiably pining.
And indeed, what was that life of theirs, so dull, so
squalid? what was that daily round of deeds, so like the
glances of a sick man, veiled in the mists of suffering?—
Mere darkness—a sad tedious night, during which, except at
the hour of death, no such marvels were ever to be seen with
the bodily eyes.
As a beast of burden beneath the yoke, so livest thou, O
man! caring only to get through this thy present day, and
never thinking of what surrounds theewwhat incense-
205 - WINTER
perfumes—and from what most sacred altars—fill the
world—nor what hidden prodigies are lurking everywhere!
O man! thou seest no more than cloth a rock beneath
deep waters! O man! who in darkness ploughest the ﬁeld
of life, thou sowest it but with tears and trouble and
sorrow!
And this thy starlike soul, O man! thou lettest it wal-
low in the marsh and the quagmire! . . .
The conversation went on, and Roch willingly joined in
it, always full of wonder “and sorrow and tears, when others
wondered and sorrowed and wept. . . .
From time to time, there would be long pauses, in which
you might almost hear the throbbing of hearts ready to
burst, and you could see how their moist eyes glistened,
shining with dewy tears; while exclamations of wonder and
longing arose, and their souls knelt down before the Lord,
in this His temple of marvels, and sang the great hymn of
thanksgiving. This all their hearts were singing, ﬁlled with
ecstasy, trembling, in the mystic communion of the Ideal;
like the earth, when it thrills in spring beneath the sun-
beams; like the waters at evening, when the day is calm
and quiet, and vibrations and iridescent tints play all over
them; or like the young corn in an afternoon of early May,
murmuring continuously and gently waving delicate blades
and feathery ears in a prayer of thanks.
Yagna was in heaven. So deeply did she feel and realize
all these things that they stood before her in concrete form
and shape, and she was able to cut them out in paper with-
out any diﬂ’iculty. They handed her some sheets, written
over by the children whom Roch was teaching; and while
she listened to the legends and stories, she snipped out, now
spectres, now kings, or vampires, or dragons, or any other
wonderful things, so well cut that they were recognized with-
out fail. So many did she cut out that a whole beam might
have been pasted over with her handiwork; and she painted
them all with raddle that Antek passed to her. So absorbed
was she in her work and the legends she was listening to, that
THE PEASANTS. 206
she failed to notice him, as he stood there impatient, trying
to draw her attention; nor did the others, who were also
deeply interested, remark the signs he made.
On a sudden, the dogs outside fell to barking furiously,
and howling as if in dread, till one of Klemba’s sons went
out to them. He said on his return that he had seen a
peasant outside the window, who had run away.
No one either paid heed to what he had said or remarked
that later, when the dogs had ceased barking, a face passed
swiftly outside the window, and'vanished. Only one girl
saw it, and screamed out, rolling her eyes in terror.
“Someone has just gone by—there—there—in the yard!”
“Yes, I hear feet scrunching through the snow!”
“And there’s a scraping noise along the wall!”
“ ‘Talk of the wolf . . . it is sure to appear!’ ”
A panic came over them, and now they sat terror-struck,
motionless with dread.
“Ah!” someone said in a terriﬁed whisper, “we were speak-
ing of the Evil One—and perhaps we have called him up—
and he may even now be on the watch for one of us!”
“jesu Maria!” they exclaimed in horror.
“just take a look outside, boys, will you? ’Tis but the
dogs playing about in the snow.”
“Oh, but I saw him too plain through the window—his
head as big as a barrel, and eyes like burning coals!”
“Ye saw not well,” said Roch, and, seeing that no one
cared to go into the yard, he went himself to calm them.
“I will tell you a tale about the Blessed Virgin,” he said
on his return, “and all your fancies will vanish away.”
He seated himself in his former place; his coolness some--
what quieted them.
“It was long, long ago, ages ago; so long ago that the
tale is found only in very ancient books. In a certain vil-
lage, hard by Cracow, there dwelt a free peasant, Casimir
by name, and surnamed ‘the Hawk.’ His family, a good
one, had dwelt there from all time, and he tilled many a
thirty-ﬁve-acre piece of land. He had a forest of his own,
207 WINTER
a dwelling like a manor, and water-mill close to the river.
Our Lord had blessed him, and all went well with him; his
barns were always full of corn as his money-box was of
money; his children were blooming, his wife was without
reproach, and he himself a wise and kindly man, not proud
of heart, and just towards everyone.
“He ruled like a father in the assembly, always for jus-
tice, anxious to be upright in all things, and ever the first
to help and save his neighbours.
“So he lived, soberly, quietly and happily, as one having
the Lord God at his ﬁreside.
“Now one day the King sent to call the nation to war
against the Paynim.
“The Hawk was sorely troubled at heart, for he had no
wish to leave his home and go out to the wars.
'But then, there was the King’s messenger standing at
the door, and calling him to hasten.
“It was a very great war. The Turks, a vile brood! had
entered Poland, burning villages, robbing churches, slaying
priests, and putting the people to death, or driving them,
bound with cords, to their own country of inﬁdels.
“To ﬁght them was a duty. If, to defend his home and
kin, men and country, a man shall willingly lay down his
life, he is sure of eternal salvation.
“So he called the assembly, selected the stoutest and brav-
est men he could ﬁnd; and on the morrow, after Holy Mass,
all set out, some on horseback, others in chariots.
“The whole village went with him, with tears and great
lamentations, as far as the statue of Our Lady of Chensto-
hova, which stands by the road, at the crossway.
“He fought for a year, for two years . . . but at last no
news of him came any more.
“And when all the others had been back a long time, the
Hawk was still far away. So they thought he must have
been either slain or taken captive by the Turks; moreover,
the Dzz'aa’s and wanderers who passed by said secretly much
that made them think so.
THE PEASANTS 208
“At length, at the end of the third year, he came back one
day in early spring; but all alone, without henchmen or
horses or chariots, in great poverty, and bearing a staff like
a beggar.
“He knelt down before the statue of the Blessed Virgin,
thanking her for his return to his own country; then he made
for the village, walking with swift steps.
“But none welcomed him, none knew who he was; and the
dogs attacked him, and he drove them off.
“He arrived at his home . . . rubbed his eyes . . .
crossed himself . . . and knew not what it meant.
“jesu MariaI—No granaries, no orchards, no hedges even!
and of live stock, not a single head.-—Of his cabin, there re-
mained only the scorched and ruined walls—No children
either! All was utterly destroyed. His wife rose at his ap-
proach from a pallet of straw where she lay sick and in
pain, and she burst into most bitter tears!
“He stood thunder-struck.
“It had come to pass, while he was ﬁghting and putting to
ﬂight the enemies of the Lord, that the plague had entered
his cabin, and cut off all his children, and the lightning had
struck it and burned it down, and the wolves had eaten his
cattle. Then his neighbours seized upon his lands, the corn
had perished by drought, the rest of the crops by hail-
storms: and naught remained to him.
“Down he dropped on the threshold, ghastly as one dead.
But when evening fell, and the bell rang for the Angelus, he
started up, and began to curse and blaspheme in an awful
voice!
“ ‘Had he shed his blood in God’s service for this? for
this defended God’s churches?’ I
“In vain his wife tried to calm him; in vain she fell at
his feet and entreated him: he continued to curse and blas-
pheme.
“ ‘What! had he suffered wounds, and hunger, and been
honest and pious for this? No matter what he had been,
the Lord God had forsaken him, and decreed he should lose
all!’
209 WINTER
“Most foully did he curse the name of God, and cry
that now he would give himself to Satan, who alone did not
forsake the wretches that call upon him.
“At those words, behold, Satan appeared before him!
“The Hawk, being very wroth, was now reckless, and cried
out:
“ ‘O devil, if you can help me, do; for I have been dealt
with most grievously!’
“Fool that he was, and unable to understand that this
was all but a trial, whereby our Lord would prove him!
“‘I will aid you,’ Satan hissed; ‘but will you give up
your soul to me?’
“‘1 will—this instant!’
“So a compact was written, and signed with Casimir’s
blood.
“From that day forth, all things began to mend. He
himself did but little, only ordering and overseeing things.
Michalek (for so the devil chose to be called) worked for
him, helped by other devils, disguised as farm-servants or
as Germans; and in a short time the farm was in better
order, larger and more ﬂourishing than it ever had been.
“Only there came no more children to them. For how,
indeed, could they come to a home so unblessed as that?
“This mortiﬁed the Hawk exceedingly. Also by night he
was wrung at the thought how he should support the ever-
lasting ﬁre of hell.
“But Michalek took upon him to say that all rich folk——
lords, kings, men of learning, yea, and even such bishops
as were mighty on earth—had sold their souls to him. And
yet none of them cared for what might come to them after
death, and thought only of making merry and tasting all
the pleasures of this life to the full.
“Then was Casimir more at ease, and he became a yet
greater foe to God. With his own hands, he hewed down
the cross by the forest; he cast the holy images out of his
cabin, and would even have removed the statue of Our
Lady of Chenstohova, because it was in his way when he
ploughed. Hardly could his wife, with many prayers and
THE PEASANTS 210
tears and entreaties, prevail upon him to let it remain.
“The years ﬂew by, like a rapid river. His wealth in—
creased enormously, and his importance along with it; so
that the King himself came to see the man, invited him to
Court, and gave him the post of chamberlain there.
“Now was he puffed up, and looked down upon all, op-
pressed the poor, threw honesty to the winds, and cared no
whit for anyone in the world.
“He also most foolishly closed his mind against the
thought that he must one day pay dearly for all this.
“But at last the hour of reckoning arrived.
“Our Lord’s patience and mercy towards that hardened
sinner came to an end at last. ,
“And his doom and punishment swooped down upon him.
“First, he was assailed by sore diseases, which tortured
him unceasingly.
“Then the plague swept away all his castle.
“Next, his farm-buildings were struck by lightning and
burned to the ground.
“After which, his corn crops were ruined by hail-storms.
“Then such terrible droughts came that everything was
withered up and, being dry, burned to ashes; the very
ground was cracked and ﬁssured, and his trees died for
lack of water. ,
“All men abandoned him, and Want sat down at his
threshold.
“He was exceeding sick, and his ﬂesh fell from off his
bones, which began to rot.
“He called for Michalek and his fellow-demons to help
him; but without avail. When the hand of the Lord is
lifted up in anger against any man, Satan can do nothing.
“Instead of trying to aid him, the ﬁends, who were sure
that he was already theirs, blew ﬁre into his horrible wounds
to make them rankle yet more.
“And now, nothing could save him but God’s mercy.
“Late in the autumn, there came so windy a night that
the gale tore off the roof of the cabin, and all the doors and
211 WINTER
windows; and with it there entered a troop of ﬁends that
fell to dancing as they pressed forwards with pitchforks to
the middle of the room, where the Hawk lay dying.
“His wife did what she could to protect him. Thrusting
a holy image in front of him, and chalking the sign of the
cross on the door and windows, she drove them out; but
she was most anxious lest he should die unreconciled to
God, and without the last sacraments. So, although he had
forbidden her, being hardened evenat this last hour, and
though Satan sought to turn her back, she found an
opportunity, and slipped away to where the parish priest
lived.
“But he was just driving out, and did not care to attend
so wicked a man.
“ ‘God has abandoned him: he needs must belong to
Satan: I have nothing to do there.’ And off he drove to
play cards with the manor-folk. _
“Weeping in bitter woe, the woman knelt down before
the statue of Our Lady of Chenstohova, and sobbed and
besought mercy for him from the bottom of her heart.
“And the Holy Virgin took pity, and spake to her:
“ ‘Woman,’ she said, ‘weep not: thy prayer is granted.’
“And down she came from the altar, just as she was:
crowned with gold, clad in her azure star-besprinkled
mantle, and with a rosary dangling at her side . . . she,
the Holy Mother, like unto the morning star, all beaming-
with loving-kindness! The woman fell upon her face
before her.
“With her sacred hands she raised her up compassion-
ately. wiped away her tears, and said tenderly:
“ ‘Take me to thy cabin, faithful servant; it may be that
I can do something.’
“She looked on the dying sinner, and her merciful heart
yearned within her at the sight.
“ ‘Thy husband must not die without a priest: the power
to shrive, that priests have received from God, is not mine;
for I am but a woman. That priest is an evil-doer, and
THE PEASANTS 212
cares not for his ﬂock. For that will he answer to God; but
he alone can give absolution. . . . I will go myself to the
manor and fetch this gambler thence—Here is my rosary:
keep the ﬁends at bay with it till I come back.’
“But how was she to go? The night was dark, windy,
rainy, miry. It was far to go, besides; and moreover, the
ﬁends set up obstacles everywhere to prevent her.
“Our Heavenly Lady dreaded none of these things. She
only muffled herself in a sheet of coarse drugget against the
foul weather, and went out into the darkness.
“Exhausted and quite drenched, she arrived at the manor,
knocked at the door, and humbly begged the priest to come
to a sick man; but, supposing her to be some poor woman,
and knowing how stormy it was out of doors, he sent her
word that he would come next day, being too busy just
then. So he went on playing, drinking, and enjoying him-
self with the gentlemen there.
“Our Lord’s Mother sighed deeply at his evil behaviour;
but, causing a gilded coach and horses and servants to ap-
pear at once, she went into the room, arrayed in the garb of
a castellan’s lady.
“Of course the priest set out with her at once and very
eagerly.
“They arrived, but only just in time; the man was almost
at his last gasp, and the ﬁends were making efforts to rush
in and carry him alive to hell, before the priest arrived with
the Sacred Host. 1
“The Hawk confessed, repented, was shriven, and gave
up the ghost. Our Lady herself closed his eyes; then, when
she had blessed his widow, she turned to the bewildered
priest and said:
“ ‘Follow thou me!’
“He did so, ever more and more amazed; but, looking
out of the cabin-door, saw neither coach nor servants—only
rain, mire, darkness—and Death dogging each of his steps!
Mightin afraid, he followed our Lady to the chapel.
“Then he beheld her, now in her mantle and crown, sur~
213 WINTER
rounded with a choir of angels, as she again took her place
upon the altar.
“Then he knew her for the queen of Heaven, and was ter-
riﬁed. Falling on his knees, he wept aloud, and begged
her to have mercy.
“But the Blessed Virgin eyed him with indignation, and
said:
“Many a century shalt thou kneel here in penance for thy
sins, ere thou hast atoned for them!’
“And immediately he turned into stone, and remained in
that posture, weeping every night, holding out his hands to
her, and awaiting the hour of pardon. Thus has he been
kneeling for ages and ages.
“Amen! . . .
“Even at the present day, that same priest is to be seen in
Qombrova. The stone ﬁgure stands outside the church,
lki perpetual memory of the fact, and as a warning to all
sinners.”
All listened with attention; all were subdued, ﬁlled with
wonder, awed and silenced.
For what could they say at such a moment—when the
soul, expanding like the iron which glows red-hot in the ﬁre,
is so ﬂooded with emotion and splendour that one has but
to strike upon it_ and it shoots forth a starry shower, becom-
ing, as it were, a rainbow suspended between earth and
heaven?
And so they remained, hushed and silent, until the glow
that then ﬁlled them had dwindled and faded away.
Matthew took out his ﬂute, and the touch of his cunning
ﬁngers brought forth the anthem, “To Thy Protection, Holy
Mother of God . . .” with its touching, measureless, opales-
cent melody, like gossamer-besprinkled dew-drops; and they
all, in low voices, took up the anthem after him.
And then, little by little, one by one, they went back to
their everyday mood and talk.
After a time the young people smiled and laughed; for
Teresa, the soldier’s wife, was asking them funny riddles.
THE PEASANTS 214
In a while; someone coming in said that Boryna was back
from the law-court, and drinking in the tavern with his
companions: at which Yagna quickly and quietly slipped
out. Antek slipped out too, catching up with her at the
outer entrance on the very threshold; he seized her hand
fast, and led her on to the outer yard, and through the -
orchard, beyond the barns and granaries.
CHAPTER XI
they went under the snow-laden boughs, they ran
like frightened deer along by the barns and into the
murky snow-plain, into the starless night, into the unfathom-
able stillness of the frozen waste.
So, speeding on, swallowed up by the shadows, they pres—
ently forgot all the rest of the world. Each, with arm round
the other’s waist, seized in a tight grasp, ran along with
rapid steps, bending down, hip to hip—rejoicing, yet with
fear, silent, yet with hearts full of song—athwart the bluish
livid obscurity which enveloped them.
“Yagna?”
“Dearest?”
“Are you really here?”
“Can you doubt it?”
They said no more, and were at times forced to stop and
take breath.
Unable to speak for the throbbing of their hearts, and
forced besides to suppress their feelings, which else would
have burst out in a wild cry, they only glanced at one an-
other; their eyes darted still but ardent lightnings, and lips
ﬂew to lips in an impetuous rush, and with such hungry
ravenous craving that they both reeled in ecstasy, panted for
breath, feeling the earth crumble beneath their feet, as it
were, while they fell into a ﬁery abyss_-and, looking at one
another with eyes blinded by those ﬂames, saw nothing
more !—And again they would dash forward—whither, they
could not tell: only longing to be farther, farther away—-
plunged in the murkiest possible shadows, in the thickest in-
tricacy of gloom. - '
One more ﬁeld passed—and yet another! Farther and
PAST the orchard, gliding swiftly, stooping forward as
215
THE PEASANTS 216
deeper still—till nothing more was seen—till they could for-
get the whole world, and their own existence, and enter the
realm of Fairyland, lost as in some strange dream, like to
the marvellous waking vision which they had had but now,
. in Klemba’s hut!—And, indeed, they still felt the inﬂuence,
luminous in its vagueness, of those mystic legends they had
heard breathed low; they still were attuned to the diapason
of wonders and of miracles; and those same fantastic myths
were pouring a shower of unearthly blossoms into their
souls: entrancement, awe, intense stupefaction, intoxicating
bliss, unappeasable desire!
Yes, they were yet wrapped in that rainbow-coloured
mantle of marvellous ideal happenings; still, so to speak,
they followed in the wake of the wonderful pageant they had
seen go by; they traversed strange fabulous lands, and went
through all those superhuman scenes and actions, all those
wonders, those enchantments, those magical spells. They
beheld visions, swaying in the dark, ﬂoating along the sky,
expanding as they looked, and touching their hearts with
such telling power that they could not breathe for dread, but
stood pressed close one to the other, mute, terror-struck, and
gazing into the opaque bottomless depths of their dreams.
And their minds would then blossom forth into the blossoms
of fantasy—the beautiful ﬂowers of faith and loving rap-
ture . . . and they sounded the extremes of admiration and
oblivious joy.
Then, returning to earth once more, they would search the
night with bewildered eyes, scarce knowing in which world
they were, whether those marvels had been realized, or were
all mere phantoms and creations of the brain.
“Say, Yagna, are you not afraid?”
“I? I would go with you to the very end of the world——
die with you I” she whispered with energy, pressing very close
to him.
“\Nere you waiting there for me?” he asked after a while.
“Dearest, at every opening of the door, I expected you!
I went there only for you; and how I feared you would fail
to come!” '
217 WINTER
“Yet, when I! came, ye feigned not to see me!”
“Nonsense. Should I look, with folks’ eyes upon me?—
Ah, there was that within me which yearned so, I wonder I
did not fall off my seat in a swoon.”
“Sweetest!”
“You sat behind me, and I knew it; but I feared to look
round—feared to speak: all the time my heart went pit-a-
pat, and beat so loud, I think folk must have heard.”
“I thought to ﬁnd you at the Klembas’, and to leave with
you.”
“I meant to run straight home . . . but ye constrained
me . . .”
“Against your will? Say, Yagna!”
“Nay . . . more than once . . . I thought that this might
come to pass!”
“Did you think so? Did .you think so?” he whispered, in
a passion of love.
“Surely, Antek—And besides . . . there . . . continually
. . . beyond the stile . . . it was not well with us.”
“True—Here, none will disturb us. We are alone.”
“Aye, alone! And how thick this darkness is!” she mur-
mured, throwing her arms about his neck, and embracing
him with all the ,vehemence of her passionate soul.
Now there was no longer any wind; only a slight breeze
which from time to time caressed and cooled their burning
faces. Neither stars nor moon were visible: the sky was
louring, covered with thick clouds as with a ragged ﬂeece,
and dark-brown as a herd of oxen upon a bare waste ﬁeld.
Things loomed dimly afar, as if seen through expanses of
drab smoke, as if the whole world were but a tissue of fogs,
of darkness rolling around on every side, of seething murk.
A movement in the air—an uneasy vibration, scarce to
be felt, seemed ﬂoating forth from the forests, lost in the
night.
It was very dark: in the atmosphere, thrilled with a dreary
and ominous agitation, they were aware of a dull eerie mo-
tion, of strange indeﬁnite vibrations, of vague fearful mut-
terings and lurking shapes that had no shape! Sometimes,
THE PEASANTS 218
on a sudden, feebly gleaming from out the voluminous
dusk, there appeared the spectral pallor of the snow-ﬁelds;
and a few glimmers—chilly, moist, viscous glimmers—
would coil and uncoil in snaky folds across the shadows;
and again the night would shut her eyelids fast, and the
darkness descended with a black impenetrable downpour,
in which all things were lost. The eye, no longer able to
perceive anything, now sounded the uttermost abyss of this
portentous invisibility, whose dull sepulchral deadness be-
numbed and overwhelmed the mind—But at times the veil
of obscurity was rent in twain, as by some mighty force,
and through that tremendous rift one could see the black-hue
expanse of heaven, serene and studded with stars.
And now—was it from ﬁelds or from huts? from the
sky above, or from the gloom-droWned horizons?—who can
say? . . . but there came . . . trembling . . . muttering
. slinking . . . what? voices, gleams, scarce audible
echoes—call them what you will: the ghosts of things and
sounds long ago dead and gone, now haunting the world
again, seemed moving to and fro in a ghastly procession,
expiring far away, as the light of a star may expire in the
abyss.
But these two paid little heed to all this. Within them
there raged a tempest; every minute it grew and grew, rolling
from heart to heart in a hurricane of hot unspoken desires,
of ﬂashing glances, of shuddering pangs, of scorching kisses,
of words as stammering and incoherent and inarticulate as is
the thunder in the sky: of instants as mute as death, of
fondness so excruciating that they choked each other with
caresses, and their hugs gave them intense pain, while they
struggled to hurt and to be hurt for the delight of that pain;
and their eyes ﬁlmed over; and they could no longer see any-
thing at all! '
Swept onward by the wild blast of their passion, blinded
to eVerything, maddened even to frenzy, forgetful of all,
and burning with the same mutual ﬂame, they had, in that
night of palpable. darkness, ﬂed out into the loneliness of
219 WINTER
the silent waste, about to give themselves to each other en-
tirely, “till death did them part,” and from the very bottom
of their souls that were starving with the insatiable hunger
of unfulﬁlled desire. .
They were by this time unable to speak, save for a few
instinctive cries that welled out of their inmost being—a
few strangled whispers; thrown forth as'spasmodically, as
ﬁtfully, as the ﬂames of a ﬁre—rambling, raving, insane
words—with hungry devouring looks, looks of frenzy mixed
with haggard terror, looks that betrayed the storm that
raged within—Till at last there swept over him and her a
convulsion so irresistible, such an uncontrollable spasm of
craving, that, losing their senses completely, they closed with
a mad frantic cry . . . and fell!
And, with them, their whole world reeled and crashed
headlong into the abyss!
“Oh, I am beside myself!”
“Be silent, dear, be silent!”
“I cannot; else I should go mad!”
“My heart is bursting asunder!”
“And my blood burns my veins!”
“Death—is it death coming—or a swoon?”
“My own, my own!”
“O Antek !”
Even as those elements which combine to form life wake
up in the early months of every year, and—impelled by
eternal affinity—set out to seek one another throughout the
world, from end to end of earth and sky, until they meet in“
springtime, and unite, and bring forth to our astonished
eyes now ﬂowers, now babes, now huge green trees that mur-:
mur in the wind :' I ’
So they too, after long days of desire and torment, days
of greyness and of void, met, found each other, mingled with
an uncontrollable cry, rushing into one another’s arms, and'
clinging close: Just so may two pine-trees, uprooted by
the storm and tossed together in a desperate embrace, strive
THE PEASANTS 220
with might and main, wrestling in a mortal grip, whirling,
reeling, rebounding—till they both drop to the ground and
die!
And over these two did the night weave her veil of
shadows, that the things which were to be might come to
pass.
Somewhere among those shadows, partridges were heard to
pipe, so near at hand that the passage of the whole covey
was distinctly audible. A quick rustling sounded—wings
ﬂapping the snow for an upward ﬂight. Other noises, keen
and shrill, broke the stillness now and then; and from the
village that therefore could hardly be very far away, there
came the loud though muffled crowing of cocks.
“It must be late,” she whispered timidly.
“Oh, it is yet long before midnight: ’tis only change of
weather makes them crow.”
“A thaw is setting in.”
“Aye, the snow is softer now.”
Some hares, not far from the rock under which they were
sitting, then fell to squeaking, playing about and gambolling
merrily; and presently a whole band of them darted by, so
near them that they shrank in alarm.
“’Tis pairing-time; the little beasts are so excited that
they fear nothing. . . . Spring will soon be here.”
“I thought some large creature was rushing at us!”
“Hush!” he hissed in sudden terror. “Crouch low!”
They silently crept close to the rock. Out of the dusk,
less black because of the reﬂecting snow, appeared long
shadows, stalking some prey, advancing slowly, slowly,
pressed close to the ground, and sometimes completely van-
ishing—swallowed up, as it were, by the earth; their eyes
alone shining greenly phosphorescent, like glow-worms in a
copse. The creatures were about forty yards away, but soon
farther, disappearing into the darkness. . . . And then, all
at once, came the throttled scream of a hare in mortal
jeopardy . . . a scraping and a scuffling of feet . . . a rattle
and a snarl, the sound of crunched bones, a ﬁerce growling;
221 WINTER
and then once more silence, deep and dreadful, prevailed all
around.
“Wolves—Tearing a hare piecemeal.”
“If they had scented us!”
“They could not: the wind blows towards us.”
“I am afraid. Let us go. I feel cold as ice,” she said
with a shudder.
He took her in his arms. She warmed to his kisses, and
oblivion of all things came over them once more. With one
arm tight round the other’s waist, they both went along
their straggling way, swinging and bending to and fro, as
trees do, when, too heavily laden with blossoms, they wave
restfully to the gentle hum of bees.
They spoke rarely; but their kisses and sighs and pas-
sionate ejaculations, their low blissful murmurs and raptur-
ous heart-beats, vibrated above them and around, as the
warm air trembles and quivers over a ﬁeld in springtime.
For now they were like those vast plains all in ﬂower,
plunged in the radiance and harmony of joy; thus did they
glow, with eyes like opening buds; thus did their souls
echo back the hot perfumes of meadows basking in the sun-
beams, the shimmering of brooks, the low faint twittering of
birds. Their beating hearts were in unison with those
spring-tide regions; and the words they uttered—few, full of
meaning, and scarce audible—welled forth from their inner-
most souls, as young shoots burst from the parent tree at the
dawn of a May morning; their breaths were like the zephyrs
that fondle the sprouting corn, and their souls like a day
in the spring season—sunny as the rising blades of wheat,
and not less full of the songs of larks, of brightness, of
whispering, of dazzling virescence, and the irresistible glad-
ness of life!
Then again they grew silent and stopped short, seized with
awe of something they knew not what, which was about to
be: as when a cloud ﬂoats over the sun, and the world at
once waxes still and sad, and darkens with uneasy misgiving.
But they soon shook off this mood, and joy again burst
out in their bosoms with a great conﬂagration; glee once
THE PEASANTS 222
more swept the chords of their hearts, and now they were
ﬂying up with bliss, compelled to soar.~—And, all unwittingly,
they burst out into passionate and delirious song.
They swayed to the rhythm of their voices, which rose as
on many-coloured pinions, and sped through the dead still-
ness of the night in a star-seeking, ﬁery rush.
And now, completely beside themselves, they strode along,
each leaning on the other, driven on by a blind impulse, lost
in their mutual love, oblivious of all things, entranced by the
spell of a superhuman emotion,‘which lifted them up to the
topmost heights of entrancement, and forced its way out in
that timeless, formless, almost wordless chant of theirs!
A wild and a stormy chant it was, rushing torrentially out
of their burning hearts, and pouring forth into the world
with its all-conquering strain of love!
How it ﬂamed in the sombre chaos of the night! How it
lit up the wilds like a bush burning in the desert!
Now it was like the dull and ponderous growl of the
waters, when they arise in their strength, and shatter their
icy bonds.
Now it was scarce to be heard—a sweet melodious whisper,
sounding and rustling faintly, like corn that waves in the
sunshine!
And, after a while, it resembled the lay of frightened
birds that rise to the sun on frenzied ﬂuttering wings, and at
last (their bosoms expanded with soaring up towards those
inﬁnite heights) utter forth the triumphant hymn of the
earth, the immortal cry of life and existence! “
“Yagna!” Antek whispered, as if surprised to know she
was by his side.
“Here I am.”--But her reply seemed subdued and sorrow-
ful.
They were now upon the pathway that skirted the village,
at some distance outside of the encircling granaries, but on
the side next to Boryna’s farm. ~
All at once, Yagna burst out crying.
“Why, what is amiss?”
223, ' ' W I N T E R
“I cannot tell: something has come over me, and forced
the tears to start.”
Greatly distressed, he made her sit down with him close
to a granary with outstanding beams; there he gathered her
' tenderly in his arms, rocking her on his breast like a child.
Her tears continued to ﬂow, as dew distilling from ﬂowers;
he wiped them away, but they still ﬂowed on.
“Are you afraid of anything?”
“Of what, pray? Only within me there waxes a stillness
as though Death stood here beside me; yet all the while
something lifts me up, so that I would fain climb the sky,
and sail away among the clouds.”
He replied nothing. The light had all at once gone out
of their souls; a shadow passing over them troubled their
calm and bore in upon them a strange sense of longing, which
made them cling yet closer one to the other, and seek yet
more earnestly to ﬁnd mutual support, each vying with the
other in the desire to ﬂee away into some unknown world.
The wind rose; the trees rocked in ghastly wise, covering
them both with moist snow; the close-pressed louring clouds
began to fall swiftly asunder and roll away, while a low
tremulous moan ﬂoated across the ﬁelds.
“ ’Tis late, ’tis late; we must run home,” she whispered,
half rising.
“Do not fear: people are not yet asleep: I can hear them
on the road—Coming back from Klemba’s, belike.”
“But I left the food-tubs in the byre; the kine may break
their legs on them.”
The voices they heard grew louder and then fainter again
and more remote, while they stood silent. But on one side
of them—on the very same pathway, it seemed—the snow
crunched crisply, and a tall shadow came out of the gloom,
showing so plain that they both started to their feet.
“Someone is there, skulking behind that hedge!”
“That’s mere fancy: night-clouds often throw such mov-
ing shadows.”
They peered long into the darkness, listening intently.
THE PEASANTS 224
“Come,” he then whispered to her, “let us go to the hay-
stack: we shall be more at ease there.”
Looking round anxiously every now and then, they held
their breath as they stopped to listen; but all was as still
as death. So on they went, stooping forward cautiously,
till they got to the haystack, and disappeared in the deep '
opening that yawned just above the ground.
All was pitch-dark again; the clouds had come together,
forming an impenetrable mass: the pale starlight was
quenched, and the night, closing its eyes, had fallen into a
deep sleep. The stillness grew yet more intense, more awful,
broken only by the waving of the snow-burdened trees, and
the water babbling under the mill-wheels far, far away.
But after a long interval, the snow upon the road crackled
once more beneath steps—still, stealthy steps like the tread
of a wolf. A shadow passed along, close to the walls, and,
crouching down, made its way through the snow, ever nearer
and nearer. . . . It grew larger . . . stopped many a time,
to go forward again . . . passed round the hayrick on the
outer side and, creeping up to the opening, listened long and
closely.
Then it went away to the stile, and vanished among the
trees.
About a minute afterwards, it appeared again, bearing a
truss of straw It stopped, listened awhile, and then, spring-
ing forward to the haystack, thrust the truss of straw into
the hole, rammed it in tight . . . and struck a match. In-
stantly the straw was in ﬂames and shot out many a blazing
tongue, which presently burst into a sheet of red ﬁre, spread-
ing all over one side of the rick.
And Boryna, pitchfork in hand, head lowered, stood there
watching, white as a sheet!
They at once realized their position; a ruddy glow already
lit the darkness of the den where they lay, and a pungent
smoke ﬁlled the air. They beat wildly about on one side
and another, ﬁnding no issue, maddened with horror, and
scarcely able to breath. But, by marvellous good luck,
225 WINTER
Antek happened upon the tarpaulin cover and, pushing with
all his might, tore it down, falling to the ground along with
it. Ere he could rise, Boryna was upon him with pitchfork
raised to pin him to the earth. He missed: Antek leaped
up and, before the old man could aim a second thrust,
felled him with a blow of his ﬁst in' the chest—and ﬂed.
Boryna, up in an instant, rushed to the haystack; but
Yagna too was no longer there, having slipped out and dis-
appeared in the night. And then, in the voice of one raving
mad with rage, he roared out: “Fire! Fire!” and ran
round the hayrick, wielding his pitchfork, and looking for
all the world like a ﬁend in the blood-red glow. . . . --The
ﬁre had by now got' complete hold of the stack—hissing,
humming, roaring, and raising on high its pillar of ﬂame
and of smoke.
Folk came along in haste; the cry of “Fire!” had quickly
spread through the village. Someone had rung the alarm-
bell, and every heart was throbbing with fear. But the
ﬂame of the conﬂagration rose ever higher and higher, wav-
ing its ﬁery mantle from side to side, and raining a torrent
of red sparks over all the buildings, both near it and
throughout the whole village.
CHAPTER XII
full of great excitement; and all Lipka swarmed like
an ant-hill when a naughty boy has thrust a stick
into it.
Dawn had scarcely risen, people had but just begun to rub
their eyes and wake up, when they all of one accord made
their way to the scene of the ﬁre. Some even said their
prayers as they went, to save time, and hurried along as to a
fair.
The day rose, blurred as with mist; for the snow, coming
down in great soft ﬂakes, threw its wet ragged cloak over
everything. That, however, no one minded; all gathered in
groups, and stood for hours together on the spot, talking in
low tones about the events of the night, and pricking up their
ears to get at any new detail that might offer.
The rick was in ruins—so completely burned down that
nothing had been left standing save the two supports it had
been built upon. And these too were like half-burnt-out
brands. The thatch had also been torn from the sties and
the shed. down to the very girders. The pathway and
neighbouring land were, for half the length of a ﬁeld, cov-
ered with burnt thatch, splinters of lathspashes of straw,
bits of charred wood. K.
The snow continued to fall, and after a time\overspread
everything with a glistening sheet, which the glowing embers
had thawed in places. Here and there, too, ther issued
streams of smoke or even pale hissing ﬂames from heaps of
hay that had been pulled from the rick, which the Inen set
to work upon with hedge-bills, stamping out the ﬂa es with
their clogs, beating the hay with sticks, and heaping‘lit over
with snow.
T HE morrow which followed that memorable night was
226
227 WINTER
They were just at work on’ one of those smouldering heaps,
when a lad ﬁshed out a charred rag and held it aloft.
“ ’Tis Yagna’s apron!” Kozlova sneered; for they all knew
what had taken place, or guessed it shrewdly.
“Search well, lads; ye may also ﬁnd a pair of hose.”
“Oh, no! he carried them off unscathed . . . unless he lost
them by the way!”
“The lasses have been after them all the time, but some-
one was too quick and got them ﬁrst.”
“Silence, babblers!” the Soltys shouted indignantly.
“Come ye to make merry here,’ and grin over your neigh-
bour’s misfortuneP—Off, women! get you home; what do ye,
standing here?” '
“Meddle not with our business, but do your own; for that
only are ye in office!” Kozlova retorted in such shrill tones
of anger that the Soltys looked her in the face, spat with dis-
gust, and withdrew to the farm-yard. No one moved an
inch; and the women set to pushing the singed apron about
with their clogs, and confer together in ﬁerce tones.
“Such a one,” Kozlova said aloud, “should be treated as
witches were dealt with of old—driven out from amongst
us with a lighted candle and an oven-poker!”
“Surely! Has not all this befallen through her fault?”
chimed in Sikora’s wife.
“It is,” put in Sohova gently, “a mercy of the Lord that
the whole village has not been burnt down!”
“True: a miracle, a miracle indeed.” “*
“Yes; there was no wind, and they gave the alarm at
once.” ’
“Besides, the alarm-bell was rung, and we were only in
our ﬁrst sleep.”
“It is likely the bear-leaders, who were coming from the
tavern, were the ﬁrst to see it.”
“Ah, no, my dear! Boryna caught them inside the hay-
stack, and had only just separated them, when the ﬁre broke
out. Last night, when I saw them at the Iélembas’, going
out together, I was sure something of the sort would happen.”
“The old man had long been on the watch to catch them.”
THE PEASANTS 228
“My son tells me he had been walking about outside
Klemba’s ever so long, waiting for them,” Kobusova re-
marked.
“Antek must have set the rick on ﬁre out of spite.”
“Did he not threaten he would do so?”
“It could not but have ended in some such way; it could
not,” Kozlova put in.
Meanwhile, another group of housewives were also whis-
pering, but lower and to more purpose.
“Do you know? Boryna has swinged Yagna so, that she
is now lying sick in her mother’s house!”
“Certainly; he turned her out at dawn, and sent her chest
with all her things after her,” Balcerek’s wife, who had
hitherto said nothing, told them now.
Ploshka’s wife contradicted her:
“Pray do not talk at random; I was in the hut just now,
and her chest is standing there.
“But,” she added in a higher key, “on her wedding-day I
foretold it would come to this.”
“O my God!” Sohova groaned, raising her open hands,
“what an awful, awful thing!”
“Ah, well, he will be locked up for it, and that’s all!”
“It is but just: we might all have been burnt out.”
“I,” said Ploshka’s wife, “was beginning to enjoy my ﬁrst
sleep, when Luke, who had been running about with the
bear-leaders, came tapping at my window-pane and crying:
‘Fire!’-—Jesu Maria! the window was as red as hot embers.
. . . And I felt so faint, I could not budge one inch. . . .
And the bell tolled, and the people shrieked . . .”
Here someone broke in: “No sooner had I heard there
was a ﬁre at Boryna’s than I knew it was Antek’s doing.”
“Tush, ye talk as though ye had seen him do it.”
“Seen him I have not; but all say it is he.”
“Why, Yagustynka has been whispering something of the
sort for ever so long.”
“Of course they will put him in the stocks, and then in
prison.”
229 WINTER
“But,” cried Balcerkova, whose pride was that she knew
the law, “what can they do to him? Who has seen the
man? What witnesses are there?”
“Well, but did not Boryna catch him in the act?”
“Yes; but not in that act—Besides, even had it been that,
his testimony is worthless, because he is at odds with his
son!”
“After all, ’tis the court’s business, not ours; but who,
before God and man, is guilty of it all, if not that foul
wench Yagna?” Balcerkova continued sternly, raising her
voice. ,
“You say true!——Ah, such wickedness, such depravity!”
they assented, speaking lower and thronging closer, as they
recounted her former misdeeds.
Little by little, their voices rose loud in condemnation of
Yagna’s behaviour. All the old offences which had caused
their hatred, now again returned to their minds: a shower of
epithets, reproaches, threats, and evil spiteful words, were
hurled at her; and their fury was so hot that, had she ap-
peared among them at that instant, she would surely have
been attacked and beaten.
The men, on the other side, were discussing Antek, more
calmly, but not with less animosity. Every heart was full
of indignation and bitterness. More than one ﬁst was
shaken with dangerous menace, more than one word of harsh
import ﬂew about. Even Matthew, who had been on his
side at ﬁrst, forsook him now, only saying:
“Well, if the man had dared to attempt such a thing, he
must needs be out of his mind.”
Thereupon the blacksmith entered the lists, speaking
loud, with furious passion, and pointing out to them that
Antek had long ago threatened his father he would burn him
down; that Boryna had known of his threats, and been in
the habit of keeping watch every night.
“Yes, I could take my oath it was he that did it.—Be-
sides, there are witnesses who will speak; he must—he must
be punished! Was he not always plotting with the farm-
THE PEASANTS 230
hands, setting them against their betters, egging them on to
evil deeds?—Yes, and I know,” he cried in threatening
tones, “I know more than one of these—l see them here
before me, and they hear me speak . . . and yet they dare to
stand up for such a scoundrel—one who taints the whole
place! . . . To prison, to Siberia with the wretch! What-—
with his own stepmother! Was not that crime heinous
enough, without adding to it arson besides? ’Tis a wonder
any of us is yet alive!” , . . And so he went on, shrieking
and shouting so vehemently that he might be guessed to
have a purpose in doing so.
Roch, who stood with Klemba not far off, took good note
of this, and said:
“Ye make a mighty uproar against him, yet ye were drink-
ing with him in the tavern only yesterday!”
“Whoso would beggar all the village is my foe!”
“And yet,” Klemba gravely remarked, “the Squire is no
foe of yours!”
The smith then strode off amongst the people, stirring
them up, calling them to take revenge, and laying unheard-of
offences to Antek’s account; and his hearers, already greatly
moved, were presently wrought to the very highest pitch of
rage. Some began to cry that the incendiary ought to be
seized, fettered, and taken to the police-court; while others,
of yet more ﬁery mettle (those especially whose ribs had in
days past felt Antek’s cudgel), were now looking for sticks,
intending to drag him from his cabin and give him such a
thrashing as he would remember to his dying day.
The clamour grew, with cries, threats, curses, and a hul-
labaloo so great that the folk swayed hither and thither like
a spinney in a gale, rolling to and from the palings of the
enclosure, and preparing to pour out through the gate into
the road. The Voyt came to pacify them, but without avail;
nor did the Soltys and the elders of the village succeed any
better. Their voices were lost in the uproar, and they were
themselves swept away by the torrent. No one heeded
what they said: everyone dashed on, tore along, and shouted
231 WINTER
with all the force of his lungs: the whole band, carried for-
ward by a tempest of hate, appeared like men possessed.
At that moment, Kozlova elbowed her way forward,
vociferating: '
“There are two culprits: let both be dragged to the place
of their crime and judged there!”
The married women, especially the poorest of all, took up
the cry with a hideous bellow and, with arms stretched forth,
placed themselves by her side. The mob rolled on with
the din of a raging torrent.
The howling and shrieking grew as they went on, delayed
'by the narrow fenc'ed road; they all pressed together, surg-
ing along. shrieking, shaking their ﬁsts, and lurched against
one another, glaring with sinister glances; and a savage
many-sounding voice, the cry of universal exasperation,
burst from them as they hastened on, intent upon their pur-
pose—Suddenly those in front cried out:
“The priest! the priest !——And with the Sacred Host
At this the mob moved uneasily, as if held back by a
chain—wavered, spread out upon the road, stopped, and
broke up into little groups. A hush fell all at once upon
them: they were struck speechless—fell on their knees and,
kneeling, bowed down their heads.
\ It was indeed the priest, coming out of the church, and
bearing with him Christ’s Body—the holy viaticum. Am-
brose walked on in front,,ringing a bell and swinging a
lantern. ,
He went swiftly past, and presently, in the eddying snow-
fall, was seen only as a dim blur outside a frozen window"
pane. Then they rose from their knees.
’ “Going over to Filipka. She Was so starved with cold
’in the forest yesterday that she has been scarce able to
breathe since dawn. They say she will not hold out till
night.”
“He has also been called to Bartek of the saw-mill.”
“What’s amiss with him?”
“Why, know ye not? A falling tree-trunk has crushed
'n/
THE PEASANTS 232
the man so, that he is not likely ever to be well again.” So
they whispered—still gazing after the priest, now almost un-
seen.
Several of the elder dames had joined him to follow in
procession, together with a large party of men; and the
rest stood uncertain, like a ﬂock of sheep which their dog
has headed round. All their resentment had evaporated, the
back of the riot was broken, the din ceased. They looked at
one another, scratched their heads or mumbled some uncon-
nected words; several were ashamed of themselves, spat on
the ground, and slunk off. Part of the crowd thus leaked
away like water, creeping through fences and into wayside
cabins. Kozlova alone went on ranting in spite of all, and
threatening Antek and Yagna; but, seeing himself without
adherents, she had a passage of arms with Roch (who had
told her certain truths), and then went back to the village.
In the end but few remained, watching at the place of the
disaster, lest the ﬁre should break out anew.
The blacksmith, too, remained in the farm-yard, much
vexed with the course of events. He spoke no more to any-
one, but prowled about, prying into holes and corners, and
more than once driving Lapa away for persistently follow-
ing him and barking.
All this time, Boryna was nowhere to be seen. He was,
they said, fast asleep under his bed-clothes; and only
Yuzka, with eyes red from crying, peeped out of doors for
a moment to disappear immediately. Yagustynka did the
farm-yard work alone, as waspish that morning as could pos-
sibly be. It was no use speaking to her, and after a few an-
swers that stung like nettles, no one cared to try.
Punctually at noon, a clerk and several gendarmes ar-
rived in Lipka. They wrote a great deal, and made much
inquiry into the causes of the ﬁre: which made all present
take themselves off pretty quickly, fearing to be called as
witnesses.
No one was even seen about the roads; but this was be-
cause the snow, falling ceaselessly and yet moister than be-
fore, was melting ere it touched the earth, and covered the
233 WINTER
whole country with a layer of half-liquid slush. But the
folk at home were as lively as bees in a hive; that day had
brought them an unexpected respite from their work; few
did anything at all, and at some farms the cows were lowing
over their empty mangers. In every cabin, people were
busily discussing the great event, and often someone would
pass from hut to hut: old dames especially, wagging eager
tongues. So, from hearth to hearth, news went ﬂuttering
round like crows; and at windows and front doors, and else-
where within the enclosures, many an inquisitive face was
seen, watching for Antek to appear, going by in the clutch
of the law!
Their curiosity increased hourly, still unsatisﬁed. Every
now and then, someone would rush in, with the breathless
announcement that the gendarmes were at Antek’s; or swore
that he had overpowered them, broken his fetters, and got
.away. And others had other facts at hand, not less sure
than these.
One thing was beyond doubt. Vitek had run to the tav-
ern to get vodka, and great volumes of smoke were pour-
ing out of Boryna’s chimney: which told of good cheer pre-
paring within.
Then evening came, clerk and gendarmes drove off in
the Voyt’s britzka.-—But Antek was not along with them!
Great was the wonder and disappointment of the village
folk. All had expected to see him carried off in chains.
It was in vain that they put their heads together to guess
what the old man’s testimony had been. That only the
Voyt and the Soltys knew: and they kept their own coun-
sel. So the village was in a fever of curiosity; and mani»
fold conjectures, some of them quite incredible, were put
forth.
The night fell slowly, dark and quiet enough; the snow
no longer fell, and there were signs of a slight frost at hand;
for a star or two glittered in the sky, and a bleak wind was
hardening the wet expanses of snow which began to break
underfoot into thin crackling splinters. Lights shone from
within the cabins, where the folk, closely crowded, rested
THE PEASANTS 234
from the emotions of the day and gave rein to yet more
conjectures and sunmises.
The ﬁeld was a wide one. Antek had not been arrested:
so he was innocent of having burnt the rick. Then who
was guilty? Not Yagna, certainly: no one dreamed she was.
And as little did anyone think of accusing old Boryna.
So they, groped and groped in the dark, quite unable to
ﬁnd any solution of the mystery. There was no hut wherein
the question was not debated, nor any where they arrived
at the truth. The only outcome of all these debates was that
people were no longer set against Antek. Even his enemies’
mouths were stopped; and his friends, Matthew amongst
them, once more lifted up their voices in his favour. On
the other hand, their ﬁerce hatred for Yagna became still
more envenomed. Witlr cruel tongues, the women set them-
selves to deal with her, dragging her as through a wilderness
of thorns and briers. Dominikova, too, came in for her
share, and no small one either: being all the more spitefully '
treated, because no one could say what had become of
Yagna; her mother had driven all busy-bodies from her
door, as one drives away troublesome dogs.
But all unanimously felt profound compassion and sym-
pathy for Hanka, whom they pitied sincerely, and heartily
condoled with. Klemba’s wife and Sikora had even gone to
her that same evening, bearing with them presents in
bundles for the poor woman.
Thus that memorable day went by. The next, things were
once more as usual, Curiosity and resentment had cooled
down, indignation was blunted and subdued: the daily round
of work began again, and they bent their necks to the yoke,
and accepted the lot which the Lord God had given them.
At times, indeed, people would talk of what had taken
place, but more and more seldom now, and ever with less
keen interest. -
March coming round, the weather grew really intolerable:
dark, muggy, dreary, with such deluges of rain and sleet“
that to stay within doors was almost a necessity. The sun
seemed to- havedost, itself semewher‘e among those low-lying
235 WINTER
masses of cloud, and often did not shine for one second
throughout the livelong day. The snows melted, or softened
only, taking a dingy greenish hue, like mouldy walls; the
furrows were ﬁlled with water, and it ﬂooded the lower lands,
and the outlying premises of the farms; and during the
nights a frost would frequently come and make walking
along the slippery roads and paths no easy matter.
And this abominable weather made folks think less and
less about the late ﬁre; the more so, because neither Boryna
nor Antek nor Yagna excited curiosity by appearing in
public. Thus did the event fall into oblivion, as a stone
falls into a stream; the water swirls and eddies over it,
ripples, breaks, trembles . . . and ﬂows clamly on as be-
fore.
And so things went on until Shrove-Tuesday, the last day
before Lent.
It was somewhat of a holiday, and since the dawn a good
deal of bustling had been going on about the cabins. From
well-nigh every home someone had gone to town to get
various articles, especially meat—or at least a bit of sau-
sage or fat bacon. Only the very poorest had to be sat-
isﬁed with a herring (bought on credit from the jew) with
a dish of boiled potatoes and salt.
But, ever since noontide, the wealthier housewives had
been frying doughnuts; and the odours of burnt dripping,
and baked meats, and other viands yet more alluring, ﬁlled
the air of the whole place.
Once more did the bear-leaders make their appearance,
straying from hut to hut and performing; and the shouts of
the lads who accompanied them echoed now from one part
of the village, now from another.
And in the evening, when supper was over, the band
played! in the tavern; everyone that could move his legs
hastened thither, caring not one whit for the sleet that had
begun pouring down with the twilight.
They enjoyed themselves with particular gusto, because
it was the last time dancing was allowed before Eastertide.
Matthew played the ﬂute, and Pete (Boryna’s man) ac~
THE PEASANTS 236
companied him on the ﬁddle, while Yasyek Topsy-turvy
performed on the drum.
And all danced with extraordinary life and spirit, until
such time as the tolling of the church-bell signiﬁed to them
that midnight had come—and that the Carnival was over.
At once the band ceased playing, the dances stopped;
everyone promptly dispatched what food remained, and all
went home—except old Ambrose, who, fairly drunk, stayed
singing outside the tavern, according to his wont.
No lights shone anywhere but in Dominikova’s cabin;
but there, it was said, the Voyt and the Soltys sat in con-
ference till the second cock-crow, to reconcile Yagna and
Boryna.
And when the whole village was fast asleep, and the land
at rest (the rain having stopped about midnight), they
were still deep in conference.
But in Antek’s hut there was no joyous Carnival, no quiet
sleep, nor any peace at all.
God alone knows, and no human tongue can tell, what
passed in Hanka’s mind during those long days and nights
since she had met her husband outside the hut, when he
forced her to go in.
For that same night she had been told, all by Veronka.
The agony of it slew her soul within her, and it lay like
a naked corpse, horrible in death. For the ﬁrst day or two,
she hardly stirred from her distaff and spinning-gear:
though she spun nothing, only moving her hands mechan-
ically, as one in a deathly slumber, gazing within herself,
looking on the storm of sufferings that were hers, and on
the miserable chaos of burning tears, wrongs borne, injustice
suffered. All that time she neither ate nor slept; even her
children’s cries could not recall her to herself. Veronka
had pity on her, and took care of the little ones, and of her
old father, too, who—to make matters worse—had fallen
ill after that expedition to the forest, and lay upon the top
of the baking-oven, moaning low.
Antek, one might say, was never at home, going out at
dawn and returning only late at night. But she now felt
237 WINTER
herself unable to say a single word to him. It was impos-
sible: her soul, hardened, as it were, in the ﬁre, had become
like stone.
Only on the third day did she wake up, as out of a hor-
rible dream. But how changed! Coming back from that
trance of death, she was in appearance no longer the same
person: grey, faded, wrinkled, many a year older in looks,
and now hard and rigid as though she had been carved in
wood. Only her eyes glowed, cold and keen; and her lips
were set hard—So thin had she grown that her clothes hung
on her as upon a peg.
And thus she came back to life again. Although her for-
mer self was now burnt to ashes, she was aware within her
soul of a wonderful power that she never had felt before——
of a stubborn force of living and ﬁghting, and of the settled
certitude that she would overcome at last.
She at once ﬂew to her wailing children, took them in her
arms, and well-nigh smothered them with kisses; and she
burst with them into a long sweet ﬂood of tears that were
a true relief to her, soothing her anguish greatly.
She quickly set the hut in order, and went round to
Veronka to thank her for her kindness, and entreat her to
forgive the past. They were at once good friends again,
which her sister took as a matter of course. Not so the
fact—the inexplicable fact—that Hanka never breathed a
word of reproach against Antek, or even complained of her
own sad fate.
“I feel like a widow now,” she said; “I am alone, and must
take thought for the little ones and for everything.”
That same evening she went to see the Klembas and
other acquaintances, and ask them how things were going
on at Boryna’s, whose words, so lately heard, were ever in
her mind.
Instead, however, of going at once to him, she waited a
few days more; and it was only when Ash-Wednesday had
come round that she put on her best clothes, committed her
little ones to Veronka’s keeping, and—without even pre-
paring breakfast—made ready to go out.
THE PEASANTS 238
“Whither away so early?” Antek inquired.
“To the Ash-Wednesday service,” she replied, slowly and
evasively.
“Will you not get breakfast ready?”
“Get ye to the tavern; the jew will give you credit still,”
she could not help answering: the words came out unawares.
He started up, as if he had got a blow; but she went out
unheeding.
Now his shouts, his fury, affrighted her no more. He
was a stranger, and so remote from her that she was herself
astonished. And though, from time to time, something like
the last ﬂicker of her old fondness rose up in her heart from
embers now covered over and trodden down, she at once
quenched them by recalling the memory of her inexpiable
wrongs.
When she entered the poplar road, the faithful were just
repairing to church.
It was a singularly bright day for the season. The sun
was just in the east; the thin surfaces which the night had
frozen on the snows had not yet been melted by the thaw.
From the thatches there hung strings as of glittering crystal
beads; the waters, frozen in the roads and ditches, gleamed
like so many mirrors, and the frosted trees sparkled in the
sun. In the pure blue sky, there were suspended a multitude
of tiny milk-white clouds, that ﬂoated in the light like a
ﬂock of sheep playing in a great ﬁeld full of azure ﬂax-
blossoms. The air was pure, cold, and so bracing that in-
haling it was a pleasure. The whole country-side looked
gay, the pools glistened; the snows shone with'glassy golden
reﬂection; the children were frisking and sliding about with
joyous cries; an old man here and there,- propped against
a wall, basked in the bright warm rays; even the dogs, as
they chased the crows come to pick up food, barked with a
merry bark.
But, on entering the church, Hanka passed immediately
into an atmosphere of deep, cold, religious silence. A low
mass was just being read at the high altar; and the people, ;
devoutly attentive and lost in fervent prayer, formed a dense
239 WINTER
crowd in the nave, upon which long streams of light were
pouring down.
Hanka cared little to mix with the crowd then. She went
into an aisle so gloomy that it had no light at all, save a
few ice-cold streaks; for she desired to be alone with her
own soul and with God. Down she knelt before a side—
altar consecrated to the Assumption and, kissing the pave-
ment, stretched out her arms, ﬁxed her eyes on the sweet
face of the “Mother of Mercy,” and was soon absorbed in
prayer.
And now at last, at the holy feet of her, the “Comforter
of the Afflicted,” she burst out into complaints, laying bare
all the wounds of her soul with the deepest humility and
the most boundless trust, and confessing all her sins frqm
the bottom of her heart. Before our Lady—the Mother of
the Polish Nation—she truly repented of all her transgres-
sions. For lo! she had sinned, since she had been punished
by the Lord Jesus!
“Aye, I have been unkind to my neighbours, l have set
myself above them, quarrelled sometimes, and not been
cleanly, and have loved good cheer, been lazy in working
and slothful in God’s service: I have sinned.” Such was
the fervent cry of her soul, bleeding with contrition, and
she prayed most earnestly that God might forgive Antek’s
most grievous sins. Oh, how, and with what ardour, did
she beg for mercy! Even as a fowl which, about to be
killed, makes a frantic dash to the window beats at the
panes, and pipes in a mournful voice, begging for its poor
life!
Her whole frame shook with weeping; and from out of
her soul, as from a bleeding wound, there poured a stream
of prayers; and her tears, like blood-stained pearls. trickled
down and watered the icy pavement.
Mass was over; and the whole congregation, deeply con-
trite, went forward to the altar railings, there to receive with
bended heads the ashes with which the priest, uttering aloud
a penitential prayer, crossed their brows as they knelt.
Without awaiting the close of the service, Hanka went
THE PEASANTS 240
out, greatly strengthened, and full of trust in God’s help.
With head erect, she replied to all who greeted her, and
—-bold and brave at last—met many a curious eye as she
went by. But it was not without a quiver of emotion that
she at length reached Boryna’s enclosure.
Lord! how very long it was since she had been within!
And yet, how many a time had she, sorrowfully and from
afar, approached to have a glimpse of it! Now she could
view all the place—cabin, outhouses, hedges, trees covered
with hoar-frost—with eyes as full of affectionate remem-
brance as if all that had been part and parcel of her own
being, of her life!
Her soul was glad and jocund within her. Scarcely had
she got to the porch, when Lapa dashed out and jumped
upon her, joyfully whining; and then Yuzka came out,
astounded, and hardly believing her senses.
“Hanka! Good Lord! Hanka!”
“Yes, it is I: don’t you know me?-—Is Father in the
house?”
“Surely, surely !-—Ah, ye have come at last, ye have come,
Hanka!” And the little lass fell a-weeping and kissing her
hands, just as if she had been her own mother.
The old man, hearing her voice, came out and brought
her into the cabin himself, asked about the children and
was pained at what she had undergone. She presently be-
came calmer, and told him everything without concealment.
But she felt shocked at the change that he too had suffered;
for he had aged a good deal, stooped much more, and looked
faded and withered and thin. But his face still wore the
same expression as of old, and was even full of more grim
and dogged determination than before.
They had a long talk; and when, after an hour or so,
Hanka prepared to go home, Boryna told Yuzka to make a
large bundle of everything they could spare. It turned out
to be so large that she could not carry it by herself; so
Vitek had to take it on a toboggan. And, as she went out,
Boryna thrust several zloty into her hands “for salt-money,”
and said:
241 ' . WINTER
“Come hither more often—ever y day, if ye can. No one
knows what- may happen to me, so pray look after the
house. And Yuzka loves you.”
Thereupon she went away, reﬂecting on his words as she
went, and paying but little heed to Vitek’s prattle. Yet
he was telling her how the Voyt and the Soltys came daily
to press Master to be reconciled to Yagna; how Master had
even been at his Reverence’s, along with Dominikova—who
had afterwards conferred with him till very late the night be-
fore—and told her all the news he thought would interest her.
She found Antek still at home, repairing his boots. He
did not even look up in her direction; but, on seeing Vitek
and the pack, he said, tauntingly:
“Come back from begging, I see.”
“Beggars have to beg.”
But when Vitek came in, Antek, recognizing him, ﬂew into
a passion.
“Blood of a dogl—I forbade you to go to Father’s!”
“He asked me himself—I went; he offered the things un-
asked—I accepted.-—Am l, are the children, to die of
hunger?—To you ’tis indifferent; but I will not have it.”
“Take all that back again!” he shouted. “I want noth-
ing from that man.”
“You do not: I and the little ones do!”
“Take it back, I say, or I’ll take it myself . . . aye, and
thrust his charity down his throat to choke him! Do you
hear? I’ll throw all that stuff out of doors!”
“You dare to try! Lay but a ﬁnger on it, and you’ll
see!” she screamed, catching up the tiny house-mangle, ready
to defend, tooth and nail, the things given her. So dan-
gerous did she look, so infuriated, that he shrank back in
confusion at this unexpected resistance.
“He has bought you cheap,” he growled. “Very cheap.
--For a bit of bread, as one lures a dog!”
“You have sold us—and yourself—cheaper still: for
Yagna’s . . . petticoat!” she burst out—Antek started, as
though stabbed. And then Hanka seemed suddenly to have
gone raving mad. In a torrent of words she overwhelmed
THE PEASANTS ' 242
him with every wrong he had ever done to her, and with "
a host of remembrances and grievances she had never yet
spoken of; unsparingly, passing over not one single fault or
unkindness; beating him so unmercifully with the ﬂail of
her speech that, if she could, she would have beaten him
to death on the spot.
He stood aghast at her mad rage; and he felt something,
too, that was tearing at his heart. With bowed head he
listened, dismayed, and a bitter sense of shame burned his
soul; then he snatched up his cap and ﬂed out of the hut.
It was long ere he could make out what strange trans-
formation had come over her. As a dog spurned from the
door, he ran away, never thinking where he went, to wander
about aimlessly, as indeed was his daily custom.
For since that terrible hour of the conﬂagration, a fear-
ful thing had come into being within him: he was, so to
speak, a prey to secret insanity. He no longer went to his
work, although the miller had several times sent for him;
he did nothing but wander about the country-side, or sit
drinking in the tavern, continually revolving in his mind
thoughts of bloody vengeance, and his soul was full of noth-
ing else.
He was even indifferent to the suspicions of arson which
sullied his name.
“Let anyone dare to utter them to my face . . . let him
but dare!” he had cried to Matthew in the tavern, loud
enough for all present to hear.
The heifer which remained to him he had sold to a jew,
and drunk the price of it with his associates; for he had now
for pot-companions all the riff-raff in Lipka; such vile fel-
lows as, for instance, Bartek Koziol, or Philip (from over
the water), Francis, the miller’s man, or those, the lowest
of all, the jail-birds, Gulbasowa’s sons—men always ready
for any act of debauchery, always prowling like wolves
about the country-side, seeking what they could snap up and
barter to the jew for a few drams. But he cared little
what they were: they kept him company, and fawned upon
243 WINTER
him as spaniels fawn on their masters. He did indeed give
one or another a thrashing now and then; but he willingly
stood them drinks and protected them against other folk.
The gang shortly committed so many lawless acts and
breaches of the peace that complaints were made every day
to the Voyt, and even to his Reverence.
_ Matthew cautioned him, but unavailingly. Vainly, too,
had Klemba, out of pure kindliness, besought him to stop
in time, and not ruin his life for ever. He listened to no
one. did more and more desperate deeds, drank yet harder,
and had become the dread of the whole village.
In short, he was rolling swiftly to his destruction down
a precipitous hill. All Lipka had their eyes upon him—
eyes of suspicion and apprehension. As to the ﬁre, indeed,
they were divided in opinion; but they saw with their own
eyes the deeds he undoubtedly did, and their animosity in-
creased daily; besides, the smith was always inciting them
against him. Even his former friends soon began to hold
aloof from him; but to Antek, blinded by the lust of re-
venge, that was all one.
And over and above this, as if to spite all men, he con-
tinued his relations with Yagna. Was it love that attracted
him? or what was it? God knows: but they met in Domini-
kova’s barn: without her knowledge, indeed, but willingly
abetted by Simon, who hoped that Antek would help him
to get Nastka for his wife.
Those meetings were unwillingy consented to by Yagna.
With the wales of her husband’s castigation still fresh upon
her, she had no mind for love-making; but she feared An-
tek, who had sent her word that, unless she came at every
call of his, he would go to her hut, and in broad daylight
and in-public administer a chas‘tisement yet more severe
than Boryna’s had been!
As the saying is: “For the authors of their fall, sinners
have no love at all”; but she feared his threat, and was
forced to go.
This state of things, however, did not last long. The
THE PEASANTS 244
second day of Lent, Simon came in haste to the tavern and,
taking Antek aside, told him that Yagna had just been rec—
onciled to her goodman and returned to his cabin.
If a club had crashed down on his skull, it would not
have stunned him more than this news. She had met him
the very day before, and had said no word of this.
“So! she left me in the dark!” he thought, and hurried
away to Boryna’s as soon as evening had fallen.
He prowled for a long time about his father’s premises,
looking for her and waiting by the stile; but she was not to
be seen. This irritated him so violently that he boldly
pulled up a stake and entered the enclosure, ready to pro-
ceed to any extremity—even to go into the hut; in fact,
he was in the passage, with his hand on the latch . . . when
an unknown feeling of dread drove him from the door!
His father’s face had come before him with such sudden
yividness that he started back in terror from that mental
image.
What it was that had come over him, and why he had
quailed now again, just as on that former night beside the
pond, he was all his life unable to understand.
On the following days too, he got no sight of her, al-
though he watched by the stile, and lurked about there for
whole evenings together, like a wolf.
Sunday come round, and he waited for a long while in
front of the church: but she did not appear.
The thought struck him that he might perhaps meet her
at Vespers, and get speech with her somehowu So he went.
He was rather late. Evensong had already begun. The
church was full, and so dark that the daylight, now dying,
only lit the topmost vaults. A few tiny rushlights had been
kindled here and there, to read by; in front of the high
altar, brilliantly illuminated, the people were thronging close.
He elbowed his way as far as the sanctuary railings, and
looked furtively round for Yagna; but she was nowhere in
sight. Instead, he caught many a look of curiosity di-
rected towards himself.
They were chanting the “Bitter Lamentations,” for it was
245 WINTER
the ﬁrst Sunday in Lent. The priest was sitting, surpliced
and book in hand, beside the altar, and more than once cast
a stern look in his direction. -
The organ was pealing forth soul-stirring music, and the
whole congregation lifted up their voices in unison. Now
and then the chant was interrupted, the music stopped play-
ing, and from high above in the organ-loft a broken voice
was heard, reading out a meditation on the Passion of our
Lord.
But Antek heard nothing now. Little by little, he had
forgotten where he was and why he had come; the chants
had sunk into his soul, and unstrung him strangely. A
sense of numbness overpowered him, together with a feeling
of deep quiet, as though he had escaped and ﬂown some-
where very far away—into some region full of light. And
whenever he came to himself and opened his eyes, he met
the eyes of the priest, always ﬁxed on him; and that look
was so piercing that Antek turned away his heavy drowsy
head, and began to fall once more into his torpor. Sud-
denly he woke up at the sound of a well-known chant:
“Behold! the Lord of heaven hangs cruciﬁed:
Weep for thy sins, O man! for them He died!”
As if issuing from one single colossal throat, the chant——
an immense wave of sound—came bursting forth with such
vehement lamentation, so clamorous a wail, that the very
walls vibrated to that cry!
Long did they sing thus and the walls echoed with
dolorous reverberations, and sighs, and earnest sobbing
prayers.
Antek no longer felt drowsy, but a heavy resistless sense
of sorrow surged over his soul with such potency that it
was all he could do to restrain the tears which started to
his eyes; and he was about to leave the church, when the
organ again ceased playing, and the priest, standing in front
of the altar, began to speak.
The people were pressing forward in so densely packed a
THE PEASANTS 246
crowd that it was now impossible to get away, and Antek
was pushed up against the railing. A great hush fell upon
all; every word the priest said was distinctly audible. He
spoke ﬁrst of our Lord’s Passion, and then passed on to in-
veigh against sin, waving his arms with threatening gestures,
from time to time looking hard at Antek, who stood right
in front of him, though somewhat lower, spellbound by the
priest’s burning glances, and unable to take his eyes off him.
In the audience there was presently a noise of weeping
and sighing, the holy Name of jesus was invoked, and even
groans were heard. Meanwhile the priest spoke ever louder
and with greater sternness; he seemed to them to have waxed
somehow taller; lightnings shot from his eyes, and he lifted
up his hands, and his words fell like stones hurled from
them, and, like red-hot irons, they burnt into the hearts.
He spoke of their wickedness and manifold transgressions;
of the hardened sinners who lived amongst them; of their
forgetfulness of God’s commandments, their eternal quarrels
and ﬁghts and drunken bouts. He exhorted them with great
zeal, making them tremble in themselves, so that all hearts
were melted with sorrow; tears fell like dew, and there was
a low ripple of weeping, and sighs of contrition arose.—
Then the priest suddenly bent forward towards Antek, and
with a mighty voice cried out against unnatural sons, who
burned down the homes of their own fathers; and against
seducers and all such men of iniquity, whom (he said)
neither the everlasting ﬁres nor the judgments of men would
fail to punish.
All the congregation were struck with awe and held their
breath. Every eye was cast upon Antek like a ﬁery dart.
He, white as a sheet, and scarcely able to breathe, stood
stifﬂy upright, the words smiting him as if the church were
falling about his ears. He looked round, as though to ﬁnd
help; but there was now an empty space round him, lined
only by menacing or terriﬁed faces. The folk shrank from
him, as from one stricken with the plague—And now the
priest cried aloud, calling him to repentance, beseeching,
247 WINTER
imploring, adjuring him. Finally, turning again to the peo-
ple, he exhorted them with outstretched arms to beware of
a man so infamous, to protect themselves against him, to
refuse him ﬁre, water, food—aye, and not to let him so much
as darken their doors. “For such a one would taint you
all; ye would all grow foul at his touch; and, should he
not mend his ways,. atone for his misdeeds and do penance,
then ought ye to pluck him out as ye weed stinging nettles,
and cast him forth to his perdition!”
At those words, Antek suddenly turned round; the people
fell away from him right and left, and he passed out by
the lane thus made, while the priest’s voice followed, smit-
ing him as with a scourge that drew blood at each stroke.
A wild cry of despair echoed at that moment through the
church; but Antek did not hear it. He walked out as fast
as he could, fearing lest he should fall dead with agony-—
fearing those eyes that glowed, fearing that awful voice.
He went out into the highway and on to the poplar road,
leading to the woods. From time to time, he paused af-
frighted: he still could hear that voice, which rang in his
ears like a knell.
It was a cold and windy night. The poplars were rock-
ing noisily; sometimes a bough struck him across the face;
and when the gale fell, there came a cold thin March rain
that drizzled in his eyes. But Antek went on his way un-
heeding, bewildered, amazed, ﬁlled with unspeakable awe.
“Things are now at their worst!” he muttered at last,
coming to a standstill. “Yes, he was right! he was right!”
“O Jesus! My Jesusl” he shrieked, seizing his head in
his hands with a sudden clutch. At that instant he had
seen as in a ﬂash all the horror of his sins, and was torn
with an unearthly sense of humiliation.
He sat for a long time brooding under a tree, gazing into
the night and listening to the low, tremulous, eerie music
of the waving trees.
A convulsion of rage and hatred seized him. “It is all
through that man—that man!” he exclaimed, his former
THE PEASANTS 248
resentment springing up anew, and all those cravings for
revenge spreading over his mind again, dark as the clouds
that overspread the sky.
“Never will I forgive him! no, never!” he bellowed, his
recklessness returning. And he at once started up, to go
back to the village.
The church was now locked; the cabin-windows shone
bright. As he went by, he passed several knots of people,
who, in spite of the rain, stood engaged in eager talk.
On passing the tavern, he looked in at the window, saw
there was plenty of company inside, and went in boldly,
as if there had been nothing amiss. But when he ap-
proached the largest group with greetings, only one or two
shook hands with him; the others hastily withdrew and left
the place.
In a minute, he was all but alone in the tavern. Besides
the jew behind the bar, there was only a Dgiad sitting by
the ﬁre.
He had driven them all away! It was a bitter pill, but
he swallowed it, and ordered some vodka; then, laying down
the glass untouched, he rushed out.
He strayed along the banks of the pond, eyeing with a
vacant stare the long ﬁery streaks which, from the lighted
windows, swept over the wet snow and glistened on the
water with which the ice was now covered.
Gentler thoughts came to him. His heart felt unspeak-
ably heavy: he was so terribly alone, so much in want of
human converse, of some ﬁreside to sit by, that he went
straight to Ploshka’s cabin, the ﬁrst along his way.
A large assembly was there; but, when he entered, they
all started to their feet in dismay. Even Staho, who was
there too, could not ﬁnd a word to say to him.
He muttered: “Ye stare at me as if I were a murderer!”
and went out to the next hut, which was Balcerek’s.
Here they received him with the utmost frigidity, mum-
bling some inarticulate words in response to his greeting,
and not even asking him to be seated.
He looked in at several huts in this way. and with the
249 WINTER
same result. As a last resource, and to leave no drop of
pain and humiliation untasted, he went to see Matthew.
But the man was not in; and his mother at once, and from
the very threshold, stormed at him and drove him out like
a dog. '
He answered not a word, nor did he indeed feel any re-
sentment now; for the time, all bitterness had left him. He
plodded on slowly through the darkness, stopping at times
to look around him on the village, bright with many a
lighted window, at which, and at the lowly huts that rose on
every side, he gazed in bewilderment, as though he had
never seen them before. In those hedgerows, those orchards,
those lights, resided a strange spell, which somehow chained
him to the spot. It was incomprehensible, but he experi-
enced a resistless power that had seized hold of him and
bound him to the land—which made him bow his neck to the
yoke, and ﬁlled him with an inexplicable dread.
He eyed those lamplit windows, and terror possessed his
soul. They were all watching him, he thought; they were
peering at him, following him, to fetter and enslave him
with adamantine chains. He was no longer able to ﬂee, nor
to move, nor to cry out. He leaned back against a tree;
and there, crushed with anguish, he listened . . . and heard
-—from all the homesteads, the shadows around them, the
ﬁelds, nay, even the heavens themselves—those same words
of pitiless condemnation, now ratiﬁed by the whole popula-
tion of Lipka!
“It is just! it is just!” he said, huskily, humbled to the
dust, and from the inmost depths of his miserable heart,
struck with mortal fear of that almighty Power—the Voice
of the Many.
By degrees all the lights went out, and the village fell
asleep. It drizzled still, and drops pattered from the droop-
ing trees. Occasionally a dog would utter a short bark, in
the midst of the stillness that reigned everywhere. Then
Antek, returning to complete consciousness, suddenly started
to his feet.
“Yes, he spoke justly; he said the truth as it was in
THE PEASANTS 250
him. But I'will not let the other go scot-free—not I!
Blood of a dog! whatever happens, he shall pay!” '
His words were a frenzied shriek, and he shook his "ﬁst
at Lipka and at the whole world. '
Settling his cap on his head, he made again for the
tavern.
CHAPTER XIII
own most foul weather—quagmiry, chilly, foggy; with
its daily falls of sleet, its daily thick, shaggy, dingy
mists, creeping along over the fields, and quenching all light
so thoroughly that the whole day, from grey dawn to dusky
twilight, was equally dark. Or, if at rare intervals the sun
peered, half drowned, out of those sombre abysses, it was
but for the space of one Ave Maria; and ere one’s soul could
rejoice in the, splendour, one’s body in the warmth of it,
down came the dusk once more upon the world, down swept
the winds afresh, and the “fog and ﬁlthy air” resumed their
reign.
Folk were sorely troubled at this, for they had lived in
hope that, after a week or two, spring would get the upper
hand and make amends for all they had suffered. And,
meantime, the roofs let the rain in, the water came through
walls and windows, and poured on every side. In despair
they saw it creep in from the ﬁelds, ﬁll all the ditches even
to brimming over, make the roads gleam and glitter like
waterways, come round through the hedgerows, and stand
about the farm-yards in deep miry pools. And as the snow
continued to melt and the rain to fall, the thawed ground
soon softened to such a degree that in many farm-yards there
were mud-pits without number at noontide, and folk had to
lay boards outside the huts, or bridge the approaches with
trusses of straw.
Nor were the nights less unbearable, with their downpours
and their black darkness—~so thick that one might fancy
light had gone out for ever. Few lit ﬁres in the evening:
vveary of the wretched weather, all went to bed at night-
fall—and Lipka was in palpable obscurity. True, in a
SPRING was drawing nigh. March had come, with its
251
THE PEASANTS 252
few huts they assembled to spin': there the windows gleamed,
and the low chant of the “Lamentations” quavered, together
with other mournful hymns on the sufferings of Jesus.
They were accompanied by the blasts, the pattering rain,
and the trees lashing'one against the other through the
enclosures.
No wonder if Lipka was lost in this sea of slush: the huts
were so lowly, they scarce rose out of the ground where they
crouched, dank, dingy, wretched to look upon. And, as to
the lands and gardens and roads and sky, there was so much
water everywhere that no one could distinguish anything
from anything else.
The weather was bleak, besides; it chilled the very bones,
and few cared to meet it. The blasts blew, the rain pat-
tered, the trees rocked in a solitude; for all the voices heard,
Lipka might as well have been a place of the dead. Only
the cattle lowed sometimes over their empty mangers; or
cocks fell a-crowing; or ganders, parted from their brood-
ing mates, would cry aloud and indignantly.
The days were longer; but this only made the time hang
more heavily on people’s hands. No one had any work to
do, except the few who laboured at the saw-mill or carried
timber for the miller from the forest. The others lounged
about the cabins, sitting at their neighbours’ till the day
dragged on to its close. Some of the older men took to
getting ploughs, or harrows, or other such implements, ready
for spring; but the work went on slowly and lifelessly, all
being equally exasperated by the foul weather. And
troubled at heart, besides; for the lands sown in autumn
were in a pitiful state; and—especially in the low-lying
ﬁelds—parts of the crops were frozen. Some of the farm-
ers, too, were getting to the end of their provender, and
famine was looking in at the byres. Others had found that
all their stock of potatoes was frost-nipped. Others, again,
had their huts full of sick folk; and for many the days
of starvation which often usher in the spring seemed at
hand.
So in more than one cabin warm meals were served only
253 ' WINTER
once a day; and people went to the miller in ever-increasing
numbers to borrow a few bushels of ﬂour that they were
to pay for later in work. He was, indeed, a confounded
extortioner; but no one had either ready money, or things
to sell in town. Others went whining to Yankel, beg-
ging him to lend them a screw of salt, or a quart of groats,
or a loaf of bread, putting their pride in their pockets; for,
as the proverb runs: “When it comes to the worst, Good-
man Belly is ﬁrst.”
So many of the folk were in want, and there was no work
for them to do! The peasant-farmers themselves had none
to give. The Squire was resolved not to let one man of
Lipka earn a kopek in his forest, and remained unmoved
even by the prayers of a large deputation. And thus, both
amongst the Komorniki and the poorer peasant land-
owners, the misery became so great that many a one thanked
God that he still had potatoes, and salt to season them with
-—though with bitter tears into 'the bargain!
Therefore there was now much heart-burning in the vil-
lage, with quarrelling and conﬂicts as well. People were
restless, uncertain of the morrow, and sorely agitated, every-
one seeking to satisfy the greed which gnawed at his heart
by snatching whatever he could from his neighbour.
Over and above all this, the village was afflicted with
many sicknesses, as is often the case just before spring;
for at that time noxious vapours rise up from the thaw-
ing ground. Smallpox swooped down ﬁrst, like a hawk on
a brood of goslings, slaying the little ones. Both the young-
est children of the Voyt were taken, in spite of the doctors
whom he called in. Then the grown-ups were assailed by
many diseases, and to such an extent that in every other
c'abin someone lay moaning, in expectation of the grave and
trusting to the mercy of God. Dominikova was over-
‘charged with patients—And, just then, the cows’ time for
calving came round, and many a woman was brought to
bed: so that the distress and confusion in the village be-
came very great.
’People were accordingly looking forward to spring with
Tl-IE PEASANTS 254
ever more and more impatience. All were sure that, as
soon as the snows had melted, and the lands were thawed
and dry, and the sun shone bright so that they could go out
ito plough, all their trouble and distress would lie over at
ast. ‘
But that year they remarked that the spring was slower
to come than usual. The rain never ceased, the ground
thawed very slowly; and besides—a bad sign, foreboding a
long winter!—-even now, the kine had not begun to shed
their hair.
Therefore, whenever there came a single hour of dry
weather and radiant sun, the villagers came swarming out
of their huts and gazed up into the sky and wondered
whether this change would last at all. The old folk basked
in the bright beams to warm their tottering limbs, and
all the little ones ran out along the roads in noisy crowds,
like colts let into the meadows for the ﬁrst time in spring.
I-Iow merry and jocund‘and full of glee they all were
then!
The whole land lay in the genial warmth, and all the
waters were bathed in light; the ditches seemed brimful
of molten sun; the ice on the pond, washed by the rains,
looked like a huge dish of blackened tinware; the trees
sparkled with yet undried dew; the furrow-streaked ﬁelds
spread out, quiet and dark of hue, but already inhaling
the warmth, and swollen with the spring-tide and the
sparkling murmurous waters. 'The snows, too, still un-
melted here and there, shone with "crude whiteness, like linen
laid out to bleach: the azure sky revealed its depths, hitherto
“veiled in mists, and hidden under a web of gossamer, as it
were; now the eyes could sound its inﬁnite blue ﬁelds, or
glance over to the dark horizon and the wavy outline of the
woods.
And the world around was panting with joy; for such
'sweet spring odours were wafted all about them that a cry
of happiness gushed from the hearts of men, and their souls
aspired to soar upwards in the sunlight, like those birds
1’
255 WINTER
they saw coming from somewhere in the far-away east and
ﬂoating in the crystal air. Every man came out of doors
with delight, and took pleasure in talking, even with one
who was no friend to him.
For at that moment all bickerings were done with, all
quarrels appeased: everyone felt full of loving-kindness to—
wards everyone. Cries of gladness echoed from but to hut,
and trilled through the balmy air.
Then did they throw the cabin-doors wide open, and
remove the windows from their clamped fastenings to let
in the air; the women took their spinning-gear outside, and
even the babes were carried out in their cradles to get some
sunlight. From the byres, again and again, there ﬂoated
the anxious lowing of the kine; horses neighed, eager to
quit their stables; cocks crowed in the hedges, and dogs,
barking wildly, ran about like mad, and splashed with the
children in the mud. -
Their elders, staying within the enclosures, blinked in
the dalzzling sunbeams, and looked with delight at the
country round, all bathed in splendour. Women chatted
together over their orchard-fences, and their voices re-
sounded afar. They told how someone had heard the song
of a lark, how wagtails had been seen on the poplar road-—
and then another caught sight of a string of wild geese far
up in the sky, and half the village ran out to look at them
--and a third afﬁrmed that storks had already alighted on
the ﬂats by the mill. This was doubted, for March had
not yet begun its third week. And then a lad brought in
the ﬁrst spray of blossoms, and ran with it round to every
‘hut, where they gloated over the pale clusters in deep ad—
miration, as over some most sacred thing.
So that illusory spell of warmth had made them all be-
lieve that spring was at their gates, and that presently they
would be ploughing their ﬁelds. Their dismay and morti-
ﬁcation were—therefore all the more intense, when they saw
the sky suddenly clouded over, the sun quite hidden from
sight, all the brightness faded, the land darkened once more.
THE PEASANTS 256
and a thin rain beginning to fall! With the coming of
night, the rain was followed by snow; and very shortly the
village and its environs were whitened over anew.
Things were again in their former state; and the subse-
quent days of slush and mire and wet made them feel almost
as though the past hours of sunshine had been only a
bright dream.
Whilst folks were spending their days in such hopes and
desires, and joys so soon doomed to disappointment, it was
quite natural that Antek’s conduct, the-domestic troubles of
Boryna, and all the rest—even to the deaths which took
place—should fall into forgetfulness, like a stone ﬂung into
a deep lake: every man had enough worries of his own,
and scarcely knew how to bear them.
But the days rolled on, neither stopping nor hurrying,
without end, without commencement, as the waves of a great
sea: hardly had they opened their eyes and looked round,
and taken note of a few things (how few!), when twilight
was there again, and night, and then another day dawned
with its own fresh troubles. And all was repeated once
more, that the will of God might be accomplished upon
earth!
One day—it was about Mid-Lent—the weather was at
its very worst. True, only a drizzle of rain fell; but the
worn-out folk were in a state of extreme and bitter rest-
lessness, moving to and fro as men possessed, looking forth
sullenly at their world covered with clouds so louring that,
as they swept bellying past, they brushed the tree-tops
All was sad, cold, darksome, dripping with wet, and wring-
ing every heart with uncontrollable aversion. Nobody
quarrelled with anyone that day; no one cared for any—
thing at all: everyone longed for some quiet nook where
he could lie down and think of nothing.
The whole day had been gloomy, as the eyes of a sick
man who wakes, glances round, and falls again to the dark-
ness of lethargy. Scarcer had the noonday Angelus rung,
when a sullen rain-bearing wind rose and smote upon the
dark-hued shadowy cabins.
257 WINTER
No one was out of doors. The gusts, with their quick
ﬂaws of rain, swept shrieking over the mire, churning it
up, and pelting the shaken trees and the smirched walls as
with handfuls of corn ﬂung down: while the pond was
wrestling with the broken ice-pack, pounding and tossing on
its shores, with a growling gurgling rumble.
But on the evening of that same day, a rumour ﬂew
through the village that the Squire was hewing down the
peasants’ part of the forest!
At ﬁrst, no one would believe it. The thing had not been
attempted till then: how could it be done now, when March
was half over, the ground a quagmire, and the trees swell-
ing with sap?
True, men were at work in the forest; but, as all knew, it
was quite another sort of work.
And then the Squire, no matter what he was called, had
never been called a fool by anyone.
Could the man, then, be such a fool as to try ﬂoating
the timber down . . . in March?
All the same, the village was upset with this report, and
doors banged, and mud was waded through, and the news
travelled from cabin to cabin. They stood talking of it
upon the highway, they went to think it over in the tavern
. and also to question the Jew on the matter. But the
crafty “yellow one” swore he knew nothing whatever about
it. A great outcry was made, evil words were spoken, the
women lamented, and public indignation, fury, excitement
and fear continued to increase.
Finally, old Klemba decided to get the news veriﬁed, and
sent two of his sons on horseback to the forest as scouts,
in spite of the bad weather.
It was long ere they returned. From every hut, someone
went out to watch the forest in the direction they had
taken. But twilight had deepened into darkness, and they
were not yet back. The village was full of a stillness, omi-
nous of passions all the more dangerous because thus reined
in. Every soul was now smouldering with the ﬁercest ani-
mosity; for, though no one quite believed this disastrous
THE PEASANTS 258
rumour to be true, they all expected it might be con-
ﬁrmed; and many were the curses and slammings of doors,
as one after another went to see if the boys were returning.
Kozlova bustled about everywhere, and upheld the truth
of the rumour to anyone that would listen to her talk,
swearing by all the saints that she had with her own eyes
seen a good many acres of peasants’ forest hewn down al-
ready. She appealed to Yagustynka, who had lately been
very much hand-in-glove with her, and of course conﬁrmed
her words, as rejoicing in every broil and disturbance, the
hag! And she then, having picked up some more items of
gossip at various places, went to carry them to Boryna’s.
The lamp was just lit in the work-room; Yuzka was peel-
ing potatoes, Vitek assisting her; Yagna was busied in
household duties. Somewhat later, Boryna came in, and old
Yagustynka told him of all she had heard, with very
many additions. He did not say one word to her in reply,
but, turning to Yagna, “Take a spade,” he said, “and go
to help Pete; the water must be let out .of the orchard,'or
it will be pouring into the potato-pits.—-Off with you in-
stantly, I say!” he cried.
Yagna mumbled some objections; but he gave her such a
look that she had to run out directly; he following her
steps to overlook the work, and soon audible, storming
about the byre, the stable and the potato-pits.
“Is the old man always so cantankerous?” Yagustynka
queried, raking up the ﬁre.
“He is,” Yuzka said, as she listened to his voice in fear.
It was the truth. Since he had taken back his wife-—
which he had done so readily that folk wondered—he had
altered beyond recognition. Always had he been a hard
man, and a stubborn; but now he had turned into stone.
Yes, he had taken her back, and without one word of
reproach; only now she was for him simply a serving-wen'ch
—nothing more. She had tried endearments upon' him:
they had failed. Nor did her charms avail her anymore
'than peevishness, or those ﬁts of petulance and tantrums,
the weapons of women against men. To them he paid no
259 3 WINTER
heed whatever, and tieated - her a as a~istranger, and mo
wedded wife: so mu’ch'soiithat he-no longer'troubled what
she did, though perfectly aware that she still met Antek. -
He did not even watchover her. A few days after the
“reconciliation,” he had driven to town, returning only the
next day; and folk .whispered that he had been at the
notary’s and drawn some document or other; some even
surmising that he had revoked his deed of gift in Yagna’s
favour. As a matter ofrfact, none but Hanka knew the
truth, and she kept it dark. She was now in such favour
with her father-in-law .that he conﬁded everything he did
to her. She saw him nearly every day, and the children
almost made their home there, often sleeping with their
grandfather, who loved them dearly.
Perhaps as a consequence of this change, Boryna’s health
seemed to be quite restored. He stooped no longer, as he
had done of late; his glance was again as proud as of old.
But now he had become so choleric besides, that he would
ﬂy out on the slightest provocation. His hand was heavy
on everybody, and when he laid it on anyone, that one must
bend even to the ground; and all things be done according
to his will. '
Not that he'treated people unjustly; but gentleness was
not in his line any more. He had taken the reins into his
own hands, and never let them go for an instant. He kept
a watchful eye on the stores, and yet more on his pocket, dol-
ing out everything in person, and looking carefully to pre-
vent all waste. Ha’rsh to everyone at home, he was espe-
cially so to Yagna, neve'r expressed -himself as. being
pleased with her, and drove her to work as they drive a lazy
horse. No day passed without its squabble; often, very
often, his leather girdle 'came into play, -or even something
still harder; for Yagna was possessed by a devil of contra-
diction, and did her best to spite him. * -
'Obey him she did,_~for she could not help it; and how
could she resist? “Who- eats her husband’s bread must, do
her husband’s will.” B'r‘it ‘fo‘r one1sharp_word of his she
gave him ten. The cabin was really turned. into a hell; it
T‘HE PEASANTS 260
seemed as if they both enjoyed making it so, each striving to
the uttermost, and eager to put the other down, both equally
headstrong and unyielding.
Dominikova quite unavailingly attempted to come be-
tween them and effect a true reconciliation. It was out of
the question: the feelings of wrongs, of cruel treatment,
and of mutual hatred rankled too deep within their hearts.
a All Boryna’s fondness had gone where last year’s spring-
”tide was. He had only the lively remembrance of her be-
trayal, undying humiliation, and absolutely implacable
malice. Yagna’s mind, too, was very greatly changed. She
felt unspeakably miserable; but she had not yet admitted
that she was to blame! Her punishment was harder for
her than it would have been for others, because she was
more affectionate of heart, had been more delicately brought
up, and was naturally daintier than most women.
And she suffered, Lord! how terribly!
True, she employed every means to vex her husband,
never gave way unless under compulsion, and defended her-
self tooth and nail; but daily the yoke grew heavier and
heavier; it galled her to the quick, and there was no escape.
Many a time she had wanted to return to her mother, but
the latter was so strongly opposed to such a step that she
threatened to send her back to her husband by force, at
the end of a rope!
What, then, was she to do? She could not take up the
attitude so many women in her position take, willingly sup-
porting hell at home for pleasure with sweethearts, full and
free: a ﬁght every day, and a reconciliation when night
comes round.
No, that would have been too loathsome to her. Yet
her present state was growing steadily more and more in-
supportable, and her craving for something new—she knew
not what—increased as steadily.
She gave Boryna spite for spite. Nevertheless, she lived
in continual terror, oppressed by such a sense of injustice
and such bitter sorrow that she often wept for whole nights,
watering her pillow with tears; while by day those per-
261 WINTER
petual brawls and conﬂicts were not infrequently so hate-
ful to her that she only dreamed of ﬂeeing away somewhither
—-far, far away!
Somewhither! Aye, but whither?
Yes, the world stretched wide around her; but that world
--it was such an appalling, unknown, unfathomable vague-
ness that the mere thought of it frightened her to death.
It was this which still drew her towards Antek, though
what she felt was not so much love as terror and despair.
In that fearful night, when she had ﬂed to her mother’s,
something within her had burst and perished, so to speak;
and now she could no longer ﬂy to him with her whole heart,
as she had done before; no more could she run to him at
every call with joyfully beating heart. She went only from
a sense of necessity—because the cabin was dull and weari-
some, because she hated her husband—because she fancied
that her former immense love might perhaps come to life
again. In her inmost heart she felt bitter against him.
Her present wretched position, the hard life she was leading
now, her blighted reputation—all were due to him; and,
moreover, she realized the fact that he was not that which
she had adored, and she knew the ﬁerce pangs of disen—
chantment and disillusion. He had formerly seemed to her
quite another being—one whose fondness lifted her up to
heaven, whose kindness overmastered her—the sweetest,
dearest being in all the world. And now she saw he was
just the same as any other peasant. Worse, indeed; for
she was more afraid of him than even of her husband. He
frightened her by his dark moods, by his ﬁts of desolation,
and, above all, by his reckless violence. He made her
tremble, for he was, in her eyes, wild and ﬁerce as a forest
outlaw. Why, the priest himself had rebuked him publicly
in church; the whole village had shrank away from him, and
now pointed him out as the worst amongst them; and there
proceeded out of him such an exhalation of mortal sin that
the mere sound of his voice often made her faint with
dread: it seemed to her as though Satan dwelt in him, and
as if around him there hovered all the host of hell. At
THEFEASANTS 262
those“ moments she had such impressions as when his Rever-
ence told the people about the awful torments of the lost!
Not for one instant did it come home to her that she
had part in his guilt: not in the least! When she thought
of him, it was but to} mourn that he had so greatly changed,
and her feelings on that score became so strong that she
cared for him ever less and less. At times, when embraced
by him, she would stiffen suddenly, as if struck dead by a
thunderbolt. She let him kiss her—for how could she re-
sist such a dragon of a man? Moreover, she felt young,
full-blooded, of lively temperament . . . and his kisses were
so violent, they well-nigh choked her. So, in spite of all,
she would still give him her love with the mighty elemental
craving of the earth that thirsts eternally for warm rain and
sunshine; but yet her inner self was no more at his feet,
driven by that former uncontrollable impulse; she was no
more given up to that blind rapture which once upon a
time had made her feel nigh death; she was nevermore again
to be so frantically lovesick. At such times, her thoughts
would ﬂy to the hut, to her work, to, some new invention
to spite her husband; and at times she even thought: “When
will this man leave me arid go away?” . .
These thoughts about him were in her mind as she was
working to keep the water out of the potato-pits. Her
work was only for the eye, and as in duty bound. Pete
toiled with a will, battling noisily with the mud and the
frozen earth; she worked that Boryna might ’see her. No
sooner had he left the place than she put her apron over
her head, and went cautiously round to the stile, close to
Ploshka’s barn. .- I . ‘ . ' ' -
There stood Antek. ‘ e ' ,~
“I have been waiting an hour for you,” he said‘re7
proachfully. . .
“No need to wait at all, if they ,want you anywhere,”
she rapped out, in no pleasant humour.
He caught her in a powerful grasp, and gave her a kiss.
She turned from him in disgust.
.“Ye reek of vodka like a barrel of the same.”
263 ‘1 '~ WINTER
“‘Are ye so dainty that my lips ’offend you now?”
“ ’Twas but the vodka that I had in mind,” she answered
in a gentler tone. " '~ ' ' ' H~ '
“I was here yestereve. Wherefore did ye not come?”
“It was cold; and besides, I am over head and ears in
work.” ' w '. I I 1
“And you have to fo'ndle the old man,” Antek growled,
“and tuck him up in bed!” ' - ' i a “"1
“Why not?” she replied testily. “He is my husband.”
“Yagna, do not provoke me!” ' ‘ u
"“If my words vex ybu,‘ why :cOme at all? Think not
that I shall weep for you!” ‘ t s
“Ah, that means you do, not care to 'come 'any more.”
' “Not if I am to be' treated as a dog, and always chid.’:’
“Yagna, I have so many troubles of my own that ’tis no
'great wonder if a harsh word drops from me now andithen;
but I mean no offence,” he said humbly, gathering her in
his arms. She, however, remained frigid and sulky, and
only unwillingly returned his kisses.’ At every word she
spoke, she looked around, seeking to go home. '
This he was not slow to note, and a nettle thrust into
his bbsom would not have stung him more. He whispered,
'in a tone of timid reproach: ' '
"‘You were not always in'such a hurry!”
‘ “I am' afraid. All the people are at home: perhaps
they will come out to look for me.” '
“Aye, aye! But there was a time when you did not
fear! to stay out all night. Oh, how you have changed!”
“Nonsense! What should have.changed me?”
They were silent, each embracing the other, and some-
times with a closer hug of sudden fondness which the mem-
‘oryi of past times called up; and they sought each other’s
lips with strong desire of love. But. it would not do. Their
’souls were drifting farther and farther apart; each har-
boured bitter grudges against the other, and their wounds
(rankled so that their arms instinctively fell to their sides.
They stood close, but like pillarsof ice together; while words
“of tenderness and pasSion' rose to their lips (but went no
THE PEASANTS 264
farther and died unuttered), their hearts were throbbing with
sharp pain.
“Yagna,” he said, very low, “do you love me?”
“Why, I have already told you I cannot always come
when you call,” she answered evasively; and yet she pressed
closer to him--feeling sorry, regretful, almost ready to ask
his pardon with tears for not being able to love him any
more. He read her meaning; and her words chilled him to
the marrow, and he quivered with the pang they gave him;
resentment burst out in his heart, and with it came re-
proaches and invectives which he could not choke down, and
a torrent of angry words.
“You are a living lie! They all have fallen away from
me, and so have you !—-Love me? Aye, even as a dog that
bares its teeth to bite loves me! Yes, I have seen through
you clearly, and this I know: if folk were minded to slay
me, you’d be the ﬁrst to lend a rope; if to stone me, you’d
throw the ﬁrst stone!”
“Antek!” she cried, aghast.
“Be still, and hear me out!” he said sternly. “I have
spoken the truth. . . . And since it has come to this—well,
then, there now is naught in the world that I care for!”
“I must be off; they are calling me,” she stammered,
alarmed and trying to make her escape. But he seized her
arm, so that she could not move, and went on in harsh
menacing tones:
“This, moreover, do I tell you” . . for you have not
then sense to see it for yourself: If I have fallen so low as
this, it is through you—mark well—through you! . . . Be-
cause of you, the priest has rebuked me and driven me from
the church! Because of you, the whole village shrinks
from me as from one smitten with the plague. . . . I have
borne all . . . all. . . . Nor did I take revenge when he
—that father of mine—gave into your hands so much of
the land that’s my\own! . . . And now—now—you loathe
me! Aye, turn and writhe and twist it as you will, you lie!
--You are like the rest of them, you look on me as they
do, and fear me as if I were a robber or a slayer of men!
265 -WINTER
“What you want is another man: nay, ye would have
them all at your heels . . . like dogs in the springtime—-
you!” he screamed, beside himself with rage. And then he
overwhelmed her with the agonies and the venomous
thoughts he had fed on for so long, making her responsible
for all, and cursing her for his sufferings, until at last his
anger choked his voice and maddened him so, that he
rushed upon her with uplifted ﬁsts. But, stopping short
just in time, he ﬂung her back against the wall—and strode
off!
“O Lord l—Antek!” she cried, realizing all at once what
he meant; and, darting after him, she put her arms round
his neck in despair. But he cast her off as one shakes off
a leech, and hastened away without a word; while she fell
to the ground, crushed and broken as if the whole universe
had fallen upon her.
After some time, however, she came insome sort to her
senses; but the feeling of deep injustice she’ had suffered
and of the wrong undergone was so keen in' her that her
heart was broken with grief. She felt herself suffocating,
and wanted to cry out to the whole world that she was
blameless and had done no evil! -
She called aloud after him, although his steps were no
longer to be heard; she lifted up her voice, but in vain.
Her deep distress, her heart-felt sorrow, and the dull,
crushing, terribly cruel thought that he might possibly never
return to her, together with her dead fondness that had come
to life again, all descended upon her now, with a tremendous
weight of unappeasable torment; and she wept loudly as she
walked home, caring not who might hear her. .
In the porch she met Klemba’s son, who only just peeped
into the cabin, shouting: “They are cutting down our for-
est!” and hurried on to the next hut. '
The news spread like wildﬁre through Lipka, and gripped"
all hearts, ﬁlling them with ﬁerce anger. Men ran through
the village with the news, so fast that doors were opening
and slamming every instant.
Truly, it was a matter of life and death to the villagers,
T'HE‘PIEASANTS 266
a-ndlof suc-h evil import that they, were all at once 'struck
dumb—or, ratherythunderstmck. They1walked—in'fear, on
tiptoe; spoke in whispers,‘looki'ng-with apprehension at one
another, and listening likewise. , No one cried‘out yet, nor
complained~aloud, nor broke out intocurses. - The thing
was overwhelming, they all knew, and of the greatest mo-
ment—‘one in. which women’s' babbling could do ‘nothing.
What was required was wise determination and resolve on
the part of the whole community. . ;. r ' -
It was late; but no one cared to go to bed now. Some
had left their supper unﬁnished, the household Work unac-
complished. The roads were full of.'people, as were also
the cabin surroundings. Men walked about on! the banks
of the pond, and their subdued whispers and mutterings were
audible in the twilight as~_the buzzing of" angry bees.
And now the weather was better; the rain had Stopped,
the sky~had cleared up a little; ﬂocks of’ clouds were mov-
ing across the sky, and on the earth a chilly wind blew,
freezing the ground, and whitening with hoar-frost the black
skeletons of the trees. The voices, itoo, though not loud,
were now more distinctly..heard.i.
It was at once known-in; the.village that a number=of
peasant-landowners had (assembled-and gone in a 'body to
see the Voyt. - ‘
'.There was Vinciorek, with Gregory, called thelLame One;
they saw Michael Caban, passing, along with Franek Bylitsa,
cousin to Hanka’s father; and Soho too, and also Valek
the Wry-mouthed; likewise joseph Vahnik, Casimir Sikora
——even time-honoured Ploshka. Only Boryna was seen by
none; though they said he wasthere, too.
' The Voyt was not in; he had that very afternoon driven
over to headquarters on ofﬁcial business; so they-all as-
sembled at Klemba’s, followed by multitudes, women and
children “among them. But they made the door fast and
let no one in. Voytek, the son of Klemba, had orders to
watch the road and tavern, lest a gendarme should by
chance show his face in the village. . . . ' \
Round the cabin, ﬁlling the farm-yard, and .even the road
267 WINTER
beyond it, folk came in throngs together, all wondering what
decision those elders of theirs would come to. They were
taking counsel, and at great length—but with most secret
deliberation. Only their hoary heads were visible through
the windows, forming a semicircle around the glowing
hearth; Klemba stood on one side, holding forth about
. no one knew what: stooping now and then, and smit-
ing at times on the table.
Those outside grew every minute more impatient; and
at length Kobus and Kozlova, and more than one farm-
labourer, began to murmur and talk openly against the men
in counsel, saying that they would decide nothing of any
good for the people; that they were meii who cared only
for themselves, and would readily come to terms with the
manor, letting everybody else be ruined!
Kobus, along with the Komorm'kz' and the poorer peo-
ple, became so excited that he advised them outright to pay
no attention to what the elders would decide, but think of
themselves and take some energetic step before their rights
had been sold.
Matthew then appeared, and proposed that they should
go round to the tavern, where they might advise together
in freedom—not like dogs barking outside other people’s
windows.
The idea pleased them, and all went together to the tavern.
The Jew had put out the lights, but they made him open
the place again. He eyed in terror the crowd that poured
in, though they were quiet enough, occupying every bench,
table and corner of the big room, talking in groups, and
waiting for someone to speak ﬁrst to the meeting.
Plenty were willing; but they all held back, with looks
of hesitation. And then Antek sprang forward in their
midst, and furiously denounced the manor.
His words impressed them certainly, but they looked
askance at the man, and eyed him with distrustful side-
glances; some even turned their backs. The memory of the
priest’s words in church, and of Antek’s wicked life, was too
fresh in their minds—But he cared nothing for that: he
THE PEASANTS 268
was possessed by a spirit of recklessness and a savage lust of
ﬁghting; and he wound up by crying at the top of his
vorce:
“Boys, do not give in, do not be cravens, do not sur-
render your rights! To-day it is the forest they are wrest-
ing from you: fail to defend it, and to-morrow they will
grab at your lands, at your homesteads, at all you have!
Who will prevent them? Who will cry: ‘Hands off?’ ”
His words struck home. A low growl went through the
room; the crowd surged violently to and fro, with wild eyes
ﬂashing ﬁre. A hundred ﬁsts were lifted up, and a hundred
throats thundered forth: “We will! We will!” till the
tavern-walls shook to the din.
It was this that the leaders were waiting for. At once
Matthew, Kobus and Kozlova rushed forward, shrieking,
cursing, and ruffling up the spirits of the men so, that the
place was presently resounding with a confused noise of
war-cries, imprecations, ﬁsts smiting the tables, and the ﬁerce
boisterous uproar of an angry mob.
Everyone shouted his opinion, everyone had his own plan
that all must follow.
The tumult increased, and threatened to degenerate into
brawling; for the men were growing quarrelsome, and
wreaked their resentment for the wrong done them on those
nearest at hand. Nor could they agree on anything to be
done; for no one there had authority enough to put himself
at their head and avenge them.
Little by little, they broke up into groups, with the loud-
est talker amongst them laying down his opinion.
“Why, they have hewn down half the forest—oak-trees of
such a size that ﬁve men could not clasp them!”
“All this the son of Klemba has seen!”
“And they are going to cut down the rest, without ask-
ing your leave!” Koslova shrieked, pressing forward to the
bar.
“The manor-folk have always oppressed us.”
“Why not? Let them drive you, if you are silly enough
sheep to allow them.”
269 WINTER
“We must not, we must not !--Let’s all go out together,
drive off the woodmen, and take back our forest!”
“And slay the oppressorl”
“Yea, let him be slain!”
Fists rose into the air with deﬁant gestures, a deafening
shout was raised, and the whole multitude breathed hate
and revenge. When the noise had subsided, Matthew,
standing at the bar, cried to his friends:
“We, village folk, are pressed together as ﬁsh caught in a
net: the manor-lands, stretching out on all sides, squeeze
the life out of us.—Would ye send your cows to grass? Ye
cannot for the manor-lands.-—-Would ye give your horses to
eat? No, the manor-lands are therel—Ye cannot throw a
stone but it falls on the manor-lands . . . and ye are taken
to the court—sentenced—ﬁned—imprisonedl”
“True! true it is!” a chorus of voices assented. “If there
is anywhere a good meadow, giving an aftermath, it be-
longs to the manor; the very best ﬁelds are the manor’s;
and all the woods are theirs also.”
“And we—the people—have barren sands to till, dried
dung to burn in our stoves . . . and are waiters on Provi-
dence!”
“Take their woods, take their lands away from them!
We will not give up what is ours!”
Thus they cried out for a long time, rolling to and fro
in a waving mass, cursing and threatening furiously. All
this was tiring to the throat and heated them, so several
went to refresh themselves at the bar; and others, remem-
bering that they had gone without supper, called to the Jew
for bread and a herring.
Now when they had eaten and drunk, their excitement
lessened greatly, and they began to withdraw, without hav-
ing decided on any course of action.
Matthew, along with Kobus and Antek (who had stood
apart all the time, lost in certain very dark thoughts of his
own), then went over to Klemba’s and, ﬁnding the man at
home, arranged for something to be done on the morrow in
concert with him: after which they retired.
THE PEASANTS 270
It was dead of night, the lights were all out, and ‘the
village silent, with nothing to break the stillness but the
rustling of the trees—of the frost-bedight trees, swaying,
tossing and reeling, and striking each other, like foes in a
battle. The cold was pretty severe, the hedges were clad
in a pattern of lace; but far above, to the north, no stars
were seen, and the sky was dark and sombre. So the night
crept on, long. wearisome, ﬁlling everyone with misgivings
and disquiet, with terrible dreams and nightmares, and
fevered shadowy visions.
But as soon as ever it began to dawn, and men to raise
their heavy slumberous heads, and open their dim
eyes, Antek ran round to the belfry and tolled the alarm-
bell.
Ambrose and the organist would have prevented him, but
could not; he loaded them with curses, was near beating
them, and went on ringing and swinging.
The bell tolled slowly, dolefully, dismally; terror fell on
everyone; people on every side rushed out in dismay, half
clad, and wondering what had befallen, stood outside their
huts as if petriﬁed. The day was breaking: the solemn and
sonorous notes still continued to be heard, while the fright-
ened birds winged their way to the forest, and the people,
full of evil forebodings, crossed themselves and set their
faces hard; for Matthew, Kobus and his mates were scour-
ing the village, beating on the fences with their staves and
crying:
“To the wood! To the wood! Come, all of you! The
meeting is in front of the tavern—To the wood!”
They dressed in the utmost haste, some buttoning them-
selves and saying their morning prayers on their way; and
all were soon at the trysting-place, where stood Klemba
and some other peasant-landowners.
The road, and the hedgerows, and all the yards and
premises in the neighbourhood, were presently swarming
with people. Children made a great noise, and women
screamed in the orchards, and the confusion and tumult and
uproar were such as a ﬁre in the village might cause.
'271 WINTER
“To the wood !--Let every man set out with any weapon
he has—scythe or ﬂail or bar of wood or ax: ’tis all one!”
And the cry, “To the wood!” echoed all through the
place.
By this time it was broad day—fair, bright and frosty,
with a web of gossamer woven over the trees, and the frozen
puddles in the roads crackling underfoot and breaking with
a thin sound as of splintered glass. The bracing air smelt
keen and sharp in the nostrils, and carried afar the noise of
the tumult and shouting.
These, however, died away slowly, for everyone was pre-
pared ‘to act; a sense of grim, stubborn, relentless strength
and assurance had hardened every mind with its harsh com-
manding power.
The crowd, increasing, had now ﬁlled all the open space
between the tavern and the high road, and stood in serried
ranks, shoulder to shoulder.
Each greeted his friends in silence; everyone stood where
he could ﬁnd place, looking about him patiently, or at the
elders, who now arrived with Boryna.
This was the ﬁrst man among them all; he was their
only leader: without him, not one farmer would have moved
an inch.
They stood there, still, attentive, like a forest of pine-
trees, closely crowded, that listens to hear the voices within
its own depths. Now and again a word was uttered, or a
ﬁst would shoot upwards; then their eyes would gleam, a
wave of restlessness sweep over them, a face or two ﬂush
crimson; and then they once more stood motionless.
The blacksmith came in hot haste, trying to hold the
people back, and deter them from their intent by the fear of
results—ruin and chains for the whole village; and the
miller spoke to the same effect. No one listened to them.
Both were well known to be in the pay of the manor; op-
position was their business.
Roch, too, came and besought them with unavailing tears.
And, at last, the priest himself appeared, and began to
speak to them. But even to him they paid no heed. They
THE PEASANTS 272
stood unmoved; no one kissed his hand, no one even doffed
his cap to him. Someone went so far as to cry aloud:
“Preaching is his livelihood!”
And another added, sneering:
“Our wrongs are not to be redressed with a sermon!”
So ominously louring were their faces that the priest
burst into tears as he looked at them; yet he did not give
up, but conjured them, by all they held most sacred, to re—
turn to their homes. It was useless; he was forced to be
silent and go; for Boryna had come upon the scene, and
they had eyes only for him.
Matthias was pale, stern and cold outwardly; but his eyes
had the glint of a wolf’s. He walked erect, sombre but de-
cided, nodding to his acquaintances, and looking round upon
the people. They made way for him, and he stepped on to
the pile of logs in front of the tavern. But, before he spoke,
voices in the crowd were raised:
“Lead us on, Matthias! lead us on!”
“On! on to the forest!”
When these cries had ceased, he bowed and, stretching
forth his arms, spoke with a mighty voice:
“Ye Christian people, Poles, lovers of justice, whether
husbandmen or Komomz'kz'L—We have all been injured, and
in such fashion as we can neither support nor forgive! The
manor-folk are cutting down our forest . . . yes, those same
manor-folk who will give no work to any man amongst us
. . . those manor-folk who do all they can to harry us and
drive us to ruin! Who can remember all the injuries and
grievances and ill treatment our folk have suffered from
them? We have appealed to justice: to what purpose? We
have brought complaints: how have they been dealt with?
-—Well, the measure is ﬁlled: they are hewing down our
forest. Men, shall we permit that too?”
“Never, never! Let us drive them off, let us slay them!”
they answered him. Their faces were livid, but gleamed
darkly, as a thunder-cloud with lightning-ﬂashes: a hundred
ﬁsts were shaken in the air, and a hundred indignant throats
were clamorous.
273 WINTER
“We have,” Boryna went on to say, “we have our rights,
and no one respects them: the forest is ours, and they cut it
down! What, then, are we to do, we who are bereft of all
help? For none in the world will do us justice. None !--
Dear people, Christians, Poles, I tell you that there is now
naught to be done save this one thing: defend by ourselves
that which is our own property; go in a body, and forbid
them to hew our forest down—All! One and all! let us go,
we, the inhabitants of Lipka—all save the cripplesl—And,
good friends, fear ye nothing: we have for us our rights,
our will to assert them, and the justice of our cause. And,
moreover, they cannot send a whole village to prison—So
come with me, men; be strong and courageous; come with
me—to the forest!” he shouted in a voice of thunder.
“To the forest!” they all roared in reply. The crowd
broke up, and every man ran home shouting. There was
an interval of confused preparation, while they made ready:
horses neighed, children screamed, men swore, women be-
wailed themselves; but in a very short time, all were on
their way to the poplar road, where Boryna, in his sledge,
was waiting, together with Ploshka, Klemba and the other
foremost men in Lipka.
All fell into line as they came—peasant-owners, labourers,
and even a few women and youngsters: some in sledges,
some on horseback, some in carts; but the rest (nearly all
the village) trudged on foot, forming a dense mass, like a
long ﬁeld of waving rustling corn, with the women’s red
garments for poppies, and, for the awns, bristling with good
stout stakes and rusty pitchforks, with here and there a
scythe, ﬂashing brightly. The folk went out as if to reap
-but not now with gay laughter and merry jokes. They
stood silent, grim, relentless, ready for any encounter. And
presently Boryna got into his sledge, eyed the people once
more, and made the sign of the cross:
“In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the
Holy Ghost. Amen!”
“Amen, amen!” they repeated—At that moment, they
heard a tinkling bell, telling them that the priest had just
THE PEASANTS 274
begun mass. They crossed themselves, took off their caps,
smote their breasts, some of them uttering a pious sigh, as
they marched on in regular formation, strong silent men—
almost all Lipka. But the blacksmith had slunk away some-
where amongst the hedges, and, creeping back to his hut,
leaped on to his horse to take a straight cut to the manor.
As for Antek, who had, ever since his father appeared, with-
drawn into the tavern, he procured a gun from Yankel,
and as soon as the march began, hid it beneath his sheep-
skin, and made direct for the woods through the ﬁelds,
without so much as casting a glance at the men of Lipka.
These were following Boryna as fast as they could: he
drove foremost of all.
After him came the Ploshka families, who dwelt in three
separate cabins, and Staho was their leader: a weakly-
looking crew, but loud of tongue, and noisy, and self-
assured. \
Then all the Soha kinsmen, led on by Simon the Soltys.
The Vahnik tribe marched next—short thin fellows all
of them, but ﬁerce as hornets.
i In the fourth line walked the Golombs, with Matthew at
their head: few in number, but such stalwart men and
plucky ﬁghters, they were as good as half a village.
The Sikora family came next: thickset as tree-stumps,
and sturdy men, but great grumblers.
Klemba’s kin now advanced, and a host of striplings with
them: tall young men, always fond of squabbles.—-Over
them was Gregory, brother to the Voyt.
And many another, too, brought up the rear, whose names
were too many to mention.
Under their ponderous tread, the earth shook. The
troop went forward, with dark and ominous faces; like a
hail-cloud, bearing thunderbolts in its womb, showing a
ﬂash now and then, and, when it bursts, destroying all be-
eath it.
So they passed out; and then, how great was the lamen-
tation of those left behind them at home!
\
275 WINTER
The forest was standing, as yet torpid after the cold of
the night, full of a drowsy stupor, and swathed in a mist
of clotted opaqueness.
The woodland lay quiet, immersed in frost. The dawn
reddened the tree-tops faintly, and fell here and there in
streaks over the pallid snows below.
But, in Vilche Doly, there were heard, again and yet again,
the thundering sound of falling trees, the clipping strokes
of the axes, the harsh rough throbbing of the saws.
They were felling the forest!
Over forty men, hard at work, like a ﬂock of woodpeckers,
were assailing the trees, hacking at them with persistent
fury. These fell, one after another, and the open space
grew wider, as the fallen giants lay humbled to the ground,
in longer and longer rows. Only in some places did a
slender stripling, spared for seedlings, rise up in the midst of
this desolation, as a tall thistle lifts its head over the lonely
plain. But it seemed to stoop and mourn pitifully for its
slain brothers—The brushwood, too, that had been left un-
touched, and a few stunted trees which the ax had not
deigned to sacriﬁce, also looked as though weeping over the
dead. All round, upon the sheets of trampled snow, as if
laid out to be wrapped in their shrouds, stiff and stark lay
the murdered trees, and the heaps which had been their
limbs, and the lopped crowns of the mighty trunks stripped
of their boughs, like mangled mutilated corpses: while
streams of yellow saw-dust—the blood of the slaughtered
forest, as it were—were sinking into the snow.
In a circle about the cleared space, like men standing
around an open grave, towered the thick unbroken forest,
multitudinous and lofty, as friends and kinsmen might stand
around, drooping, sorrowful, with muffled sighs, listening to
the thudding falls, and gazing in dull bewilderment at this
harvest reaped by inexorable Fate!
With never a pause, the wood-cutters went onward.
Slowly, in one long line, they worked their way into the
wood, which barred the way with its seemingly indestructi-
ble wall of close-set trunks. Its immensity swallowed them
THE PEASANTS 276
up; they were lost in the shade of its branches; but their
axes glittered through the gloom, and they hacked away
tirelessly, and the stridulous uninterrupted rasping of the
saws went on. Every now and then a tree would totter,
and suddenly—like a bird caught in a snare—fall apart
from its fellows and, tossing its arm wildly, crash down to
the earth with a death-cry. And so another would fall, and
a score, and scores upon scores!
There fell enormous pine-trees, green with the moss of
age; and ﬁrs, arrayed in their dark verdure, and spruces
with their many outspread arms; oak-trees, too, fell, with
dry russet leaves still upon them, and overgrown with gray
lichens as with beards—ancients of the forest that the
thunderbolt would not blast, and the lapses of centuries had
failed to crumble, now succumbed to the ax! And of other
and meaner trees, who can say which and how many were
laid low?
Groaning, the forest was slowly giving up its life as the
trees fell: though these were like brave men in a battle,
who, packed close and propped up one by another, fall little
by little, giving way only to resistless might, and without
a cry topple over into the jaws of death by whole ranks at
a time.
Dull moans rose up; the earth vibrated continuously
under the impact of felled trees; the axes went on smiting,
the saws sawed without ceasing, while the whistling of the
boughs, rushing athwart the air, pierced the ears like dying
gasps.
So the work continued, hour after hour, with fresh booty
won from the wood; the glade was all strewn with trunks,
and the ax and saw were successful.
A few magpies perched and screamed upon the young
trees spared for seedlings; a ﬂock of crows would some—
times ﬂy with harsh croaks over the ﬁeld of death. Or else
.a roebuck would peer out from some thicket and, looking
forth, gaze with bright eyes at the plumes of smoke wafted
upwards from the ﬁres in the clearing and at the down—
277 WINTER
k
crashing trees; but when it saw men there, it ﬂed with a
bleating cry.
The men hewed and sawed, like wolves that have corn-
ered a ﬂock of sheep, which—huddled close, stupeﬁed with
fear, and bleating pitifully—await the moment when the
throat of the last of them shall be torn out.
It was only after their breakfast, when the sun had risen
so high that the hoar-frost began to melt, and a few shafts
of golden light penetrated the woodlands—only then did
a far-off hubbub come to their ears.
“There are people coming this way, and in numbers,”
someone said, putting his ear to a trunk.
The sound came nearer and nearer. Soon they could
make out shouts and the dull trampling of many feet.
About the space of an Ave Maria later, a sledge appeared
on the way that led from the village. It entered the clear-
ing at once. Boryna was standing up in it; and in his rear
—on horseback, on foot, and in wagons—a great crowd of
men, women and youngsters came dashing forward with a
cry,.to attack the wood-cutters.
Leaping down, Boryna ran forward at their head; all the
others pressed close behind him, armed with their various
weapons—brandishing pitchforks, ﬂashing scythes, wielding
ﬂails with brawny arms. Some had only a branch to ﬁght
with, and the women less still—only their nails and their
invectivesl—And down they all swooped upon the affrighted
wood-cutters.
“Away from the forest! ’Tis ours: ye shall not fell it!”
they shouted all at the same time, and no man could make
out what they wanted. But Boryna came up to the men,
and called out in a voice like a trumpet:
“Men of Modlitsa, of Rzepki, and whencesoever ye come
from: listen!”
There was a pause, and then he cried out:
“Take your belongings and tools, and go hence, and God
be with you !—We forbid you to cut down our forest; arid
he that shall not obey will ﬁnd us all ready to make him!”
THE PEASANTS 278
No one opposed: the sight of that furious crowd, grim-
visaged, with ﬂails and pitchforks and scythes, overawed
them. They cried to one another to give over, thrust their
axes into their girdles, and pressed together—an angry mut-
tering throng. The men of Rzepki especially, being of
gentle blood, and having been besides for centuries at feud
with their neighbours of Lipka, could not refrain from
cursing aloud, shaking their axes, with promises of ven-
geance. But, however unwillingly, they yielded to supe-
rior force, while the Lipka folk followed them to the edge of
the forest, threatening and shouting.
Others ran meantime about the clearing to put out the
ﬁres and throw down the piles of timber which had begun
to rise; the women (Kozlova leading them), having seen at
the edge of the clearing several boarded huts which had been
set up, hastened to tear them down, and cast them about
the woodland, that nothing of them might remain.
The woodmen having been so easily put to ﬂight, Boryna
called the farmers round him, urging them to come with
him to the Squire and warn him against laying a ﬁnger on
the forest until the law-courts should have decided what
was to belong to the peasants. But ere they had settled
what they should say, shrill screams were heard, and the
women came ﬂeeing away in great haste. Hard on a score
of horsemen had entered on the scene, and were riding them
down.
Notice had been given to the manor, which had accord-
ingly at once dispatched these men to protect the wood-
cutters.
The steward was riding at the head of a lot of farm-
servants. They made straight for the clearing and, falling
upon the women whom they met ﬁrst, set to horsewhipping
them soundly. The steward, a burly wild-ox sort of man,
rode ﬁrst at them, shouting:
“Ah, the thieves, the lousy thieves! Thrash ’em!
Bind ’em! To jail with ’em!”
“Rally, rally round me, boys! Stand up to them!”
279 WINTER
roared Boryna. His men, panic-stricken, had begun to
run; but at the sound of his voice they ﬂew to his side,
protecting their heads with their arms as they ran.
“Cudgel those sons of dogs, and keep your ﬂails for the
horses!” Boryna commanded, and, wild with fury, snatch-
ing up a stake at hand, rushed forward, striking hard and
aiming well. And after him, like a wood shaken by some
angry blast, the peasants charged on in close order, pitch-
forks and ﬂails'almost touching, and uttered a terrible cry
as they dashed in amongst the manor servants; they smote
and lunged boldly, and their ﬂails rattled and clattered as
handfuls of peas ﬂung down on a wooden ﬂooring.
A horrible uproar arose, with fearful oaths, and the
whinnying of belaboured horses, and the groans of wounded
men, and the hoarse noises of the struggling, and the battle-
cries!
The manor people held out stoutly, with imprecations
and blows as vigorous as those of the peasants; but at last
they were forced back in confusion: under the strokes of
the ﬂails, the horses reared, squealing shrilly with pain, and
ﬂed with their riders. The steward, perceiving this, made
his horse stand upright, broke into the mass of Boryna’s
men, and made for their leader. But this was his last
effort: a score of ﬂail-strokes were aimed at him, as many
foes closed upon him instantly, and as many hands seized
him, pulling him off his horse. Tossed like a bush that a
spade has uprooted, he ﬂew into the air, to come down on
the snow at their feet, insensible. With difﬁculty Boryna
protected him, and dragged him off into a place of safety.
All then became a whirling mass of men; the tumult
was ear-splitting, and the eddying mingled throng so dense
that nothing could be made out, save tangled groups of
ﬁghters, rolling in the snow—ﬁsts lifted and falling in pas-
sionate exasperation—and sometimes one or another would
burst from the scrimmage and run madly away for a few
yards--only to run back to the ﬁght again, shouting and
raging as before.
TI-IE PEASANTS 280
There were hand-to-hand ﬁghts, there were mass attacks;
men were seized by the throat or by the hair of the head,
and they tore at each other like wild beasts. Yet neither
could get the upper hand. The manor servants, having
alighted from their horses, gave ground no longer; the wood—
men, besides, now came to their help with sturdy assistance:
the men of Rzepki especially were foremost, rushing to their
rescue in silence, like savage dogs that only bite. More-
over, the leader of them all was now the forester, who had
but just arrived: a man of gigantic size, who dearly loved
a ﬁght, and had, besides, many a bone to pick with the
Lipka folk. He darted onward, ﬁghting alone against mul-
titudes, cracking their skulls with the butt of his gun, and
making them ﬂy on every side: a scourge to them all, and
a terror.
Staho Ploshka stood ﬁrm to stay his advance, for the
people was already beginning to ﬂee before him; but, seized
by the throat, whirled in air, and dashed down like a sheaf
of threshed corn, he remained unconscious on the ground.—
One of the Vahniks then leaped forward and brought down
his ﬂail on the giant’s shoulder with a smashing blow—-
only to get such a hit between the eyes that he called out,
“jesus!” and, opening his arms wide, fell stunned.
Now could Matthew bear it no longer, and came up to
attack him. Yet, although in physical strength not inferior
to Antek, he could not withstand the forester for a minute.
This one was far the stronger, and beat him, and rolled him
in the snow, and forced him to take to his heels: after which,
he made for Boryna. But, ere he could reach him, he was
assailed by a host of women, who ﬂung themselves on him
with shrieks, clawed his face, pulled out his hair by hand-
fuls, and, piling themselves one upon the other, bore him
to the earth along with them: like a lot of curs attacking
a shepherd’s dog, plunging their fangs in his ﬂesh, and
dragging him this way and that way.
Thenceforth did the Lipka folk begin to have the upper
hand. Both parties were in close conﬂict, mingled like fallen
281 WINTER
leaves; and each man chose his opponent, throttling and
lugging him through the snow: while the women hung on
the ﬂanks of the battle, and tore at the enemies’ hair.
And now the confusion was such that one could scarcely
distinguish friend from foe. . . . In the end, the manor
servants were beaten completely. Some lay bleeding; some,
sorely bruised and exhausted, made off through the forest.
Only the woodmen defended themselves to the uttermost;
for certain amongst them had begged for mercy, which the
people, still more exasperated against them than against
those from the manor, and inﬂamed with anger as a resin-
torch burning in a gale, were but little disposed to grant,
and thrashed them most unmercifully.
Sticks and ﬂails and pitchforks were now thrown aside,
and they wrestled together, man to man, ﬁst to ﬁst, brute
strength pitted against brute strength; crushing, tearing,
wallowing on the ground! And there was no longer any
noise of cries, but only low groans, curses, and the panting
of the stubborn ﬁght.
A tremendous day it was, a day of wrath.
The people seemed to have lost their heads, so greatly
were they all infuriated by conﬂict. Kobus in particular,
and Ko'zlova, looked like demented creatures, horrible to
see, covered with blood and bruises, yet still attacking
any number of enemies single-handed.
So the men of Lipka now set up a mighty cry, and rushed
together to assault those who still resisted, one of them now
putting to ﬂight ten enemies, and following on the heels
of those who ﬂed—Just then the forester, who had by
now freed himself from the women’s attack, but was very
sore and all the more furious, shouted to rally his men. At
the same instant, perceiving Boryna, he ﬂew at him! Each
grappled the other with a formidable hug, like two bears
at odds, pushing, swaying, striking one another against the
trees of the forest, at the verge of which they had
arrived. . . . _
It was then that Antek came up; he had been much
THE PEASANTS 282
delayed on his way, though’he had hurried so that he was
forced to rest awhile to take breath, and also to see how
things fared with his father.
The forester had the advantage. True, it was no easy
matter, for he was much exhausted, and the old man fought
a good ﬁght. Again and again, both fell down, and rolled
about like rival dogs, and bruised each other on the ground.
But Boryna now was more and more frequently undermost;
his cap had fallen off, and his white head was again and
again battered against the gnarled roots of the trees.
Antek glanced round a second time, drew the gun from
under his sheepskin, crouched down to take aim, and——
crossing himself mechanically!——levelled the weapon at his
father’s head! But before he could pull the trigger, both
combatants had risen to their feet, Antek rose likewise, and
his barrel pointed straight at his father. . . . But no shot
came—A sense of unspeakable horror had entered his heart:
he could hardly draw breath for the pain of it. His hands
shook as with an ague; all his body trembled; a mist veiled
his eyes. Then, suddenly, a short piercing shriek burst
forth.
“Killed! I’m killed!”
The forester had just clubbed Boryna with his gunstock.
The blood spurted; the old man threw up his arms and fell
headlong to the ground.
Antek, ﬂinging his gun away, sprang to his father’s side,
whose breath rattled in his throat. The skull was terribly
injured; he still was alive, but his eyes stared glassily, and
his feet moved with continuous jerks.
“My father! O jesus! my father!” he exclaimed at the
top of his voice. Taking up the insensible body, he pressed
it to his bosom, and cried again, in tones of despair:
“My father! they have slain'him . . . slain him!” And
his voice was the howl of a wild beast that has lost her
cubs.
Several men who were close by came to Boryna’s aid,
placed him upon a litter of boughs, applied snow to his
wounded head, and assisted him to the best of their knowl-
283 - WINTER
edge. Antek had sat down on the ground, tearing his hair
and crying out as one mad:
“They have killed him . . . killed him!” till the folk
began to think him really distracted.
Suddenly he stopped—All came upon him in a ﬂash: he
at once darted upon the forester with such a shriek of rage,
With such a rabid glare in his eyes, that the latter trembled
and would have ﬂed. Soon aware, however, that ﬂight could
not save him, he turned and ﬁred, so close that Antek’s face
was blackened with powder. By some miracle, he missed—
and the avenger was on him like a thunderbolt.
Resistance, attempts to escape, prayers for mercy forced
from him by despair and fear of death, were all in vain.
Antek’s clutch was the grip of a maddened wolf. He
throttled him till the gristle of his windpipe cracked, then
whirling him on high, thrashed a tree with his body until
the-breath was quite beaten out of it.
Then he began to ﬁght the others. Wherever he appeared,
all ﬂed before him terriﬁed: so fearful was he to behold,
smeared with his father’s blood and with his own, bare-
headed, with matted hair, livid as a corpse—a portentous
monster of superhuman strength! Almost by himself, he
struck down and put to ﬂight such as yet resisted; and, in
the end, they were forced to calm him and hold him back, or
he would have beaten all the hostile party to death.
All was over. Those of Lipka, though bleeding from
many a wound, now ﬁlled the wood with triumphant cries.
The women tended the more grievoust wounded, and
placed them on sledges. They were not a few. One of
Klemba’s sons had a broken arm; Andrew Paches’ leg, too,
was broken; he could not walk, and screamed as they bore
him off. Kobus was unable to move for the blows he had
got; Matthew was spitting blood, and his loins hurt him
exceedingly. Others also were in as evil plight almost.
Scarcely one had come unscathed out of the encounter; but—
they were victorious! So, caring no whit for their wounds,
they set up joyful deafening shouts as they prepared to
return.
THE PEASANTS 284
Boryna was lifted into his sledge, and driven slowly, for
fear he should die on the road. He remained unconscious:
gore oozed from under the bandages, falling into his eyes
and running down his cheeks, which were white as a dead
man’s.
Antek walked beside the sledge, gazing on his father with
eyes full of dismay. When the ground was rough, he held
his head up gently; from time to time he would murmur
low, in a tone of inﬁnite sorrow:
“My father! O God! my father!”
The folk went home as best they could, in disorderly
groups of threes and fours, among the trees, for the road-
way was taken up by the sledges. Now and then a deep
groan was heard; but most of them laughed boisterously,
with merry shouts. And they talked and talked, relating
episodes of the ﬁght, priding themselves on their victory,
and deriding the vanquished. Songs, too, and deafening
whoops reverberated through the woodland. They were all
intoxicated with victory, and more than one staggered along,
stumbling over roots or jostling the trunks of trees.
Blows and fatigue were all forgotten; their hearts, elated
with the ineffable glory of success, swelled with enthusiasm,
and felt the force to withstand the whole world, if it opposed.
Nay! get the better of it, too!
On they trooped in noisy bands, with ﬂashing glances at
the forest—theirs by right of conquest!——And it waved above
them and rustled and shed on their heads its dew of
melted frost, as if- it were weeping over them.
Suddenly Boryna opened his eyes, gazing long at Antek,
and seemingly unable to believe his senses. Then a deep
calm joy overspread his features; twice he opened his mouth
to speak, and at last with a great effort succeeded in
whispering:
“Is it you, son? is it you?”
And he relapsed into lethargy.
END OF PART II
THE PEASANTS
SPRING
CHAPTER I
PRING had come.
S Like a toiler who, having slept the sleep of exhaus-
tion, is forced to rise ere dawn after a too short rest,
and go out and plough without delay, the April morning
was rising lazily.
It was grey dawn.
Silence reigned everywhere, save for the copious dews
that dropped and dripped from the trees, wrapped in dense
mists and slumbering.
Over the black earth, plunged in stillness and deep dark-
ness, the sky was beginning to glimmer palely, and look like
a sheet of wringing wet bluish canvas.
All the low-lying meadows were whitish with mantling
haze, which resembled the frothy head of milk in a pail.
Cocks presently vied with one another, crowing in the yet
invisible hamlets.
‘ The last stars went out, closing their tired and sleepy eyes.
And now a glow was kindled in the East, as when they
blow on embers half quenched in the ashes.
The ﬂoating mists rolled heavily hither and thither, surged
about the dusky ﬁelds as ﬂoods in the spring thaw, or went
up the sky in thin blue spirals, like incense smoke.
The day was at odds with the paling night, which crouched
and clung close to the earth, covering it with its thick
wet cloak.
The light was slowly spreading all over the sky, and com-
ing down nearer and nearer to the ground, and struggling
with the entangling fog. In places, along the uplands, there
were seen drab dew-soaked expanses, peering out of the night,
3
THE PEASANTS 4
and plashes of water that shimmered with lack-lustre sur-
faces, and brooks that poured their streaming contents along,
between the dissolving mists and the brightening dawn.
And as it grew lighter, the ﬂush in the East changed from
livid violet to the blood-red tints of a huge conﬂagration.
Things grew visible: the black circle of forest at the sky-line,
the long row of poplars on the ascending road, drooping
forward, as though tired by the weary climb, sprang into
sight; and the hamlets sprinkled over the country-side, and
hitherto buried in shadows, now peeped forth here and
there in the morning light, like dark rocks in a swirl of foam-
ing water, and some of the nearer trees were silvered all
over with morning dews.
The sun had not risen yet, but it was clearly on the
point of bursting out of the crimson glory round it, upon
the world now just opening its bleared eyes, and stirring a
little, but still resting and drowsily enjoying its rest. Now
the stillness seemed to ring yet more loudly in the ears, for
the earth was, as it were, holding its breath: only a feeble
breeze, faint as the breathing of an infant, blew from the
woods and shook the dew-drops from the trees.
Out of the greyness of the early morn, above those ﬁelds
still deep in slumber and in shadow, like a church ﬁlled
with silent worshippers, suddenly rose the ditty of a lark.
Up from the ground it soared, and, rising, ﬂapped its
wings, twittering with silvery sounds—the tinkling of a
Mass-bell, as it were—or like a fragrant column of springtide
perfumes, rising, rising upward; and from the hallowed
heights and silences of the eastern sky it called aloud to all
the country-side.
And in a little others joined its song, soaring to heaven,
and, as they beat their wings, proclaimed the approach of
day to every creature!
The sun was coming, it was close at hand.
At last it peered above the far-off forest, as if it rose from
an abyss; as if divine invisible hands were holding up its
huge and glittering paten over the drowsy lands, and bless—
ing with the blessing of its light all things that in them were
5 S P R l N G
—-living or dead, coming to life or dying out of it—beginning
thus the holy offering of the day, while all things fell and
worshipped in the dust, mutely closing their unworthy eyes
before its sacred majesty.
Now day had dawned.
Like odoriferous smoke, the haze was wafted upwards
from the meadows to the gold-splashed sky; and birds and
living things of every kind burst out into a chant . . . a cry,
a thankful prayer, a prayer rising from the heart!
Then did the sun appear above the dark woods and count-
less villages, high, mighty, shedding warmth below—the eye
of God’s own mercy—and commence its reign, its peaceful
gentle mastery over all the land.
It was just then that Agata, the Klembas’ aged kins-
woman, made her appearance upon a sandhill near the for-
est, where several stacks belonging to the Manor stood by
a roadway full of deep ruts.
In early autumn she had started on her pilgrimage of
beggary, and eaten “bread of our Lord’s giving” ever since.
And now she had come back, just like those homing birds
that always ﬁnd their nests again in spring.
Old, feeble, very short of breath, and something like a
roadside willow, rooted in the sand, decrepit, phosphorescent,
tottering to its fall—she walked all in rags, staff in hand,
wallet on back, and a rosary dangling at her side.
The sun was rising when she passed the Manor stacks
with quick short steps, raising her weatherbeaten shrivelled
face to the sun, while her grey eyes, though bloodshot,
sparkled bright with joy.
Ah! Back again in her native village, after the long hard
winter!-—The thought gave wings to her feet; her wallet
jogged upon her shoulders, and her beads tinkled at her side:
but soon her breath grew short, her labouring lungs failed
her, and she had perforce to stop and then go on more slowly
and painfully. But her hungry eyes scoured the country
round; she smiled on those grey ﬁelds, now greenish with a
haze of growing corn; on the villages, coming little by lit-
tle out of the enveloping fog; on those trees, as yet bare of
THE PEASANTS 6
foliage, that stood as guardians of the road, and on those
others, scattered solitary about the plain.
By this time the sun was pretty high, and cast its beams
over the farthest ﬁelds of all. The whole country gleamed
with rosy dew; the black ploughed lands shone in light,
the waters glittered, streaming by in the ditches, the voices
of the larks rang loud through the cool air. Farther, beneath
some outjutting crags, the last patches of vanishing snow
still glistened. On a few trees there hung clusters of yel-
low catkins that dangled in air like amber beads. In
certain nooks, and from the beds of pools drying in the sun,
young grass with golden blades was springing up amongst
last year’s dry rust-coloured leaves, or wild flowers were
opening their yellow eyes. A light breeze had caught up
the rich dank odours of the plain that basked idly in the
sunlight; and everything around was so bright, so vast, and
full of such delicious sweetness that Agata would fain have
had wings, to soar upwards with a great cry of joy and
rapture.
“O good Lord! O dear jesus!” she gasped, sitting down
to take the whole view, as it were, into her tender heart that
throbbed with gladness.
Oh, how the springtide was rolling on over the broad
plains, while the lark’s anthems announced its coming to
all! . . . And that sacred sun! . . . And oh, the soft warm
caresses of the wind, like the kisses of a mother! . . . and
the still, mysterious yearnings of the land, awaiting the
plough and the sower! . . . Oh, and the seething of life
everywhere coming forth, and the breezes pregnant with that
which was soon to be the blade—the ﬂower—the full corn
in the ear!
Oh, how the spring was coming forth, like a bright lady
clad in sunbeams, with a face like the rosy dawn, and tresses
like streaming waters! Here she was, ﬂoating down from
the sun, and hovering over the cornﬁelds this bright April
morning; and from her outspread hands ﬂuttered many a
lark, set free to sing her praises blithely! In her wake ﬂew
7 SPRING
rows of cranes, with joyful clangorous notes, and wild geese,
in wedge-shaped formation athwart the pale-blue sky.
Storks went forth along the marshy levels, swallows
twittered by the huts, and all the winged tribes came sing-
ing merrily. And as often as that sunny mantle of hers
touched the earth, grasses sprang up, quivering to the breeze;
swollen buds glistened under their coating of viscid gum, and
leaflets whispered low; for a new strong lush life was rising
everywhere.
And oh, how she caressed and fondled all those poor
lowly tumble-down cottages! With what eyes of mercy
did she glance beneath the thatches, and awake to life the
chilled and palsy-stricken hearts of men, who HOW—In this
hour of longed-for consolation—put aside their griefs and
sombre broodings, and dreamed that a happier lot might yet
be theirs!
The land resounded with life, as a bell long silent, when
given a new tongue. It was the sun’s gift, and the magniﬁ-
cent peal rang out and boomed with clamorous joy, waking
timid hearts and singing of things most marvellous, until
it found an echo in every soul. Tears started to every eye:
the immortal spirit of man, rising up in its strength,_knelt
in raptures to embrace the land—that world of its own-—
aye, every swollen and pregnant clod of it !-—every tree and
stone and exhalation—all that he cherished and held dear!
Thus felt Agata, as she dragged herself slowly along,
greedily gloating over that Holy Land of her dreams, and
reeling at times as if from strong drink.
The Mass-bell, tinkling in the steeple, recalled her to her
senses at last, and she fell upon her knees.
“. . . Thy holy will, O Lord, has brought me home.
“. . . Thou hast shown mercy to the friendless one!”
She could hardly get the words out. A great torrent of
tears welled up from her heart and poured down her withered
cheeks. So moved was she that she could no longer ﬁnd
her beads, nor any but incoherent utterances, struck out from
her soul like burning sparks. At last, with a mighty effort,
THE PEASANTS 8
she rose and went forward, her eyes on the country-side
around her.
It was now broad day. All Lipka was spread out before
and beneath her, in a circle round the mill-pond, now dark-
blue and glittering like a mirror through the thin veil of
whitish haze over it. Along its shores the cottages were
crouching on the ground, and seated like goodwives amongst
their yet leaﬂess orchard-trees. A little smoke rose above
some of the thatches, panes gleamed in the sunshine, and
freshly whitewashed walls contrasted strongly with the dark
trunks that partly hid them.
And now she could make out each of the huts apart. The
mill, with its noisy clutter more distinct as she advanced,
stood at one end of the village, close to the road she was
following, and at the opposite end the church raised its
high white front amongst huge trees, its windows and the
golden cross on the steeple shining afar, and the red-tiled
roof of the priest’shouse visible close by. And beyond, to
the very sky-line, extended the bluish-grey ring of forest,
the wide expanse of cornland, villages at a distance, nestling
in their orchards; outjutting crags, winding roadways, lines
of slanting trees, sandhills scantily clad with juniper-bushes,
and the thin thread of the stream, sparkling as it ran on to
the mill-pond, in and out among the huts. '
Nearer to her lay the ground belonging to Lipka—as it
were, long strips of canvas or cloth that variegated the slop-
ing uplands. They ran in sinuous bands, one close to the
other, separated only by the winding footpaths between them,
thickly planted with spreading pear-trees, and overrun with
briers and brambles; or by drab fallows, clear-cut and sharp
in the yellow morning light. Patches of land sown in au-
tumn, now beginning to turn green, dark-hued potato-ﬁelds
of last year’s crop, bits of newly ploughed soil, and waters
on the low levels, with a greyish glimmer as of molten glass,
completed the picture. Beyond the mill stretched peaty-
coloured meadows, on which storks were seen to wade and
heard to “klek”; and farther, cabbage plantations, so ﬂooded
9 SPRING
as yet that only the tops of the furrows emerged from the
water like stranded ﬁshes: over these, white-bellied lapwings
ﬂew about. At the crossways there stood cruciﬁxes or statues
of saints. And above this little world, the hollow wherein
the village nestled, hung the hot bright sun, and the lark
trilled out its song: a plaintive lowing was heard from the
cow-byres; geese screamed; human voices called one to an-
other; while the wind, bearing all these sounds upon its
wings, blew with so warm and so gentle a breath that the
land seemed plunged in that quiet ecstasy in which new life
is conceived.
Yet there were not many workers to be seen in the ﬁelds.
Only a few women, close to the village, were scattering dung
about, and stray whiffs of its sharp pungent smell came to
her nostrils.
“The lazy fellows! What can they be about on such a day
as this, when the land is simply begging to be tilled? . . .
Why are so few at work?” she muttered, in no good
humour.
To approach the ﬁelds yet nearer, she left the road for
a narrow path that crossed a ditch where the grass grew lush.
and plenty of daisies already opened their pink eyelashes
to the sun. She well remembered how, in former years, the
ﬁelds were at that season all dotted over with red petticoats,
and echoing to the lasses’ songs and cries; and she knew
well that in such weather it was just the time to manure and
till and sow the land. What, then, could the matter be?
Why, she saw only one single peasant, standing somewhere
in the ﬁelds and walking along, throwing grain broadcast
in a semicircular sweep.
“He must be sowing peas, so early in spring. . . . One
of Dominikova’s lads, no doubt,” she said, and added, with
all her heart: “May God in His mercy grant you a bounti-
ful harvest, O dear sower!” ~
The path was rugged and uneven, full of fresh molehills
and many a puddle. But, absorbed as she was in every
bit of land she saw, she paid no heed to these.
THE PEASANTS 10
“This is the priest’s rye-ﬁeld. How well it grows! I re-
member, when I started on my wanderings, the farm-servant
was ploughing here, and his Reverence sat close by.”
Again she crawled on painfully, breathing hard and look-
ing round with tearful eyes.
“This is Ploshka’s rye . . . but it must have ,come up
late, or rotted somewhat in the ground.”
She bent down—no easy task for her!—-to stroke the moist
blades lovingly, as she would have stroked a child’s head,
with tremulous withered ﬁngers.
“Ah, here is Boryna’s wheat! A magniﬁcent piece of
ground. Of course: is he not the ﬁrst farmer in Lipka?—
A little frostbitten, though; the winter has been very severe,”
she thought, looking out over the ﬂat expanse of ﬁelds
ploughed last autumn, and the blades sunk deep in the earth
and soiled with mire, testifying to the heavy winter snows
and ﬂoods.
“Oh,” she sighed, “the folk here have suffered not a little.”
And she shaded her eyes to look at a couple of lads who
were coming by from the village.
“The organist’s pupil, and one of his sons. . . . What
large baskets! Ah, no doubt they are going to Vola with
their annual list for confession. Yes, that is what they are
about.”
She greeted them as they went by, and would have chatted
with them willingly; but they only mumbled a reply, and
hurried on, deep in conversation with each other.
“And I have known them ever since they could walk!”
she said, disappointed and out of sorts. “Ah; well! how
should they know a beggar like me ?-—-But Michael has grown
up ﬁnely, and will surely now be playing the organ for his
Reverence.”
She was presently close to Klemba’s property. “Lord!
there is not one man to be seen!” she cried—She was now so
near the village that she could smell the smoke of the chim-
neys, and see the beds and cushions laid out to air in the
orchard. Her heart was brimming over with thankfulness
for having been spared till now, and allowed to come back
11 SPRING
to her people. In this hope she had been able to live through
the winter: it had upheld and strengthened her against cold
and want and death itself.
She sat down under some bushes, to arrange her dress a
little, but could not. Joy made her limbs quiver and her
heart ﬂutter like a strangled bird.
“There are still some good kind people here,” she whis-
pered, looking hard at her wallet. She had put by, she knew,
quite enough for her burial.
For many a year she had set her heart upon one thing:
to die (when our Lord should call her) in her own village,
lying in ,a cottage, on a feather-bed, and beneath a row of
holy images upon the wall: as all goodwives die. And for
many a year she had been saving against that last, that sa-
cred hour!
Now at the Klembas’, up in the loft, she had a chest, and
within that chest a great feather-bed, with sheets and pillows,
and new pillow-covers: all clean, and none of them ever used,
in order to be always in readiness. There was no other place
to put that bedding, for she never had a room or a bedstead
to herself, but was used to sleep in some corner, on a litter
of straw, or in the cow-house, according to circumstances,
and as the people of the house allowed her. For she would
never assert herself, nor make any complaints, being well
aware that things take place in this world according to God’s
will, and are not to be changed by sinful man.
And yet—in secret, silently, and asking to be forgiven for
her pride—she had dreamed of this one thing: to be buried
like a village goodwife. For this she had long prayed in
fear and trembling.
Naturally, therefore, on arriving in the village, and aware
that her last hour was not far off, she set about considering
whether there was anything that she had forgotten.
No. She had got all that was required. With her she
carried a Candlemas taper that she had begged after a night-
watch over a dead body; a bottle of holy water; a new
sprinkling-brush, a consecrated picture of Our Lady of Chen-
stohova, which she should hold when dying, and a few score
THE PEASANTS 12
zloty for her burial, which might possibly also sufﬁce for a
Mass to be said, before the body, with candles and the rite
of sprinkling performed at the church-door. For she never
dreamed that the priest would accompany the body to the
grave.
That was out of the question. Not every landowner had
the luck of being honoured thus; besides, the fee for that alone
would swallow up all her savings!
She sighed heavily and rose to her feet, feeling much
weaker than usual. Her lungs hurt her greatly, and she
was so racked with coughing that she could hardly crawl
along.
“If,” she mused, “I was able to hold out till hay-making,
or till the harvest begins! Oh, then I could willingly lie
down and die, dear jesus! lie down and die!”
She thought her hopes sinful, and wanted to excuse them.
But now arose the disquieting thought: who would take her
in and let her die in his hut?
“I shall,” she said, “look for some good kind-hearted peo-
ple: and they may be more willing if I promise them a
little money. Indeed, no one cares to have trouble and an-
noyance in his own cottage on account of a stranger.”
As to dying at her relations’, the Klembas, she durst not
even think of that.
“So many children !—-No room in the cabin; and the fowls
are laying now, and place must be made for them—And
then, it were a disgrace for such landowners to have a beg-
gar, their kinswoman, die under their roof.” :
All this she was pondering without any bitterness, as she
plodded her way on the road along the dike raised to protect
the meadows and cabbage-plantations from a ﬂood.
The mill-pond shone bright on her left, reﬂecting the sun’s
golden locks in its deep-blue waters. On its banks, over-
grown with drooping alders, ﬂocks of geese screamed and
ﬂapped their wings;-on the still miry roads, troops of merry
children ran about and shouted. ,
And Lipka stood on this side and on that of the pond,
as it had stood no doubt ever since the world began, buried
13 A SPRING
in its wide-spreading orchards, and in the undergrowths of
its enclosures.
Slowly Agata trudged on, but with swift glances that
took everything in at once. The miller’s wife was sitting
on the threshold of her house, amongst a boisterous troop
of 'goslings, yellow as wax, that she was taking care of.
Agata greeted her, and went quickly past, well pleased that
the dogs which lay basking along the walls had not taken
note of her.
She crossed the bridge, where the waters began their rush
to the mill-wheels, and the road forked out into two branches
that embraced the whole village.
After an instant’s hesitation, her desire to see everything
mastered her, and she turned to the left, making her way a
little longer.
The forge, which she passed ﬁrst, was silent and lifeless;
against the sooty walls stood the fore part of a cart and
several rusty ploughs: but the smith himself was away,
and his wife, in smock and petticoat, busy digging in the
orchard.
Agata went around, stopping before every hut, leaning over
the low stone fences, and gazing curiously at all she saw
within. Dogs came up and sniffed at her, but seemed to rec-
ognize one of the inhabitants, and went back to lie in the sun.
Wherever she went, she found a strange stillness and emp-
tiness.
“All the men are away . . . attending either at some law
court or a meeting somewhere,” she ﬁnally said to herself, as
she entered the church.
Mass was over; his Reverence sat in the confessional;
some dozen or so of people from distant hamlets were in the
pews, at intervals heaving deep sighs, or uttering some
words of their prayers aloud.
From a lamp suspended in front of the high altar, a ripple
as of bluish smoke ascended tremulously through the sun-
light that poured down from the windows high above.
Without, sparrows chirruped, and now and then ventured
into the aisles with straws in their beaks; from time to time
THE PEASANTS 14
a swallow came twittering in by the great doorway, swept
round, skirting the cold silent walls, and speedily ﬂew back
to the bright world outside.
Agata said a few short prayers and hurried out, eager to
get to the Klembas’. just in front of the church, Yagus-
tynka met her.
“What, you here, Agata!” she exclaimed in astonish-
ment.
“Yes, here I am, and still alive, good dame”; and she bent
to kiss her hand.
“Why, they said ye had turned up your toes somewhere
far away. But I see that ‘our Lord’s bread,’ though easily
earned, has not done you much good. There’s a churchyard
look about you,” the old hag said, eyeing her mockingly.
“Ye say true, good dame; l have scarce been able to drag
my old bones hither.”
“Off to the Klembas’, eh?”
“Surely. Are they not my kith and kin?”
“Your wallet is pretty well ﬁlled: they will receive you
kindly. Also ye have there, I dare say, a few coins knotted
in a clout. Aye, aye! they will certainly admit your kin-
ship.”
“Are they all well?” Agata interrupted, pained at her
jeers.
“They are. Except Thomas, who is in poor health, but
getting better in prison.”
“Thomas! In prison?—Pray make no such jokes; they
do not amuse me.”
“What I said I repeat. But let me add that he is in
good company; the whole village is there too along with him.
When the law comes in, with its trap-doors and gratings, it
takes no account if a man has land or not.”
Agata stood bewildered. “jesus, Mary, joseph!” she
moaned.
“Now hurry along to Klemba’s wife: you will soon be fed
up with news. . . . Aha! the men are taking a holiday,
with a vengeance!” she said, and laughed maliciously.
Agata crept away: she could not believe the news. On
15 SPRING
her way, she saw several women whom she knew, and who
greeted her kindly; but she made as though she had not
heard them, and of set purpose went as slowly as she could,
putting off the dread conﬁrmation of what the old woman had
told her. She lingered long, gazing here and there, unwilling
to know the worst.
At last, however, she made bold to enter Klemba’s hut,
which was at hand; but she trembled all over, and looked
with frightened eyes at the orchard and the cottage in the
background. Close to the windows, the cows were drinking
noisily out of a large tub; and on the other end of the long
open passage through the hut, she could see a sow with her
little ones wallowing in “the mud, and fowls looking eagerly
for food on the dunghill. The tub was empty now. Tak-
ing it up (for she somehow felt more courage, coming in
thus with something in her hand), she entered the large
dusky room, and “praised God.”
“Who is that?” answered a plaintive voice from the inner
chamber.
“ ’Tis l—Agata.” With what a catch in her voice did she
utter the words!
“Agata! Well, I never . . . !” said Dame Klemba, ap-
pearing suddenly on the threshold, with her apron full of
little goslings, while their mothers came hissing and gag-
gling round her.
“Ah! God be thanked! And folk said ye had died so
long ago as last Yule-tide; only no one knew where, and my
goodman even went to the police ofﬁce to ﬁnd out—Take a
seat: ye must be tired.—-You see, our geese have been hatch-
ing.
“A goodly brood! What a number, too!”
“Yes: threescore less ﬁve—Come out in front of the
house; I must feed them and take care lest the old ones
trample them down.” ~
She let them escape from her apron, and they began to
run about, ﬂuffy like yellow catkins; while the mother birds
came up, gaggling with pleasure, and stretching out their
long necks over them. ’
THE PEASANTS ' l6
Dame Klemba brought them a mixture of minced eggs,
nettle-leaves, and groats, set out on a board, and squatted
down to protect them; for the parents, with loud indignant
screams, tried hard to get at the food, and tread the little
ones down and peck at them.
Agata sat down in front of the house. “They are all
marked with grey between the wings,” she said.
“ ’T is the mark of their breed: very large-sized. I got the
eggs from the organist’s wife: one in exchange for every
three of mine—Ah, ’tis well you have come; there’s so much
work, one does not know what to do ﬁrst.”
“I will bestir myself at once—at once!”
She made an effort to rise, meaning to set about doing
something or other; but her strength failed her, and she
reeled against the wall.
“Evidently,” the other said, noting her livid face, and her
strangely swollen and discomposed appearance, “evidently
ye are too much used up to be of service any more.”
She was vexed to see her like this; it was clear to her that
the woman would not only be useless, but cause no little
trouble besides.
Agata must have guessed what she felt, and said in a
timid apologetic tone:
“Do not fear: I will not cumber you, nor intrude on your
meals. I shall but rest awhile, and then go away. I merely
wanted to see you all, and ask about you.” Her eyes
brimmed with tears.
“Well, but I am not turning you out—Sit down; you will
only leave us if you choose.”
“Where are the lads?” she asked presently. “In the ﬁelds
with Thomas, I suppose?”
“Have ye not heard, then, that they are all in jail?”
Agata joined her hands in silent agony.
“Yagustynka had told me as much, but I could not be-
lieve it.”
“Ah! she told you the truth—gospel truth!”
She drew herself up stiffly and wept, as she remembered
what had happened.
17 SPRING
“Aye, it was as a very Doomsday for Lipka. They were
taken away to town, all of them—all!—-How I outlived it, I
cannot tell. . . . ’Twas three weeks ago now, and it is as
fresh in my mind as a thing of yesterday. Only Maciek,
and the girls who are in the ﬁelds spreading dung, and I,
poor wretched creat'ure, have been left!
“Get away!” she suddenly cried to the geese. “Would ye
then kill your own children as swine do? Would ye?”
And she called together the goslings, which were all going
off into the enclosure after the mother birds.
“Nay, let them run about,” said Agata; “no hawk is in
sight, and I will look after them.”
“Ye can scarce drag your limbs: how should you run after
geese?”
“Ever since I crossed your threshold, I have felt better.”
“Then try.—-I will get you some food. Shall I boil
milk for you?”
“Thanks, mistress, but on Saturdays in Lent I never take
milk. Give me a pot of boiling water. I have bread with
me, and shall crumble it in and eat.” '
In a little, Dame Klemba brought her a dish of hot water,
seasoned with salt, and Agata took her meal of crumbled
bread. Meanwhile the former told her all about the battle,
its causes, and its end. How Boryna’s skull had been
cracked by the keeper, whom Antek slew in his turn to
avenge his father; how the old man had been lying insensible
ever since; how others too had been badly hurt in the ﬁght,
and how little they cared for that, because they won the
victory.
“But,” she went ,on to say, “on the following Sunday, not
four days after, when wet snow was falling thick, and one
could hardly step out of doors, we were preparing to go to
church, when the Gulbas lads came round, shouting: ‘The
gendarmes are here!’
“So indeed they were—thirty of them, besides officials
and justices . . . a whole court !—and they quartered them-
selves upon the priest. Then they set about putting ques-
tions and taking notes, and bringing everybody to them
THE PEASANTS 18
under guard for examination. No one resisted; they all
spoke out bravely, telling the truth as frankly as at Holy
Confession—This ended about eventide. The court was for
carrying the whole village away, even the women! But
there was such a crying and wailing of children that the men
began to look about them for staves, and would have fought
to the uttermost. . . . Then his Reverence must have spoken
to the justices, for they left us here. Not even Kozlova did
they take, though she used most evil speech to them: only
the men were put in jail. And as to Antek, son of Boryna,
they ordered him to be conveyed thither in bonds.”
“In bonds! O Lord!”
“They bound him, but he snapped the ropes asunder like
tow. And all were afraid of him, who seemed as though
mad with fever, or possessed with a devil. And he stood up
before them, and looked them in the face, saying:
“ ‘Make my hands and feet fast with manacles and fetters,
and watch over me well—Else I slay you all, and do to
myself an evil thing!’
“He Was so amazed for his father’s loss that he himself
offered his hands and feet to the gyves. And thus did they
carry him away.
“Never shall I forget how they took him: never, till I
die. And my goodman did they take likewise, and my sons,
and the other men: about threescore of them.
“But what fell out here at that hour—~what lamentations,
what awful curses were heard—I could in no wise tell
you!
“And now spring is here; the snows have melted away.
the ﬁelds are dry and crying out to be tilled, and the time
for ploughing and sowing has come: but we have no one to
work here!
“Only the Voyt, the smith, and a few decrepit old men
have been left; of the young men, only the fool, Yasyek
Topsy-tu rvy!
“Yet ’tis now the season for yeaning and calving; and of
our women, many are brought to bed in these days; and we
must think of our lads over there, and take food to them,
19 SPRING
with a little money and a clean shirt or two; meanwhile, we
are over head and ears in work, and there is no hiring
labour elsewhere, every peasant having ﬁrst of all to shift
for himself.”
“Will they not be soon set free?”
“The Lord knows! Our priest went to the police; so did
the Voyt: and they say that, the inquiry over, sentence will
be given. But three weeks have gone by, and not one man
is back home. Roch, too, went to make inquiries last
Thursday.”
“Does Boryna live still?”
“He does, but even as one dead; he lies like a log, in-
sensible. Hanka sent for the best doctors, but they did
naught”
“What could they do? Physicians are in vain when the
ailment is mortal.”
Klembova then told her visitor all that had taken place in
winter; for Agata had not heard anything.
She let her arms drop in sheer amazement and horror at
what she now learned: the news made her heart ache.
“O my God! I was all the time thinking of Lipka, but
never, never dreamed . . . All my life I have heard nothing
like it.—Is Satan come to abide with us?”
“Belike he is.”
“It must be so. Our Lord is punishing us for the grievous
sin of Antek with his stepmother. But there are other sins
besides, that now spring forth and are seen by all.”
Agata feared to ask what these were; she raised a shaking
hand and, crossing herself, mumbled some devout prayer.
“Yes. all the people have to suffer for them. While
Boryna is lying there for dead”——he're she lowered her voice
--“they say that Yagna is making up in real earnest to the
Voyt. Antek is away, Matthew also: she has no young
fellow by, so she takes the ﬁrst willing man she meets!
What a world we live in, my God!” she ejaculated, wringing
her hands.
Agata had nothing to reply. The news she had heard
depressed her so, that her former fatigue now came upon her
THE PEASANTS 20
with increased power, and she crept to the byre to get some
rest.
About sunset she was seen again, going the round of her
acquaintances; and when she came back to the Klembas’,
these were at supper.
A spoon had been set and a place'reserved for her; not
a ﬁrst place, of course. But she had little appetite, and pre-
ferred telling them what she had seen in the towns she
had visited as a pilgrim.
Then night fell and they lit a candle in the room previous
to retiring for the night, she brought out her wallet, and,
while they surrounded her with breathless curiosity, slowly
took forth the various things she had bought for them: for
each one, a holy picture; for the girls, a necklace (ah, how
they, one after another, went peeping into the looking-glass,
to see how theirs became them, drawing up their necks, like
so many turkeys!); good strong knives for the lads; for
Thomas, a large packet of tobacco, and for his good dame.
a great frill, deeply scolloped and adorned with many-
coloured embroidery, all so beautiful that the housewife
herself clapped her hands to see it!
All were extremely pleased, all feasted their eyes upon
the gifts; while Agata, enjoying their pleasure, told them in
detail how much each article had cost and where it had been
bought
They sat up long, talking of the absent ones.
“The village is so deadly still, it makes me feel a lump in
the throat!” Agata said at last, when all had done talking,
and there was a deep dull silence around her. “How differ-
ent it was this time last year! The whole village shook
with shouts and laughter.”
“Yes, and now it looks like a vast grave,” Klembova
chimed in mournfully; “only ﬁt to be covered with a tomb-
stone, and have a cross raised above.”
“So ’tis.—-Mistress, may I go and rest upstairs?” Agata
asked meekly. “My bones ache with' journeying, and my
eyes begin to draw straws.”
21 ' ‘ SPRING
“Sleep wheresoever ye choose: there is no lack of room
now!”
But as she was going up the ladder to the loft, Klembova
spoke to her through the open door:
“Oh, I had all but forgotten to tell you. . . . We have
taken your feather-bed out of your chest. . . . During the
Carnival, Marcyha was down with the smallpox . . . and
it was very cold . . . and we had nothing to keep her warm
with—So we borrowed it of you. . . . It has been aired by
now, and shall be taken upstairs to-morrow.”
“My feather-bed?-—Well, ’twas your wish. . . . All right,
since ye wanted it.”
She broke off, unable to say more, and groped her way up
to the chest. Raising the lid, she ran her hands feverishly
over her funeral outﬁt.‘
Yes, the feather-bed that she had left completely new had
been taken! New, not even once used! . . . How she had
picked up the stufﬁng, feather by feather, gleaning them
upon the goose-pastures, to have her last bed ready for her!
She burst out crying: the blow was too cruel.
And she prayed for a long time, seasoning her prayers
with bitter tears, and lovingly complaining to her dear
Jesus of the wrong done to her.
CHAPTER II
' \ HE next day was Palm Sunday.
Bright andearly, Hanka rose, putting on only her
petticoat, and throwing a shawl on her shoulders, for
the cold.
Round she looked everywhere, even to the boundaries of
the enclosure and over on to the road. It was quite empty
and void of life: only the dry light of dawn clad the leaf--
less tree-tops along its line.
Returning to the porch, and kneeling down with difﬁculty
(for she“ expected to be conﬁned in a week or so), she began
her morning prayer, with drowsy eyes wandering over the
landscape. I
The day, laden with white ﬁre, was coming apace, and
the ruddy glow of dawn melting away into a golden expanse
in the East, like the rich silk canopy over the Monstrance,
when the Monstrance is not yet in sight.
There had been a slight frost overnight; hedges, roofs,
cottages shone with white radiance, and the trees had the air
of so many ﬂeecy clouds.
The village was still sleeping in the haze that crept along
the ground; but a few cabins nearer the road now began to
show their snowy walls. The mill went on uninterruptedly;
the river babbled and bubbled low, audible but unseen.
Cocks were noisy and many birds chirped in the orchards,
as if saying their morning prayers together, when Hanka
went out again to look over all the place and wake the
sleepers. '
She ﬁrst opened the half—door to the sty. A large porker
struggled to get up, but was so fat, it rolled back upon its
substantial hind quarters, and only turned its snout towards
22
23 SPRING
her, grunting, as she inspected the trough and put in some
fresh food. ‘
“Its hams are so clad with fat, it can hardly rise. Truly,
the fat is at least four inches thick!” And she felt its sides
with delight.
Entering the poultry-house, she then, to attract the fowls,
threw some of the pig’s food she had brought with her.
Down they came in a hurry from their roosting-place, with
the cocks crowing lustily.
She drove away the ganders, which attacked them, and
carefully examined the eggs, one by one, holding them up to
the light.
“They will be hatched out in an hour!” she said, for she
could just make out a faint pecking sound within.
Just then Lapa, indifferent to the ganders hissing round
him, came out of his kennel, drowsily and yawning audibly.
At her sight, with a bark and a wag of his tail, he came
to her through the crowd of hens ;_ the feathers ﬂew about.
He leaped up at her, put his paws on her breast, and licked
her hands, she patting his head the while.
“Ah, this dumb creature has more feeling than many a
man! . . . Now, Pete! Time to rise!” she cried, beating
on the stable-door, until she heard a grumbling and the
sound of a bolt shot back; thereupon she opened the cow-
byre door, where the kine were lying in a row before their
mangers.
“What, Vitek! Sleeping so hard, and so late? Up, young
imp!”
The boy awoke, rose from his straw bed, and began to draw
his breeches on, though murmuring; for he was afraid of her.
“Give the kine some hay to eat, before I milk them; and
then come at once and peel potatoes. But not a handful to
Lysula, look you!” she added sternly: Lysula was Yagna’s
property. “Let her mistress feed her!”
“Oh, she does; and so well that the poor beast is bellowing
for food, and eats the straw that’s under her!”
“She may starve, for aught I care: ’tis no loss of mine!”
she said, with ﬁerce animosity.
THE PEASANTS 24
Vitek muttered some words and, when she had gone, fell
back on his pallet, to doze for a few seconds more.
In the barn, upon the straw-strewn threshing-ﬂoor, lay
the potatoes chosen for planting. She looked in there, and
also into the shed close by, where all their farming-
implements were stored. Then, having seen, as she did regu-
larly each day, that nothing was missing or had been dam-
aged during the night, she went out into the wheat-ﬁelds,
where she continued her interrupted morning prayers.
Now that the sun had risen, there was as a blast of ﬂame
rushing through the orchard. The dews were dropping from
the trees, the wind rustled softly in the boughs, the larks
trilled forth their carols louder and louder. Folk began to
move about, the waters of the mill-pond beat upon the banks,
gates opened with a rusty creak, geese screamed, dogs yelped,
and now and then a human voice was heard.
Folk were rising later than their wont. It was Sunday,
and they were glad to rest their tired limbs a little longer.
Hanka prayed only with her lips: her thoughts were
elsewhere. . . .
She gazed over those broad lands, bounded afar by the
thick veil of the forest, which the ﬂames of the eastern sky
were ﬂooding, making the young ﬁr-trees stand out like
amber amidst the bluish underwood; over those other ﬁelds,
shimmering tremulously in the quivering yellow glare, and
growing their moist greenish ﬂeece of sprouting corn; over
the thin watery streaks—threads of silver—that ran here
and there in the deep furrows along the damp cornlands,
under the cool wafts of the breezes, and in the sacred hush
in which all life manifests itself on earth.
And yet she noted none of all these things.
They rose up before her, those past days of hunger and
want and injustice, with the memory of Antek’s faithlessness,
and of her manifold sorrows and afﬂictions—so great that
she wondered how she could ever have found strength to
bear them, and to await this happier lot now granted her
by our Lord.
25 SPRING
For behold, there she was, once more upon the farm-lands
of Boryna!
And who would now have the power to oust her thence?
During the past six months, she had undergone more than
many go through in all their lives: now she could suffer what
the Lord should choose her to suffer, until Antek returned
to himself, and the land was theirs for ever.
She recalled now how and when the young men had
started for the forest expedition.
She had been forced to stay behind; to join them would,
in hqr state, have been a difficult and dangerous attempt.
Antek, she had been told, was not with the others; and
this made her uneasy. It was, she thought, no doubt out
o'f-spite against the old man his father . . . or possibly to
spend the time with Yagna!
The thought had gnawed at her heart: but as to going
and spying after him—never!
And then, just before noon, the Gulbas boy had run in,
crying: “Victory! the Manor-folk are beaten!” and went
past.
She'arranged to go with Klembova and meet the men as
they were coming home.
And then Paches had come, shouting from afar: “Bo-
ryna is slain, Antek slain, and Matthew, and many more!”
and, clapping his hands, dropped down with an unin-
telligible mutter; and his teeth were set so fast (for he
was quite senseless) that they must needs prize them open
with a knife to give him water.
Happily, others came pouring in along the road from
the forest, ere the lad was brought to. These related all
that had taken place; and, a little after, Antek arrived,
alive and walking by his father’s cart; but covered with
blood, livid as a corpse, and beside himself.
Deep as was her sorrow, and near as she felt to weeping,
she mastered herself nevertheless; and old Bylitsa, her
father, took her on one side, and said:
“Look to it: Boryna will presently be no more, Antek
THE PEASANTS 26
is out of his wits, and there is none to see after Boryna’s
cabin. The smith will establish himself therein, and who
will drive him out then?”
Instantly she had hurried back to her hut and, taking
quickly with her her children and all she could lay hands
on, returned to her former lodgings on the side of the
cabin opposite to where Boryna lived.
So while Ambrose was still bandaging the old man’s head,
and the folk were out of doors, and the whole village
seething with the excitement of victory, and resounding with
the groans of the wounded—Hanka slipped quietly into the
cabin, and settled there, not to be turned out again.
She watched and guarded the place with great vigilance;
for the land was Antek’s, and his father was near his last
gasp, and might expire at any moment. She knew well how
important it was to be ﬁrst in possession; for he that ﬁrst
fell upon a heritage and took possession of it could scarcely
be driven away, and was sure to have the law on his side.
The smith, furious that she had stolen a march on him,
now threatened and abused her dreadfully; but she did not
mind. '
Was she to ask his leave . . . or anyone’s? She had
taken over all the property, and was guarding it with the
ﬁdelity of a dog: who else had the right? She knew that
the old man must soon die, and that (as Roch had warned
her) Antek would be put in prison.
To whose protection, then, should she ﬂy? Let her help
herself, and Heaven might help her.
When Antek was arrested, she took it quietly enough:
she had nothing else to do.
And, moreover, with all the house and farm-work upon her
shoulders, when could she ﬁnd time for lamentation?
She neither shirked labour nor (though alone and single-
handed) quailed before her enemies: Yagna, and the smith
and his wife, all bitterly hostile; the Voyt, whose inclina-
tion for Yagna made him favour her strongly; and even his
Reverence, whom Dominikova had set against her.
But they all were powerless; she yielded not one jot.
27 H SPRING
Day by day, her grip upon the homestead grew ﬁrmer, and
ere a fortnight had gone by, the whole farm was under her
control ard obeyed her commands.
True, she had to grudge herself food and sleep and rest
of any kind, toiling incessantly from early dawn till late
into the night.
For one so timid by nature, continuallyin the past snubbed
and brow-beaten by Antek, and accustomed neither to such
work nor to such responsibilities, this position was at times
especially hard and intolerable: but the dread of being turned
out of the place, together with her hatred for Yagna, gave
her the strength to pull through.
Whencesoever her energy had come, she remained stead-
fast at her post; and shortly everyone began to regard her
with wonder and respect.
“Dear, dear!” would the best housewives of Lipka say to
one another; “once we thought she could not say ‘Boo!’ to a
goose; and 10, she is as good as an able husbandman!”
Ploshkova and others even went the length of asking her
advice at times, and willingly gave her their own counsel
and help.
This she accepted with gratitude, but did not seek society
at all, remembering too well how she had been dealt with so
short a time ago.
Besides, she cared little for gossip, and had no liking
for neighbourly chats and bits of scandal bandied round
over the fences.
No. She had enough with her own troubles, and her
neighbours’ shortcomings did not interest her.
At this stage of her thoughts, Yagna recurred forcibly to
her mind—Yagna, with whom she was waging silent but
desperate and stubborn warfare. The thought was like a
stab in her breast; it made her start up and hurriedly end
her prayer, crossing herself and beating her breast.
Returning in no pleasant mood, she was all the more
vexed to ﬁnd everybody asleep in the cottage, and in the
outhouses as well.
She rated Vitek soundly, routed Pete out of his litter of
THE PEASANTS 28
straw, and scolded Yuzka too, for “lying abed when the sun
was a span high!”
“If I but take my eyes off them to pray for a moment, I
ﬁnd them all snoozing, each in his corner!” she grumbled,
as she lit the ﬁre.
Afterwards, taking the children outside, and cutting some
bread for each of them, she called Lapa to play with them,
While she went in to see after Boryna.
On that side of the cottage, all was as still as death; and
she slammed the door angrily. Yet she did not wake Yagna;
and the old man still lay as she had left him the night
before, his ashen face, overgrown with a stubbly beard,
showing above the red-striped coverlet; worn, gaunt, im-
passive as the wood-carven image of a saint. His eyes,
wide open and motionless, stared right before him; his head
was wrapped up in cloths, and his arms hung limp and
lifeless, like broken boughs of a tree.
She set his bed in order, shook up the covering about his
legs (for the room was close), and gave him some fresh
water, which he drank slowly, but made no other motion,
lying as still as' a felled trunk. Only in his eyes there was
a faint glimmer, as that of a river which, between night and
dawn, is shadowed forth feebly for the twinkling of an eye.
She heaved a mournful sigh over him, and then, darting
a glance of hate at the sleeping Yagna, struck a pail with her
foot.
The noise did not wake the latter. She lay, her face
turned towards the room, the coverlet thrown back from her
bosom on account of the heat, so that her shoulders and
throat were bare. Her parted lips, cherry-red, showed a row
of shining teeth, like beads of the purest white; her di-
shevelled hair, fair as the ﬁnest sun-dried ﬂax, was streaming
over her coverlet and down to the ﬂoor.
“Oh! I could dig my nails into that pretty face of yours
so deep that it would never be pretty any more!” she hissed
with ﬁerce aversion, a sharp pang stabbing at her heart.
She mechanically smoothed her hair and looked into the
glass that hung by the window, but shrank back on behold-
29 SPRING
ing her own faded discoloured features and red-fringed eye-
lids.
“She! . . . she has naught to try her; feeds abundantly,
sleeps in a warm bed, brings forth no children: what should
mar her beauty?”
And she slammed the door violently as she went out.
This noise woke Yagna; but old Boryna lay as he had lain,
staring straight before him.
He had been thus ever since they had brought him home
from the ﬁght. At times only did he seem to rouse himself
and, taking Yagna’s hand, strive to speak; but he always
relapsed into insensibility, and could never utter a word.
Roch had brought a doctor from the town, who had ex-
amined the man, written a recipe on a scrap of paper, and
taken ten roubles. The medicine, too, was costly, and did no
more nor less good than Dominikova’s incantations, recited
gratis.
It soon was clear to all that he would never mend, and so
they let him be.
All they now did was to change the wet bandages on his
head, and give him a little water or milk to drink; solid
food he could not take.
Folk said, and Ambrose, who had experience in such mat-
ters, said too, that should Boryna not come to his senses
again, he would die shortly, though of course without pain.
This end, then, they were daily expecting, but it did not
come, and the delay was irksome.
It was Yagna’s right and duty to take care of the patient
and stay by him; but how could she—she who was unable to
remain there an hour? She had more than enough of him
as it was; and she was, moreover, weary of the continual
struggle with Hanka, who had usurped her place and set her
completely aside. She therefore kept out of doors by prefer-
ence, rejoicing to bask in the warm morning light, and to go
out free into the village. She abandoned the care of her
husband to Yuzka, and used to wander about, no one knew
where, often returning only in the evening.
Yuzka then looked after him; but this was only when
THE PEASANTS 30
others were by, she being as yet but a little girl, silly and a
gadabout, so that Hanka was obliged to watch over the dying
man alone. The smith and his wife, indeed, were popping
in to look round any number of times a day; but it was she
that they came to watch, and to see whether she had taken
nothing out of the cottage, eagerly anticipating the possi-
bility of Boryna’s recovering his senses enough to bequeath
his property.
They snarled round him like dogs quarrelling round a.
dying sheep, each impatient to get his fangs ﬁrst into the
poor beast’s entrails, and carry off the best piece of the car-
cass. Meanwhile, the blacksmith clutched at everything he
could see and lay his hands on; it had to be snatched from
him by force and the strictest watch kept; and no day passed
by without brawling and furious invectives.
The proverb says that “God gives to everyone who rises
with the sun.” Yes, but the blacksmith would rise even be-
fore, even at midnight, and go galloping ten villages away,
if he were but sure of making a good‘proﬁt.
And now Yagna had scarcely risen and donned her petti-
coat, when the door creaked, and in he walked with stealthy
steps, straight to the bed where old Boryna lay, and peered
into his eyes.
“Not a word yet?”
“As he was, so he is!” Yagna said bluntly, putting her hair
up under her kerchief.
She was barefoot and scantily attired, still rather drowsy,
and overﬂowing with the strange charm that came forth from
her like rays of heat; he could not help eyeing her through
his half-closed lids with a greedy stare.
“Do you know,” he said, coming close to her, “the old fel—
low must have a goodly lot of money here? The organist
told me that, even before last Yule-tide, Boryna was ready
to lend a cool hundred roubles to a man in Debitsa, and
the loan only failed because he wanted too high a rate of
interest. He must have it somewhere here, hidden away in
the cabin—So keep an eye on Hanka! . . . And ye might
take a quiet look round at your leisure. . . .”
31 SPRING
“Why not?” she said, throwing her apron over her bare
arms, for she felt his glances upon her.
He walked about the room, peeping absently behind the
pictures that hung on the walls.
“Have you the key of the store-room?” he asked, with a
sly look at the small closed door just by.
“It hangs by the cross near the window.”
“About a month since, I lent him a chisel which I want
now, but can ﬁnd it nowhere about. I think it is in there,
thrown somewhere amongst odds and ends.”
“Look for it yourself. I am not going to seek it for you.”
Suddenly, hearing Hanka’s voice in the passage, he drew
back from the larder-door and hung the key up again.
“Then I shall look in to-morrow,” he said, taking his cap.
“Has Roch been here?”
“How should I know? Ask Hanka.”
He lingered on a little, scratching his fell of red hair, while
his eyes darted to and fro with a furtive expression: then,
smiling to himself, he walked out.
Yagna, throwing off her apron, then set about making the
bed, now and then glancing at her husband, but taking good
care never to meet his open ever-staring eyes.
She loathed and feared and hated him indeed for all the
ill be had done to her, and when he called her and stretched
out his clammy hands to hers, she felt an agony of repug-
nance and dread: such a waft of death and the grave ema-
nated from the man! And yet, in spite of all, it was perhaps
she who most sincerely wished him to live on.
For she only now realized what she had to lose by his
death. With him she had felt herself the mistress; all
obeyed her; and the other women, willing or not, had to give
her the ﬁrst place. Why? Only because she was Boryna’s
wife. And Matthias, though choleric and hard upon her at
home, paid her every attention in the presence of others,
and made them all respect her.
This she had never seen clearly until Hanka had swooped
down on the hut and got the upper hand there; then, at last,
she felt herself helpless and ill-treated.
THE PEASANTS 3?.
For the land she cared not one whit: what was the land
to her? Nothing at all. And though she had been used to
give orders, and plume herself on her importance and pride
herself on her riches, still she was well enough off at home
not to grieve much over their loss. What stung her to the
quick was that she must give way to Hanka—to Antek’s
wife; that it was which she felt intolerable, and which roused
all her malice and antagonism.
Her mother, too, together with the blacksmith, was con-
tinually egging her on. Else perhaps she might soon have
given up the ﬁght; for all those petty bickerings wearied her
so, that she would gladly have thrown up everything and
gone back to her mother.
But Dominikova had replied sternly: “Never, while he
is alive! You must see after your husband; your place is
there!”
So she had stayed on, though with dissatisfaction inex-
pressible: no one to speak to, to smile at, or to call upon!
At home she had that ghastly man by her; and Hanka ever
ready for strife; and war—-war-war beyond all bearing!
She would sometimes take her distatf the round of the
cabins—but that too was an unbearable ordeal. There
were only women in the village, dull, heavy, lachrymose,
or stormy and boisterous like a day in March: nothing but
complaints everywhere, and not one farm-lad in sight!
And now her though-ts began to go back to Antek.
True, she had, in the last days preceding the catastrophe,
felt greatly estranged towards him, had never met him but
with pain and terror, and been in the end so treated that
the very memory was gall and wormwood. But then, she
had always had him waiting behind the hayrick in the eve-
ning, if she cared to see anyone. . . . In spite, then, of the
fear of discovery and his frequent reproaches for her delay,
she had gone willingly, forgetful of all the world, when he
would seize her in his arms—no permission asked—the ﬁery
monster that he was!
And now she was alone: quite, quite alone! The patient
33 SPRING
follower, the persistent watcher, the masterful lover, was
there no more. The Voyt indeed caressed her, dallied with
her among the hedgerows, or went with her for drinks to
the tavern, and would fain have taken Antek’s place. But
she only allowed him such liberties because they ﬂattered
her senses, and there was no one else at hand: who could
compare him with Antek?
Besides, she had another motive in this: to ﬂout the village
—and Antek not less!
Ah! in the last three days after the ﬁght, how shamefully
he had slighted her! Had he not sat all day, all night, at the
old man’s bedside, nay, even slept upon her own bed, scarce
ever leaving the hut; and yet seemed not to see her, though
she was always by his side, looking like a dog with wistful
eyes for any sign of love?
Never had he once looked upon her: he had eyes only for
his father, for Hanka, for the children—and for the dog!
It was that, possibly, which had quenched all her love for
him. And so, when he was taken away in irons, he had
appeared to her as someone else—as a stranger. She could
not ﬁnd it in her heart to grieve for him; and she eyed with
grim pleasure Hanka, tearing her hair, beating her head
against the wall, and howling like a dog when her puppies
are drowned.
She spitefully enjoyed her agonies, while turning away in
disgust from the dreadful madness in Antek’s face.
The man he was now she could not so much as remember
distinctly, any more than the face of some person she had
seen but once: so great was the estrangement between them!
But she recollected all the more clearly the Antek of old—-
of those loving days—days of trysts and embraces, of
kisses and raptures—him for whom her whole being yearned
again and again when she woke at night, and her heart,
bursting with passionate grief, cried out aloud to him,
wildly moaning and longing.
To him of those past days of bliss did her soul cry out;
though, indeed, was he anywhere now in the wide world? .
THE PEASANTS 34
just then he was present—living in her mind-a most
sweet vision, when suddenly Hanka’s shrill voice drove him
from her.
“That woman makes a din like a dog ﬂayed alive!” was
her mental comment as the vision faded.
The sun’s rays were peeping in obliquely, reddening the
murky room; birds warbled; and as the warmth increased,
the night’s white frost fell in crystal drops from the roof,
while she could hear the geese screaming and splashing in the
pond.
She set the room in order, for it was Sunday, and she
would presently have to get ready for church, and prepare
the palm-boughs for the ceremony. She had the red osier
shoots, cut the day before, and covered with silvery buds,
standing there in a water-jug; and she was about to bind
and adorn them carefully, when Vitek shouted through the
door:
“Mistress says your cow is lowing for want of food, and
you are to feed her.”
“Tell her my cow is no business of hers!” she returned, at
the top of her voice, and listened to what the other would
scream in reply.
“Oh,” she thought, “you may yell till you’re hoarse: ye
will not put me out of humour to-day!”
And thereupon she began to choose at leisure the dress she
was to wear to church. But a sudden dreary thought came
to cloud her bright sky and make the whole world sombre
for her.——Why should she attire herself at all?——for whom?
For those hateful women, whose eyes would count the‘
cost of every ribbon, whose tongues would cover her with
foul aspersions?
This painful reﬂection made her turn away from her
dresses, and she set about combing her abundant locks, as
she gazed mournfully out of the window at the village,
bathed in sunshine and agleam with dew; at the white cabins,
visible behind their orchards, with plumes of blue smoke
crowning their roofs; at the red wavy shadows of many a
woman’s petticoat, glancing through the green of the trees
35 SPRING
on the shore, both reﬂected in the waters; at the geese, which
seemed to swim in long lines athwart the azure image of the
sky and form dark semicircles, uncoiling themselves like
snakes; and at the white-bellied gleaming swallows, sweep-
ing down and up again along and above its surface.
Then she looked away from all these, and up to the dark-
blue sky, wherein the clouds moved like a ﬂock of woolly
sheep on a pasture-ground; and, far above, birds were ﬂying
unseen, so high that only their long plaintive thrilling cry
was to be heard—a sound that ﬁlled her heart with such sad-
ness that her eyes grew dim, as she cast them down and
gazed on the world around her, on the rolling water and the
waving trees. Only she now saw nothing in them but the
echo of her own dejection, that caused the tears to start on
her pale cheeks, dropping down one after another. like the
beads of a broken rosary, that fell out of the innermost core
of her heart!
What was it that now came over her?—She had no idea
herself.
Something, she felt, was seizing her, lifting her up, carry-
ing her away—an invincible longing; and whithersoever it
should take her, thither she would go without fail. So she
wept on involuntarily and almost painlessly: thus a tree,
'laden with blossoms, warmed by the sun and waving in the
breezes of a springtide morning, drips with abundant dew,
draws life-giving sap from the soil, and lifts its boughs and
blossoming sprays.
_ “Vitek!” the shrill voice of Hanka was crying again.
’ “Ask the lady there if she will kindly come round to break-
fast.”
Yagna woke up from her trance, wiped her tears, ﬁnished
combing her hair, and hastened in.
They were all sitting at breakfast in Hanka’s room. The
potatoes smoked in a huge dish, over which Yuzka had just
poured a quantity of cream, fried and seasoned with onions;
they had set to lustily, and all the spoons were hard at work.
Hanka had taken the ﬁrst place, in the middle; Pete
sat at one end, Vitek squatting on the ﬂoor beside him; and
THE PEASANTS 36
Yuzka took her meal standing and seeing to the service.
The children were enjoying a well-ﬁlled platter by the ﬁre,
and at the same time using their spoons to keep off Lapa,
that wanted to eat from their dish.
Yagna’s place was near the door, opposite to Pete.
The meal was a dull one, taken with downcast eyes most
of the time. '
Yuzka tried in vain to rattle away after her fashion; Pete
came in now and then with a word, and even Hanka, touched
by the wistful look in Yagna’s eyes, strove to make conversa-
tion. But her guest said not one single word.
“Who gave you that bruise, Vitek?” Hanka inquired.
“Oh, I struck my head against the manger!” But he
turned as red as a crayﬁsh and rubbed the place, with a
meaning glance towards Yuzka.
“Have you brought any palm-boughs yet?”
“As soon as I have done breakfast, I shall go for them,”
he replied, eating at a great rate.
Here Yagna put down her spoon and went out.
“What has come to her?” Yuzka whispered to Pete, as
she helped him to some more barsgcg.
“Some folk have not your gift of continual babbling.—
Has she milked her cow?”
“1 saw her take a pail to the byre.”
“By the by, Yuzka, we must get some oil-cake for the
‘Grey One.’ ”
“Yes, I saw this morning that her milk was turned to beest-
ings.”
“If so, she will calve in a day or two.”
“Will you come to church for the palm-bough blessing?”
Yuzka asked her.
“Go along with Vitek. And Pete may go likewise, when
the horses have been seen to. I must stay and take care of
Father. And perhaps Roch may be coming in, with news of
Antek.”
“Shall I tell Yagustynka to come to-morrow for the potato-
planting?”
37 SPRING
“Surely: we alone should be too few for the work, and the
choice has to be quickly made.”
“And about the dung?”
“Pete will have done carting it to the ﬁeld by to-morrow at
noon, and will set about spreading it along with Vitek after
dinner; you too must help them as soon as you have time.”
A loud cackling of geese outside—and in burst Vitek,
gasping for breath.
“What! can you not even let the geese be?”
“They wanted to bite me: I was only keeping them off!”
And he threw down a large bundle of osier rods, sprinkled
all over with catkins, and still wet with dew; which Yuzka
instantly made into smaller bundles, tied them with red
woollen thread, and asked him in a whisper:
“Was it the stork that gave you such a blow on the
forehead?”
“It was; but tell no one.” He cast a look at his mistress,
busy taking the Sunday clothes out of the chest. “I’ll tell
you all. . . . I had noticed that it used to spend the night
in the porch; so I slipped in there, when everyone was
asleep. . . . Though it pecked at me, I had it fast, and was
about to wrap it in my spencer and carry it off . . . but the
dogs got scent of me, and I had to run for it. . . . One of my
trouser-legs is torn—But I’ll have the bird still.”
“What if the priest gets to know that you have his stork?”
“His? It is mine! . . . And who will tell him?”
“Where can you put it, that it may not be found?”
“I know of a hiding-place, safe from the gendarmes them-
selves. After a time I shall take it back to the cabin, and
- let them believe I have caught and tamed another stork.
Who will ﬁnd out that it is the same one?-—Only say
naught, and I’ll get you some birds—or a leveret.”
“Am I a boy, to play with birds? You silly thing !—Off
and dress: we shall go to church together.”
“Yuzka, let me carry the palm-boughs, will ye?”
“A pretty saying! Ye know that only women may take
them to be blessed.”
THE PEASANTS 38
“I mean, through the village: ye shall have them back
before we are in the church.”
He begged her so earnestly that she consented, and
turned to Nastka, who had just come in, clad in her best,
and with a palm-bough in her hand. ‘
“Any news of Matthew?” Hanka asked her at once.
“Only what the Voyt said yesterday: he’s better.”
“The Voyt knows naught, and makes up tales to please us.”
“But he told his Reverence just the same.”
“Then why said he nothing about Antek?”
“No doubt because Matthew is with the others, and Antek
in a separate cell.”
“He’s but a babbler that wants to talk.”
“Did he say aught to you?”
“He comes daily, but only to see Yagna. With her he has
some private business, so they meet and speak of it. Apart.
In the enclosure.”
She had lowered her tone, and laid stress on every word,
looking out of the window the while. just then, Yagna ap-
peared outside the porch, very well apparelled, a palm-bough
in one hand, a prayer-book in the other. Hanka’s eyes fol-
lowed her out.
“The folk are on their way to church.”
“Why, the bells have not sounded yet!”
But, just as she spoke, they rang out with a clash and a
roar, booming and thundering their call to church.
In a few minutes, all the people had gone.
Hanka, left alone, put the pots on the ﬁre to boil, and
then took the children out of doors to comb them thoroughly
—a thing she had never time to do properly on work-days.
She then went with them to the straw with which the
potato-pits were strewn, and left them there to play. After
which. having gone into the hut, and looked into every pot
and pan, she said her rosary; for she had too much diﬁiculty
with her prayer-book.
It was now hard upon noontide, and Lipka was plunged
deep in Sunday rest, with no sounds but the chirping of spar-
rows, or the twittering of the nest-building swallows under
39 ‘SPRING
the eaves, in the warm early spring weather. Over everything
hung the strangely resplendent canopy of a bright blue sky;
and the fruit-trees stretched out their branches, covered with
big buds, and the alders fringing the pond waved their yellow
catkins silently, and the rust-coloured poplar shoots swelled
with viscid aromatic sprouts opening to the light, like the
gaping beaks of nestlings that want food.
On the warm cabin walls, ﬂies had already begun to cluster,
and from time to time a bee hummed about the daisies, or
over the bushes, bursting out into little tongues of green
ﬂame.
Only a damp wind still continued to blow from the outly-
ing ﬁelds and woodlands.
It was about the middle of Mass; for the sounds of far-off
chants mingled with the notes of the organ, and at times with
the faint tinkling of tiny bells, which could just be heard in
the quiet spring air.
Time went by slowly, till—when the sun was highest—all
was most silent, and only a stork clattered along, skimming
the ground in its low ﬂight, or crows on the watch to steal
away a gosling would ﬂy over the pond, arousing the gan-
ders’ angry screams.
Hanka went on with her prayers, watching meantime over
the little ones, or going in to see her father-in-law, who lay
motionless and staring glassily as ever; little by little ripen—
ing for death, like an ear of corn in the sun, awaiting the
reaper’s sickle. . . . He could recognize no one. Even when
calling for Yagna and taking her hand, his eyes were looking
far away. But Hanka fancied that the sound of her own
voice made him move his lips, while his eyes expressed the
wish to say something.
It was a pitiful sight indeed, she thought, when she came
thus to visit him.
“Lord! who would have expected it? Such an able farmer,
so clever, so wealthy a man! and now lying here like
a tree smitten by a thunderbolt, with branches still leafy,
but already inevitably given over to death!--not dead, yet
no longer living.
THE PEASANTS 40
.' “And indeed, though the God of mercy is the Almighty
One, still the doom of man is hard, and not to be
escaped. . .
But it was now past noon, and the cows had to be milked;
so she heaved a sigh, and ended her prayers. Sighs were
but sighs: work was duty, and must come ﬁrst.
On her return with brimming pails, she found every-
body back home again. Yuzka told her about the sermon,
and the folk that were at church; and presently the room
became very noisy; for she had brought with her several
girls of her own age, who set about swallowing the buds
from the consecrated palm-boughs, which were believed to
be a preservative against sore throats. They laughed a
good deal, more than one of them ﬁnding the downy cat-
kins impossible to get down (they made them cough so)
unless with the aid of drinks of water, or thumps upon the
back: which latter remedy Vitek was very willing to ad-
minister.
Yagna did not come in for dinner; she had been seen
walking out with her mother and the blacksmith—They
had scarce got through the meal, when Roch come in. All
welcomed him warmly, feeling that closer ties than those
of blood united him to them. He had for each a kind word,
and a kiss on the crown of the head; but he would take no
food. He was exceedingly tired, and glanced uneasily
about the room, Hanka following his glances, but not ven-
turing to ask questions.
Without looking at her, he said in a whisper: “I have
seen Antek.”
She started up from the chest she was sitting on, and the
strong emotion which gripped her heart prevented her from
saying a word.
“He’s quite well, and in good spirits. A warder was
present; but I had speech with him for at least an hour.”
“Is he—is he in irons?” she asked, in a strangled
voice.
“The idea! No more than the others. . . . He is not
ill-used; do not frighten yourself."
41 SPRING
“But Koziol says they are ﬂogged there, and chained to
the walls.”
“It may be so in other cases; but Antek told me no one
had touched him.”
She clasped her hands with joy, and her face lit up.
“On my departure, he said that ye had without fail to kill
the pig before Easter: he too would like to taste the Hallow-
fare.”1
“Alas! the poor man is starving there, no doubt,” she
remarked, plaintively.
“But,” Yuzka ventured to put in, “Father told us that,
when fat, it was to be sold.”
“He did; only,” Hanka said inﬂexibly, “now that Antek
orders it to be killed, his will takes the place of his father’s.”
“He also sends you word,” Roch continued, “that you
are to do the needful as concerns all the ﬁeld-work.——I had
told him what a good beginning ye had made.”
“And what did he say to that?” asked Hanka, radiant.
“He said that ye were able to do whatever ye chose
to do.”
“Yes, I shall be able—I shall!” she cried, her eyes bright
with intense resolve. ’
“But will they' set him free soon?” she inquired anxiously.
“Directly after Easter, it may be. but perhaps somewhat
later. At 'any rate, as soon as the inquiry is over. It drags
on so,” he added, with partial truth. avoiding her eyes,
“because the accused are so numerous—the whole village,
in fact.”
“Did he ask about the house . . . or the children . .
or me?”
She longed also to add: “or Yagna?” But she durst not
put the question so openly; nor had she the art of drawing
him on to tell her what she wanted. Moreover, it was now
1Hallow-fare—in Polish, swiecone—consists of various meats and
pastry solemnly blessed in each house by a priest on Holy Saturday,
and eaten at Eastertide, together with the con'secrated Easter eggs;
probably a Christiamzed survival of some spring festival among the
heathen Slaw—Translators Note.
THE PEASANTS 42
too late: the news of Roch’s coming had spread throughout
the village, and the bells had not yet tolled for Evensong,
when the womencame crowding in to hear the news about
their absent ones.
Sitting down near the entrance outside the cabin, he told
them all he knew about each one in particular. He had
nothing distressing to relate; but the women who heard him
began presently to whimper, and even to weep aloud.
He afterwards went out into the village, entering pretty
nearly every hut. With his saint-like ﬁgure and his long
white beard, and the words of consolation which he uttered,
he ﬁlled every cabin with light and comfort and hope.
Yet their tears ﬂowed still more abundantly, and their feel-
ings of sorrow revived, and they were depressed by the
memory of past sufferings.
The day before, Klembova had told Agata that Lipka
now resembled an open grave. She had spoken the truth.
The place looked as in the days of old, when the plague had
passed over it, and most of the inhabitants had gone to their
graves, or as when the lands had been devastated by war:
so that the cottages were desolate and ﬁlled only with
women’s laments, the wailing of children, complaints, mourn-
ing, and that sharp torture which is the reminiscence of
agonies gone by.
What they were suffering now baffles description.
Three weeks had passed; and Lipka, instead of calming
down, felt the injury and wrong done increasing every day,
nay, every morning and noon and nightfall: whether within
the huts or without, cries of indignation resounded, and a
craving for revenge, like a hellish weed sown by Satan, sprang
up and ﬂourished in every heart. And many a ﬁst was
clenched, many a reckless word said, and many an impre-
cation thundered forth.
So that Roch’s words to soothe them—just as a stick
thoughtlesst thrust into a heap of dying embers may make
them burst into ﬂame again—had only the effect of rousing
the smouldering bitterness and the memory of injustice
committed—That afternoon, but few went to Vespers.
43 SPRING
They gathered in groups ﬁlling the enclosures, or out upon
the roads, and even in the tavern, full of grief and uttering
ﬁerce curses.
Hanka alone felt a little comforted. Her husband’s
praises had ﬁlled her with strength and glad expectation,
and she was eager to work and show him that she was equal
to the emergency—eager beyond all expression.
The other women had left the place; the smith’s wife had
gone to sit at Boryna’s bedside; and Hanka went to the sty
with Yuzka. They let the pig out: it was so fat that it fell
wallowing in the dirt, and refused to stir any more.
“Give it nothing else to eat to-day, so that its bowels
may be cleansed.” ,
“’Twas well, then, that I forgot to feed it this after-
noonf’
“Good: if so, we shall kill it to-morrow. Have you told
Yagustynka to come?”
“I have. She says she will be here in the evening.
“Dress yourself and run to Ambrose. He must come here
to-morrow after Mass at the latest, and bring with him all
things needful."
“But will he be able?—His Reverence has said two priests
will come hither to-morrow to hear confessions.”
“He knows well I’ll give him vodka in plenty: he’ll ﬁnd
time, be sure—No one can kill a pig, and cut it up, and
season it in such good style as he. . . . And Yagustynka
likewise will be of use.” -
“Then may I go to town early in the morning for the
salt and other seasonings?”
“Say for an airing. you little gadabout.—-No, we can get
all we want at Yankel’s: I shall go there directly—And,
Yuzka!” she called after her; “where are Pete and Vitek?”
“Out in the meadows, I dare say. I saw Pete take his
violin with him.”
“If you ﬁnd them. send them hither. They must bring '
round the 'trough that stands in the outhouse, and place it
here in front of the cabin: in the morning, we shall scald
and scour it.”
7!
THE PEASANTS 44
Glad to get out of doors, Yuzka ran straight to Nastka,
with whom she went to seek old Ambrose.
Hanka, however, did not go to the tavern then, her father
having crawled round to see her.
She gave him something to eat, and had the pleasure of
telling him what Roch had said about Antek—Suddenly
Magda burst in, crying:
“Something is the matter with Father: come this instant!”
Boryna was sitting up,' his legs out of bed, and looking
round the room. Hanka ran to prevent him from falling.
He eyed her well, and then looked ﬁxedly on the blacksmith,
who had just run in unexpectedly.
_ “Hanka!”
He spoke aloud, distinctly, in a voice that startled her.
“Here I am,” she answered, trembling.
“How is it out of doors?”
It was a strange voice—strange and broken.
“Spring is here, and the weather warm,” she faltered.
“Are they not up yet? Aﬁeld, they should be!”
* Bewildered, they sought words in vain: Magda burst :out
crying.
“Defend what’s yours, boys! No giving way!”
His voice had risen to a shout. Suddenly he stopped, and
’rocked to and fro so violently in Hanka’s arms that the
smith and his wife tried to take her place. But though
her arms and back were aching, she held him nevertheless.
All three gazed on him, awaiting his next words.
“The barley must be sown ﬁrst—To the rescue, boys!
Rally round me!” he shrieked all at once in an awful voice,
and fell stiflly back, while his eyes closed, and something
gurgled in his throat. -
“O Lord! he is dying—dying!” Hanka screamed, and
-shook him with all her might, unconscious of what she did.
Magda put a consecrated taper in his hand, and lit it.
“Michael! The priest !—-At once!”
But ere her husband could go out, Boryna opened his eyes;
and the taper fell from his hand and broke.
“It has passed. . . . Look, he seeks something,” Michael
45 SPRING
whispered, bending over him. But the old man, now quite
himself again, pushed him aside unhesitatingly, and called:
“Hanka! Send these folk away!”
Magda, in tears, fell down before him; but he seemed not
to know her.
“None of that. . . . No use. . . . Send them out,” be
repeated obstinately.
“Do pray go—into the passage at least; do not vex him,”
she said irhploringly.
“Magda, you go: I will not budge hence,” the blacksmith
hissed, guessing that Boryna had something to tell Hanka.
But the old man heard and, raising himself up in bed,
gave him so terrible a glance as he pointed to the door, that
Michael shrank back with a curse and rejoined Magda, who
was weeping outside. But, quickly recovering his self-
possession, he slipped round as close as he could to the win-
dow that was just by the head of Boryna’s bed, and did all
he could to make out what was said within.
After the smith had gone, “Sit down here, by my side,”
Boryna commanded Hanka. Greatly moved, she obeyed
him. '
“You will ﬁnd some money in the larder: hide it, lest it
be snatched from you.”
“Where is it?” she asked, trembling with excitement.
“In amongst the corn.” ’
He spoke distinctly, stopping at every word. Mastering
her fear, she looked into his eyes, which glistened strangely.
“Defend Antek . . . rather sell half the property. . . .
He must not be forsaken . . .”
He said no more, but fell back on to the pillow, trying,
to stammer a word or two and lift himself up, but uselessly;
and now his eyes were quenched and dim.
Hanka, terriﬁed, cried out; and both the others rushed in,_
ministering to the sick man, and gave him some water to
drink. But he did not come to himself, and lay, as he'had
lain, stiff and motionless, with staring eyes that seemed to
note nothing around him.
They sat long with him, both women silent, but in tears.
THE PEASANTS 46
Dusk fell, the room grew dark, and they went out. Only
so much remained of day as empurpled the mill-pond from
the last glow in the West.
Turning round upon Hanka, the smith asked her: “What
has he told you?”
“What ye both have heard.”
“But what said he when alone with you?”
“Nothing else.”
“Do not enrage me, Hanka, or you’ll rue it!” '
“What do I care for threats of yours?”
“The old man put something in your hand,” the smith
added, throwing out a feeler. '
“Ye may go seek it in the dunghill, then.”
He rushed at her and might have done her some injury,
but that Yagustynka, who came up just then, said after her
sour fashion:
“Oho! you both get on so lovingly that the whole village
is talking about you two!”
With an imprecation, he went his way.
The night had come—starless, with a wind that rustled
soft and sad through the trees, presaging a change of weather.
There was light and noise in Hanka’s room, supper pre-
paring at the crackling ﬁre, elderly women holding forth
with Yagustynka upon various matters, and Yuzka sitting
outside with Nastka and with Yasyek Topsy-turvy; while
Pete was drawing out of his violin such wailing notes as made
their hearts feel sorrowful. Hanka alone was unable to stay
seated, and, continually pondering over Boryna’s words,
looked again and again round into the room where he lay.
“Pete, have done!” she cried. “Why, it will presently be
Holy Monday, and still you ﬁddle and ﬁddle!—-’Tis a sin!”
She scolded the man, simply because she was so upset, and
fell nigh weeping. He gave over, and they all went into the
big room.
Several times that evening she heard the dogs barking loud
within the enclosure, and set them on:
“At him, Lapal—At him, Burek!——At him!”
47 SPRING
But each time the dogs ceased suddenly, and. came back,
wagging their tails with satisfaction.
This took place so often that a fearful suspicion arose in
her mind.
“Pete, take heed to lock and bolt everything well. Some-
one is prowling nigh, and no stranger either; for the dogs
know him!”
At last all went to bed and to sleep—all but Hanka. She
made sure that all the doors were locked; then she stood
lending an attentive ear for a long time.
“Among the corn!—-In one of the barrels, I dare say. . . .
Ah, what if someone has forestalled me?”
The very thought made her heart throb, and brought a
cold sweat to her brow. That night she hardly slept at all.
CHAPTER III
and put them on to boil. I am off to Yankel’s to
get the seasonings.”
“Then hurry; Ambrose will be here straightway.”
“No fear; he cannot come so early. He has his duties to
perform in church.”
“Only to ring the bell for Mass. Roch is going to take
his place for all the rest.”
“Well, I shall be in time. Meanwhile, you hurry the lads,
make them scour the trough quickly, and bring it outside the
cabin—Yagustynka will be here presently: let her wash the
tubs—Also the empty barrels must be taken out of the
larder and rolled into the pond, to get the staves properly
soaked and swollen out—Do not wake the little ones; so
long as they sleep, they’ll be less in the way.”-—And, having
given her orders and tied her apron over her head, she
hastened out into the air of an early and very muggy and
rainy morning.
The day was dismal, wet, and most unpleasantly cold;
grey mists dripped and drizzled, the slippery roads were
sodden and dank, the drab-coloured huts loomed faintly
through the rain that fell; the trees, drooping gloomily over
the pond, were seen like tremulous shrinking swaying shad-
ows, as dim as if they had been made of mist; in this foul
weather, there was scarce any landscape visible, and no one
was out as yet. It was only when the Mass-bell began to
tinkle that a few red petticoats were seen picking their way
through the mire to church. -
Hanka tripped on swiftly, thinking she might perhaps
meet Ambrose at the turning of the road; but he was nowhere
“Y UZKA, kindle the ﬁre; ﬁll all our pots with water,
48
49 ' SPRING
in sight. Only the priest’s old blind horse, as usual at that
hour of the day, was going down to the pond with a large
barrel, drawn on sledge-runners, stopping and stumbling at
every rut, yet ﬁndmg its way to the place by scent: the farm-
Iad waiting for it having sheltered himself from the rain in
the bushes, and begun smoking a cigarette.
just in front of the priest’s house, a britzka drawn by a
couple of well—fed chestnut horses, had pulled up and the
ruddy-faced incumbent of Laznov stepped out of it.
“Come to hear confessions, along with his Reverence of
Slupia,” she thought, as she looked in vain for Ambrose.
She went on round the church by the poplar road, where the
mire was yet more abundant, and the trees, plunged in the
vapoury mizzle, looked like shadows seen through a steam-
clouded pane. Passing the tavern, she struck off in the
squashy pathway that led to her sister"s.
She would, she reckoned, have time enough for a call on
her father, and a talk with her sister, with whom, now that
she had removed to Boryna’s, she was on very friendly terms.
“Yuzka told me yesterday that Father was not well!” she
exclaimed on entering.
“Ah, what’s to be done? He is lying in bed under his
sheep-skin, and moaning, and talking about being ill,”
Veronka moodin replied.
“How cold it is here! I feel it creeping up the calves of
my legs!”
“And have I any fuel at all? Who will go and fetch me
a few dry faggots? How can I trudge to the forest and come
home with a load of brushwood when there’s so much other
work to do? You see, I must manage all by myself.”
They then both fell to lamenting over their sad fate.
“When Staho was here, I thought nothing of all he did at
home. When the husband is gone, ah! then one knows what
a help he is!—Are you going to town?”
“Certainly; I should have gone before, but Roch told me
that visits would not be allowed until Eastertide. Therefore
shall I go on Sunday, and take my poor husband a few mor-
sels of our Hallow-fare.”
THE PEASANTS 50
“I fain would do the same for mine; but what have I
to take to him? A mouthful of bread?”
“Be easy; I will prepare enough for them both; and we
shall take it together.”
“God reward you for your kindness; I will work for you
in return.”
“Do not speak of work in return: ’tis a gift I make you
from my heart.” She lowered her voice. “Well do I know
poverty: it is a dog whose teeth bite deep.”
“And that is so faithful and attached that it never will
leave us till we die!—-I thought I had a little money laid by,
and hoped to purchase a pig in spring, and fatten it up,
with no small proﬁt when autumn came. Well, I had to give
all to Staho, and my savings have run out like water: I have
naught now. That is what comes of his standing up for the
rights of our folk!”
“Nay, say not so. He went freely to protect them, and an
acre or so of the wood will be yours.”
“Wzll be! Aye, but ‘while the grass grows, the steed
starves!’ And ‘To him that can pay, the musicians play.’
But ‘Poor man, coin to money your sweat, and be glad that
ye ever have eat!’ ”
“Are ye greatly in want?” she inquired, hesitatingly.
“I have naught in the world,” she cried, ﬂinging out her
hands in despair, “but what the jew or the miller will give
me on credit!”
“Would I could help you! But the homestead where I
dwell is not mine. I am baited as with dogs around me,
and must take such heed lest they drive me from the cabin
that I am at times clean out of my wits.”
The previous night’s experience came back to her forcibly.
“Meantime,” her sister put in, “Yagna takes no care. She
is a shrewd one, she, and enjoys herself to the full!”
“How so?” \
She had risen from her seat, and was looking at her sister
with alarm. Had Yagna found and taken the money?
“Oh, she only takes what pleasure she can get out of life:
51 SPRING
dresses well, calls on her good friends, and has seven holidays
a week. She was seen sitting with the Voyt in the tavern
parlour yesterday, and the Jew could not fetch them drinks
fast enough!”
“Everything must come to an end,” Hanka muttered sul-
lenly, tying her apron over her head to go.
“True: but then ‘Pleasure, once taken, cannot be snatched
from you’—and she knows it.”
“ ’Tis easy to be wise in that way, if one has naught to
care aboutl—But, Veronka, we are to kill the pig to-day:
come you this evening to help.” And, cutting short her sis-
ter’s everlasting complaints, she made her way out.
Her father, who was now in the room she had once
occupied, lay moaning and almost hidden under a heap
of straw.
“What ails ye, Father?”
She sat down by his side.
“Nothing, my dear daughter, nothing: only the ague
shakes me sorely, and my inwards are wrung and twisted.”
“Because ’tis here as wet and as cold as out of doors.
Rise and come over to us; ye can tend the children. And
then—we shall kill the pig . . . if so be as ye have a mind to
eat of it?”
“To eat? Aye, a little. They forgot to give me any food
yesterday—l shall come, Hanka, I shall come!” And he
sighed, but with pleasure, as he crept out of the straw bed.
Hanka, her mind full of the thought of Yagna, walked
over to the tavern as fast as she could.
The Jew no longer exacted payment in advance, but with
the most obsequious eagerness weighed and measured out
all she wanted, setting out many another article besides, to
tempt her.
She was very short with him. “Yankel!” she said haught-
ily; “give what I ask, and no more. I am no child, and
know what I wish to have.”
But the Jew only smiled. She had bought things for be-
tween ten and twenty zloty, and also enough vodka to suf-
THE PEASANTS 52
ﬁce for the coming festival of Easter besides; and rolls in
scores, and loaves of ﬁne bread, and eight salt herrings . . . and
even, to crown all, a small bottle of rum. Hardly could
she carry the parcel, when made up.
“What! That Yagna enjoys herself: and I, who work
so hard, am I to be worse off than a dog?”
But, though such was her thought on setting out, it was
speedily followed by remorse. The expense was unnecessary.
--But for shame, she would have made the Jew take the
rum back again.
She found everybody in the cabin busy preparing things.
Ambrose sat by the ﬁre, exchanging verbal thrusts with
Yagustynka, who was engaged in scalding the various vessels
to be used; and the room was full of steam.
“We were waiting for you, to knock your little pig on the
head!”
“Ye have arrived very early!”
“I made Roch take my place in the sacristy; the priest’s
manservant is to blow the organ-bellows, and Magda will
sweep out the church. I have arranged everything, so that
you may not be disappointed. The priests will not begin hear-
ing confessions till they have ﬁnished breakfast—But how
cold it is to-day!” he cried out querulously; “I feel it to the
very marrow.”
“Broiling at the ﬁre, can you talk of the cold?” Yuzka
cried out in amazement.
“You are silly: I feel so cold within, that even my
wooden leg’s quite numb!”
“Ye shall soon have something to warm you—Yuzka,
soak a herring directly.”
“Give it me salt as it is; nothing takes the salt out like
vodka—when there’s enough of it.”
“Ye’re always the same,” Yagustynka observed snappishly.
“Should ye hear glasses jingle even at midnight, ye’d rise on
the spot for a drink.”
“Right, my good woman. But your tongue is very dry,
is it not? you too would like to wet it in vodka, eh?” He
laughed and rubbed his hands.
53 ' SPRING
“My ancient! I’ll drink glass for glass with you any
day!”
Here Hanka interrupted them; their continual hints and
innuendoes about vodka were teasing her.
“Very few people are going to church as yet,” she re-
marked, to change the subject.
“ ’Tis early. They will presently come with a rush to get
rid of their sins.”
“Aye,” said Yagustynka, “to spend the time, hear some-
thing new, and prepare to sin again!”
Here Yuzka’s shrill voice piped: “The girls were already
preparing confessions yesternight.”
“Because,” Yagustynka said, “they are ashamed to confess
to their own priest.”
“Better, old crone, ye sat in the church-porch and said
your beads and did penance, than backbite your neighbour
so!” -
“I will, Wooden Leg! when ye sit by my side there!”
“Oh, I am in no hurry. I intend ﬁrst to toll for you and
put you to bed with a shovel!”
The words enraged her. “Bait me not, or you’ll rue it!”
she snarled.
“My stick will ward off your bites; and ’twere pity to
lose your last teeth!”
She made no answer. Just then Hanka ﬁlled a glass, and
drank to them both, and Yuzka brought a herring to Am-
brose, who slapped it against his wooden leg, skinned it,
broiled it over the coals, and ate it with relish.
“To work! We have been dawdling too long!” he cried,
taking off his coat, tucking up his shirt-sleeves, and giving
his knife a last edge on his Whetstone. Then, seizing a
large club, used to mash potatoes, for the pig, he hastened
out, everybody following him.
Pete aided him, and the beast, though resisting with all
its might, was dragged out into the yard.
“Quick! the dish for the blood!”
All stood round, eyeing its plump creamy sides and trail-
ing belly, which the drizzle from the mists that ﬁlled the
THE PEASANTS 54
orchard was wetting fast. A few women stood outside the.
yard, and several children, eager to look on, had climbed the
palings.
Ambrose crossed himself, and came forward slantwise
towards the pig, his club held backat an angle on one side.
Then, coming to a standstill, he suddenly lifted his arm,
and, twisting his body round with so forcible a writhe that
his neck shirt-button ﬂew off, brought his weapon down right
between the ears. The animal’s forelegs gave way. and it
went down squealing. He redouble-d the blow, this time
with both hands. The pig rolled on to one side, kicking
convulsively: Ambrose then, astride on its belly, thrust the
whole of his knife’s gleaming blade into its heart.
A dish was at hand: the blood, streaming like warm water,
spirted out in rhythmical squirts, with a bubbling sound.
“Away, Lapa!-—Look at that wicked dog!-Wants to lap
some, and Lent not over yet!” he cried, breathless with ex—
ertion, as he drove the dog from the dish: for a centenarian,
the effort had been considerable.
“Shall we do the scalding in the passage?”
“Rather take the trough into the room where the carcass
is to hang till we quarter it.”
“Will there not be too little space in the room?”
“Not in the larger room—your father-in-law’s. He will
suffer nothing. Only let's hurry: the bristles come out more
readily while the carcass is yet warm.”
As he gave his directions, he was busy pulling out the
long bristles down the back.
In a short time the carcass was scalded, unhaired, thor-
oughly cleansed, hung up in Boryna’s room, and stretched
out wide open with a lath tied to a rafter.
Yagna was out, having gone to church early in the
morning, and never dreaming that such a liberty would be
taken. Her husband lay as usual, staring with lack-lustre
eyes.
They worked noiselessly at ﬁrst, often looking round at
him; but soon they forgot his presence, interested as they
55 SPRING
were in the pig, whose thick layer of fat far exceeded their
expectations. '
“We have lulled him to sleep, we have brought him in
here: ’tis time that some vodka should ﬂow in his honour!”
cried Ambrose, washing his hands over the trough.
“Come to breakfast, and you’ll have some drink.”
Indeed, before he sat down to the potatoes and barsgcz
which formed the meal, he had tossed off a copious draught
of vodka. He ate little, though, being in a hurry to go on
with the work, and urged the others to make haste, especially
Yagustynka, who was by no means his inferior in the salting
and seasoning line, and knew as much as ever he did.
Hanka, too, did her best to give aid, and so did Yuzka,
eager to stay in the hut beside the newly killed porker, and
not at all willing to go out.
But Hanka cried out to her: “Be off at once, and order
them to cart the dung away, and lend them a hand yourself,
while they are spreading it! The sluggards! I fear the
work will not be over by this evening.”
So Yuzka, much against her will, ran out into the yard,
where she was heard for a long while, venting all her ill
humour on the two farm-lads, and scolding them violently.
The cabin became noisier, little by little, as gossip after
gossip dropped in to chat in neighbourly wise, and clasp
their hands, and admire the porker.
“So ﬁne! so laden with fat! Far ﬁner a one than either
the miller’s or the organist’s!”
Hanka felt much pleased, and was puffed up with these
praises of the fatted beast; and though indeed she grudged
the vodka, she could not help inviting them, according to
the custom among the peasants to offer drinks, and bread and
salt, on such an occasion. And she became very talkative
to all the folk who crossed the threshold one after another
and came in, as one comes into church for a short visit on
the feast of the patron saint—Children, too, were plentiful
all round the house, and peeping in at every window.
All through Lipka, besides, there now began to be a good
THE PEASANTS 56
deal of unusual movement: folk splashing along in the mud,
and carts clattering in from other villages, all crowding to
church for their Easter confession, in spite of the detestable
roads and the dismal weather, so wretchedly changeable!
Every now and then there came a ﬂaw of rain, and then a
warm breeze would blow athwart the orchards, or frozen
snow pour down like groats, or the sun look smiling out of
the clouds and scatter its gold over all the world. But the
weather is usually so in the ﬁrst days of spring—like a young
lass that laughs and cries, and is blithe or sullen, just as
it occurs to her, and she herself cannot tell why.
But no one in Hanka’s surroundings had any care for the
weather just now: work and talk went on with equal noise.
Ambrose bustled about, and kept the others lively with his
merry jests. He was obliged, however, to pay frequent
visits to the church and see that everything there was going
on well: on his return, he would complain of the cold and
want something to warm him up.
“I have so well beset the priests with penitents, that
neither will stir till noon,” he said.
“Of the priest from Slupia they say,” Yagustynka ob-
served, after a gibe at the incumbent of Laznov which
nettled Ambrose not a little, “that he always bears a scent-
bottle with him, for that he dislikes the scent of common
folk, and fans himself with his handkerchief after every con-
fession.”
“You hold your peace, and let priests alone!” Ambrose
cried out in a rage.
“Is Roch in church?” Hanka hastened to inquire; she too
disliked the old woman’s waspish tongue.
“He has been there all the morning, serving Masses, and
putting things in order.”
“And where is Michael, then?”
“Gone to Rzepki with the organist’s son, to make out the
confession-list.”
“ ‘Plough with a goose-quill, sow paper with sand: ye will
get much more pelf than by tilling the land!’” muttered
Yagustynka.
'w ’ SPRING
“Truly it is so.’ He gets an egg at least for each name he
puts down.” '
“And the confession-tickets come to a kopek and a half!
No wonder his wallets are crammed with good things. Last
week the organist’s wife sold near upon ﬁfteen hundred
eggs.”
“Folk say they came on foot, carrying only one small bun-
dle with them: now they could ﬁll over four of the biggest
wagons.”
Ambrose tried to defend him. “Well, but he has lived
and worked here for a score of years and more; and the par-
ish is a big one; and he is hard-working, shrewd and thrifty:
of course he has put money by.”
“Put money by! Money wrung from the people, and as
much as he possibly could! Ere the man will do a service to
anyone, he must know what he’s to get thereby. Why, he is
paid thirty roubles at a funeral: for whatP—for thumping
on the organ and bleating Latin chants!”
“At any rate, he’s a skilled craftsman in his own line, and
takes great pains to do his best.”
“Aye, aye, he is skilled: knows when to sing shrill and
when gruff—and especially how to diddle folk out of their
money.”
“Another would have drunk away all his earnings; and he
is breeding up his son to become a priest.” ,
“To his own exceeding glory and proﬁt,” the rancorous
beldame rejoined.
At this most interesting point they broke off. Yagna had
come in, and stood petriﬁed on the threshold.
“Is it our pig’s size that amazes you?” Yagustynka asked,
with a laugh.
“Could ye not have done this work on the other side?” she
stammered, red as a peony. “My room is all befouled with
it.”
“Wash and scour it, then! Ye are not short of time,”
Hanka replied coolly, with a stress on the last words.
Yagna made an angry gesture, but said no more. She
walked about the room, took up her “Rosary of the Passion,”
THE PEASANTS 58
threw a shawl over her yet unmade bed, and left the hut in
silence, her lips twitching with the fury she sought to hide.
Yuzka, who met her in the passage, said: “Ye might well
help us, we have so much to do!”
She only stormed at her in reply, and rushed away in a
frenzy. Vitek, who had remarked which way she had gone,
said she had stepped over straight to the blacksmith’s.
“Why should she not? It will relieve her to talk of her
grievance.”
“But,” Yagustynka said, lowering her voice, “ye will have
him here speedily . . . and it will be war!”
“Good woman, what’s my whole life but warfare?” Hanka
answered quietly, but she felt that her words were true, and
that a savage quarrel was at hand.
“He will come in a trice,” Yagustynka declared, not with-
out compassion.
“Fear not—I shall stand the brunt of the battle,” she re-
plied, smiling.
Yagustynka, nodding her admiration, looked signiﬁcantly
at Ambrose, who had just laid his work aside.
“I must look in at church and ring the Angelus,” he said.
“I shall be back for dinner directly.”
And so he was, and told them that the clergymen were
dining, and the miller had brought them a netful of ﬁsh as
. a present, and they were to go on hearing confessions in
the afternoon, as so many people were waiting.
_ The dinner,though short and hurried, was well providedwith
liquor, Ambrose complaining bitterly that, for such herrings—
salt as Lot’s wife—the vodka was far too weak. Then they
set to work again, and he quartered the beast, cutting off the
parts ﬁt for sausages; while Yagustynka, having unhinged a
door and made it do duty for a table, placed the sides upon
it, and was busy cutting them into ﬂitches and salting them
carefully. just at that moment the smith came in; his face
showed that he was ﬁghting for self-control.
“I was not aware,” he began, sarcastically, “that ye had
bought so large a porker.”
“Well, I have—and killed it too.”
59 SPRING
She felt somewhat frightened.
“A ﬁne beast. It must have cost you some thirty roubles.”
He eyed it over scrutinizingly.
“ ’Twere hard to ﬁnd a pig so thickly lined with fat,” the
old woman remarked, laughing and offering him the bacon to
examine.
“’Tis Boryna’s pig!” he suddenly burst out, unable any
more to contain his rage.
“A shrewd guess!” Yagustynka jeered; “why, to know
whose it is, you need only to see the tail!”
“And by what right have ye dared to slaughter it?” he
cried indignantly.
“No shouting, please. This is not a tavern—By what
right? Because Antek sent me word by Roch to kill it.”
“And who is Antek to give orders here? Is the beast his?”
“Most surely,” she replied: her fear had gone from her
now.
“No, it is oursl—For what ye have done, ye shall pay
dear.”
“In this matter I am not answerable to you!”
“No?-—To whom then?”
“Peace! and hold your tongue. Here lies the sick man to
whom it belongs.”
“Which you, not he, will eat!”
“But you, at any rate, shall not so much as smell it!”
“Give me,” he said, changing his tone, “one-half of the
carcass. Ye would not have me raise the devil, would ye?”
“Not one trotter of it shall you have on compulsion!”
“Then let me have a quarter—and a ﬂitch thrown in—of
your own free will.”
“I will, if Antek orders me. Else you shall not get one
bone.”
“Antek! Antek!” he cried, again roused to fury. “Is it
Antek’s, then? Are you raving?”
“It is Father’s,” she said ﬁrmly, “but Antek is now in his
place and disposes of all. Later, it shall be whose our Lord
may will it to be.”
“Let him dispose in jail of what he has! If he likes hus-
THE PEASANTS 60
bandry, he may play the husbandman down in Siberia, where
he is to go!” he shrieked, foaming at the mouth.
“He may go thither," she retorted ﬁercely, though fear for
Antek was stabbing at her heart; “but were you yet a greater
judas than you are, you would not gain one inch of land
thereby.”
The sniith’s feet were shuﬂ‘ling on the ﬂoor with excite-
ment, and his hands closing on his capote convulsively, so
strong a craving he felt to clutch her by the throat. But he
still mastered himself: he was not alone. She had no longer
any fear at all: wielding the knife she used to cut the strips
of ﬂesh, she looked on the man with quiet scorn. After a
time he sat down, lit a cigarette, and gazed about the room
with red-rimmed eyes, revolving something in his mind.
Presently he got up, and spoke to her calmly.
“Come round to the other side of the hut; we may yet ﬁnd
something to agree upon.”
Wiping her hands, she went out of the room, but left the
door ajar.
“I wish not only not to go to law, but not even to quarrel,”
he began, pufﬁng at his cigarette.
“Because it will not serve,” she retorted.
“Did Father-in-law say aught to you yesternight?”
The smith was by now quite friendly and smiling.
“Oh, no; he lay as still as he lies now.” Full of suspicion,
she was on her guard to divulge nothing.
“That pig is but a small matter; let us trouble no longer
about it. Cut it up . . . eat it up by yourselves, just as
you please: no very great loss for me.—One often says things
of which one repents afterwards—Pray forget what I said.—
I want to speak of something more important. You ought
to know that they talk in the village of cash—large sums——
concealed within this hut. . ” He paused and ﬁxed his
piercing eyes upon her face. “Now ’twere well worth while
to seek for it, lest, should he die (which God forbid!), it
might be mislaid, or fall into some stranger’s hand.”
“But will he say where he has hidden it?”
61 'SPRING
“To you he might, Would you but draw him out with
cunning words.” -
“Well, I will do my best; but he must ﬁrst come to his
wits again.”
“And if ye keep it secret, and we ﬁnd the money, then we
might share and share alike. Nay, if the sum were large
enough, a part might serve to set Antek free. Let no one
else know of it: why should any know? Yagna’s deed of
gift makes her quite rich enough; we might even go to law,
and have it annulled—As to Gregory, think how much he
has received during his service in the army!” He ap-
proached her more closely.
“You are right . . . quite, quite right,” she stammered,
struggling hard to give him no inkling of the secret she
knew.
“I think he must have concealed it somewhere about the
cabin; what think ye?”
“How should I know? He never spoke a word to me
about that.”
“But he said something yesternight . . . something about
com, I think?” the smith suggested.
“Aye. He said it was to be sown.”
“About barrels too, did he not?” he persisted, looking
her intently in the face.
“Of course. The seed—corn that’s in the barrels,” she made
answer, apparently not making out to what those ques-
tions were tending.
He cursed silently, with bitter disappointment. And yet
he felt more and more that she must be privy to the secret.
Her face was so stiﬂiy set, her eyes so carefully deprived of
expression.
“Tell no one this thing I conﬁde to you.”
“Am I such a tale-bearer and everlasting gossip?”
“Well, well, I only caution you.--Now give good heed.
The old man' has had a glimmer already: his wits may quite
come back to him any day.”
“God grant it be soon!”
THE PEASANTS 62
His glance lingered over her. At length, pulling at his
moustache, he left her to herself and went out, she follow-
ing him the while with a contemptuous look.
“A judas, a traitor, and a thief!”
Exploding with hate, she took a few steps after him.-—It
was not for the ﬁrst time that he had ﬂourished before her
eyes the awful possibility of Siberia’s mines and Antek work-
ing in them, fettered to a wheelbarrow!
Not that she believed implicitly all he said; she knew
that he spoke out of spite and to make her afraid, so as to get
the most he could out of her by bullying.
Nevertheless, she was in great dread, and had carefully
sought to be informed what Antek’s punishment might be:
she had no hope that he would be acquitted.
True, he had acted in defence of his father; but there must
be some punishment for the death of the forester. There
must!
Such was the opinion of all the more intelligent folk. She
had been to consult a lawyer in the town, with a letter from
his Reverence to introduce her. He had explained that the
penalty might be either very heavy or very light; that pa-
tience and money spent without grudging were absolutely
requisite here. But she was most terriﬁed by the village
people, who shared the blacksmith’s view of things.
The words he had now spoken had therefore oppressed her
most cruelly. She went on with her work, but felt almost
unable to stand; and conversation was impossible. More-
over, when the smith had gone away, his wife came to tend
the sick man, drive away the ﬂies (there were none!), and
certainly spy over all she did.
Magda, however, was soon tired of the task, and offered to
help her in the work. But Hanka replied:
“Do not trouble, we can do all by ourselves: have you
not work enough in your house?”
Her tone was so decided that Magda gave up the attempt,
and only tried at times to join timidly in the talk, being by
nature a shy and reticent woman. '
63 - SPRING
But that same evening, who should make her appearance
once more but Yagna, in her mother’s company!
They greeted her as if on excellent terms, and in so friendly
and ﬂattering a way that Hanka, touched by their kindness,
answered them in like manner, sparing neither pleasant
speeches nor vodka, though she kept on the watch neverthe-
less. But Dominikova put the glass away from her.
“What! in the Holy Week? How could I drink vodka at
such a time?”
Hanka maintained that it was no sin to drink even then,
on such an occasion and in one’s own house.
“Ah!” groaned Dominikova, “one is always but too ready
to ﬁnd an excuse to let oneself go, and enjoy pleasure!”
“Mistress, drink to me,” Ambrose exclaimed; “l have not
an organist’s scruples.”
“To you the very sound of glasses when they clink is a
temptation,” Dominikova grumbled, as she set to work at the
sick man’s bandages.
“Poor creature!” she cried in pity; “lying there insensible,
with all God’s world lost to him!”
“And not to taste sausage or vodka again for ever!”
Yagustynka chimed in, turning the pity into a gibe.
Dominikova rebuked her tartly: “You laugh at every-
thing, you!”
“Shall weeping lessen my pain? My laughter is all my
fortune.”
Ambrose remarked: “Let those only that have sown
evil garner in sorrow, and atone for it by penance!” This
was a shrewd hit at Dominikova, who retorted, glaring on
him sternly:
“They say truly that Ambrose, though he serves in church,
curries favour with sin in order to enjoy the good things of
this life!” And she added, lowering her tone threateningly:
“But he alone will turn away from the good and befriend
the wicked, who considereth not the punishment which he
shall receive hereafter!”
Silence fell upon all. Ambrose worked on, though surly.
THE PEASANTS 64
He had a sharp retort ready, but kept it back, knowing well
that anything he said would be reported to his Reverence the
next day, and after Mass at latest: it was to some purpose
that the old dame was such a church-goer. Everyone, be-
sides, shrank from the ﬁxed gaze of those owlish eyes of hers;
even Yagustynka, the deﬁant, was overawed and quailed
before her.
Yes, and so did all the village. More than one had expe-
rienced the power of those evil eyes; more than one, on whom
she had laid a spell, now groaned with twisted limbs, or in
the clutch of some dire disease!
They worked on then, with bowed heads: only her face,
rugged, withered, and white as bleached wax, was seen tower-
ing amongst them in the room. She too remained silent,
along with Yagna; but they were both so active and diligent
that Hanka had not the heart to refuse the aid they'were
giving.
But after Ambrose had left, called away to church by the
priest’s servant, they remained alone, diligently packing
ﬂitches and pork into the tubs and barrels.
“The meat will be cooler in the larder that’s on this side,
for the ﬁre here is much smaller,” the old dame decided, roll-
ing the vessels in there at once, with the help of Yagna.
All this was done so quickly that they were put in the
larder before Hanka had time even to protest. She was
extremely mortiﬁed, and, immediately calling Pete and
Yuzka to her aid, carried over to her own side all that
remained.
At dusk and by lamplight they set to making sausages,
blood-puddings, and brawn. Hanka, whose annoyance had
not passed away, sat mincing the materials with a sort of
dark rage.
“Leave the things here, for her to eat or steal? Not I!—
. . . But oh, the cunning hag!” she hissed through her
clenched teeth.
“To-morrow morning, when she has gone to church, you
can carry everything out into your own larder without noise
or fuss. Surely she will not break in and take it back by
65 SPRING
force!” Such was the advice of Yagustynka, as she pressed
the ingredients of the sausages into the long dried guts,
writhing upon the table like serpents, and every now and
then hung them up to be smoked in the chimney.
“Ah! the stroke was planned between them, and they came
on purpose for that!”
She was exasperated.
“The sausages will all be made ere Ambrose be back here,”
the old woman observed. .
Hanka would speak no more, absorbed in work, and in
planning how to get the hams and, ﬂitches into her possession
agam.
The ﬁre crackled on the hearth with a lively ﬂame; the
whole room was in a glow, and the various ingredients of
the blood-puddings were bubbling in several cauldrons.
“O Lord! my mouth waters at the very smell!” sighed
’ Vitek, sniffing greedily.
“Do not stand sniffing here, or I will know why!” cried
Hanka. “Give the kine to drink, ﬁll the mangers with hay,
and put straw under them. ’Tis late already . . . when
will you have done it all?”
“Pete is coming; I cannot do all by myself.”
“And whither has he gone?”
“What, know ye not? He is helping them to put things in
order on the other side.”
“Ohol—Hey, you, Pete!” she cried, calling out into the
passage. “See to the cattle for the night—at once!”
Her tone, as she gave that order, had been such that the
man came out instantly into the yard.
“Let her stir herself and clean her own room at least!
Look at her, that grand lady—will not soil her hands—must
needs employ a manservant!” So said Hanka, in a tower-
ing passion, whilst pouring out a steaming potful of liver and
chitterlings. The sound of a bell and a cart clattering by
outside gave another turn to her thoughts.
It was the priest, carrying the Holy Viaticum to someone,
as her father, old Bylitsa, who then came in, told her.
“But who can it be? No one was ill, so far as I know.
I,
THE PEASANTS 66
“He has passed the Voyt’s cabin!” Vitek, out of breath,
came shouting outside the window. -
“To one of the Ko'momz'kz'? I think not.”
“Perhaps to your people, the Prycheks, Yagustynka; they
live that way.”
“Ah, nothing ever was the matter with them, the mis-
creants; no evil ever comes nigh them!” she said, in a
faltering voice: though constantly at odds with her children,
she felt a quiver of anxiety.
“I’ll see how matters stand and return at once.” And
she hurried out.
But the evening dragged on, and yet she was not back—-
Ambrose, who had returned, said the priest had been called
in to Agata, a kinswoman of the Klembas: she had come
back from begging only the Saturday before.
“But how is that? Is she not at the Klembas’?” _
“No; she has removed to die: either at Koziol’s or at the
Prycheks’.”
There was no more talk then, for there was much work to
get through, especially as both Yuzka and Hanka were often
obliged to leave it for the byre or the stable.
It was dark outside, and irksome within.
A chilly rain was pelting, and the wind lashed the walls,
whistled through the orchards, made the trees rustle and
murmur, and sometimes blew down the chimneys, scattering
ﬁre-brands about.
It was hard upon midnight when all the work was over-
and Yagustynka had not yet returned.
“In such foul weather, she must have been loath to grope
her way back!” Hanka thought, while she patrolled the
premises before going to bed.
Truly, it had been a pity to turn a dog out of doors on
such a night! The roof creaked with the wild blasts; all
over the sky, brown masses of rain-clouds were pouring down
their heavy burden of water; and nowhere on high was there
the least twinkle of starlight. Everybody else had long ago
gone to sleep; the wind danced and revelled in the ﬁelds,
and swept great sheets of water from off the pond.
67 ,. ’SRRING
So they waited no longer for her, but went to bed.
She appeared the next morning, but as louring and sullen
as the swampy miry day itself. She just warmed her hands
at the cabin ﬁre, and then made for the granary, to pick out
seed-potatoes from the heap which had been dumped down
on the threshing-ﬂoor. .
She was mostly alone at that work, Yuzka having to go
and scatter the dung which Pete had been carting since -day-
break. Having been soundly rated by Hanka for sloth on
the day before, he now, to make amends, stormed at Vitek,
ﬂogged the horses furiously, and made them splash through
the mud at full speed.
“The rascal!” muttered the old woman. “To punish the
horses because he himself was lazy!”
When Yuzka spoke to her, she gave her no answer, but
sat gloomily, hiding her eyes red with tears under the apron
she had thrown over her head.
Hanka looked in, but only once. She was waiting for
Yagna to come out, that she might have an opportunity both
to take the meat over to her own side, and to examine the
corn-barrels. But, as if of set purpose, Yagna never left the
hut.
Impatient, Hanka at last went in to see Boryna, and
then—apparently seeking for something—she entered the
larder.
“Whatever ye want I can ﬁnd for you!” Yagna exclaimed,
and, seeing her go in, followed before she had done more
than plunge her hand into the c_orn.—Fruitlessly; but the
money might be lying quite at the bottom. She left the
place; and, certain that Yagna was on the watch, resolved to
put off the attempt to a more convenient season.
“And now for the gifts we must make,” she thought, look—
ing sorrowfully at the sausages that dangled in a row from
a horizontal pole. Boryna and all the foremost husbandmen
were in the habit, whenever they killed a pig, to send their
next relations and best friends a sausage, or some other
dainty bit. :
“ ’Tis hard, in truth; but you can do no otherwise, or they
THE PEASANTS 65.
would say you grudge them,” Bylitsa advised her, guessing
aright what was in her thoughts.
In spite, then, of the temptation to shirk that duty, she
put the intended presents on a number of plates and dishes,
now substituting a larger for a smaller piece, now the re-
verse, now adding, now taking away a blood-pudding . . .
and so on: until she had done, and, dejected and weary,
called for Yuzka.
“Put on your best garments, and take these things round.”
“O Lord! what a quantity of meat is here!”
“What can I do? I must give it away. We have to liVe
with folk.—‘]ack his ﬂail can whisk alone, but not dance and
frisk alone.’—This big piece take to Uncle’s wife. She hates
and rates me; but there's no help for it.—-This to the Voyt:
a rascal, but on good terms with Matthias, and (it may be)
serviceable one day—For Magda and her smith, a whole
blood-pudding, a sausage, and a piece of bacon. They shall
not say we have eaten Father’s pig by ourselves. Talk
against us they will, of course, but less—This sausage is for
Prychkova. She’s saucy, bitter of tongue, but one of our
best friends—And this last piece for Klembova.”
“Shall Dominikova get naught?”
“Later in the afternoon. Of course she shall. She’s to be
dealt with as ﬁlth: with care and from afar. . . . Now take
these things round separately, and waste no time in talk with
other girls, for there is work at home for you.”
“Do give Nastka something: they are all so poor!” Yuzka
said beseechingly. “They have scarce wherewith to buy
salt!”
“Let her come: she shall get something—Father, take this
to Veronka; she was to have looked in yesterday.”
“She had to clean the miller’s cabin in the afternoon;
they are expecting visitors.”
Hanka, having sent Yuzka off, and put on a warmer dress,
ran out to see that the lads worked properly, and to assist
Yagustynka. ‘
To the old woman, now so strangely reticent, she said:
“We hoped you would come back for supper.”
69 SPRING
“What I saw was supper enough for me—and it lies on my
stomach yet.”
“It was Agata, I believe?”
“Yes, poor thing! Passing away . . . and in Koziol’s
hut!”
“Why is she not at the Klembas’?”
“Because those folk, as long as a kinsman asks for naught,
or comes full-handed, allow him to claim kindred; but
would set their dogs on any other, how near soever!”
“What say you? Surely they have not driven her out?”
“Well, she came to them on Saturday, and was taken with
a sickness that same night. . . . They say that Klembova
took away her feather-bed, and turned her out almost
naked.”
“Klembova? Can it be? So good a woman !—Nay, it
must be a slander.”
“I invent naught, and tell you only what mine ears have
heard.”
“At Koziol’s too! Who would have thought the woman
so merciful?”
“ ‘For ready money—’tis strange, but true—even a priest
will be kind to you!’—Koziol’s wife has got a score of zloty
out of Agata in cash. For that sum she will keep her till
she drops off—which she expects to do any day. . . . Fu-
neral extra, of course—She will give up the ghost one of
these days: there will be no long waiting, oh, no!”
She broke down, unable to choke down a sob.
“What ails you, my dear?” Hanka asked, in a kindly tone.
“I have supped full of human woes, and have eaten over
measure! One’s heart is not a stone; one tries to harden it
by churlishness towards everyone; but it will not do. And
there comes a time when it can bear no more, and crumbles
away to sand with the pain of it!”
She burst into a tempest of tears, shaking all over; but,
after a time, went on speaking, but with such heat and bit—
terness that the words burned into Hanka’s tender heart.
“And to this desolation there is no end—none! When the
priest left Agata, I stayed by her side. Then there came
THE PEASANTS 70
one from over the water—Philip’s wife—crying out that her
eldest daughter was a-dying. . . . Away I hurried to her.--
Lord, what a hut! as cold as ice itself ! Window-panes gone,
wisps of straw instead. Only one bed: the others sleep on
litter, like kennelled dogs—Aye, the girl is dying, but of
what? Of hunger! Their last potato is eaten, their feather-
bed sold: every litre of groats is got from the miller by beg-
ging, for no one will lend aught to tide things over till har-
vest. Who could pay? Philip is in jail with the rest of
them—Scarcer had I left these, when Gregory’s wife told
me that Florka Prychkova had been brought to bed and was
in want of aid. . . . Vile wretches they are, and have de-
frauded me: but I went notwithstanding. In their hut, too,
misery shows her teeth! Lots of children—Florka abed—-
not a kopek of savings—and no help from anywhither.
True, the land is theirs: but can they eat itP—No one to
cook for them. . . . And their land is untilled, for Adam,
her goodman, is in prison likewise—A son has been born to
her—a strong lusty little fellow-but will he get food to live?
Florka is thin as a lath—not one drop of milk can she
give him; and their cow has but just calved. All is for the
worst everywhere. No one to work, and no work to be got;
and neither money nor help from any quarter. . . . Oh,
would that our Lord might send all these poorest folk a
merciful death! They would not then suffer so!”
“Has anyone in the village aught to spare?” said Hanka.
“All are poor, and the cry of misery is heard everywhere.”
“ ‘Who has no goodwill shirks his duty still.’_l do not
say this to you; the farm is not yours, and I know well what
ye have to undergo. But there be those who might do
something: the miller—the priest—the organist—and many
others.”
“Perhaps they would, if they were but told of all,” Hanka
said, taking their part.
“He that has a kindly heart needs no telling, and ﬁnds
it out by himself. My clear, they are well aware of what the
poor have to endure: it is on their very poverty that they
thrive and grow fatf Why, ’tis now the miller’s harvest-
71 SPRING
home, when folk are crowding round him for ﬂour and
groats, giving up their last mite to him, or taking loans at
high interest, to be paid in future work: money for food
must be found, even should one be forced to sell one’s bed
to the Jew!”
“Indeed, no one is willing to give things gratis,” Hanka
said with a heavy sigh, as the memory of her recent past
surged up.
“I sat with Florka for a long time,” Yagustynka went on to
say; “and many women came in, telling us what was going
on in Lipka. They said ”
“Mercy on us!” Hanka suddenly exclaimed, starting to
her feet. A gust had just blown the door in, so violently as
almost to wrench it off its hinges. And she had closed it
with such care, and placed stakes to prop it up against the
wind!
“With such a gale as this, I fear there will soon be more
rain.”
“As it is, the carts aﬁeld already sink axle-deep in mire!”
“But with a few days of warm sun, the ground will soon
be dry again: ’tis spring.”
“Ah, if we could but begin to plant potatoes ere Easter-
tide!”
So they went on talking, busy with their work, and the po-
tatoes drummed upon the ﬂoor continuously: those too small
thrown on to one heap, and the damaged ones on to another.
“These will fatten your sow, and the kine will drink the
boiled water.”
But Hanka was scarcely listening, pondering how to get at
her father-in-law’s money. At times she looked out through
the open door at the trees, waving and wrestling with the
blasts, that were cold and damp, and pungent with the smell
of the dunghill close by. The farm—yard was empty, save
for a few fowls running about with ruffled feathers. The
geese all sat in a corner close to the hedge, and gathered their
chuckling little ones under their wings. Now and again Pete
came in, driving his empty wagon, and slapping his arms
against his sides; then, giving the horses a bundle of hay,

THE PEASANTS 72
and (Vitek aiding) ﬁlling the cart with dung, he pushed
it on over the ruts and holes, and drove away into the
ﬁelds once more.
Many a time, too, did Yuzka hurry in, loud-voiced,
blowzed, breathless, on her way to somebody’s cabin with
presents, and chattering all the way as she came and went.
Unquestioned, she talked and talked, and was presently
seen starting again, bearing a dish carefully wrapped up in
a napkin.
“A chatterbox that girl is, but no fool,” Yagustynka ob-
served. '
“No fool, indeed; only she has naught in her head but mis-
chief and games.” ,
“What would you have? Such a tiny thing!”
“Vitek!” Hanka cried on a sudden. “Someone has entered
the cabin. See who it is.”
“ ’Tis the blacksmith, just come in.”
A misgiving took hold of her, and she went straightway to
her father’s side, where he was lying—on his back, as usual-
while Yagna sewed at the window. No one else was there.
“What has become of Michael?”
“Somewhere about, seeking a key he lent to Matthias not
long ago,” she explained, without looking Hanka in the face.
The latter went into the passage, into her own room, where
Bylitsa was sitting with the children by the ﬁre, and making
them little toy windmills—even into the farm-yard build-
ings: he was nowhere in sight. Then back she darted
straight to the larder on her father’s side, though the door
was shut. _~
And there she saw the blacksmith, standing beside a corn—
barrel, with his arms buried in the corn up to the elbows,
and seeking something there with might and main!
“What!” she cried with a gasp; “your key is hidden in the
corn, is it?” And she placed herself in front of him with
a threatening air.
“No . . . I am seeing . . . whether it is not mildewed
. and whether it will do for seed-corn,” he said, stutter-
ing, taken quite by surprise.
73 SPRING
“What business of yours is that? Say, what brings you
in here?” she cried.
Unwillingly, he drew his arms out, and muttered with ill-
concealed anger:
“Ye spy upon me as if I were a thief!”
“How should I know what business brings you in here?
Here’s a fellow who enters other people’s premises: why? I
ﬁnd him groping in the corn-barrels: why should he not also
wrench the padlocks off, or break open the chests?” Her
voice was rising to a scream.
“Did I not tell you yesterday what we have to look for?”
he answered, striving to be calm.
“What ye said was all a blind. You sought to throw dust
in my eyes, while you were after something else. But I saw
through your plotting, you traitor, you!”
“Hanka!” he shrieked, to terrify her; “stop that talk, or I
will stop your mouth!”
“Would ye? Lay but a ﬁnger on me, and I’ll raise such
an outcry that half the village will be here in a trice, to
, learn what sort of a jail-bird you are!”
As she uttered the threat, he cast one more glance around;
then, with a blasphemous oath, he left the room; exchanging
with her, as he did so, looks that—had it been possible——
would have stabbed to the very heart.
Hanka’s outbreak had completely upset her, but a cup of
water presently brought her round again.
“It must be foundl—And also concealed in a safe place:
for what money soever that man ﬁnds, he will make off
with,” was her mental comment, going back to the granary.
But, half-way there, she stopped and went back to the cot-
tage. Opening the door, she apostrophized Yagna thus:
“You who sit here in the cabin to watch over it, how do
you let a stranger enter the inmost room?”
Yagna answered scornfully: “Michael is not a stranger:
he has as much right in there as you have.”
“A dog barks, and you lie! Ye two are in league together;
but mark well what I say—If aught disappear from the cot-
tage, then, as sure as there’s a God in heaven, I’ll bring ac-
THE PEASANTS ’74
tion and denounce you as his accomplice. Remember that!”
she screamed, infuriated.
Yagna, snatching the ﬁrst weapon at hand, leaped from her
seat.
“Would you ﬁght me? Do but try: I’ll tear the beauty
off your dainty face, and paint it such a scarlet that yoUr
own mother shall not know you!”
And she went on upbraiding and vilifying her to the full-
est powers of her voice and of her enmity.
How this might have ended cannot be guessed. They were
about to close with each other, when Roch happened to come
in. This brought Hanka to her senses in so far that she
spoke no more. But she rushed from the room, and the door
slammed like thunder behind her.
Yagna remained still for some time, her bosom palpi-
tating, her lips trembling like one with the ague. At length,
ﬂinging into a corner the small hand-mangle she had
clutched, she threw herself upon the bed, and gave way to
an uncontrollable burst of pitiful wailing.
Meanwhile, Hanka, on her side of the house, was telling
Roch what had taken place. He listened patiently to her
tale; but it was so incoherent and broken with sobs that he
could scarcely make out a word, and rebu'ked her very
severely. Putting aside the food she had set before him, he
reached out for his cap, in great indignation.
“I am going away, never to set eyes on Lipka again, since
ye behave thus! Oh, how all this must rejoice the Evil
One, aye, and those jews who make a mock at us Christians,
calling us brawling idiots! O merciful jesus! was there too
little of distress and sickness and starvation, that, to crown
all, women must also ﬂy at one another!”
He. stood panting after this appeal; and Hanka, seized
with contrition and dread lest he should leave them in anger,
kissed his hand and earnestly begged for pardon.
“Ah!” she added, “if ye but knew how hard it is to dwell
with her! She does everything to spite and injure me. . . .‘
Her very being here is a wrong done to us all! . . . So many
an acre of land made over to her! . . . And then—know ye
75 - SPRING
not what manner of woman she is? and what she does with
young men?” (No, it was beyond her power to bring in
Antek’s name.) “And now,” she added with bated breath,
“they say that she is sinning with the Voytl—Therefore.
when I behold her, all within me seethes with hatred, even to
slaying!”
“Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord! She too is human,
and she feels it, if any do her wrong. And for her sins she
must some day suffer heavy chastisement. I tell you, then,
dono wrong to her.”
“What! have I wronged her in aught?”
She stood amazed, unable to conceive in what way Yagna
could have suffered wrong at her hands.
Roch ate a morsel of bread, looking out into vacancy mean-
while, and thinking deeply. At last he departed, after hav-
ing patted the heads of the little ones that came to his knees.
“One of these days, I shall look in again at eventide.
But now I say to you only this: Let her alone, do your duty,
and our Lord will see to all the rest.”
CHAPTER IV
walked slowly on along the shores of the pond. Yes,
things were so bad in Lipka that they could not pos-
sibly be worse.
That diseases prevailed; that some died of starvation;
that quarrels and ﬁghting were rife amongst them; and that
death was now taking a heavier toll than in preceding years:
all that was not the very worst. To such things the people
were accustomed, and bowed to them as to the inevitable.
The worst of all was this: that the ﬁelds lay untilled, there
being no one to till them.
The spring had come, with all her train of birds, now
returning to their last year’s nests; the ﬁelds were drying
on the uplands, the waters draining away everywhere; and
the land simply cried out to be ploughed, and manured, and
blessed with the sacred blessing which the sower gives.
But who could go aﬁeld? All had gone to prison. Only
women remained, with neither vigour of arm nor of brain
to do things aright.
Moreover, for some of them the time of childbirth had
arrived, as is usual in spring; and cows were calving, fowls
hatching, swine farrowing. Then it was the season to sow
and plant the gardens. Potatoes awaited selection, dung had
to be carted, water drawn off from the ﬁelds. Without men
to help, they could never do all that, even should they wear
their arms to stumps. And besides, feeding and watering
cattle, cutting straw for fodder, chopping up fuel or bringing
it in from the forest, and a thousand other duties (such, for
instance, as caring for the innumerable children running
about everyWhere)—ah, well! it was wearing toil, O Lord!
and in the evening one's bones and loins ached grievously,
and not half the work done!
ROCH, grieving bitterly over all the evil in the village,
76
77 1/ SPRING
And the land lay there, expectant. ,Warmed by the sun,
dried by the breezes, drinking in the soft fertilizing rains
and the sweet inﬂuence of those ’spring nights, it began to
teem with green blades of thick grass, and wheat swiftly
sprouting. Larks trilled over the plains, and storks wan-
dered in the wet meadows, and many a ﬂower in the marshes
now raised its head towards the shining sky; that sky which
daily, like a beautiful tent spread out above them, seemed
to rise higher and farther from the earth. And now their
longing eyes could i/stinguish far away the sharp outlines of
woods and hamlet , never visible in the dusky days of win-
ter; and the wh e country-side, awaking as out of a death-
trance, arraye itself joyfully like a bride for her wedding-
day. “
Everywh e around Lipka, as far as the eye could see, men
were hard t work. Whether in fair or in rainy weather, the
air thrill d with merry songs, ploughs glittered athwart the
ﬁelds, en were trudging, horses neighing, wagons rumbling
blithely. Only the ﬁelds of Lipka lay waste and silent, like
a vast mournful burial-ground. .
Over and above all this, anxiety for the dear ones in
tortured them.
rdly a day passed by without several people trudging to
town. bearing bundles of food on their hacks for the captives,
and ‘ ain requests that they, being innocent, should be set
free. ‘
In short, the state of the village was deplorable; and the
men‘ of the vicinity now began to see that the injury done
to their neighbours was also done to the whole peasant class.
“Onlly apes are foes to apes,” they said; “we, who are men,
ough\t to stand up for our brethren, lest the same fate befall


us lil ewise.”
So it came to pass that the other villagers, who had for-
merly\ quarrelled with the men of Lipka over territorial
limits and matters of like nature, or out of envy, because
these ad set themselves above their neighbours and claimed
superi rity over them—now set aside all such bickerings, and
often ame to Lipka in secret to ascertain the truth of the
THE PEASANTS 78
matter: some from Rudki, others from Volka or Debitsa,
or even men who were of- the “nobility” of Rzepki.
The day before, when they came for their Easter confes-
sion, they had inquired diligently about the prisoners, and
their faces had set ﬁercely, while they heard; and they broke
out into curses on the injustice done, and pitied the people
that had suffered so much. \\
Roch was thinking of this event, \and pondering over a
certain important step to take, frequeiitly stopping to shelter
himself against the wind, with a far-off lo\ok in his eyes.
It was brighter and warmer now, but the wind increased
steadily, and roared all over the country. f made some of
the slenderer saplings bow deeply, sighing agarlashing the
pond with their whip-like boughs; it tore off agments of
thatch from the roofs, snapped the brittle boughs; and swept
overhead with such violence that everything seemtd in mo-
tion and tossing about: orchards, palings, cabins, \solitary
trees—all, as it were, moved along with it; nay, e en the
pallid sun itself, emerging now and then from the sc dding
clouds, appeared ﬂeeing precipitater through the sky. And
over the church a ﬂock of wild birds, with outspread '
sailed down the wind, unable to make head against its
Yet, notwithstanding the harm it did, it did also
service in drying the lands, which ever since morning
taking a lighter tinge, while it swept the reads clear of w; ter.
Roch was roused from the thoughts which absorbed him
so deeply, by the sound of quarrelling voices. He {ha.tily
drew near. . '
One quick glance showed him a large crowd of womenr, in
red petticoats, surrounding a group of men on the farther
side of the pond, in front of the but where the Soltys 17ved


and in all the enclosures thereabouts.
He went forward quickly, eager to know what was the
matter; but, recognizing the men for a company ofJgen-
darmes along with the Voyt, he turned off into the rgarest
enclosures, whence he drew nigh the throng, creepin cau-
tiously from orchard to orchard; for somehow he ob je ted to
meeting the eyes of the police.
79 SPRING
The tumult increased. Women were in the majority;
children, too, had ﬂocked there from every side, edging in
amongst their elders, pushing and elbowing one another,
overﬂowing the enclosures and pouring out into the roads,
with little heed either of the deep mud or of the lashing
boughs. All were babbling together; sometimes one voice
rose above another, but there was no making out what was
said; the gale was too high. Looking through the trees, Roch
could perceive only that Ploshkova headed them all: a big
fat crimson-faced woman, who cried out louder than anyone
else and, shaking her ﬁst furiously under the Voyt’s very
nose, made him shrink back, while the others screamed their
approval, like a ﬂock of offended turkeys. The wife of
Kobus also was there, on the skirts of the crowd, vainly
striving to get at the gendarmes, against whom many
a ﬁst was shaken, and here and there a stick or dirty
broont.
The Voyt, sorely embarrassed, was trying to appease
them and scratching his head, while drawing the women’s
onslaught on to himself, so that the gendarmes cunningly
managed to extricate themselves from the throng, and re-
tired in the direction of the mill. The Voyt. following
in the rear, continued to answer them back and threaten the
boys who had begun to pelt him with mud.
“What do they want?” Roch asked of the assembled
women.
“They would have our village supply them with twenty
wagons, horses and men, for road-mending in the forest!”
Ploshkova told him.
“Some big ofﬁcial is to pass this way, and they want to get
the holes in the road ﬁlled up.”
“Neither wagons nor horses nor men! we have said.”
“Who is here that can drive?” '
“Let them set our lads free ﬁrst: then we shall think about
the roads!”
“The Squire! let them put him to a wagon!”
“Or set to work themselves, and keep their snouts out of
our cabins.”
THE PEASANTS ' 80
“Ah! the hounds, the carrions, the scurvy knaves!” many
voices shouted at once, in a rising chorus.
“All the morning they have been with the Voyt, laying
their heads together in the tavern.”
“Aye, aye, drinking vodka, and then going round to every
hut for labourers!”
“But the Voyt knows the state of affairs perfectly well,”
said Roch, vainly attempting to make himself heard in the
tumult. “He ought to have explained matters at the Bu-
reau.”
“He! He is the best friend of our enemies!”
“He only cares to get money!” they all shouted again.
“Yes, he advised us to give them a score of eggs, or a fowl
per hut: then they would let us alone, and press men to
work from the other villages.”
“A score of stones for him rather!”
“Peace, good woman; ye might smart for contempt of an
official.”
“I don’t care. Let them take me to jail. I’ll stand up to
the very biggest ofﬁcial and tell him what injustice we have
to bear.”
“Afraid of- the Voyt? What, I?” Ploshkova cried. “The
tainted wretch! I fear a scarecrow as much as him! He
forgets that ’tis we that have made him Voyt, and what we
have made we can unmake.”
“He would punish us, would he? Do we not pay taxes,
send our boys to the army, do whatever they tell us? Is it
too little for them that they have taken our men from our
midst?”
“Whenever they show their faces, some evil attends them.”
“They shot my dog in the ﬁelds last harvest-time!”
“They had me before the court, because my chimney
took ﬁre!” '
“And what a ﬂogging they gave young Gulbas for ﬂinging
a stone at them!” ~
All were crowding around Roch arid shouting together.
He cried out:
“Can screaming serve your turn? Be” quiet!”
81 SPRING
“Then go ye to the Voyt and lay the matter before him!”
Kobusova the ﬁery suggested.
“Else we go thither—and our brooms with us!”
“Go I will; but only after you have dispersed. Now,
pray, off with you: each has so much to do at homel—l
shall lay the matter before him ﬁtly.” He spoke very ear-
nestly, fearing lest the gendarmes might return.
The noonday Angelus was sounding from the belfry.
They slowly left the place to talk things over in eager excite-
ment, standing in knots outside their cabins.
Roch went hurriedly to the Soltys, at whose house he was
then dwelling, as he taught the children in the empty cabin
of the Sikoras, down beyond the tavern, at the other end of
the village. But the Soltys was not at home, having driven
over to the district town with tax-payments.
Soha’s wife told him of all that had happened, but in a
quiet subdued manner, and wound up by saying:
“God grant that no harm may come of these disturb-
ances!”
“ ’Tis the Voyt’s fault. The gendarmes only do as they
are bid. But he is well aware that there are, so to say, only
Women left in the village, and that they have no one to work
on their own ﬁelds, let alone working for the government. I
shall go and get him to arrange matters, so that no ﬁnes be
imposed.”
“It looks very much like revenge taken for the forest busi-
ness,” she remarked.
“Taken by whom ?-—by the Squire? My good dame, what
has he to do with the Administration?”
“Gentlefolk always agree better with gentlefolk, and are
hand in glove with each other. Besides, he said he would
be even with the Lipka folk.”
“Good God! not a single day of peace—always some
fresh aﬁiiction coming upon us!”
“May nothing worse than this befall us, I pray God
she answered, clasping her hands in supplication.
“They were all screaming together like a ﬂock of magpies,
and, Lord protect us! how they gabbled!”
I),
THE PEASANTS 82
“He that itches will scratch!”
“But it can do no good, and may bring still greater harm!”
He was sorely agitated and apprehensive of some yet
greater impending evil.
“Are ye,” she asked, “returning to the little ones?”
He had risen from his seat.
“I have sent them home. Easter holidays have come, and
besides, they will be wanted in the house, where so much is
to be done.”
“I went this morning to hire labourers in Vola, offering
three zloty a day and their board, but could get no one.
Everyone wants to plough his own ﬁelds ﬁrst. They prom-
ised to come, but only in a week or two.”
“My God!” he said, heaving a sigh; “one man has only a
couple of arms: what can he do?”
“Ah, but ye are of use to the folk, and of no little use.
Were it not for your wise head and kind heart, I cannot tell
what would become of us.”
“Could I do all I long to do, there would be an end of
suffering on earth!”
He threw out his arms with a gesture of pained help-
lessness, and hastened away to the Voyt’s dwelling. But it
was long before he got there; cottage after cottage attracted
him.
The village had somewhat quieted down. Some of the
more excitable women were still loud in talk outside their
cabins, but the greater part had gone to cook the dinner.
Only the wind howled along the roads and swept through
the trees as heretofore.
But presently, dinner over, and the gale notwithstanding,
the whole place was swarming with folk, and an increasing
clatter of women’s tongues resounded about the gardens,
in every part of the farm-yards, before the huts, in the
passages and in the rooms they led to. For only women
and lasses were toiling there; of males, there were only little
boys.
They were all the more feverishly earnest in their work
because the day before had been a sort of half-holiday, with
83 SPRING
the confessions to the priests who had come; and the morning
had been lost because of the gendarmes. '
Easter was near, Holy Tuesday had come already, and so
much still to be done!' A spring cleaning was necessary,
clothes had to be made for the children, and in some cases
for the grown-ups too; and corn required to be ground, and
the Hallow-fare to be got ready! In every cottage the good-
wives’ brains were whirling to ﬁnd out how all this was to
be accomplished. Most carefully did they look through
their store-rooms for anything to be either sold to the tavern-
keeper or taken over to town to get the needful funds. Sev-
eral women even drove off at once after dinner, with saleables
under the litter in their carts.
“I hope no tree may fall on you by the way!” Roch said
warningly to Gulbas’ wife, who had such a wretched jade
to her cart that it scarcely made any headway against the
wind.
And with that he entered her farm-yard, where the girls,
who had been trying to plaster up the chinks, could reach
no higher than the tops of the windows. In that work he
helped them, made some slaked lime in a tub for the white-
wash, and a sort of straw brush to lay it on.
Then he walked on to Vahnik’s, where the lasses were cart-
ing dung, but so clumsily that half of it fell out into the road,
while they pulled the unruly horse along by the bridle.
Up came Roch, shovelled the dung into the cart, set all to
rights there, and whipped the horse into obedience.
Farther, at Balcerek’s, there was Mary, held to be (bar-
ring Yagna Borynova) the comeliest girl in the village, sow-
ing peas in black and highly manured soil close to the hedge-
row. But she wriggled about like a ﬂy caught in resin, her
kerchief twisted round her head, and her father’s capote put
on over her petticoat to protect it, and trailing on the ground.
“No need to hasten so; you have plenty of time!” he said,
smiling, as he drew near.
“Why, know ye not, ‘If peas be on HolyTuesday sown,
each gallon will give you a bushel when grown’ ?” she cried
in response.
THE PEASANTS 84
“Ere your sowin be ended, those ﬁrst sown will be out.
But, Mary! ye cast the seed too thick; when they come up,
they will lie in a tangle on the ground.”
And he taught her how to sow as the wind blew; the silly
girl had never thought of making the peas drop equally
everywhere.
“Vavrek Soha had told me you were a handy lass,” he
remarked casually, as it were, while retracing his steps along
the miry furrow.
“Have ye spoken with him?” she asked, stopping in her
work, and suddenly out of breath.
She had ﬂushed a dark crimson, but was ashamed to re-
peat her question.
Roch’s only answer was a smile; but, as he left her, he
said: “At Eastertide I shall tell him with what a will you
work.”
Again, on the lands of the Ploshka, a couple of little boys
were at work on a potato-ﬁeld hard by the road. One drove,
the other meant to plough. But as each of them hardly
reached to the mare’s tail, and had next to no strength at all,
the plough zigzagged like a tipsy man, and the mare was
ever and anon for going back to the stable. At which they
both used the whip on her, and also bad language.
“We can manage, Roch, we can manage; ’tis only these
nasty stones twist the plough awry, and the mare would fain
go to the manger,” the elder one blubbered, to excuse himself,
when Roch took the handles and traced a straight furrow,
teaching him meanwhile how to deal with the mare.
“But now,” the boy cried boldly, “we shall have ploughed
the whole ﬁeld ere nightfall!” He peered round suspiciously,
to see whether anyone had been witness to Roch’s assistance;
and when the old man had gone, he seated himself on the
plough, turned away from the wind (as he had seen his fa-
ther do), and lit a cigarette.
Roch went on, looking about him to help where help was
required.
Silencing brawls, settling disputes, giving good advice, he
also came in aid, however hard the work, whenever aid was
85 SPRING
wanted. Klemba’s wife could not chop up a hard knotty,
stump—he did it for her; Dominikova required water from
the pond—he brought it; and, farther on, children were way-.
ward, and he awed them into obedience.
A wise and pious man, and one who knew people as few
did, he knew at one glance what to say and how to say it;
how to drive away sadness with a merry tale; how to laugh
with one, pray with another, and reprove a third with words
of grave wisdom or stem warning.
So kind-hearted was he, so full of sympathy for all, that
he would often and unasked spend many a night by a sick-
bed: and to the sick he did so much good that they set him
even above his Reverence.
In time, folk had begun to look upon him as one of God’s
saints, who always brought mercy and consolation to their
lowly huts.
Alas! could he ward off all misery? Could he prevent
all misfortune, feed all the hungry, heal all the sick, and
alone supply the many hands they stood in need of?
For, indeed, the village was a large one. Of dwelling-
houses alone there were hard on threescore, and a great ex-
panse of cornland stretched round them; there was also
much cattle, plenty of other live stock, and many a mouth to
feed besides.
All this, since the men had been taken away, now lived
mostly by God’s providence alone; and so, as a matter of
course, their troubles and needs, their complaints and mur-
murs, multiplied very much indeed.
This Roch had long known and realized; but it was only
that day, when going from door to door through the village,
that he saw how fearfully all had gone to rack and ruin.
That the ﬁelds now lay fallow, no one ploughing or sowing
(for the little that they did was mere child’s play), was but
a lesser evil. Wherever you went, you could see the spread
of gradual decay: fences knocked down, beams and rafters
peeping through the torn thatches, gates wrenched from their
hinges, hanging like broken wings, and ﬂapping against the
walls; and many a cabin, too, leaning much out of the
THE PEASANTS 86
perpendicular, and sorely in need of beams to buttress it.
All about the. huts were pools of stagnant water, or mud
and ﬁlth up to the knees around the walls: which made
walking no easy matter. At every step the desolation and
downfall of the village was so evident that it made the heart
bleed. In many a homestead, too, the kine would often low
in vain for their fodder, and the horses, with no one to curry
them, were caked and plastered with dung.
So it was everywhere. The very calves, with mud all over
them, would wander alone about the roads; household uten-
sils rotted in the rain, ploughs rusted away, sows farrowed
in the wagon-baskets. When anything was warped or torn
or broken, it remained as it was: who was there to set things
to rights?
The women?—Why, they, poor things! had scarce time
and strength to do what was most urgent. Ah! but if the
men came back, then things would change in the twinkle of
an eye!
And they therefore awaited their return as a great mercy
of God, and, trusting in Him from day to day, possessed their
souls as well as they could—in patience.
Yet neither did the men return, nor was it possible to know
when they would be set free.
Twilight was scattering greyness over the land, when Roch
left the last but beyond the church (that of the Golabs) and
plodded over to meet the Voyt.
The gale had by no means abated, and fought with the
trees so ﬁercely that walking was perilous: every now and
then the broken limb of a tree would be hurled to the ground.
Stooping forward, the old man glided along by the fences,
hardly visible through the eerie grey twilight, opaque as pow-
dered glass.
“Are ye seeking the Voyt? He is not at home, but at the
miller’s,” said Yagustynka, appearing unexpectedly.
He turned suddenly, and made for the mill; he could not
bear that old mischief-maker.
She, however, following and walking fast at his side, said
in a low whisper:

87 S P R IN G
"Pray. look in at the Prycheks’-and at Philip’s too-_-l
beg you.”
“If I can be of any use .
“They begged me so to ask you—Pray visit them!”
“Good, but I must see the Voyt ﬁrst.”
“Thanks, and God bless you!”
He felt her lips tremble as she kissed his hand. He was
amazed: she had usually been on skirmishing terms with
him.
“To everyone,” she said further, “there comes a time
when, like a stray dog, driven away by all folk, one is glad to
be caressed by some kindly hand.” And ere he could ﬁnd
a word to reply, she hurried away.
He was told that the Voyt was no longer at the miller’s,
but had driven over to town with the gendarmes. And
F’ranek ushered him into his own little room, where several
people from Lipka and the neighbouring villages were sitting
to have their corn ground. Roch would have waited there,
but Tereska, the soldier’s wife, who sat with the others, came
to him timidly and in secret, to get news of Matthew Golab.
“Ye were with the prisoners, and must know, surely. Is
he in good health and spirits? . . . When will they let him
out?” She put these questions, however, with downcast
eyes. .
He_ looked at her with stem sorrow. “And your goodman
in the army, how is he? Is he well? and like to come home
soon?”
She blushed deeply and ﬂed away into the mill.
He shook his head. “Poor blind creature!” he thought,
and went after her. But the lamps were burning dimly
in a dusky air, full of meal-dust, and he could not ﬁnd
where she had hidden herself from him. The mill went
clattering on; the waters hurled themselves upon the wheels
with such incessant din; the wind roared round the roof
and walls, so like wheat pouring out of some enormous
sack, that all was in a quiver, and, it seemed, about to ﬂy
to pieces. Roch then gave up the search, and went to see
those poor people according to his promise.
I,
THE PEASANTS 88
Now the night had fallen; here and there lamps twinkled
amongst the tossing trees like wolves’ bright eyes. But, all
around, it was strangely luminous; the huts were seen clear-
cut in the distance; the sky hung aloft, bluish-black and
cloudless, save for a few ﬂying scuds like scattered snow-
ﬂakes; and the stars oversprinkled it in ever denser multi-
tudes, while the gale waxed mightier and mightier, and
reigned over all the land.
So, all night long, it continued blowing. Few could
close their eyes. It made such a terrible draught in the
huts, and smote the boughs against the walls, and broke the
window-panes, and tore_and beat on the huts like butting
rams, till they feared it might carry Lipka away bodily
into space!
It subsided a little before dawn; but hardly had the
crowing cocks sung daybreak, and the weary inhabitants
fallen asleep, when the thunders uttered their roars, the
lightnings blazed across the sky with blood-red streaks, and
a torrent of rain poured down. It was said afterwards that
a thunderbolt had then fallen somewhere in the forest.
But when morning had fully come, it cleared up glori-
ously; the rain ceased, warmth came steaming up from the .
ﬁelds, the small birds chirruped cheerily; and though the
sun was hidden still, the white low-sailing clouds fell asun-
der and the azure sky appeared. And folk predicted ﬁne '
weather.
All through the village now arose lamentations and out-
cries. Very much harm had been done by the gale; the
roads were so strewn with rows of fallen trees across them.
and fences blown over the ways, with portions of torn-off
roofs, that they were impassable.
At the Ploshkas’, the sties had fallen, crushing all their
geese to death! There was no hut but had suffered in the
storm: so the enclosures were ﬁlled with women as full of
tears as a showery day.
Hanka had just sallied forth to inspect the farm-buildings
and see what damage had been done, when she met Sikora’s
wife, who came rushing into the yard.
89 SPRING
“What! have ye not heard? Staho’s but has fallen!
By a miracle, they have escaped being crushed,” she cried
from afar.
“Jesu Maria!”
The news petriﬁed her.
“I have come for you.-—Those folk are clean out of their
wits!”
Throwing an apron over her head, Hanka ran to the spot.
It was quite true. Nothing of Staho’s cabin remained
but the walls. All the roof had gone, except a few broken
rafters, still hanging above. The chimney, too, had fallen:
only a ruined fragment of it stood there, like the snag of a
decayed tooth. The ﬂoor was covered with splinters and
bits of thatch.
Veronka, sitting outside the wall on a heap of fallen rub-
bish, was embracing her little ones, who wept aloud with
her.
Hanka rushed to comfort her through the crowd she was
surrounded with ; but she saw nothing, heard nothing, and
her sobs continued, violent and convulsive.
“O my poor, my miserable children!” she moaned, and
several other women shed tears of compassion, to hear her.
“Whither shall we wretched creatures go? where lay our
heads?” she cried frantically, clasping her children in her
arms.
Old Bylitsa, meanwhile, shrunken, haggard, livid as a
corpse, went about the ruins, now driving the fowls together,
now giving a few wisps of hay to the cow, tethered to a
cherry-tree, now crouching close to the wall, whistling to
the dog, and staring at the people like a man demented.
They thought, indeed, that he was out of his mind.
With a sudden movement, they all made way, bowing to
the very ground: it was the parish priest, come upon them
unexpectedly.
“Ambrose has just informed me of this calamity. Where
is Stahova?”
They drew aside for him to see her; but she, blinded by
her tears, took no notice.
THE PEASANTS 90
I “Veronka,” Hanka said to her in a whisper, “here is
his Reverence himself, come to see you!”
She started at the words, and, seeing the priest, fell at
his feet in a tempest of tears.
“Peace, be still; do not weep—What is to be done? It
is—aye, it is—God’s will!” he said twice, brushing a tear
away, and deeply moved.
“We must go hence, and beg our bread through the
world!”
“No, no; do not give way so. There are kindly folk,
and they will not suffer you to perish. Moreover, the Lord
will help you in His own way. Has any one of you been
hurt? No?”
“In that, God has been merciful”
“Truly, a marvellous escape!”
“They might well have all been crushed to death, lik
Ploshka’s geese,” someone said. '
“Yes,” another remarked, “all without exception.”
“Any cattle or live stock lost, eh?”
“God ordered things so that all was then in the enclosure
and nothing lost.”
The priest, taking a pinch of snuff, looked round at the
heap of rubbish, all that remained of their cabin; and his
eyes again brimmed with tears.
“Really, it is a very great mercy. Ye might have been
all crushed ﬂat.”
“But had that been, I should not be looking on these
ruins now, nor live to see our home destroyed. O my jesus,
my jesus! Here am I with my little ones, homeless! What
shall I do, and whither shall I go?” she cried once more, and
tore her hair in despair.
The priest shifted uneasily, and spread his hands out
with a gesture of indecision. Someone slipped a plank
under his feet, saying: “Lest your feet be wetted!” And,
indeed, the mud was ankle-deep. He moved on to the
plank, and took another pinch of snuff, considering what
he should say to comfort her.
Hanka was busily engaged with her sister and father,
‘91 ’ SPRING
while the other women pressed round the priest, and feasted
their eyes on him.
More women and children were arriving every instant, and
their clogs splashed through the mud, and the gathering
crowd made comments in hushed voices, amongst which the
sobs, now less violent, of Veronka and her children were
heard. On all the faces around, so far as they were visible,
with their aprons pulled down over their brows, there were
seen much sorrow and deep concern, dark_as the cloudy
sky overhead: hot tears rolled down many a cheek.
But, in their concern and sorrow, they were calm, and
resigned to this visitation of God on their poor neighbour.
“What then! should everyone take the affairs of others too
much to heart, what room would be left for his own?”
After a pause, the priest turned to Veronka, and said:
“Above all things, ye ought to thank the Lord God that your
lives have been spared.”
“Surely, and if I have to sell my pig for it, I will get
the wherewithal for a Mass.”
“No need for that. Keep your money for your most
urgent wants: I shall say Mass for you as soon after Easter
as the Rubric allows.”
She kissed his hands gratefully, and clasped his feet,
peasant-fashion, whilst he gave her his blessing with the
sign of the cross, and, like the best of fathers, caressed the
little ones who came crowding round him.
“Now, tell me the manner of it.”
“The manner of it?——Why, we went to bed early, having
no on in our lamp, and no wood to make a ﬁre. It blew
hard, and the cabin shook, but 1 had no fear, because it
had resisted ﬁercer gales. The draughts in the room kept
me awake for some time, but I must have fallen into a
doze at last. All at once, there was a crashing banging
sound, and the noise of the walls splitting. O Lord! I
thought, the world is falling to piecesl—Out of bed I leapt,
but had hardly taken my little ones in my arms. when every-
thing overhead began to crack and break down. I just
got to the porch outside, while the roof was thundering
THE PEASANTS 92
down upon me. Ere I got my wits back, the chimney too
fell with an awful noise. In the yard it was blowing fear-
fully: we could scarce stand, and the thatch went piecemeal
down the wind. I had a good way to go to the village
in the night; all were sleeping sound there, and I could make
no one hear me. So I returned and took shelter with the
children in the potato-pit till morning.”
“God was watching over you—That cow, tethered to the
cherry-tree, whose is she?”
“Ours. She feeds us: we owe our lives to her alone.”
“A good milker, no doubt: loins as straight as a beam.—
With‘calf, I see?”
“She will calve in a few days.”
“Take her over to my cow-house; there is room, and she
may stay till the grass is grown—Now, where will you
dwell? Tell me where.” -
At that moment a dog fell a-barking and made a ﬁerce
onset upon the people there. Driven off, it sat down on
the threshold, and howled dismally.
The priest had shrunk back at its attack. “Is that dog
mad?” he asked. “Whose is it?”
“’Tis Kruchek, our dog. Aye, the misfortune has made
it daft. A good watch-dog,” stammered Bylitsa, hastening
to silence it.
The priest then took his leave, beckoning to Sikora’s wife
to follow him. Holding out both hands to the goodwives
who pressed forward to kiss them, he walked away slowly,
but was seen for some time talking with the women upon
the road.
The womenfolk, having duly pitied their unfortunate
neighbour, now departed hastily, all at once remembering
breakfast and the work before them.
No one remained about the ruins except the family;
and they were thinking how to rescue something more out
of the wrecked hut, when Sikora’s wife came up, breath-
less.
“Your abode must be with me, on that side of the cabin
where Roch has been teaching. There’s no chimney, to be
93 . SPRING
sure, but you can arrange a makeshift ﬁre-place that will
do for the nonce,” she said hastily.
“But, good dame, how am I to pay the rent?”
“Take no thought as to that. If ye get money, pay-what
ye choose; if not, then aid us in our work, or simply say,
Thanks; ’twill do. Why, the room stands empty! Most
heartily do I invite you; and the priest sends you this bit
of paper for present necessities.”
She unfolded a three-rouble note.
“May the Lord grant him health!” Veronka exclaimed,
kissing the gift.
“There’s not another man on earth so kind as he!” Hanka
said; and old Bylitsa added:
“In the priest’s byre, our cow will not be so very badly
off!”
The removal took place at once.
The Sikoras’ cabin was by the roadside, not far off; and
they carried there such articles as they had managed to get
out of the ruins on so short a notice. Hanka ordered Pete
to lend a hand, and Roch came a little later, helping them
at such a rate that Veronka was settled in her new lodgings
before the midday Angelus had rung.
“Now I am next door to a beggar-woman!” she com-
plained bitterly, with a glance round her. “Four corners
and a hearth: not one image! not one unbroken dish!”
“I shall fetch you a holy image,” Hanka said, soothingly.
“Also, any vessels that I shall be able to spare—And soon
’Staho will be back, and get men to restore the cabin with
him—Where is Father?”
She wanted him to go to Boryna’s with her. But the old
man had stayed at the ruined hut, sitting on the threshold
binding up a wound in the dog’s side.
“Come ye with me,” she said; “Veronka’s lodgings are
not large, and we shall ﬁnd a corner for you at our place.”
“Nay, nay, Hanka; I remain here: here was I born, and
here will I die.”
No arguments, no entreaties, could shake his determina—
tion.
THE PEASANTS 94
“I shall make myself a straw bed in the passage . . . and
if you will have it so, I’ll tend the little ones and eat my
meals at your home in payment. . . . But take the dog with
youz'it is wounded. . . . It will take care of the house—A
good watch-dog.”
“But,” she pointed out, “the passage walls may fall upon
you!”
“No, no; they will stand longer than many a man shall
live. . . . Do take the dog.”
She yielded at last. There was really but little room at
Boryna’s, and the old man would have been hard to lodge.
She told Pete to slip a string through Kruchek’s collar,
and take it to the cabin. I
“Burek has ﬂed somewhither: Kruchek will ﬁll its place
well—O you good-for-nothing fellow!” she cried, seeing
that Pete could not manage the dog.
Old Bylitsa helped to drag it away, chiding it severely.
“You foolish Kruchek! Here, there’s naught to eat; there,
you’ll get plenty, and a warm place to lie in!”
But she went before them, in order to look in at her sis—
ter’s new abode, before going home.
To her surprise, she found Veronka again in tears, and
several women with her.
“How have I ever deserved such kindness from you?”
she sobbed.
“ ’Tis but little we can give; we too are poor: but take
what we bring you, it is given with goodwill.” So said
Klembova, putting a large parcel in her hands.
The others chimed in:
“Such a mishap!”
“We know what it means to you, and our hearts are not
of stone.” ’
“And your goodman is away too, as ours are.”
“And that makes it so much harder for you!”
“Our Lord has sent a far heavier trial to you than to us.”
They had put their heads together to bring her what
they could: pease, pearl barley, ﬂour . . . and so forth:
“O kind goodwives, dear to me as ever my own mother
95 SPRING
was!” And she embraced them fondly, with many a sob,
whilst they wept with her.
But Hanka had no time to stay; so, glad that there were
still good people in the world, she hurried back to her cabin.
Though there was no direct sunlight, it was a pretty ﬁne
day, and plenty of sun ﬁltered through the clouds. The
sky rose above, like a great sheet of bluish canvas, with
white ragged kerchiefs of cloud laid out upon it. Beneath,
the ﬁelds expanded unendingly, distinctly seen, verdant in
places, and in others tawny with stubble or with bits of
fallow land, or bright with streams, glittering like window-
panes
Larks sang loud. From the plain was wafted the fresh
odour of springtime, redolent with moist warmth, and the
honey-sweet aromas of poplar-buds.
There was a breeze, but so soft that the down of the ﬁrst
verdure on the boughs was all but motionless.
About the church were congregated sparrows in such
countless multitudes that the wide-spreading branches of the
maples and lindens were black with them as with soot, and
the deafening din of their chirping was heard throughout the
village.
On the smooth lustrous pond, the ganders screamed,
watching their goslings, while the sharp squattering of the
washerwomen’s beaters told that a good deal of linen was
being bucked.
Rooms and passages stood wide open from one end of
the huts to the other, the wash was drying on the hedges,
bedding was being aired in the orchards, and in some places
they were whitewashing the walls. Swine, much vexed by
dogs, sniffed about in the ditches; and here and there a few
cows, lifting their horned heads from behind the fences,
would utter a plaintive bellow.
Many a wagon, too, was rolling along to town to make
purchases for Eastertide; but, immediately after noonday,
there came the old pedlar Yudka in his long cart, with his
wifesand a young olive-branch.
With a following of unfriendly dogs, they were driving
THE PEASANTS 96
from hut to hut, and seldom did old Yudka leave with
empty hands. For he was no cheat, such as the tavern-
keeper and many another: he gave good prices, and, if
anyone needed a loan till harvest-time, would grant one on
easy terms: a shrewd man, who knew all the folk in the vil-
lage, and how to deal with them. Often enough he had a
calf trotting after his wagon, or half a bushel of good corn
inside of it. His jewess did business, but on her own ac-
count, mostly by way of barter; getting eggs, cocks, or
moulting hens, for which she would give (at a scandalous
proﬁt) the frills and ribbons, the braid and pins, and other
articles of ﬁnery, so much coveted by the female sex.
As they passed Boryna’s, Yuzka rushed in with a shrill
cry:
“O Hanka, do buy some red tape! . . . And we want
log-wood to colour the Easter eggs! . . . And we need
thread also!”
Her voice had sunk to tones of whining entreaty.
“But you shall go to town to-morrow, and buy whatsoever
is needed.”
“Yes, yes, in town it will be cheaper, for they cheat less!”
she exclaimed, delighted at the thought of the morrow’s
drive; and ran at once, without prompting, to inform the
pedlars that they needed none of their wares, and had
nothing'for sale.
Hanka, peeping outside the door, shouted after her:
“Keep the fowls together, lest one should stray into that
wagon of theirs!”
Tereska, the soldier’s wife, now came running into the
premises, away (it seemed) from the jewess, who was shout-
ing something to her.
She rushed into the cabin, stammering, exceedingly red,
and very indignant. A tear or two glistened in her long~
lashes.
“O Tereska! what is the matter?” Hanka inquired with
curiosity.
“Why, that swindling woman will give me no more than
97 SPRING
ﬁfteen zloty for this woollen skirt. Quite new! And I am
in such terrible want of money just now!”
“Let me see it. . . . Is—is it dear?” She would have
liked to buy the skirt herself. -
“Worth at least thirty zloty! Quite new; seven cubits and
half a span of stuff! I put more than four pounds of pure
wool into it, and paid, moreover, for the dyeing.”
She spread it out on the table, where its vivid rainbow
tints blazed in the light.
“’Tis more beautiful than any skirt I ever saw! Oh,
what a pity I cannot buy it now! . . . I too am short of
money for Easter. If ye could but wait till Low Sunday?”
“But, alas! I want the money instantly!”
She rolled the skirt up swiftly, averting her head with a
sense of shame.
“The Voyt’s wife may purchase it: she generally has
money in her purse.”
Hanka took it once more, measured its length, and un-
willingly returned it. .
“You want to send something to your goodman in the
army, no doubt?”
“Yes! . . . he wrote . . . complaining . . . in great want.
-—Farewell !”
She left the hut in a great hurry. Yagustynka, who was
busy mashing potatoes in a tub, burst into a roar of laughter.
“You made her run so fast, ’tis a wonder she did not
lose her petticoat as she ﬂed l—lt is for Matthew she wants
the money, not for her husband!”
“What, are they intimate, then?” Hanka asked, much sur-
prised.
“Where do you live? In the forest?”
“But how was I to know about such a thing?”
, “Well, ’tis a fact; Tereska runs over to Matthew every
week, and wanders about outside the jail all day like a
dog, and sends him all she can get.”
“My God! what, has she not a goodman of her own?”
“True, but he is far away in the army, and none knows
THE PEASANTS 98
when he will return . . . and the woman felt lonely all by
herself . . . and there was Matthew at hand—a strapping
young buck. Wherefore, then, should she deny herself?"
Han'ka thought of Antek and Yagna, and fell into a
brown study.
“So, when they took Matthew, she made friends with
Nastka, his sister; they fadge together very well, and each
goes to the town along with the other: Nastka on the pre-
text of going to her brother, but in reality for Simon, son
of Dominikova.”
“Upon my word! ye know of all that happens!”
“ ’Tis not hard to guess; those fools cannot conceal aught.
Think of it!” she added sarcastically; “this creature selling
her last skirt that Matthew may get something good to eat!”
“In faith, folk will do strange things—I shall visit Antek.”
“The way is far . . . and in your present state? . . . It
might do you harm—Could not Yuzka go? Or . . . or
someone else?” Yagna’s name was on the tip of her tongue,
but she did not utter it.
“God helping, I shall take no harm. Roch said they per-
mit visitors at Easter, and I shall go.—-Ah! but we ought
to have brought those ﬂitches of bacon over to our own
side ere now!”
“Aye, they have lain in brine these three days: that
will do.--I’ll go at once.”
Yagustynka went. but was back directly, much agitated,
and with the news that half the meat had been taken away!
Hanka ran to the store-room, and Yuzka after her. Both
stood presently before the tub, dismayed, and wondering
how the meat had disappeared.
“No dog has done this!” Hanka exclaimed; “I can see
the cuts of a knife quite plainly—And a stranger, had he
stolen aught, would have taken all—It’s Yagna’s work!”
she said at last, rushing like a whirlwind into her room.
But she found it empty, save for old Boryna, staring as ever
into vacancy. ~
Thereupon Yuzka remembered that, on leaving the hut
that morning, Yagna was carrying something under her
99 SPRING
apron, which she had then thought to be the dress she was,
in company with Balcerek’s daughter, making up for
Eastertide.
“She has taken the meat to her mother’s. He that is
greedy for a thing cares little whose it is,” said Yagustynka.
The words put Hanka in a passion.
“Yuzka! call Pete. What remains must be taken over to
my store-room now!” _
This was done directly. She would have wished to take
the corn-barrels too at the same time, in order to overhaul
them at her ease; but she decided that there were too many _
of them, and the smith might come to hear of the matter.
But she looked out doggedly for Yagna all the afternoon,
and, when she came in at dusk, swooped down upon her and
accused her on the spot. -
“Aye, l have eaten it!” she coolly replied; “I have as much
right to it as you have!” Almost all the evening, Hanka
continued to upbraid her; but, as if to exasperate her of
set purpose, she answered not one word more. She even
came in to supper as if nothing had happened, and looked
her rival in the face with a smile. Hanka could not get
the better of her, and raged with impotent hate.
Everything therefore made her angry that evening; she
ﬂew out on the slightest provocation, and ﬁnally sent every-
one to bed earlier than usual. The morrow was Maundy
Thursday, and they would have to begin preparations for
Easter.
She too went to bed earlier than her wont, but it was
long before she could sleep. Hearing the dogs bark furi-
ously, she looked outside.
Yagna had not yet extinguished her lamp.
“It is late,” she called out crossly to her from the passage.
“Ye waste oil: think ye it costs nothing?”
“Ye may burn oil the whole night long, for all I care!”
was the retort; which put her into such a state that she
had not yet fallen asleep when the ﬁrst cock crew.
Early in the morning, Yuzka, though she was a great lie-
abed, jumped out ﬁrst, her mind full of her journey to town;
THE PEASANTS 100
she speedily woke the farm-lads, told them to get the horses
ready, and went back in a temper to quarrel with Hanka,
who had told Pete that the bay mare alone was to be put to.
“I will not go in the worst wagon of all, and drawn by a
blind mare!” she cried, bursting into tears. “Am I a beg-
gar, to travel in the dung-cart? They know me in the town
for Boryna’s daughterl—Father would never have allowed
me to go in such wise.”
By dint of wrangling she got her own way, and started
off in the large britzka, with a couple of good horses, and
the driver on the- seat in front, after the fashion of a farm—
er’s goodwife.
“Get some gilt paper, some red, and of all the other'
colours!” Vitek screamed 'to her from within the garden,
where he had been digging away ever since dawn, Hanka
intending to plant cabbages there that very day. Time
passed, however, and she did not come; so he ran out into
the road, and went off with the other boys twirling rattles
along the hedgerows. (No bells, as is the custom on Maundy
Thursday, were to be heard any more.)
The weather was rather quieter, but less cheerful, than on
the preceding day. The night had been cold; the morning was
dewy, hazy and cool till late in the forenoon: the swallows
twittered shivering under the eaves, and the geese, driven to
the pond, uttered louder and harsher notes. But, notwith-
standing, the whole village had been up and busy ere sun-
rise.
Long before breakfast-time, there had been the noisy hum
of strenuous work; and the children, sent out of the cabins,
where they would have been in the way, ﬁlled the lanes
with the din of their whirring rattles.
At Mass, celebrated on that day without bells or organ,
there were but few present.
No one had any time to go to church. All necessary prep-
arations for the great feast had to be made now. Chief of
these was the baking of loaves and cakes; and,“ in well-
nigh every hut, both doors ‘and windows were now fast closed,
lest the dough might fail to rise. The ﬁres burned bright,
lOl SPRING
and the smoke of the chimneys went up to the cloudy sky.
This, too, was the reason why not infrequently the cattle
lowed beside their empty mangers, and the swine rooted in
the gardens, and the poultry wandered about the roads, and
the children were left to do as they pleased—ﬁght each
other, or climb trees for birds’ nests. All the women were so
absorbed in the kneading and rolling out of the dough for
loaves and cakes, and all that pertained thereto, that they
had forgotten nearly everything else besides.
And in every home this bustle and stir was the same:
whether at the miller’s, the organist’s, or the priest’s;
whether amongst the farmers or the Komorm'kz'. However
poor, they had—were it by a loan or even by selling their
last half-bushel of wheat—to prepare the banquet of the
Hallow-fare, in order to get, at least once a year, meat and
other dainties in abundance.
As there were not baking-ovens in every hut, makeshifts
were built up in the orchards, and girls ran about, feeding
them with dry faggots and logs. And from time to time
there were seen women uncouthly attired and white with
ﬂour, carefully carrying dressers and kneading-troughs, full
of cakes as yet unbaked and hidden from the air, as the
statues of the saints are seen carried in a holy procession.
There was work, too, to be done in the church. The
priest-man had fetched a number of young ﬁr-trees from
the woods; and the organist, together with Roch and Am-
brose, were adorning Our Lord’s Sepulchre.
When Good Friday came, the work was still more ab-
sorbing, so that but few noticed the arrival of Yanek, the
organist’s son, who had come over for the holidays, and was
going about the village, now and then taking a peep into
the cottage windows.
Entering anywhere was out of the question: the passages,
nay, even the orchard paths were blocked up with presses
and bedsteads and all sorts of furniture; for on that day
they whitewashed the cabins in all haste, scrubbed the ﬂoors,
and cleaned the holy images that had been taken outside.
A great hurry-scurry and confusion prevailed everywhere:
THE PEASANTS 102
people were running about, urging the others to make haste
and thereby increasing the turmoil. Even the children were
now employed to clear the premises of mud, and sprinkle
yellow sand everywhere.
It being an ancient custom to eat nothing warm from Good
Friday till Easter Sunday, the people chose to suffer a little
hunger in our Lord's honour, eating only dry bread and
potatoes that had been roasted.
The hurry and bustle were just the same at Boryna’s, with
the difference that there were more hands to work and less
trouble about money, so that all was ready sooner.
On Friday, at the ﬁrst glimmer of dawn, Hanka had,
together with Pete, ﬁnished whitewashing the cabin and out~
houses, after which, and a hasty toilet, she had gone to
church, where the other women were already assembled to
be present at the carrying of the Lord’s Body to the Sepul-
chre.
In the cabin, a big ﬁre was blazing up the chimney; and
on it, in a vast cauldron that a couple of men could hardly
lift, an entire ham was simmering, while sausages bobbed
up and down in a smaller pot; from these the room was
penetrated with so strong and delicious a scent that Vitek,
busy whittling toys for the little ones, would again and again
lift up his nose, and sniff and draw a deep breath of long-
ing.
Before the ﬁre—place, and in the brightest light of the
ﬂames, sat Yagna and Yuzka, amicably engaged in colour-
ing the Easter eggs, though each vied with the other and
kept her methods secret. Yagna washed hers ﬁrst in tepid
water, dried them, and then overlaid them with dots and
patches of melted wax, and plunged them successively into
the seething contents of three small pots. It was tedious
work; the wax scaled off sometimes, or the eggs broke under
her hands, or burst in the boiling; but she succeeded with
about thirty. And then, oh, what things of beauty they
were! ' '
The idea of Yuzka as Yagna’s rival! Hers had been
boiled with ears of rye and onion-skins that stained them a
103 SPRING
pretty reddish-brown, which she had embellished with
variegated white and yellow patterns, uncommonly pleasing
to the eye. . . . But, when she saw Yagna’s work, she re-
mained open-mouthed with amazement, presently followed
by‘ vexation and annoyance.-—-Why, they dazzled the eyes
with their red and yellow and violet tints, and colours like
ﬁelds of blue ﬂax-ﬂowers! And upon those backgrounds
there were painted such wonders that she could not believe
her eyes: on one, cocks perched upon a fence and crowing
open-beaked; on another, a lot of geese hissing at a sow
that wallowed in the mud: here you saw a ﬂock of doves
ﬂying over a crimson ﬁeld, and there fantastic traceries of
a bewildering type, and like the frost-patterns on the panes
in winter.
Wondering, she gazed upon them again and again.
Hanka, too, looked at them when she got back from church
with Yagustynka, but said not one word. Only the old
woman, after a glance at them all, gave vent to her sur-
prise:
“How in the world have ye come by such fancies? Dear,
dearV’
“How? Why, they just ﬂowed from my head to my
ﬁngers.”
She was pleased with herself.
“Ye might take a few to his Reverence.”
“I shall offer him some; it may be that he will accept
them.”
“His Reverence, indeed! Never saw such marvels! Will
be thunderstruck with them!” Hanka muttered ironically,
when Yagna had gone from the room.
That evening many villagers sat up late.
It was a black night, overcast, though still. The mill
clattered on steadily, and the lamps gleamed in the hut-
windows till close on midnight, throwing many streaks of
light out into the lanes and over the trembling surface of
the pond.
Saturday came, quite warm and a little hazy, but brighter
than the previous day; so that the people, notwithstanding
THE PEASANTS 104
the hard work done already, rose blithely to encounter what
was coming.
Outside the church, there was a great noise and tumult:
for, according to immemorial custom, on that day (which
brought Lent to its close) they had come together in the
early morning to give a funeral to the (m: 1 and herrings on
which they had been feeding all Lent through. There were
no grown-up men in Lipka now; so the youngsters arranged
the funeral, with Yasyek Topsy-turvy at their head. They
had got, somewhere or other, a big pot of (M, to which they
had added certain ﬁlthy matters besides.
Vitek let himself be enticed into carrying the pot, which
dangled from his shoulder in a net, whilst another little
fellow, at his side, dragged along the ground a herring cut
out of wood and attached to a string. They went foremost,
the others trooping behind with a deafening noise of rattles
and shouts.
Yasyek directed the procession: though somewhat idiotic
in life, he had quite enough brains for such tomfoolery.
They went in procession round the pond and church, and
turned off to the poplar road where the funeral was to take
place . . . when suddenly Yasyek struck at the pot with
a spade and shivered it to pieces! And the (W, with all
its ﬁlth, poured over Vitek’s clothes!
This practical joke made everybody laugh very heartily,
except Vitek, who ﬂew at Yasyek and fought with him and
with the other boys until, overpowered by numbers, he was
forced to ﬂee roaring home.
There he got a beating besides from Hanka, for having
ruined his coat; and then she sent him to the woods to get
sprays of pine-boughs for decorations.
Pete laughed at him into the bargain; nor did even Yuzka
show him sympathy. She was busily engaged in strewing
all the premises as far as the road with sand brought from
1Zur is a sort of soup made of ﬂour and water, mixed with bran
and left to ferment till it is sour. It is then boiled wrth various
seasonings.-Translator’s Note.-
'10'5 SPRING
the churchyard; its yellow was deepest there. She scattered
it over the whole drive up to the porch, and all round the
eaves, encircling the cabin with a saffron-coloured girdle.
And now, in Boryna’s cabin, they began to set forth the
victuals that were to be blessed by the priest.
The great room had been well scoured and sanded, the
windows cleaned, and all traces of cobwebs brushed away
from the images on the walls. Yagna’s bed, too, had been
covered with a beautiful shawl.
Hanka, Yagna and Dominikova, working together, though
in all but absolute silence, had dragged a' large table near
the corner window, parallel to the bed where Boryna lay,
and covered it with a white linen table-cloth, the edges of
which Yagna had embellished with a border of red paper
fantastically cut out. In the centre, and opposite the win-
dow, they then set up a big cruciﬁx, adorned with paper
ﬂowers, and in front of this, upon a dish turned bottom up-
wards, a lamb moulded out of butter by Yagna so cleverly
that it seemed alive. Its eyes were rosary beads; its tail,
ears, hoofs and the banner over it were made of crisp red
wool! After this, there came a ﬁrst row of great loaves
and Wheaten cakes large and small, white or tawny; some
stuck all over with raisins (certain of these being specially
made for Yuzka and the little ones); others. again. were very
dainty ones all of curds, or frosted with sugar and sprinkled
with poppy-seed. And, quite at the end. there stood. on one
side, an enormous dish full of great snaky coils of sausages,
and hard-boiled eggs (white, for they had been shelled)
within the coils to adorn them; on the other, a pan contain-
ing an entire ham, and a huge piece of so-called “head-
cheese,” all these gay with coloured eggs strewn about.
But the whole affair still awaited the coming of Vitek with
the sprays and sprigs of pine-needles to give it the ﬁnishing
touch. \
As they brought this work to an end. several neighbours
came in with dishes and baskets containing their own Easter
victuals, which they put near the table on a side-bench.
THE PEASANTS 106
There was not time enough for the priest to go round to all
the cabins, so he had told them to bring their Easter feast
to a few of the largest cottages.
Lipka being his own dwelling-place, he used to give the
blessing there last of all, and very often only near nightfall.
The people, consequently, prepared everything early, that
they might be in church in time for the “blessing of the
ﬁre and of the water,” having previously extinguished their
own ﬁres at home, which were subsequently to be again
lighted at the newly consecrated ﬂame.
Yuzka ran to church for that purpose; but she had to wait
very long, and it was nearly midday when she returned,
carefully protecting the light of a taper just kindled in
church. Along with the ﬁre, she brought a bottle of holy
water. Hanka immediately lit the ﬁre-wood set ready for
kindling, and ﬁrst of all drank a gulp of holy water, piously
believed to preserve folk from ailments of the throat; she
then gave some to each of the others in turn, and lastly
sprinkled with it the live stock and the fruit-trees of the
orchard, that the cattle might bring forth their young with-
out trouble, and the trees abound with fruit.
Later, seeing that neither Yagna nor the smith’s wife had
taken any care at all of Boryna, she washed his body with
tepid water, combed his matted hair, and changed his linen
and bedding; he meanwhile lying as usual with blankly
staring eyes.
After noontide, it was a sort of half-holiday. Although
some people had still a little of the more tiresome work to
ﬁnish, the most part were getting themselves ready for
the coming feast, combing and washing and scrubbing the
children, till many a hut resounded to their cries and
screams. -
It was only just before nightfall that the priest came in
from the outlying villages. He wore his surplice; Michael,
the organist’s pupil, went after him, bearing a holy-water
pot and sprinkling-brush. Hanka came to meet him at
the gate.
He came in quickly, being in a hurry, said the prayers,
107 SPRING
sprinkled “God’s gifts,” and cast a glance on Boryna’s livid
hairy face.
“No change? eh?” .
“None. The wound is all but healed, yet he is no better.”
“The boy who sold me the stork—where is he?”
Vitek turned very red, and Yuzka pushed him forward.
“Ye have trained it well: it keeps the fowls out of the
garden, and none dare venture in.—Here are ﬁve kopeks for
you.-—Are any of you going to see your husbands to-
morrow?”
“Half the village at least.”
“Good; but behave yourselves, and do not brawl—And
come to the Resurrection Service now: it is at ten. At ten,
mind! And,” he added sharply, as he went out, “should
anyone fall asleep, Ambrose has orders to put him out of the
church.” '
Several people followed him as far as the miller’s.
But Vitek, showing the copper coin to Yuzka, said crossly:
“My stork will not drive his fowls out for long. Oh, no!”
The darkness fell slowly. Dusk came down over the earth,
drowning cottages, orchards and ﬁelds in a bluish semi-
transparentmurk. The low cabin-walls alone were here and
there dimly visible. Athwart the orchards ﬂashed a few
ﬂickering lights, and a pale half-moon gleamed in the sky.
It was the calm of Easter eve that enveloped the village;
through the darkness, the church-windows, high above the
cottages, were seen shedding ﬂoods of light afar, and out of
the great wide-open door poured streams of splendour.
Then the ﬁrst carts came rumbling in, stopping in front
of' the churchyard; and the people arrived on foot from the
farthest hamlets. Many also came from the cottages of
Lipka; not infrequently the doors would open and a streak
of light ﬂash forth, plunging into the jet-black pond; and
the patter of footsteps and half-hushed murmurs came
multitudinous through the warm and misty air. Greeting
one another on the way, the crowd, like a river that rises
slowly but unceasingly, pressed onwards to the “Resur-
rection Service.”

THE PEASANTS 108
In Boryna’s cabin and the surrounding outhouses, no one
remained on guard but the dogs, old Bylitsa and Vitek, who
was hard at work with Maciek, Klemba’s son, making a
cock that was to perform wonderful feats a few days later.
Hanka ﬁrst sent Yuzka to church, along with the little
ones and Pete; she herself, she said, would follow presently.
Yet, when dressed, she lingered on, awaiting something,
it seemed; for she continually went out and watched the road
from the passage. When she had seen Yagna set out with
Magda, and heard the smith in talk with the Voyt on their
way to church. she returned to the hut, and showed some-
thing in silence to the old man. He thereupon went outside
to watch, while she walked on tiptoe to her father-in-law’s
store-room. . . . A good half-hour elapsed before she came
out, carefully buttoning something in her bodice. Her eyes
sparkled; her hands were shaking.
Murmuring incoherent words, she went on to the “Resur-
rection Service.”
CHAPTER V
lights were out; the laggards were now dropping in to
church. Outside stood a number of carts, with horses
unharnessed, whose pawing and snorting made their presence
heard in the gloom. Close to the belfry, several Manor-
house coaches loomed apart.
Hanka, on entering the porch, set something straight in
her bodice, loosened her shawl that wrapped her too closely,
and vigorously elbowed her way to the ﬁrst pews.
The church was very full indeed. The close-pressed
congregation was massed in the aisles; and, with mingled
prayers, ejaculations and coughs, they swayed and swung
from wall to wall, till the banners stuck in the pews, and the
ﬁr saplings which adorned the church, began to wave also.
Scarcely had she pushed through to her place, when the
priest began the service.
They fell on their knees devoutly, and the press became
still greater, till all knelt close together, like a ﬁeld of heads
--a cluster of human plants—but with eyes swiftly darting
and ﬂying up to the high altar, whereon stood the ﬁgure
of jesus, risen from the dead, with bare limbs, draped only
in a crimson mantle, holding His banner in His hand, and
showing His ﬁve wounds to them all!
By degrees their prayers grew intensely fervent; words
uttered low, and presently sighs, came welling up to their
lips, like the sounds of raindrops falling on leaves; and then
their heads bent lower still, their arms were stretched forth
towards the altar beseechingly, and stiﬂed weeping was
heard. Under the shadow of the dark naves with their lofty
pillars, the crowd seemed as clumps of brushwood amongst
the great trees of some immemorial forest; for, though the
IT was pitch-dark in the lanes; in every cottage all the
109
THE PEASANTS 110
altar was ablaze with tapers, the church itself was shrouded
in gloom, and the black night crept in through the windows
and the wide-open portal.
But Hanka could not compose herself to pray; she
trembled all over, not less upset than when in her father-
in-law’s store-room a while before.
Once more, and shudderingly, she felt her hands plunging
in the cool grains of corn; and she pressed her shoulders
forward, to make sure that the bundle was still nestling
between her breasts.
joy and terror alternately held her in their grip. The
rosary slipped from her ﬁngers; she could not remember her
prayers; looking round with eyes aﬂame, she recognized no
one, though Yuzka and Yagna with her mother sat close by.
In the pews which stood on either side of the sanctuary,
the ladies from the manors of Rudka, Modlitsa and Volka
were reading out of prayer-books; at the sacristy-door
several squires stood talking to each other; gaudily arrayed,
the miller’s wife and the organist’s were standing close to
the high altar on either side. But, just outside the Com-
munion railings, once the place for the ﬁrst amongst the
Lipka farmers—who were the overseers at every service,
who carried the canopy over his Reverence and supported
his steps in the processions—there now knelt a dense multi—
tude of peasants from other villages, and scarce any to
represent Lipka but the Voyt, the Soltys and the carroty-
headed blacksmith.
Besides Hanka’s, other eyes too wandered in that direc-
tion, sorrowful, and remembering the absent dear ones.
Those men, once the foremost in the parish, were alone not
to be seen there now! The thought depressed them, and
bore many a head down to the pavement, with painful
memories of their present bereavement.
Alas! it was the greatest festival in the whole year-—
Easter! So many other faces were there, from other parts
of the parish, full of gladness, though a little emaciated by
the long fast of Lent. Folk had come, splendidly clad, to
lll SPRING
swagger in the church like Manor-folk, and occupy all the
best places; and the poor men of Lipka—where were they?
In dungeons, suffering cold and hunger, and longing for
home!
For all but them it was the great day of joy. The others
would presently return home and enjoy life and rest and
food, the sunny springtime, and friendly talk: but not the
poor Lipka folk!
They would crawl back to their desolate homesteads,
lonely, drooping, miserable; would eat their Easter meal
in tears, and go to their couches full of unrest and vain
desires.
“O Lord! O Lord!” were the dreary half-stiﬂed ejacula-
tions that went up around Hanka’s pew, and made her at
last come to herself again and look upon the well-known
faces and eyes dimmed with tears. Even Yagna hung her
head over her book, crying bitterly, till her mother nudged
her to bring her back to reality. But the source of her
misery was far different, and nothing could allay it. Was
it not at Christmas, in this very pew, that she had heard his
burning whisper and felt his head droop down upon her
knee? The thought tore her breast with a sudden excruciat-
ing yearning.
It was then that his Reverence began to preach, and they
all rose from their knees, thronging round the pulpit as
close as might be—every face turned to hear him. First he
spoke of our Lord’s Passion, and of those vile Jews who
cruciﬁed Him for coming to save the world, deal justice to
the oppressed, and uphold the cause of the needy. And he
set the sufferings of Jesus so vividly before their eyes that
many a one grew hot with indignation, and more than one
peasant, eager to avenge Christ, clenched his ﬁst; and all
the womenfolk sobbed aloud in chorus.
And then he turned upon the people themselves; bending
forward over the pulpit, he shook his ﬁsts, crying out that
every day, every hour, everywhere, Jesus was cruciﬁed by
our sins, slain by our wickedness, our ungodliness, our con-
THE PEASANTS 112
tempt for God’s law; that we all cruciﬁed Him within
ourselves anew, forgetful of His sacred onnds and of the
blood He shed for our salvation!
At the words, the whole congregation burst into a tempest
of wailing and sobbing; and such a storm of lamentation
swept through aisles and nave that he had to pause awhile.
Then he went on to speak, but more cheerful and with
words of comfort, of the Resurrection of Christ. Of that
springtide which the Lord in His bounty sends—and will
always send—to sinful men, until such time as He shall
come to judge the living and the dead, and abase the proud,
and hurl the wicked into the ﬁres of hell, and place the good
on His right hand in everlasting glory. Yea! the time
should come when all injustice should have an end, all
wrong receive its punishment, all tears be wiped away,
all evil enchained for ever!
He spoke so earnestly and with such kindness of heart
that every word of his sank into their minds with sweet
mastery, and brought sunshine into every soul; and everyone
felt consoled and radiant—except his hearers of Lipka.
These quivered with anguish, with the remembrance of the
wrongs done them racking their minds. They burst out
crying and groaning, and threw themselves down upon the
pavement with outstretched arms, asking from the bottom of
their hearts for mercy and relief in their Woes.
Throughout the church the emotion was profound. A
universal cry arose; but soon they remembered where they
were, raised up the prostrate women of Lipka, and com-
forted them with kind words. His Reverence, too, deeply
moved, wiped away his tears with his surplice sleeve; and
then he reminded them how our Lord chastiseth them that
He loveth; and said that though they had not done aright,
their punishment would very shortly be ended. “Let them
but trust in the Lord, and they would very shortly see the
return of their husbands.”
Thus he quieted and relieved them, and they once more
began to take conﬁdence.
Presently the priest, from the high altar, intoned the
ll3 SPRING
grand “Resurrection chant”; theorgan took it up with a
roar and boomed sonorously; all the bells rang out and
pealed aloud. And then his Reverence, bearing the Most
Holy Sacrament, surrounded with a thin blue cloud of
incense smoke and the tumultuous din in the belfry, came
down towards the people. The chant was continued, burst-
ing forth from every throat; the waves of the crowd tossed
and rolled, a ﬁery blast of enthusiasm dried every tear and
lifted every soul to Heaven. So all together, like a living
and moving human grove, swaying hither and thither as
they sang the hymn in grand unison, went forward in pro-
cession, following the priest holding the Monstrance aloft
in front of him. as a golden sun that burned above their
heads, with chants sounding on all sides and bright tapers
all around, scarce visible through the smoke shot forth
from the censers: the object of the gaze of every eye, of
the love of every heart!
With slow and measured steps did the procession wend
along the nave and thread the aisles, in a close-packed,
surging, vociferously sonorous crowd.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! The noise was
deafening; the very pillars and arches thrilled to the chant.
Hearts and throats burst forth with one accord; and those
glowing voices, instinct with mystic ﬁre, ﬂew up to the
vault like ﬂame-birds, and sailed out afar into the night,
seeking the sun away in those regions to which at such
times the soul of man mounts upon the wings of rapture.
It was close on midnight when the service ended and the
congregation began to break up. Hanka lingered behind.
She had been praying ecstatically; for the priest’s words
had ﬁlled her with conﬁdence, and the service itself, to-
gether with the memory of what she had that very day
achieved, gave her such intense joy that she desired to lay
it all at the feet of Jesus Risen. But Ambrose at last came
jingling his keys and signifying to her that she must now
leave the church.
As she went out, even that passion of fear for Antek
which lived within her heart and was wont to start up on the
THE PEASANTS 114
slightest occasion, had as she thought suddenly died out
of her.
She saw at a distance the rest of her household plodding
home. The carts were rolling along in an unbroken pro-
cession, and the foot-passengers had to go in groups by the
side of the road, almost invisible now that the moon had
set and darkness reigned. ' i
In the warm quiet night, damp with abundant dew, the
breeze blowing athwart the ﬁelds was laden with the raw
moist odour of the earth; and from the roads there came
the honey-sweet fragrance of budding poplars and birches.
Folk swarmed along through the shadows; where the gloom
was less pitch-black, a few heads appeared, dimly visible.
Steps and voices resounded on every side; angry dogs
barked, rushing along behind the palings; and in hut and
cabin, lights began to gleam.
Hanka, after taking a look into the byre and stable as she
entered, went in and laid herself down at once.
“Let him but return and be master here: I shall never
say a word to him of what has been,” was her resolution
while she was undressing—“Ah, but,” she thought once
more, hearing Yagna opening the door on the other side,
“what if he should fall and go to her again?”
Listening, thinking, she lay still for some time. All was
growing silent, with the hum of voices fading into the
distance, and the faint clatter of the last wagons going
away.
“-——Then there would be no God, no justice in this
world!” she ejaculated ﬁercely.—-But a deep sleep came
over her, and she gave up thinking of this.
The village awoke very late the next day.
Morning was already opening his pale-blue slumberous
eyes, and as yet those of the Lipka folk were all fast closed.
The sun rose directly in the East, making the ponds and
the dewy meadows glitter: its beams ﬂoated down from
the pallid sky above, singing to the world its Hallelujah—
its song of warmth and light.
1'15 SPRING
Merry and sparkling, that song was echoed among the
ground-mists: birds twittered gladly, the waters tinkled and
bubbled with mirth, the great woods murmured, the breeze
blew, the young leaves quivered, the very clods were
a-tremble; and from the undulating ﬂeeces on the corn-lands,
bright dew-drops fell like tears upon the earth.
“Ah! the grand day of joy for us is dawning:
Conqueror of death, Christ rose on Easter morning!
Hallelujah !”
Yes, Christ had risen—He, tortured and slain by the
wickedness of men. Again He had returned to life, He,
the Well-beloved, as light rising up in darkness; had opened
the cruel grip of death; for the welfare of man He had
vanquished the invincible. And behold Him now, in that
spring season, hiding mysteriously in His sacred sun, to
sow happiness throughout the world—to rouse the faint—to
quicken the dead—to raise the fallen ones, and make fertile
the fallows!
One cry echoed over all the land: Hallelujah! for the
great day that the Lord had made!
In Lipka alone were the folk less uproariously joyful
than in former years.
They slept most soundly. Only when the sun had risen
above the orchards did the people begin to move, and the
doors to creak, and unkempt tousled heads to peep outside
the cabins at the country-side steeped in light, ringing with
the songs of larks, and overspread with delicate verdure.
So at Boryna’s, too, the folk were sleeping. Hanka alone,
anxious that Pete should get the horses and britzka ready,
rose a little earlier, and then set to making out the portions
of the Hallow-fare for each.
Yuzka, fussy and chattering, was presently engaged in
tidying the children, and putting on their best clothes; and
at the well in the court-yard Pete and Vitek were washing
themselves thoroughly, while old Bylitsa amused himself
with the dog in the porch, and from time to time sniffed
inquiringly. Had Hanka yet begun slicing the sausages?
THE PEASANTS ' 116
According to custom immemorial, they lit no ﬁre that
day, but ate the Hallow-fare cold. Hanka had just fetched
it out of old Boryna’s apartments, and was setting it out
on plates, for everyone to get an equal portion of sausage,
ham, cheese, bread, and eggs, and sweet cake.
Then, having ﬁrst completed her own toilet, she called
everyone in . . . even Yagna, who at once made her appear-
ance, beautifully arrayed, and looking fair as the dawning
sun, her eyes of turquoise—blue shining beneath her glossy
ﬂaxen hair.—All were in the very best apparel. Vitek,
indeed, was bare-footed; but he wore a new spencer with
bright buttons; the latter begged from Pete, who made his
appearance clean-shaven, his hair freshly cut straight over
his forehead, wearing a completely new suit—a black-blue
{upan with green and yellow-striped trousers, and a shirt
tied with a red ribbon. When he came in, everyone was
amazed at his transformation, and Yuzka clapped her hands
with delight.
“O Pete! your own mother would not know you!”
And Bylitsa observed: “Once he has thrown off that
dog’s skin of a uniform, he’s as ﬁne a peasant as any!”
Greatly ﬂattered, Pete smiled, rolled his eyes at Yagna,
and drew himself up stiffly.
Hanka, crossing herself, drank to each in turn and made
them sit down at table, on the benches. Even Vitek took a
seat timidly at one end.
They ate with the utmost deliberation, taking into them-
selves with religious silence all the savour of the food they
had gone without for so many weeks. The sausages had a
strong ﬂavour of the garlic with which they had been
abundantly supplied; the room reeked with it, and the dogs
pressed in to enjoy its pungent scent.
No one said a word until the ﬁrst pangs of hunger had
been appeased.
Pete was ﬁrst to speak. “Are we to start directly?”
“Yes, as soon as breakfast is over.”
“Yagustynka,” Yuzka reminded her, “wished to go to town
with you.”
117 SPRING
“If she come in time, she shall: but 1 do not wait for
her.”
“Any provender?”
“Enough for one feed only: we return in the evening.”
They continued to eat till their faces were ﬂushed with
delight, and they felt their garments tight about them, and
some had eyes starting from their sockets. This slowness in
eating was intentional, that they might stow away as much
as possible and enjoy their meal to the full; and when
Hanka rose from table, there was nothing empty about
them; Pete and Vitek even carried away to the stable all
the remains of their portions, to ﬁnish them later.
“Now,” Hanka’s command rang out, “put the horses to,
this instant!”—-And, having made up for her husband such
a parcel as she scarce could lift, sherdressed for the journey.
Yagustynka came in quite out of breath, and just as the
horses were pawing the ground outside the cabin.
“We were about to start without you!”
“Alas! and the Hallow-fare is over?” She sniffed rue-
fully and drew a long breath.
“There is yet a morsel or two: sit down and take what’s
left.”
The poor hungry creature needed no pressing. Ravenous
as a wolf, she set to, and swept the platter clean.
“When the Lord Jesus created the pig, He knew well what
He was doing!” she exclaimed, after a few mouthfuls; add-
ing, as a gentle hint in the form of a joke: “Strange,
though, that men let; it wallow in the mud during life, and
are afterwards so willing to wash it in vodka!”
“Well, here is s ’me: drink our healths and be quick:
there is no time!”
In about the sp ce of a Pater, they were off. From the
britzka, Hanka re inded Yuzka not to forget her father.
She immediately ent to him with a plateful of various
meats, and tried t_ speak with him. Though he did not
reply, he swallowed 11 she put in his mouth, staring vacantly
as ever. Possibly himight have taken some more; but
Yuzka soon tired of \eeding him, and ran out to the gate

THE PEASANTS 118
to look at the many women, either driving (there were
upwards of a score of wagons) or else trudging to town with,
great packs on their shoulders.
Soon, however, the clatter ceased, and melancholy reigned
throughout the village. ,
Yes, melancholy! notwithstanding the bright sun on high,
and that pond as of glass mingled with ﬁre, and the trees
all bathed in aromatic perfumes and brilliantly fresh green
tints, and the quiet loveliness of spring now spreading over
the world—the blue haze on the vast rolling plain, the larks,
that sang, the\far-off villages tremulous under the blaze
of day, and resounding with loud pistol-shots and merry-
making! ‘
Lipka, Lipka alone, was sad, abandoned, forsaken; and
the hours there crept drearin and wearily by.
Noon was at hand, when Roch went over to Boryna’s,,to
see after the sick man, and have a talk with the childrena
and sit in the sun. He read\for a while, often lifting his
eyes to the road, and presently\saw the smith’s wife come
in with her little ones. She sat ‘dpwn outside the hut, after
having looked in at her father’s",
“Is your goodman at home?” Roch asked her after \a
pause. . _ u ’ '
“Oh, no! Gone to town withthe Yoy't.”
“All Lipka is there to-day.” \
“Aye. and the poor sufferers will have some morsels of
the Hallow~fare to comfort them.”
Yagna was just going out.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Have ye nolt gone to town with
your mother?”
“And what business have I there?” sh returned, stepping
out of the enclosure, and looking wistfu ly along the road.
Magda sighed. “She has a new skirt on to-day!”
“’Twas Mother’s!” Yuzka told herrisullenly. “Did ye
not see that? All those coral and a
bosom were Mother’s as well. The ker
her' own-nothing else!” /
“True. So many a thing have his, dead wives left him!
ber beads on her
rfhief on her head is
119 . S P R l N G.
He never would let us touch any; and now all are hers, to
strut about in!”
“Yet she railed at them the other day—told Nastka the
garments were mouldy and noisome!”
“Oh, may they smell of devil’s dirt to her!”
“Let Father but be healed! . . . I shall tell him instantly
about the corals. . Five strings of them there were, every
one as long as a whip, and each bead as big as the largest
pea!”—And Magda, having said her say, heaved a deep
sigh, and spoke no more—Yuzka slipped away; Vitek,
outside the stable, was busily constructing a toy something
like a cock; while the children played in the porch with
the dogs, under the eyes of old Bylitsa, who watched over
them as a hen over her chickens.
“Is the ﬁeld-work here ﬁnished?” Roch inquired of him.
“Aye, as far as pea-sowing and potato-planting go: no
more.”
“Few folk here can say as much.”
“All will be well, we are told: the men are to be set free
on Low Sunday.”
“Who, then, knew so much . . . and said it?”
“’Twas a whisper that went about the congregation.—
And Kozlova is to go and beseech the Squire!”
“The more fool she! Was it the Squire who cast them
into prison?”
“His intercession might set them free.”
“Once he did speak, but naught came of it.”
“Had he but a little goodwill! But my goodman says he
hates Lipka, and will do naught for us. . . .” Here Magda
broke off abruptly, and became more interested in her
children, and Roch listened in vain for any more informa-
tion from her.
“And when,” he asked with interest, “when is Kozlova
going to him?”
“At once, as soon as noon is past.”
“Well, then, all she will get of it will be a walk and some
fresh air.”
She did not reply. Just then, the Squire’s brother, Mr.
THE PEASANTS . 120
Yacek, commonly held to be somewhat feeble-minded, came
in from the road into the enclosure, with his long yellow
beard and wandering eyes, bowed down, pipe in mouth and
violin under his arm as usual. Roch went out to meet him.
They surely must have been well acquainted; for they went
and sat together on the stones by the shore of the mill-pond,
and talked so long that it was well into the afternoon when
they separated. But Roch came back to the porch, out of
sorts and gloomy.
“That gentleman,” Bylitsa remarked, “has grown so thin,
I scarcely knew him.”
“Did ye know him of old, then?” said Roch, dropping his
voice as he glanced at the blacksmith’s wife.
“To be sure, I did. . . . He was a gay youngster once
upon a time. . . . Aye, and a sad fellow with the wenches.
. . . In Vola, they said, not one of them slipped through
his ﬁngers—Ah, and I remember what splendid horses he
used to ride—and what a rake he was—Aye, aye, I re-
member well,” the old man said maunderingly.
“For that he is now doing a sore penance. A sore
penance, I say—Are ye not the oldest man in the village?”
“Nay, Ambrose must be older: I cannot remember him but
as an old man.”
“He himself,” the smith’s wife put in, “says that Death
has overlooked him.” ,
“No, Dame Crossbones never overlooks anyone; but she
leaves him to the last, that he may repent. For he is greatly
hardened.”
Bylitsa continued, after a long silence: “I remember the
time when there were no more than ﬁfteen peasants’ farms
in Lipka.” He moved his hand hesitatingly towards Roch’s
snuff-box, which the latter offered him at once, saying:
“And now there are a couple of score.”
“So the land must be divided again and again. Whether
the harvest be rich or poor, the folk must always grow
poorer. Ye cannot make the land to stretch. Yet a few
more years, and there will be too little for us to live upon.”
121 SPRING
“In truth, we are straitened enough as it is now,” the
smith’s wife observed.
“Yes; and when our lads marry, there will be no more
than one acre apiece for their children.”
“Therefore,” Roch said, “they will have to go abroad.”
“And what will they do there? Shall they clutch at ,the
winds, and grasp them in their bare hands?”
“But,” he somewhat ruefully observed, “there are some
German settlers who have purchased land of the Squire
of Slupia, and are working it now: seventy acres to each
settlement.”
“Of that I have heard. But the Germans are wealthy, and
know much: they do business with the jews, and proﬁt by
the sufferings of others. Were that same land to be taken
up by empty-handed peasants like us, they would not sow
it thrice! For us, there is scant room in Lipka. While
that man—why, he has no end of broad acres that lie
fallow close by!” And with a sweep of his arm he pointed
to the Manor lands beyond the mill, shelving up towards
the forest, and black with heaps of lupines.
“All that land,” he went on to say, “is close to our own,
and might be parcelled out into thirty small holdings—But
the Squire would never sell it: such a rich man cares naught
for money.”
“Rich? He?” the smith’s wife broke in. “He needs
money as a mudﬁsh needs mud. Why, he is driven to
borrow from the very peasants. The jews are dunning him
now for what they advanced him upon the forest he cannot
sell them. He is in arrears with the taxes, does not pay
his own people—they have not yet received what is due
them in kind for the New Year. He is in debt to everyone;
and now that the government has forbidden him to cut
down any timber till the peasants’ consent is obtained, how
is he to get money to pay? He will not be master of Vola
very long, not hel—They say he is seeking a purchaser.”
Here she broke short as unexpectedly as she had begun, and
all Roch’s efforts to draw her out a little more were useless;
THE PEASANTS 122
she put him off with a few commonplace remarks, and pres-
ently withdrew with her little ones. .
“Her goodman,” old Bylitsa thought, “must have told her
many things, but she fears to speak of them. . . . True, the
lands close to Lipka are fertile, and the meadows give an
aftermath. Even so . . And he went on pondering,
with his eyes ﬁxed upon the ﬁelds adjoining the forest, and
on the Manor farm-buildings.—Roch had meanwhile per-
ceived Kozlova near the pond with other women, and gone
over to her in haste.
Meanwhile Bylitsa thought: “We now have beaten the
Squire. Now is the time for us peasants to make the most
of our advantage.-—Surely.--We might found another vil-
lage: there would be lands enough, and hands enough willing
to till it. . . .” But the babies had got out into the road,
and this put an end to his musings.
The bells had sounded for Evensong.
The sun was rolling down towards the forest; and over
the roadway and mill-pond the shadows were growing
longer. All was so quiet that, far away in the distance, a
cart was heard to clatter, or a bird to cry out in the copses.
Some women had come back from town, and everyone was
running to hear the news they had brought.
His Reverence had driven over to Volka, directly after
Vespers: to a party at the Manor, Ambrose said. The
organist had gone with all his people to visit the miller,
and his son Yanek, in splendid attire, had accompanied his
mother, saluting on his way the lasses behind their garden-
palings, who peered out at him.
As the evening drew on slowly, the afterglow ﬁlled half
the sky with sheets of blood-red ﬁre, scattered about like
brightly burning embers; and the waters turned crimson,
and the window-panes gleamed ruddily, as more wagons
came back from town, and in front of the cabins the noise
grew louder.
Though Hanka was not yet home, there was plenty of
life and din in front of her hut too. A number of little
girls of Yuzka’s age had come to see her, and were all
123 SPRING
warbling and twittering around her like a bevy of ﬁnches,
and laughing at Yasyek Topsy-turvy: while Yuzka was
treating them to such dainties as the cabin afforded on
that day. .
Nastka, much older than any of the others, was their
leader. She was making fun of Yasyek, because, blockhead
though he was, he tried to give himself rollicking airs.
He stood just then before them all, wearing a brand-new
spencer and a hat cocked at a considerable angle, and
saying with a smiling look and arms akimbo:
“All of you must respect me—me, the only man in the
village!”
“Not so: others as good as you are tending the kine!”
said one.
“Or wiping babies’ noses!” cried another.
Yasyek, in no wise taken aback, answered them loftily:
“Such chits as ye are—mere goose-girls as yet——are not
to my taste!”
“Why, the fellow kept kine last year, and he would play
the man now!”
“Yet he runs away from a bull so fast that his breeches
come down!”
“Go, marry Magda, the servant of the Jew: she’s the girl
for you.”
“Nurse to the Jew’s brats, she’ll wipe your nose likewise!”
“Or,” someone said still more sarcastically, “take old
Agata to wife, and go on pilgrimages with her.”
“Oh,” he retorted, “if I would but send my proposers to
any one of you, she’d fast on dry bread every Friday of her
life to thank God for her luck!”
“But,” Nastka cried, “whom would your mother let you
marry? You’re needed to wash the platters at home.”
“Provoke me not, you! else I go and marry Mary
Balcerek!”
“Aye, do: go to her; she’ll receive you with a broom-
stick—or worse!”
“Go—but take heed not to lose aught on the way!”
Nastka said, with a laugh and a slight pull at his breeches,
THE PEASANTS 124
that were indeed, like the rest of his clothing, much too
large for him.
“They were his grandsire’s once!”
Jests and gibes fell round him, thick as hail: he laughed
as heartily as anyone, and slipped his arm round ‘Nastka’s
waist. But a girl put her foot out: down he sprawled upon
the ﬂoor, and could not get up, for they pushed him down
again.
“Girls, let him be! How can you?” said Yuzka, coming
to the rescue, and helping him up. Though a zany, he
was a farmer’s son, and her kinsman through her mother.
They then played at blind man’s buff with him, who of
course was blindfolded, and did not succeed, much as he
tried, 1n catching any of the girls. These ﬂew about him,
nimble as swallows, and the noise and laughter and uproar
grew louder and louder.
Twilight was falling, and the game was at its height,
when the sudden cry of many fowls was heard in the yard.
Yuzka, who ran there at once, found Vitek in the outhouse,
holding something behind his back, and young Gulbas,
whose ﬂaxen head of hair was seen peeping over a plough.
“’Tis naught, Yuzka,” Vitek said in confusion, “’tis
naughtV’
“Ye have been killing a hen: I can see the feathers about!”
“Nay, nay! I only took a few from a cock’s tail, which
I needed for my own bird—But, Yuzka, it was no cock of
ours! Oh. no! This boy Gulbas brought it here to me.”
“Show!” she commanded sternly.
He laid at her feet a bird quite plucked of all its feathers,
and in a pitiable state.
“No doubt it is\ not one of ours,” she said, though she
could not make sure.
“Now show your marvellous toy!”
Vitek then unveiled an artiﬁcial cock, that he had just
ﬁnished; it was made of wood, plastered over with dough,
into which the feathers had been stuck, and it looked as if
alive, with a real head and beak mounted on a stick.
It had been ﬁxed upon a board painted red, and very
125 SPRING
cleverly attached to a small cart; and when Vitek began
to pull at the shaft, the bird would at once dance and ﬂap
its wings, Gulbas crowing the while till the hens cackled
in reply.
Yuzka squatted down to admire this miracle of art.
“Lord! why, never in my life have I seen aught so
wonderful !"
“ ’Tis good, hey, Yuzka?—-l have hit it off well, hey?”
he whispered, full of pride.
“And ye have made the thing all out of your own head?”
She was overwhelmed with amazement.
“Aye, all by myself, Yuzka! Yendrek here only brought
me this live cock—Aye, all by myself!”
“Dear, dear! how life-like it moves! And yet ’tis but
wood—Show it to the girls, Vitek! How they all will
marvel !-—Show it to them, Vitek!”
“Ah, no. We shall go round to-morrow for the Dyngus,1
and then they shall see it. I must still put up a railing all
round to protect it.”
“Then come round to our big room and work at it, as
soon as you have seen to the kine. There will be more
light there.”
“So I will, but I have something else to do ﬁrst in the
village.”
She returned, but the company had ﬁnished the game and
was now breaking up. For it was dark; lights gleamed in
the huts and twinkled in the sky, and the evening chill
was rising from the ﬁelds.
By now, everybody save Hanka was back from town.
Yuzka prepared a glorious supper: barszcg with shredded
sausage, and potatoes seasoned with much fried bacon. She
set it on the table, where Roch was waiting already; the
little ones were whimpering, and Yagna had been looking in
more than once. At that moment Vitek glided in noiselessly,
1Dyngus, called also Smigus; a popular festival, with a great
deal of horseplay, drenchings and even dousings. on Easter Monday;
believed to be a custom surviving from the time when the Poles
(in the tenth century) embraced Christianity and were baptized en
masse.--Translat0r’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 126
and sat down at once before the smoking dishes. His face
was red as ﬁre and he ate but little; his teeth were chatter-
ing, his hands trembling; and before supper was ended, he
had slunk away.
Yuzka, wondering what was the matter, met him after-
wards outside the sty, taking some draff out of the trough,
and questioned him sharply. .
For some time he tried to hold back the truth, and put her
off with ﬁbs; but all came out at last.
“Well, I have got my stork back again from his Rever-
ence!”
“Gracious Lord! and no one saw you?”
“No one. His Reverence was away from home, the dogs
were at their meal, and there stood my stork in the porch.
Maciek had seen it, and came to_let me know. I wrapped it
close in Pete’s capote lest it should peck at me, carried it
off, and hid it . . . somewherel—But do not, my Yuzka,
my golden girI!—do not breathe one word of this. In a
few weeks I will bring it round to our cabin, and you’ll see
it strutting about in front of the porch; and none will know
it for the same. Only betray me not!”
“Betray you? have I ever done that? . . . But I am
amazed at your daring—Good heavens!”
“ ’Twas but my own property I have taken back again.
I said I would never give it him: and behold, I'have it
once more. A likely thing indeed, that I should tame it
all for the delight of others! Yea, surely!”-—And he ran
off, whistling.
Returning presently, he came in and sat down by the
ﬁreside with the little ones, intent on ﬁnishing his crea-
tion.
The cabin became a drowsy tedious place. Yagna had
gone over to her side of the hut. and Roch was sitting out-
side with Bylitsa, who felt very sleepy.
“Get home.” Roch said to him; “there, Mr. Yacek is
waiting to talk with you.”
“Mr. Yacek . . . waiting?” he stammered, astounded and
127 ' SPRING
thoroughly waked up.--“To talk'with me? Well, well!”
And away he hurried.
Roch stayed where he was, murmuring prayers, and
looking out into the impenetrable depths of the nocturnal
sky, vibrant with twinkling stars, wherein the moon was
rising—a sharp' bright semicircle that cut deep into the
darkness.
In the cabins, the lights had gone out one by one, like
sleepy eyes that close fast: stillness reigned, disturbed only
by the quiet rustling of leaves, mingling with the bubbling
of the distant stream. At the miller’s alone did the windows
all shine brilliantly, and the folk enjoyed themselves late
into the night.
At Boryna’s all was still; everyone had gone to rest and
the lights were out, except for’ the dying embers about the
pots on the hearth, where the crickets chirped unseen; but
Roch stayed up, waiting outside for Hanka. It was near
midnight, when hoofs were heard beating upon the bridge
by the mill, and the britzka came rolling in.
I—Ianka was extremely depressed and taciturn; and it was
only when, supper over, Pete had gone to the stable, that
Roch made bold to ask if she had seen her husband.
“All the afternoon. He is in good health and spirits,
and asked me to send you a greeting. . . . I saw the other
lads also—They are to be set free, but none will tell when.
Also I saw the lawyer who is to defend Antek. . .
She was, however, keeping back something that lay like
a stone at her heart, and went on talking of other and in-
different matters: till suddenly she broke down, bursting into
tears, and covering her face, while the drops came pouring
through her ﬁngers.
“I shall come to-morrow morning,” he said. “Ye need
rest. You have been much shaken, and it might do you
harm.”
“Oh!” she burst out; “if I could but die and have done
with this agony!” -
He bent his head and withdrew, saying nothing.
THE PEASANTS 128
Hanka went at once to lie down by her children; but,
tired though she was, she could not sleep. Ah! Antek had
treated her as though she had been some importunate dog.
He had eaten the Hallow-fare with a good appetite, taken a
few roubles without asking whence she had got them, and
not so much as said he was sorry the journey had tired her!
She had told him all her doings at the farm: he had lis-
tened with not a word of praise, but more than one of sharp
censure. Then he had asked about all the village—and
forgotten his own little ones! She had come out to him
with what a faithful loving heart, with what intense yearning
for his caresses! Was she not his own wife, the mother of
his children? And yet he had not fondled her, nor kissed
her, nor even inquired after her health. He had behaved
like a stranger, and looked 'on her as one. At last, when
she could speak no longer for the pain that strangled her,
and her tears ﬂowed forth, he had shouted: “Have you
come all this way to whine and blubber at me?”——O God!
the anguish of that moment! . . . And that was her re-
ward for all the hard work she had done for him, all that
toil so far beyond her strength, all her bitterness of woe !—-
Nothing; not one word of endearment, of comfort even!
“O Christ! look down on me in Thy mercy, for I can
bear no more!” she moaned, her face pressed hard down upon
the pillow, not to wake the children, as she lay there, weeping,
sorrowing, full of deep humiliation and the sense of cruel
wrong.
Neither in his presence, nor before anyone else afterwards,
had she been able to pour forth her soul: only now did she
at last give vent to the despair of her heart, and to those
tears, more bitter than any bitterness on earth.
The next morning—Easter Monday—the weather was still
more beautiful, the country-side more abundantly bathed in
dew, in azure mist-wreaths, in sunshine and in joy. The
birds’ songs were more sonorous; the warm gales, rushing
through the trees, made them murmur, as it were, a quiet
prayer. The folk rose earlier, too, that day, opening doors
129 SPRING
and windows wide, and going outside to gaze upon God’s
world—on the verdurous orchards; on the vast landscape,
garlanded with spring greenery, sparkling all over with
diamonds, bathed in the light of the sun; on the autumn-
ploughed ﬁelds, with young tawny blades waving in the
wind, and rippling up to the cabins like sheets of water
teased by the zephyrs.
The boys ran about with squirts, drenching each other to
the cry of Smigusl—or else, hiding behind the trees round
the pond, they would deluge with water, not only the pass-
ers-by, but anyone who peeped out of doors; so that many
a cabin-wall dripped with wet, and puddles glistened all
around them.
Along all the ways and about the enclosures, the lads ran,
chasing their victims with uproarious laughter, and dead
set against the lasses, who enjoyed the pastime as much as
they did, emptying pails on their heads and dodging them
through the orchards; and as there were plenty of grown-up
girls among them, these soon got the upper hand, driving the
boys back with indomitable energy. Even Yasyek Topsy-
turvy, who had attacked Nastka with a ﬁre-hose, was him-
self tackled by the Balcerek girls, drenched from head to
foot, and then ﬂung into the pond to crown their victory.
But he, being nettled, and loath to brook such shame,
that girls should get the better of a man, called to his aid
Pete, Boryna’s servant: who with him laid an ambush
cunningly for Nastka, got her fast in their clutches, dragged
her to the well, and ﬂooded her until she screamed aloud.
. . . Then, taking Vitek to help them, and young Gulbas,
with some bigger lads, they pounced upon Mary, daughter
of Balcerek, whom they deluged so, that, stick in hand, her
mother was obliged to run and rescue her! Yagna too they
caugh’t and drenched thoroughly, nor did they spare even
Yuzka, though she begged them hard, and ran in tears to
Hanka to complain.
“Complain she may!” they cried; “but yet she likes it:
see, her eyes sparkle with glee!”
“Pestilent fellows! they have wetted me all over!” Ya-
THE PEASANTS I30
gustynka growled, though pleased, and entered the cabin.
“Whom will those rascals spare!” Yuzka grumbled, as she
changed to dry clothes. Yet she could not for all that for—
bear coming out into the porch to witness the scene: all the
roads alive with noise and tumult, and the whole place
thrilling with the hubbub. The lads, frantic with delight,
ran about in large bands, driving all who came nigh within
range of the great hose, till at last the Soltys, seeing that no
one could leave his hut for them, had to put an end to this
merry-making, and disperse them.
“Are ye no worse for yesterday’s drive?” Yagustynka
queried, as she dried herself by Hanka’s ﬁre.
“I am. It moves within me with continual leaps; I feel
nigh swooning!”
“Prithee, lie down, and drink a hot infusion of wild
thyme—Ye were too much shaken yesterday.”
She was greatly concerned; but, scenting the reek of fried
blood-pudding, sat down to breakfast with the others.
“And you too, mistress, eat ye a morsel: hunger can do no
goodf’
“I have a loathing for meat now: I’ll make myself some
tea.”
“That’s good to cleanse the bowels; but ye’ll be sooner
well if ye take hot vodka, boiled with lard and spices.”
“No doubt: such medicine might even raise one from the
dead,” Pete laughed. He had ensconced himself close to
Yagna, following her eyes, offering her courteously anything
she happened to look upon, and trying to enter into con—
versation. But she took little notice of him; and so he
presently came to ask Yagustynka about the prisoners she
had seen.
“I have seen them all,” she said. “They are not in cells
apart, but in large rooms, as in a Manor, with plenty of
'light and good ﬂoors. Only, at all the windows there is a
sort of cobweb of iron, lest they should take a fancy to walk
out of doors. As for their food, it is none of the worst. . . .
I tried the pease-porridge they get at noonday. It seemed to
have been boiled in an old boot, and seasoned with axle—
131 SPRING
grease! . . . There was fried millet, too—As to that, our
dog Lapa would not have touched it, no,.nor smelt at it
either, but done something else, belike! . . . They have to
live at their own expense; and if anyone lacks money, let
him pray over his food to improve it,” she wound up in her
usual sour fashion.
“Some, they say, are to come back next Sunday,” she
added, lowering her voice with a glance at Hanka. At this,
Yagna started up and left the room; and Yagustynka set to
talking about Kozlova’s expedition.
“They came home late, having quite failed; but they be-
held sausages on every side, and had a good look round at
the Manor. They inform us, it smells otherwise than do
our cabinsl—But the Squire said he could in no wise help
them; that was the affair of the Commissioner and the
Government. Even were he able, for no man of Lipka would
he do aught: he was the greatest sufferer of all, and because
of them !—Look you, he has been forbidden to sell the
forest, and the merchants are now bringing actions against
him on that account—He swore brimstone oaths, and cried
out that, if he had to be a beggar because of the peasants,
he hoped the plague might destroy them all !—All the morn-
ing, Kozlova has been carrying this news from hut to hut,
and threatening revenge.”
“The more fool she. What harm can threats do?”
“My dear, we all know that the very weakest can ﬁnd a
place where to strike home!”—Here she broke off abruptly,
and ran to support Hanka, who was leaning helpless against
the wall.
“Good God!” she murmured in dismay; “is a miscarriage
coming on?” And she put her to bed. Hanka had fainted,
her face was covered with drops of perspiration, and ﬂecked
with yellowish spots; she lay scarce breathing, while the old
woman dabbed her temples with vinegar. Then she put
some horse-radish to her nostrils and Hanka opened hef
eyes and came to.
The others went to fulﬁl their several duties. Vitek alone
remained, and when a convenient opportunity offered itself,
THE PEASANTS 132
begged his mistress to let him take his automaton into the
village. .
“Well, you may; but take heed to behave yourself, and not
soil your garments. Tie up the dogs, lest they run after you
everywhere—When will you start?”
“After Vespers.”
Yagustynka then put her head in at the window, and said:
“Where are the dogs, Vitek? I was taking food to them,
but neither of them comes to eat.”
“Aye, and I have not seen Lapa in the byre this morning.
Hither, Burek! come hither!” he cried, running to and fro;
but no bark answered his calls.
“They must,” he said, “have wandered out some distance.”
No one could think where the dogs had gone. After some
time, however, Yuzka heard a faint whining sound, that
seemed to be somewhere in the yard. Finding nothing there,
she went into the orchard, fancying that Vitek was punishing
some dog that had strayed on to the premises. To her
surprise, no one was in sight; the place was now silent, the
Whining had ceased. But, going back, she stumbled over
Burek’s body. It lay dead close to the cabin, its head
beaten in!
Her cries at once brought the whole household to the
place.
“Burek has been killed—by thieves, I doubt not!”
“Surely and indeed, ’tis so!” Yagustynka screamed, seeing
a lot of earth dug out, and a large pit yawning beneath the
foundations.
“They have dug through, even to Father’s store-room!”
“Why, a horse might have been dragged through so large
a hole!”
“And the pit is sprinkled all about with grains of corn!”
“O Lord! peradventure the robbers are still in there!”
Yuzka cried.
They rushed into Boryna’s dwelling. Yagna had gone
out; the old man lay like a log; but in the store-room that
was usually dark, there now was light from the hole which
had been dug, and everything within was plainly visible,
133 SPRING
strewn about in the greatest disorder. The corn had been
poured out over the ﬂoor pell-mell with articles of clothing
torn down from the poles they had been stretched on; and
among these, pieces of wool, unspun or spun into many a
yarn and hank, lay twisted and torn and tangled—But what
had been stolen? No one could tell as yet.
Hanka nevertheless was sure this was the blacksmith’s do-
ing, and reﬂected with a hot ﬂush that, had she waited but
one day more, he would have found and taken the money.
She bent forward over the pit to hide from all present her
feelings of satisfaction.
“Is naught missing in the byre?” she asked, feigning un-
easiness.
By good luck, all was right there.
“The door,” Pete observed, “has been properly locked”;
and, striding over to the potato-pit, he pulled out a big
bundle of straw that closed the entrance, and dragged thence
Lapa, alive and whining.
“The knaves thrust it in there, ’tis clear; but how could
Lapa let them do it? So ﬁerce a dog!”
“And how was it no bark was heard last night?”
They sent to inform the Soltys, and the news ﬂew over all
the village. People thronged into the orchard, the pit was
as much besieged as a church confessional: everyone peeped
in, looked Burek over, and gave his opinion.
Roch also came. He calmed Yuzka, who, voluble, ex-
cited, and tearful, was telling them what had occurred;
then, going in to Hanka, who had lain down again, he said:
“I feared lest ye might take this too much to heart.”
“Wherefore? Glory be to God, he has stolen nothing.”
She added, in a low voice: “For he came too late.”
“Have ye any guess who it is?”
“The blacksmith! I’d lay my life on’t!”
“Then—was he searching for aught in particular?”
“He was: but failed—l name him only to you.”
“Certainly—Unless he had been taken in the very act,
or ye had witnesses—Well, well! Money makes a man
dare awful things!”
THE PEASANTS 134
“Good friend,” she entreated, “not even Antek is to know
of this!”
“I am not one to talk at random, as you are aware.
Moreover, ’tis easier to slay than to beget—I knew the fel-
low for a knave, yet would never have suspected him of
that.”
“Oh, he sticks at naught: well do I know him.”
The Voyt, arriving with the Soltys, then set to make a
thorough search, questioning Yuzka carefully.
“Were Koziol not in jail,” he muttered, “I should think it
to be his deed.”
“Hush, Peter,” the Soltys interrupted, nudging him;
“there is his wife, just coming up.”
“They must have been frightened away; nothing has
been taken.”
“We must notify the gendarmes, of course. . . . More
work! Satan will not let a man rest, even in this holy
time.”
The Soltys bent down and picked up a bloodstained rod
of iron.
“It was with this Burek was done to death.”
‘ The thing passed from hand to hand.
“It is one of those rods out of which they make tines.”
“Perhaps stolen out of Michael’s forge.”
“The forge has been closed ever since Good Friday!”
“They may have stolen it and brought it hither: I, the
Voyt, tell you so. The blacksmith is not at home: what’s
to be done? This is no one’s business but mine—and the
Soltys’!” He raised his voice and shouted at them to go
home and not waste time to no purpose.
Little as they cared for his blustering, it was now time
for church; so the crowd melted away quickly, for parishion-
ers from other villages were dropping in already, and the
bridge was rumbling with carts.
When all had gone, Bylitsa went out to the orchard, to
look at his dog, talk to it softly, and try to coax it back to
life.
Hanka remained lying alone in bed, when everybody had
135 SPRING
gone to church, and the hut was empty. For a time she
prayed and thought of Antek; then, the old man having
taken the little ones out into the road, and all being very
quiet, she fell fast asleep.
Time slipped away, and she was still sleeping when, near
noon, the sound of the organ playing and the people singing
in unison came wafted on the breeze, and the bells tolling
for the Elevation made the windows vibrate. What woke
her at length was the noisy clatter of the wagons driven home
at full speed along the road, past holes and ruts; for on
Easter Monday it is the custom to try who will be ﬁrst
home after High Mass. It was a confused torrent of horses,
carts and people, of whips rising and falling all the way,
twinkling athwart the orchard-trees. They raced so furi-
ously that she felt the cabin tremble, as the wind bore the
clatter and the din of laughter to her ears.
She had a mind to get up and take a look outside; but
her people were home now, and Yagustynka set about getting ‘
dinner ready. She meanwhile related how the church had
been so crammed that half the people had to stand outside;
how all the Manor folk had been there; and how his Rev-
erence had, after Mass, called all the. farmers to the sacristy
to confer with them. Yuzka prattleda'bout the way the
young Manor ladies were dressed:
“Know ye that the damsels of Vola wear humps on their
hinder parts, and look like turkey-cocks” when they put up
their tails?” r , .' ’
“They pad themselves with hay'lor rags,” the old woman
explained. * 2
“But their waists! “They.are drawn in like wasps. One
might cut them in two withla wh'ip. And where they stow
away their bellies, none can ‘say! Oh, I was close to them,
and saw them well!” '
“Their bellies?;,Why,j_they cram them in under their
stays. A ~Manormsiervapt, who had once been chambermaid
l at Modlitsa, told me that some of those damsels starve them—
selves, and gir’d their waists tight while they sleep, lest they
should grow stout! At the Manors ’tis fashionable for girls
THE PEASANTS 136
to be thin as laths, with only the back parts swelled out!”
“Not so with us; lads laugh raw-boned girls to scorn!”
“They are right. Our lasses should be even as ovens, all
rounded out and full of such heat ﬂowing from them that
men feel warm when they come near,” said Pete, his eyes
feasting on Yagna, who then was removing the pots from
the ﬁre-place.
“Why, I declare!” thundered Yagustynka; “that fright!
He has‘ just had a spell of rest and a morsel of meat; and 10,
he is at once hankering for something else!”
“When such a one is at Work, it is a marvel her bodice
does not split at every motion!” he went on; and would
have served them some further specimens of his eloquence,
when Dominikova, coming ip to tend Hanka, drove him from
the room.
They took dinner outside in the porch, where it was bright
and warm. The early verdure quivered and glittered on
'the boughs, ﬂuttering like butterﬂies; and the warbling of
birds came to them from the orchard-trees.
Dominikova forbade Hanka to leave her bed. Veronka
came in with her children immediately after dinner. A
bench was placed close‘to the bed, and Yuzka brought in
some portions of ~the-Ha‘llow-fare, and a ﬂask of vodka sweet-
ened with honey. Hanka; though not without difﬁculty,
offered these (aceordlingito the digniﬁed custom among
peasants on such occasions)jto_,her sister and to the neigh-
bours who had dropped in tob’visit and sympathize, taste the
vodka, nibble slowly at theesweet cakes, and talk of various
topics—especially the hole “drigloi rob the store-room.
Outside, too, folk had~ Come'éto Qcohat with the household,
and walk to and fro in the.Qrcltaril-, much exercised in mind
at the sight of the hole, whiehlthe-Voyt;‘had not allowed to
be ﬁlled up till the arrival of the 'sefriv-ener and gendarmes.
Yagustynka had repeated the ~wh'ol'e story for about the
hundredth time, when the lads'leirtere’dlfhe yard with the
automaton cock. Bravely attired, evenlt’oywearing boots
and Boryna’s cap (much on one side),~fViitek{led the band.
After him came the others: Maciek,~ Klebqus, Gulbas, Yen-
I37 SPRING
drek, Kuba, and the son of Gregory the Wry-mouthed.
These had sticks in their hands and scrips on their backs;
but under his arm Vitek bore Pete’s ﬁddle.
They strutted out in procession, ﬁrst of all to his Rever-
ence, as the young men had done in past years, entered the
garden boldly and formed up in line in front of the house,
with the cock trundling before them, Vitek scraping his
ﬁddle the while. Gulbas then, having wound up the ma-
chine, began to crow, and they all, stamping and striking
the ground with their sticks, began singing in a shrill
tone certain doggerel lines, winding up with an appeal for a
present.
They sang for a long time, and ever louder, till his Rev-
erence came forth, admired the cock, gave each of them a
ﬁve-kopek piece, and sent them away delighted.
Vitek was sweating with fear, lest his Reverence should
say something about the stork. But he seemed to have
passed hirrl over amongst his companions, and after he had
retired, sent the housemaid to them with some pieces of
sweet cake. Loud they raised their song of thanks, and then
went on, ﬁrst to the organist’s, then all through the rest
of the village, where they had M ado to protect their
machine from rough handling airtime-pokes. of inquisitive
sticks. In :ﬂﬁmzbigrl fri"
Vitek, their leader, had anﬂﬁtm’lﬁﬂe; ' to everything,
stamping for them to comrnleiiiﬂflbhigi, g, and signalling
with his bow when’tor raidelaww drop their voices.
In short, the whole Dyngesi QIQMrmed with such life
and spirit that their strﬂhsimlace, and people won-
dered to see such merev‘urchins’aliready playing so well the
part of grown-upsx/mlrl EDIBI
It was near whit-When theWg dame Ploshkova, having
ﬁrst gone in to seéQ’Bhtijiﬂalftlaﬁte also to call upon Hanka.-
“As ever, as O Lord !—I spoke to him: no word in
reply. The Sinai?! - ' his bed. and his ﬁngers catch
at the beains,JQ§Wl'th§3I5a I ’ith them: just like a little baby.
Ah, I coul§lfhlvﬁrﬁﬁeptﬁt§ see what such a man as he has
come to!”.,f;;So she saidp’seated by Hanka’s bedside; but she


THE PEASANTS 138
drank the vodka and reached out for the cake as willingly
as any.
“Does he eat anything now? He seems to have put on
ﬂesh.”
“Yes, he can take a little: maybe he is getting better."
Yuzka rushed in, screaming: “They have taken the cock
over to Vola!” but, seeing Ploshkova there, turned and ran
out to Yagna.
Hanka called after her: “Yuzka, you must see to the
kine: it is time now!”
“Yes, yes,” said Ploshkova. “ ‘A holiday is a holiday,
but the belly must have its dues alway!’——The lads came to
me likewise. A clever fellow that Vitek of yours, and a
keen-sighted one too!”
“But ever ﬁrst to play and last to work!”
“My dear, servants are never good for much. The miller’s
wife told me she could not keep a single girl for six months.”
“They get too much new bread there—and go wrong in
consequence.”
“That’s as it may be; but they have the journeyman to
help them that way, or; he son—him at school—who looks
in at times; aye, andtl’in ~‘ iller himself will let none of them
alone, they say/1'” * .~. '; e that our servants grow bolder
daily. My 0w... its-aft : ~ '1 is w the goodman is away, treats
me shamefully ‘" : ranting. ; ilk in the afternoon! Who
ever heard of suc *3 -
“Oh, I know the\- iii: '. a. ave a man myself. But I
must agree to all he kiwi; easiould leave me when work
is heaviest; and on s r ding, what could I do
without him?” ~" A


“x r“;
‘&


lowering her voice warningg}; , 11.5 H' I ~,;"
Do ye know of anythi -;;..;g;ei,a an ,
greatly alarmed. :a. : “Something I heard of—a ritfmareia rags.
cannot say—But I talk and tas,..,,ar.rt;;.,¢sagz§~ what I have


257*
come for. Several have promise r,
139 ' SPRING
a chat. Do you come too. All the best folk will be there:
young Boryna’s wife must not be away.”
This was ﬂattering; but Hanka had to excuse herself,
for she felt too unwell. Ploshkova, much annoyed, went
to invite Yagna. She too pretexted a previous engagement _
with her mother.
From outside the hut, Yagustynka’s mocking voice was
heard: ,
“Ye would fain have gone, Yagna, but ye are hanker-
ing after the lads, and there’s no one at Ploshkova’s but old
fogies like Ambrose. No matter: they wear hose just the
same as young men!”
“You! every word you say is a stab—as usual!”
“For 1,” she jeered, “being merry, would that all might
have their desires!”
Trembling with rage, Yagna left the house, staring va-
cantly in front of her, and scarce able to choke down her
tears. It was true," the longing she felt was intolerable.
What though the very air told of the feast-day, and folk
swarmed to and fro, and the village resounded with shouts
of laughter, and echoed to the songs of women seen far
away, crimson against the grey sown ﬁelds? She laboured
none the less under a deep oppression, an unbearable sad-
ness of craving, which she had been suffering ever since the
morning. To drive it off, she had gone round to her ac-
quaintances, taken long walks along the roads and meadows,
even changed her clothes twice or“ thrice: all would not do.
Still, and yet more intensely, did she pine to go somewhere,
do something, seek . . . she knew not what!
And now she wandered out upon the poplar road, gazing
at the huge red disk, slowly descending and throwing streaks
‘of light and shadow athwart the highway.
The cool of twilight soon began to envelop her, thOugll
the still warm breath of the plain ﬁlled her with a thrilling
’rhythmical sense of pleasure. The noises of the village came
faintly to her ears, and the ﬁddle, wailing mournfully, smote
upon her heart-strings. ’ ’
THE PEAsAN'Ts 140
On she went: whither and urged by what, she could not
say.
She sometimes moaned heavily, sometimes motioned with
her hands as she roved, sometimes stopped short, helpless,
darting ﬁery glances round her. And then she walked on
farther, weaving thoughts as subtle and impalpable as gossa-
mer, or those threads of light upon the water which dis-
appear at the touch of the hand. She looked sunwards, and
saw—nothing: the rows of poplars before her seemed blurred,
and as if seen in memory only. But she was mightily con-
scious of her own Self, and of something possessing that
Self, making it smart and cry out and shed tears; of some-
thing that was carrying her away, making her wish she could
take the wings of the birds she saw ﬂying westward, and
:sail with them whithersoever they went. She felt in the
grip of a Power instinct with burning tenderness, that forced
tears from 'her as well as ﬂames. . . . And on her way she
plucked at the poplar-shoots, to cool her parched lips and
her eyes that shot ﬁre!
Now and again she would sink down beneath some tree,
rest her chin upon her hands, and fall into a day-dream. . . .
All this was the spring. singing, as it were, its glowing
hymn within her, pervading all her being, working in it as
it does in the fruitful ﬁelds, in the trees swelling with young
sap that burst into a song of life as soon as the sunbeams
warm them. ‘
She tottered along, her eyes tingling, her fainting limbs
barely able to support her any more. And a new desire came
over her: to weep aloud, to dance, to roll amongst those soft
ﬂeeces of growing corn, cool with pearly dews; and then
again she craved to leap in among the brambles, dash
through the thorny copses, and feel the sweet wild tearing
pain of wrestling and of strife!
Suddenly she turned back, and, hearing the sound of a
violin, went in that direction. Ha! how everything was
seething wildly within her, and brimming over with such
abnormal excitement that she had a mind to leap about, to
I41 ' SPRING
revel in some close-crowded tavern, even to drink herself to
death—what did she care?
Upon the way from the churchyard to the poplar road,
now quite drowned in the ruddy rays of sundown, someone
was coming along, book in hand, and had stopped beneath
a clump of silver birches.
It was Yanek, the organist’s son.
She tried to get a glimpse at him through the trees, but
he caught sight of her.
She was minded to run, but her feet seemed rooted to the
ground, and her eyes were ﬁxed on him as one fascinated.
He came forward smiling, and showing white teeth between
rosy lips: a tall stripling, slender, and of milk-white com-
plexion.
“Did ye not know me, Yagna?”
His voice struck a chord that resounded somewhere within
her.
“How could I fail to? . . . But yet ye are somehow dif-
ferent, Yanek, not quite the same.”
“Why, of course, as we grow, we surely must change.—
Have you been to see someone at Budy?”
“Nay, only wandering about: ye know, Eastertide does
not end till to-morrow.”—-Touching his book with her hand,
“Religious, is it?” she asked him.
“Not in the least. ’Tis of far-off lands and the seas that
surround them.”
“Heavens! of the seas? What, then are not the pictures
ye have there images of the saints?”
“See!” He opened the book before her, showing the illus-
trations. With heads bent down, touching almost, they
stood there, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, inadvertent.
Now and then he explained some picture; and she was en-
raptured, raising her eyes to admire him, not daring to
breathe for emotion. Now they pressed closer still, for the
sun was under the forest, and it was hard to make out the
pictures.
All of a sudden. a shudder went through him; he shrank
THE PEASANTS 142
back a little, murmuring: “Twilight has fallen; ’tis time
to go home.”
“Let us go, then.”
So they went on in silence, and almost unseen in the shad-
ows. Now the after-glow had faded, and dusk was trailing
its bluish haze over all the ﬁelds. That day no gorgeous
sunset blazed in the western sky, but through the tall pop-
lars the daylight .was seen to die away in a bright expanse of
gold.
“Is it true, what they print there?” Yagna inquired of him,
stopping awhile. ,
“ ’Tis true: every word true!” .
“Lord! such vast waters, such wonderful countries! ’tis
hard to believe it.”
“Nevertheless, 'tis the truth, Yagna,” he whispered, and
looked kindly into her eyes, and so close that she held her
breath, and a shiver passed through her frame. She bent
forward with a gesture as of one who yields all, expecting him
to embrace her, pressed to the bole of a tree hard by, and
was opening her arms to him, when he suddenly started
back, saying: “I must be off: it is late. Farewell, Yagna!”
and vanished.
Many minutes elapsed before Yagna could move from the
spot.
“What! has the boy cast a spell on me? What is this
that I feel now?” she wondered, as she dragged along slowly,
with her brain in a whirl, and strange tremors running all
through her.
Passing the tavern, she caught the muffled sounds of the
music and conversations. She looked in at the window.
Mr. Yacek, standing in the middle of the room, was sawing
away at his violin. Ambrose, reeling close to the bar, was
talking loud to the K omorm'kz' and from time to time reach-
ing out his hand for a glass.
Someone caught her by the waist unexpectedly: she
screamed and tried to wrench herself loose.
“I have you now, nor will I let you go.-—Come for a drink
with me!” It was the voice of the Voyt, who held her ﬁrm
143 SPRING
in his grasp; and they both went by a side-door into the
tavern parlour.
No one had seen them, for few were out in the road, and
it was very dark.
Now the village was quiet: all the outside sounds were
hushed and the crofts were empty and silent. Everybody
was at home. Eastertide, that dear time of rest, was nearly
over; and the toilsome morrow was lurking outside on the
threshold, already baring its sharp fangs for them. ‘
Lipka therefore was rather melancholy and subdued that
evening: only at Ploshka’s was there a numerous party. Her
neighbours had come together and were conversing with
digniﬁed mien. The Voyt’s wife sat in the place of honour:
by her side Balcerek’s wife, stout and loud-mouthed, was
maintaining her opinion: close to her sat Sikora’s dame,
raw-boned as heretofore; Boryna’s cousin, much given to
babbling; and the blacksmith’s wife, her babe at her breast;
and the Soltysova, talking in low devout tones: and, in
short, all the foremost women in the village.
As they sat there solemnly, stiff and formal of mien, one
was somehow reminded of a lot of brooding hens with ruffled
plumage. They wore their best holiday attire: kerchiefs
let half-way down the back (Lipka-fashion), and great frills
standing higher than their ears, with all their possessions in
the way of coral beads hung over them. They enjoyed
themselves, however, after their slow fashion, and their good
humour increased little by little, as their cheeks grew ﬂushed.
And presently, tucking up their petticoats carefully, lest
they should crumple them, they edged nearer and nearer
to one another, and soon were engaged in more than one
wordy tussle.
But after the smith, who said he was but just back from
town, had joined them, they waxed merrier still. The fellow
was a rare talker; and being rather tipsy, he began to hum-
bug them with such comical mystiﬁcation that he made them
hold their sides with laughter. The whole room was in
a roar, and he himself laughed so loud that they could hear
him at Boryna’s.
THE PEASANTS 144
The party lasted a long while, and Ploshka had to send
three times to the tavern for vodka.
At Boryna’s they sat in the court-yard. Hanka had risen
and joined them, with a sheepskin coat over her shoulders
to protect her from the chill night air.
So long as there was light enough, Roch read to them;
but when darkness had fallen over the land, he went on to
tell them many a thing of wonder that they were most curious
to hear. The dusk soon became so deep that the party
were barely outlined on the white cabin-walls. It was cool
outside, and no stars shone; a dull stillness, broken only by
the bubbling waters and barking dogs, pervaded the place.
They all were together in one group—Nastka and Yuzka,
Veronka and her babes, Klembova and Pete, seated almost
at Roch’s feet: Hanka was sitting on a stone, a little apart.
He told them much about the history of Poland, and also
many a holy legend, and tales of the wonderful things in
the world, of which he related so many a marvel that no
one could remember all he said.
They listened motionless and hushed, drinking in those
honey-sweet words of his, as the parched earth drinks in
the warm raindrops.
And he, barely seen in the gloom, spoke in a low solemn
voice words such as these:
“To all who await spring in prayer and toil and readiness,
it surely cometh at the end of winter. . . .
“In the end, the oppressed ever triumph: therefore have
ye trust. . .
“Man’s happiness is a ﬁeld to be sown with blood and
sacriﬁce and labour: whoso has sown it thus shall see the
crop grow and shall reap the harvest. . . .
“But he that careth only for daily bread shall not sit at
the table of our Lord. . . .
“Who only complaineth of evil, and cloth no good, he
maketh the evil worse.”
He spoke long, but in words of wisdom hard to bear in
mind; in a voice ever lower and more loving he spoke, until
145 SPRING
the darkness quite swallowed him up. Then it seemed as
though some holy being were speaking from beneath the
ground: as though the dead ancestors of the Borynas,
graciously permitted to revisit the earth at this sacred
Eastertide, were now uttering words of solemn warning to
their descendants, out of those crumbling walls, those bent
gnarled trees, that thick dense gloom around.
Over all these utterances their minds pondered deeply;
like a bell in the depth of their hearts they resounded,
arousing within them dim emotions—strange, eerie, unac-
countable desires.
They did not so much as remark that all the dogs in the
village had set to barking, nor that the feet of many people
were running fast.
“Fire! Podlesie is burning!” a voice cried to them from
beyond the orchard.
It was true. The farm buildings of the Manor domain of
Podlesie were on ﬁre, and crimson-red bushes of ﬂame were
growing in the night.
“Heaven save the mark!” Yagustynka ejaculated, as the
memory of Kozlova’s threats ﬂashed through her brain.
“A judgment of God upon him!”
“For the wrong he has done us!” many voices cried in
the dark.
Doors slammed; the folk, half clad, ran out, and crowded
more and more numerous on the bridge by the mill, from
where the conﬂagration could best be seen In a few min-
utes the whole village was there.
The farm stood on a hill-side close to the forest, a few
versts away from Lipka, whence the increase of the ﬁre was
plainly visible. On the black background of the wood, the
ﬁery tongues now multiplied, and dark-red rolling volumes
of smoke burst forth. There was no wind, and the con~
ﬂagration leaped straight up, higher and higher: the build-
ings burned like bundles of resinous ﬁre-wood; and a ruddy
ﬂickering blaze swept up into the shadows of the night, with
pillars of dark, towering smoke.
THE PEASANTS 146
The air was soon rent by the sound of agonized bellowing.
“Their cattle~shed is on ﬁre: they can save but few, for
there is but one door!”
“Ah, the cornstacks are burning now!”
Others cried out, in consternation: “So are the barns!”
The priest, the smith, the Soltys, and the Voyt (though in
his cups, and barely able to stand) came on the scene, cry-
ing out to the people to rush to the rescue.
No one hastened to move. A savage growl ran through
the multitude:
“Let our lads be freed, and they will save the farm!”
Imprecations, threats, and even the priest's tearful en-
treaties, were all of no avail. They stood gazing stolidly
on the ﬁre with sombre looks, and remained immovable.
Kobusova even shook her ﬁst at the Manor servants she
could see. “Those sons of dogs!” she shrieked.
Only the Voyt, the Soltys, and the smith drove over to
the ﬁre at last; and that without any appliances, the peas-
ants refusing to let them take so much as a bucket with
them.
“The dirty scoundrel who touches one of them shall be
cudgelled to death!” they all shouted in chorus.
The whole village was there in a close-packed crowd,
down to the youngest, busily soothing the cries of infants
in arms. Few spoke. All looked on, greedily feasting their
eyes and hearts, enjoying the thought that the Lord had
punished the Squire for the wrong done them.
It burned on far into the night, but no one went home.
They waited patiently till all was over, till the whole farm
was one sea of ﬁre, and the burning thatches and shingles
ﬂew up and came down in a red rain, and the vermilion
reﬂections from the great sheets of ﬁre waving in the dark,
tinged the tree-tops and the mill-roof, and threw a faint
glimmer on the pond, strewn as it were with dull glistening
embers.
Rolling carts, men’s shouts, the din of bellowing, and
fearful threats of destruction, echoed through the village:
I47 SPRING
and still there the people stood like a living wall, feeding
their eyes and souls with vengeance.
But there arose from outside the tavern old Ambrose’s
husky drunken voice, continually singing the same unvarying
song!
CHAPTER VI
next morning; one that made her start up in bed. But
Yagustynka luckily caught hold of her in time, and
pressed her down on the pillow.
“Hold ye still! Is the cabin aﬁre?”
“But he says such thingsl—He must be mad!”
“Nay,” Bylitsa replied, stooping to sneeze after an abun-
dant pinch of snuff; “nay, I am in my right mind, and
what I say I know. Since yesterday, Mr. Yacek is my
lodgerl”
“Hear ye? He has quite lost his wits! . . . Pray look
whether they are not coming home yet: it must be starved,
my new-born !”
The old woman went on tidying and sanding the room.
Hanka’s father sneezed so violently that he was thrown
back on to a bench.
“Ye’re loud as the trumpet that tells the time in the
market-place.”
“Ah, because it is strong snuff: Mr. Yacek gave me a
whole packet!”
It was early. The sun, bright and warm, looked into the
cabin; the orchard trees waved; through the half-open
door appeared the straight necks of geese, with coral beaks
at the end; and a whole family of muddied and noisy gos-
lings tried to scramble over the high threshold. Thereupon
a dog growled: the geese screamed, and brooding hens in the
passage cackled in alarm, and began to ﬂutter out of their
nests.
“Please drive them to the orchard; they will have grass
to pluck, at any rate.”
IT was a strange piece of news that Hanka heard the
148
I49 SPRING
“I will, Hanka, I will, and see that no hawk come nigh
them.”
“What are the farm-lads about?” she asked, after some
time. '
“Oh, Pete is ploughing the potato-ﬁelds close to the hil-
lock, and Vitek harrowing our ﬁeld of ﬂax.”
“Is that land still wet!”
“It is: clogs stick fast; but it will dry speedily, when
harrowed.”
“I may perchance leave my bed, ere the land can be
sown.”
“Oh, have a care for yourself just now. Do not fear lest
anyone steal your work!”
“Have the kine been milked?”
' “By me! Yagna had set the pails outside the byre, and
gone away.”
“She runs about Lipka continually, like a dog: a useless
woman on whom there is no counting—Tell Kobusova I
will let her have the cabbage-patches. Pete will take her
manure, and plough it in; but she must work four days a
week for every ﬁeld. Half to be done when we plant the po-
tatoes, and the other half in harvest-time.”
“Kozlova would gladly take the ﬂax-ﬁelds on the same
terms.”
“She would not do: too lazy—Let her seek elsewhere:
last year she wagged her tongue against Father all through
the village, saying he had treated her unfairly.”
“Please yourself: yours is the land, do as ye will with it.
-—Ah! Filipka came for potatoes yesterday, while you were
lying in.”
“To be paid for in cash?”
“No, in work. In that hut there is no money: they are
starving.”
“Let her have a bushel now. If she wants more, she
must wait till we have done planting them. I cannot say
how much we shall have to spare. Yuzka will go and meas-
ure out a bushel for her—Though Filipka is but a poor
worker.”
THE PEASANTS 150
“Whence should she get the strength? Too little food,
too little sleep, and every year a baby!”
“Hard times! Harvest over the hills and far away, and
dearth at our thresholds!”
“Thresholds, say ye? Nay, within doors, and choking the
life out of us!”
“Have you let the sow loose?”
“She is lying by the wall.-—A splendid farrow, and each
one as round as a roll.”
Here Bylitsa appeared in the doorway.
“I have left the geese among the gooseberry-bushes,” he
said—“Well, who should come to me at Easter but Mr.
Yacek, saying: ‘I will live with you, Bylitsa, be your
lodger, and pay you well’? I thought he was ﬂouting me, as
the gentry are wont to ﬂout the peasant folk; so I replied:
‘Oh, I don’t mind getting a little money, and I have a room
to spare.’—-He laughed, gave me a packet of snuff (prime
Petersburg quality), looked round my place and said: ‘If
you can abide here, so can I; and I’ll ﬁx up your hut so that
it will soon look like one of our houses’!”
“Well, I declare!” said the old woman in amazement.
“Such a great man—own brother to the Squire!”
“So he made himself a bed of straw beside mine—and
there you are! When I went out, he was on the door-step,
smoking a cigarette, and throwing some corn to sparrows.”
“But what will he have to eat?”
“He has some pots with him, and is continually making
and drinking tea.”
“There must be something underneath all this. One so
high-placed would not do this without some reason.”
“The reason is that he has lost his reason! All men seek
and strive to better themselves: why should one such as he
strive to be worse off? Only because his wits are gone,”
said Hanka, raising her head, for voices were heard within
the enclosure.
They were coming back from the christening. Yuzka
opened the march, with the baby, swaddled in a pillow, and
covered with a shawl; then came Dominikova escorting
15] SPRING
it, then the Voyt and Ploshkova, the godfather and god-
mother; and, last of all, Ambrose limping along after
them.
But before entering, Dominikova took up the child, and,
crossing herself, carried it all round the cabin, stopping at
each corner according to some old prehistoric rite, and say-
ing:
“From the East cometh Wind.
“From the North cometh Cold.
“From the West cometh Night.
“From the South cometh Heat.
“And on every side, O human soul, beware of evil, and
put thy trust in God alone.”
“H’m!” laughed the Voyt; “that Dominikova seems such
a pious one, but she’s a famous warlock all the same!”
“Truly,” Ploshkova replied, “prayers do good; but all
know that a few charms thrown in do no hurt.”
They entered all together. Dominikova undid the child,
and put it, stark naked and red as a crayﬁsh, into its mother’s
arms.
“O Mother, we bring you a real Christian, who in holy
baptism has received the name of Roch. May he live and
thrive and be your consolation!”
“And may he beget a dozen young Rochs! A roaring,
fellow he is! No need was there to pinch him at christen-
ing; and how he spat the salt out!”
The little one was wailing and kicking out its legs upon
the feather-bed. Dominikova wiped its eyes and mouth
and forehead with some drops of vodka; and only then
did she allow Hanka to take it to her breast. To this it at
once turned, clung ravenously, and was hushed.
Hanka then thanked the godfather and godmother very
heartily, kissing them and the others present, and excusing
herself that the christening was not such as beﬁtted the son
of a Boryna.
“Then have another one next year,” said the Voyt, merrily,
wiping his moustache, for the vodka glass was coming his
way; “and that one will make up for this.”
THE PEASANTS 152
Here Ambrose blurted out thoughtlessly: “A christening
without the father is like a sin without absolution!"
This opened the ﬂoodgates of I-Ianka’s grief, until the
women presently drank to comfort her, and gathered her
into their arms with great compassion. Presently she was
soothed, begged their pardons, and asked them to take some-
thing to eat. And, indeed, a great dish of scrambled eggs
and minced sausage was spreading its fragrance through the
air.
It was Yagustynka who served the visitors, for Yuzka
was crooning to the new-born child, rocking it to sleep in
the large kneading-trough, for the old cradle had lost its
rockers.
Long did spoon after spoon go tinkling into the dish, no-
body speaking the while.
Children were crowding outside in the passage, and more
and more little heads came peeping into the room; so the
Voyt ﬂung a handful of caramels out into the yard to them,
for which they had many a scramble and ﬁght.
“Why, even Ambrose has lost his tongue,” Yagustynka
said, being the ﬁrst to speak.
“Ah, he is thinking of a farm for our man-child to run
. and a girl for him to court!”
“To ﬁnd the land is the father’s business: to ﬁnd the girl
be ours,” said the godfather.
“Of them there is no lack at all. They are thrown at
your heads, with a dowry besides for the one ye may choose!”
“I fancy the Voyt’s wife is thinking of another child: I
saw her the other day airing her dead babe’s clothes on the
hedgerow.”
“Belike the Voyt has promised her a christening in au-
tumn.”
“And, being such an able official, has surely not forgotten
the needful for its fulﬁlment.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered gravely; “to be cheerful, a cabin
must have a racket of children!”
“They do indeed give much trouble, but are pledges of
hope and comfort.”
15'3 SPRING
l
“Very fine!” growled Yagustynka.—-‘But even gold may
be bought too dear!”
“True, some children are evil, and set their parents at
naught. But ’tis a hard-law: ‘As the dam is, so the lamb
is’; and ‘one reaps what one has sown,’ ” Dominikova replied.
Yagustynka, feeling the application of the words to herself,
was infuriated.
“Ye may well jeer at others, having such gentle boys,
who spin and milk and wash the pots as well as the best-
trained wench.”
“Because they have been bred up in the right way—the
way of obedience.”
“And they are as like their father as any picture—even
to offering their cheeks to the smiter! Aye, ‘as the dam is,
so the lamb is’: ye have spoken truly. And I remember
your deeds with the lads in your young days: small wonder,
then, that Yagna goes your way, and imitates you so well.
If,” she hissed in her ear, “a wooden post—topped with a
man’s hat, set on it jauntily—should ask her, she were too
good-natured to say No!” Dominikova turned deadly pale
and bowed her head down as the words were spat forth.
Just then Yagna was going through the passage. Hanka
called her in to take a drink. She complied, but, without
even glancing at anyone, went out and into her own rooms.
The Voyt awaited her return, but in vain, and was visibly
disappointed.
He had little more to say to the others; and when she
came out again and went into the court-yard, his eyes wan-
dered stealthin after her.
The talk began to ﬂag. The two older ones sat glower-
ing and glaring at each other, while Ploshkova whispered
something in Hanka’s ear. Ambrose alone was faithful to
the bottle, and though no one took any notice of him,
talked on and told of things incredible.
The Voyt shortly took his leave, making as if to go home;
but he whipped round through the orchard into the yard,
where Yagna was sitting on the byre-step, giving a mottled
calf her ﬁnger to suck.
THE PEASANTS 154
He peered cautiously round, and putting some caramels
into her bosom:
“Take these, Yagna,” he said; “and come to the private
bar this evening; you shall have something still better.”
And without awaiting her reply he hurried back to the
cabin.
“Aha!” he cried; “ye have there a goodly bull-calf, I see:
’twill fetch a high price.”
“No, we keep it for breeding: it comes of good Manor
stock.”
“And a splendid proﬁt ye’ll have of it: the miller’s bull
is good for nothing now. How pleased Antek will be to see
the money ﬂow in!”
“Ah me! when will he see that? when?”
“In no long time. It is I who tell you so: trust me.”
“We all are waiting wearily from day to day!”
“And any day they may be back—all of them; and I
know something of these matters, I fancy.”
“But the ﬁelds will not wait: that isthe worst of it.”
“And ah! when I look forward to autumn . .
A cart rattled by. Yuzka peeped out and announced
that it was the priest, along with Roch, bound for somewhere.
“To purchase wine for the Mass,” Ambrose explained.
“And why,” Yagustynka asked with a sneer, “has he
rather chosen Roch to try it with him than Dominikova?”
The latter had no time to retort: just then, in came the
smith, and the Voyt raised his glass.
“Michael, you are late; come and make up for lost time!”
“I shall soon catch you up: here they come to take you
from us!”
Even as he spoke, the Soltys rushed in breathless.
“Away, Peter; the scrivener and the gendarmes need you.”
“Mother of a dog! what, not an instant of rest? . . . Well,
duty ﬁrst!”
“Get rid of them quick and rejoin us.”
“Can it be done? There’s the Podlesie ﬁre business, and
they come, too, about the hole dug here.”
I55 SPRING
He went out with the Soltys. Then Hanka, ﬁxing her
eyes on the smith:
“They will come,” she said, “to take informations. Tell
them all, Michael.”
He scratched his moustache, and eyed the child with much
apparent attention.
“What can I say? Just as much as Yuzka could.”
“I shall not send the girl to an ofﬁcial: ’twould be un-
seemly. But say to them, you, that, so far as we can tell,
naught has been stolen from the store-room. Whether this
be so or not, no one knows but God . . . and . . .”——She
broke off, stroking the feather-bed with a nervous cough,
disguising the mockery she felt visible on her face. He
replied only with a shrug, and went out.
“Oh, the dishonest knave!” she said to herself, smiling
softly.
“Because the christening was a poor one, they have broken
it up quite,” Ambrose grumbled, taking up his cap to go.
“Yuzka, cut a piece of sausage: he can celebrate the
christening at home.”
“Am I a man to eat dry sausage?”
“Then moisten your inwards with vodka now, and stop
grumbling.” '
“They were wise who said: ‘Count the grains of barley
put in the pot, but look not at your ﬁngers when they work,
nor count the glasses drunk at any festival’!”
They continued talking and drinking for a time, till the
Soltys came round to all the cabins, ordering the people to
meet the scrivener and gendarmes at the Voyt’s.
This put Ploshkova in a passion. Setting her arms
akimbo, she began to storm.
“Not one jot do I care for the Voyt’s commands! Is it
any business of ours? Have we invited them to come?
Have we time for gendarme-parties, say? We do not come
to heel to the ﬁrst that whistles: no dogs are we! If they
want to know aught, let them come and inquire. . . . ’Tis
the only thing to do. . . . No, we do not go!” And with
THE PEASANTS 156
that she ran out into the road, shouting to a group of terri-
ﬁed women who had come together by the mill-pond:
“To your work, neighbours; to the ﬁelds! whoso has to
do with any goodwife should know where to seek herl—Let
us not wait upon them, as if we were going to give all up at
their command, and sit like dogs at their doors! The ras-
cals!”——So she screamed, being mightily ruffled in spirit.
Now as she was, after Borynova, the foremost goodwife in
Lipka, the women obeyed her, and dispersed in all directions
like frightened hens; and as the most part had already been
in the ﬁelds since dawn, the village now seemed empty,
except for the little ones playing about the pond, and the
old people basking in the sun.
Of course the scrivener was furious, and loaded the Soltys
with a profusion of insults; but he had to go to the ﬁelds all
the same. There he plodded to and fro for a long time,
asking each whether they knew anything about the ﬁre in
Podlesie. They told him just as much as he himself a]-
ready knew; for what he wants to keep to himself, who
would let a gendarme know?
The whole time till noon was lost in ﬂoundering about
most villainous roads, and at times getting dirtied up to the
waist with mire; for the ﬁelds were still very muddy here
and there.
Their exasperation was therefore at its height when the
scrivener arrived at Boryna’s hut to draw up a statement
of facts concerning the pit dug there. He was swearing like
a trooper; and, chancing to meet Bylitsa in the porch, he
rushed at him, shaking his ﬁsts and shrieking:
“You hound’s face, you! Wherefore do you not watch,
when robbers dig under your hut, eh?” And he proceeded
to mention Bylitsa’s mother, with the foulest outrage.
“Mind the business you have to do: I am no servant of
yours! D’ye hear!” the old man, grievously offended,
broke in.
At this the scrivener roared: “Hold your tongue when
you speak to an official. or I’ll jail you for contempt!”
157 SPRING
But the old man’s blood was boiling. He drew himself up,
and cried in a hoarse voice, and with blazing eyes:
“And who are you? A servant of the public, paid by
the public! Then do what the Voyt commands you, and let
us free peasants alone !——Look at him! That scribbling fel—
low there! He has grown fat on our bread, and now would
fain ride roughshod over folkl—But you have your superiors
to account to, and they can punish you!”
Here the Voyt and Soltys came forward to pacify him, for
he had worked himself up so, that his ﬁngers were twitching
for some weapon at hand.
“You! set down a ﬁne for me: I’ll pay it, and toss you
a coin for vodka besides, if I am so minded,” he called out.
But the clerk paid no more heed to him, and was taking
notes of everything, and inquiring into every detail of the
occurrence: while the old man rambled about the place,
muttering, peeping into corners, and quite unable to come
to himself. He even gave a kick to the dog!
When all was over, they would willingly have taken a
morsel; but Hanka sent them word that she was just then
short of bread and milk: only a few potatoes remained from
breakfast.
They accordingly repaired to the tavern, loading Lipka
with all imaginable maledictions.
“Ye did well, Hanka,” the old man said; “and they can
do nothing to you—Why, the old Squire, though I was his
serf then, and he had the right, would never, never have in-
sulted me so!”
In the early afternoon, news came that they were still in
the tavern, and the Soltys had given orders to bring Kozlova
to him.
“He may as well run after the wind in the plain!” Yagus-
tynka said, scornfully.
“No doubt she is in the forest, seeking dry ﬁre-wood.”
“No; she has been in Warsaw since yesterday. She went
to get children from the hospital, and is to bring over a
couple. qundlings, I suppose.”
THE PEASANTS 158
“Yes, and let them die of starvation, as she did those she
had two years ago,” said Hanka.
“Poor things! Perhaps it is better so; they will not have
to drag out a long life of misery.”
“Aye, but even a bastard is of human blood, and ’tis
no light thing to answer for their lives to God, as she
must.”
“But,” Yagustynka pleaded, “she does not starve them of
set purpose: oft she has not enough for herself; whence can
’ she get food for them?”
“She has not taken them out of charity; she has been paid
for their keep!” replied Hanka, sternly.
“Fifty zloty a head per year is no great sum.”
“It is nothing. She drinks it all at once, and the little
ones starve!”
“Not all of them—Your Vitek, for instance, and another
lad now in a hut in Modlitsa.”
“Oh, but Father took Vitek from her when he could hardly
toddle; and the other was in like case.”
“Am I defending Kozlova? Nay, but only telling you
things as I see them. Something the poor creature must
earn, since she has naught to eat.”
“Surely: her goodman is away, and so can steal naught
for her.”
“And then she made but a sorry business with Agata.
That old thing, instead of dropping off—what does she do
but get quite well again and leave her? And now she
grumbles all over the village that every day Kozlova up-
braided her for living on, to her loss!”
“She will no doubt return to the Klembas: where else
should she take shelter?”
“She is offended with them. Klembova would have kept
her because of her bedding and ready money. But she
would not stay, had her locker taken over to the Soltys’,
and is now looking for a hut to die in peacefully.”
“She’ll not die yet. There’s work for her everywhere, if
only geese to tend—Now, where in the world ‘has Yagna
gone?”
I59 SPRING
“She’s at the organist’s, bellke, embroidering a frill for
the daughter.”
“As if there was too little to do here!”
“Ever since Easter,” said Yuzka in a tone of complaint,
“she has been there continually.”
“I’ll give her a lesson she will remember.—-Let me look at
babyf’
She took it to bed with her, and as soon as dinner was
done, sent everyone off to work. Soon she was alone in the
room, listening to the children playing outside under Byl-
itsa’s eye, and thinking how old Boryna lay gazing at the
sunbeams that streaked the counterpane, trying to catch at
them with his ﬁngers, and babbling vague incoherent words,
like an infant.
The village was deserted, for—the weather being ﬁrst-
rate—all who could had gone out to work.
Since Easter, it had been warmer and brighter every day.
And the days were lengthening out: misty at dawn, hot
though cloudy at noon, and gorgeous with burning sunsets:
true spring days.
Some, cool, bright, clear, passed by in quiet beauty, with
a sprinkling of yellow dandelions, white daisies, and green
buds coming out all over the willows. ..
And some were downright hot—burning hot; moist, soaked
in sunlight, smelling of all fresh scents, and pregnant with
such mighty power that when at evening the birds were still
and the villagers asleep, one almost felt the upward thrust
of life in the roots and growing corn, the hushed rustling of
the opening buds, ahd the motions of all the creatures now
coming forth into God's world.
But there were other days, too, totally unlike these.
Sunless, foggy, of a livid grey, with bellying clouds low
down in an air so dense that it turned the head like strong
drink: and the trees tossed and rocked, and all things swelled
with indistinct cravings towards they knew not what: men
only longed to shout, to yawn, to roll about the wet meadows
of lush grass, like the silly dogs around them!
Then there were days of rain, that commenced with
THE PEASANTS 160
dawn, with a hempen funeral pall over everything, making
the roads invisible, as were the cabins too, buried in their
drenched orchards. And steadily it fell, in regular tremu-
lous grey threads that seemed unwound from an unseen
spindle between sky and earth; while everything bent pa-
tiently beneath the streaming downpour, and hearkened to
the many-voiced bubbling of the rills, white with foam, that
ran down the dark-hued ﬁelds.
But this was a customary thing, to which no one paid
heed, all going forth to work at peep of day, and coming
home late in the dusk, having had scarce time enough to
swallow a morsel and breathe awhile.
For whole days, then, Lipka stood abandoned, with only
a few old people to guard it. Sometimes a Dgiad would
drag his aged limbs along the way, or a cart jog on to
the mill; then all was deserted once more, and Lipka stood
plunged in the ever-thickening greenery of its orchards.
So the days crawled by, full of hard toil, not always
warm, sometimes even snowy. Small wonder if there was
no noise or quarrelling in the place: they had no time for
that, and every neck was bent beneath the heavy yoke of
labour
As soon, then, as morning opened its heavy eyes, and the
ﬁrst lark piped up, the whole village sprang to its feet
with noise and din and cries of children and screams of
driven geese; horses were brought out and harnessed to the
plough, potatoes carted away to the ﬁelds in sacks—and 10!
all was silent anew! Even Holy Mass had but a scanty at-
tendance, and often the organ, played in an empty church,
was heard only by those in the neighbouring ﬁelds, and men
knelt down there to say their morning prayers when the
tinkling bell announced the beginning of the service.
All worked hard: yet the land seemed as untouched as
when they were not there. Only a close observer could have
descried here and there a plough, with horses straining for-
wards along the furrows—a cart moving on the ﬁeld-paths—
or women, like red caterpillars, digging away in the vast
plain under the bright vault of sky.
l6l SPRING
Around them, in all the hamlets visible above the orchard-
tops—-white walls on a blue-grey background—the air vi-
brated with roars and shouts and songs of toilers. To the
very hills at the sky-line, the eye could see hosts of peasants,
sowing or guiding the plough, and folk busy planting
potatoes, and pillars of dust rising up on sandy soil wherever
the harrow passed.
The Lipka lands alone, smitten as it were with the scourge
of barrenness, made a mournful exception. There they
lay, alas! all but fallow; for ten women, were they to strive
and sweat from daybreak till night, could not do so much
as one single man.
By themselves, for what were they ﬁt? Only for delv-
ing or hoeing, to plant potatoes or ﬂax. Over the rest of
the lands the partridges piped undisturbed, ever bolder and
bolder; or a hare would be seen running, but so deliberately
that you could count the white ﬂashes of its scut; or ﬂocks
of crows would ﬂy ﬂapping over slope and hummock.
What though the days were marvelloust ﬁne, rising like
golden monstrances dipped in silver light? What though,
luxuriant in verdure, they brimmed over with warm fra-
grance, and were made melodious by the voices of many birds,
where every ditch was all full of the gold of the dandelions;
where every ﬁeld-path was transformed into a green ribbon
embroidered with daisies, and the vast plain sprinkled all
over as with a rosy dust of ﬂowers? What though each
tree was oozing and dripping with the most lovely verdure,
and the whole world simmered, bubbling over with the great
seething of the spring!
For round Lipka the lands lay untilled, unsown. un-
manured, like lusty young swains basking lazy in the sun-
shine: and on their rich fruitful surface, instead of corn,
wild marjorams began to peep forth, thistles grew apace,
rusty sorrel plants rose up; the charlock spread amongst
the autumn-ploughed ﬁelds, and mulleins and burdocks
swarmed in the stubble. All those parasites of the farm-
ers’ crops, taking courage, were now creeping on far and
wide, and where they had hitherto skulked about in fear and
THE PEASANTS I62
trembling, they came up boldly and grew fast, invading
and conquering the ground, furrow by furrow.
It was depressing to look upon, that waste and lonely
land!
It seemed as though the forests, bending down from the
hills they crowned; and the brooklets that wound timidly
through those deserted plots and patches; and the black-
thorn thickets already swelling with their white ﬂower-buds;
and the wild pear-trees, scattered along the ﬁeld-paths; and
the birds of passage; and the solitary wanderer from foreign
parts; and even the crosses and statues of saints that
watched by the roadsides—as though they were all looking
on astounded, and inquiring of the sunny days and the
plots running to waste:
“Whither have the peasants gone? Those songs, those
bursts of merriment, where are they? What has come over
Lipka?”
The women’s wailing alone told them all.
So things went on, with no change for the better, rather
for the worse; because the women, unable to get even with
the home-work, came more rarely to the ﬁelds.
At Boryna’s, indeed, things went on as usual, though more
slowly than before and not so well, since Pete had never been
accustomed to that sort of work; but they went on somehow,
and there were hands enough to labour.
From her bed, Hanka directed all, and with such shrewd-
ness and energy that even Yagna was obliged to bear a hand
along with the others. And Hanka took thought for every-
thing—for the live stock—for the sick man—for the time to
plough, for the seeds and where to sow them—and for the
little ones, whom Bylitsa, having fallen ill, had not been
able to care for since the christening. She lay alone all day
long, seeing no one but her people at dinner-time and in
the evening, and Dominikova who looked in once a day.
None of the neighbours, not even Magda, gave sign of life,
and Roch was no longer heard of: since his departure with
the priest, he had not come back. She was utterly weary
of lying in bed; and, in order to recover more quickly, she
163 SPRING
no longer grudged herself fat victuals, eggs, and meat. She
even had a fowl killed to make broth! True, it was far
too old to lay eggs: but would have brought a couple of
zloty in the market, all the same.
In consequence, she got well so speedily that she was on
her legs by Low Sunday, and resolved (in spite of all dis-
suasions) to have her “churching.” So she went to church
with Ploshkova at once after High Mass.
She was still very shaky on her legs, though, and had to
lean on her companion’s arm.
“It smells of spring so, my head is whirling.”
“That will pass off in a day or two.”
“Why, a month’s change has come about in a week!”
“Spring rides a swift horse; there is no overtaking it.”
“How green all round is, O Lord! how green!”
Yes: over every orchard there ﬂoated a cloud of verdure,
and nothing was seen of the huts except the white tops of
the chimneys. Deep in the thickets, the birds were twitter-
ing with all their might; and genial breezes came up from
the ﬁelds beneath, made the weeds in the hedges wave, and
the mill-pond ripple and eddy.
“The buds are big on the cherry-trees: soon we shall see
the blossoms.”
“We shall have plenty of fruit, unless a sharp frost nips
them.” ,
“There is an old saying: ‘When the harvest is rare,
there’ll be fruit and to spare.’ ”
“I fear it looks like that for Lipka,” she sighed; and
the tears dimmed her eyes as she glanced at the unsown
ﬁelds.
The “churching” was soon over; for the baby roared
amain, and Hanka was presently so tired that she had to
lie down at once on her_ return. But she had not lain a
breathing-space, when Vitek rushed in, crying:
“Mistress, the Tsiganes! the Tsiganes are coming!”
“Evil news, in truth! Have we not enough to plague us?
—Call Pete; let him lock all the doors, lest they make off
With anything.” And she went out in great alarm.
THE PEASANTS 164
In a short time, the whole gang was all over the place:
black-avised, in rags and tatters, with infants carried on
their backs, these beggars, importunate beyond all measure,
were running about everywhere, offering to tell fortunes, and
even trying to make their way into the huts by force.
There were but ten of them, but they made as much noise
as a whole village.
“Yuzka! drive the geese and hens into the yard, and take
the children within doors; they might be stolen!”
Down she sat in the porch to watch; and, perceiving a
Tsigane woman trying to enter the enclosure, set the dog on
her.
Lapa attacked her with savage pertinacity, and would not
be driven off, though the hag lifted her staff at him and
muttered sundry words and curses of magic might.
“Your curses, they are less than naught to me, you thief
“There would be no spells cast on us at all if ye let her
come in,” said Yagna, who looked annoyed.
“No, but our things would be stolen! There is no safety
against such a creature, even should your eyes follow her
hands all the time!—-and if ye want your fortune told, why,
go ye after her.”
She had shrewdly guessed at the unspoken desire of Yagna,
who ran out into the village, and followed the Tsiganes about
all the afternoon. Unable either to free herself of a vague
dread, or to overcome her curiosity to know the future, she
returned to the cabin many a time, and went out again as
often; and it was only when twilight fell, and the Tsiganes
were going off to the forest, that she saw one of them enter
the tavern, followed her in, and, in extreme terror, crossing
herself again and again, had her fortune told, heedless of
the bystanders.
At Boryna’s cabin in. the evening, Pete told them about
the Tsiganes: how they had a king, who went about covered
with silver bosses, and was so perfectly obeyed that, should
he even in jest command one of them to hang himself,
he would do so at once!
'i’
165 SPRING
“A king of thieves!” whispered Vitek; “a mighty man
whom they set the dogs at!"
“Accursed heathens!” the old woman chimed in; and,
drawing nearer, related how the Tsiganes were wont to kid-
nap children all about the villages.
“And, to make them black, they put them in a bath of
alder-bark, so that their own mother would not know them;
and then they take a brick and rub away the ﬂesh—even
to the bone--where the holy oil of baptism had been set:
they simply make little ﬁends of them.”
“And ’tis said,” a girl’s voice piped shrilly, “that they
know charms and incantations awful even to name!”
“Aye, indeed; one would have but to breathe on you, and
moustache would sprout out to a cubit’s length at once!”
“We are told that a man of the parish of Slupia once set
his dog on a Tsigane hag: she only waved a mirror before
his eyes, and he was struck stone-blind!”
“Belike, they can change a man into anything they may
choose—into a beast even!”
“Ha! whosoever drinks overmuch does truly change him-
self into a swine!”
“But what of that farmer in Modlitsa, who barked and
ran on all fours?”
“He was possessed of an evil spirit that his Reverence
cast out of him.”
“Gracious Lord! can such things be? It makes my ﬂesh
creep to think of them.”
“Yea, for the Wicked One prowleth on every side as a
wolf round the fold!”
Terror clutched at their hearts; they gathered closer to-
gether, while Vitek, all of a ﬂutter with dread, faltered out:
“But this place too is haunted!”
Yagustynka was down upon him at once: “Don’t be a
fool; don’t talk nonsense.”
“I do not. For I know that Something walks the stable
at night, and shakes out the provender, while the horses
neigh. . . . And then it passes out beyond the haystack;
THE PEASANTS 166
for Lapa follows it, ﬁrst growling, then fawning and wagging
its tail: and yet there is no one to be seen. . . . It must be
Kuba’s ghost,” he added in a low voice, looking round him
with dread.
“Kuba’s ghost!” echoed Yuzka, and crossed herself sev-
eral times.
All were greatly impressed, and cold to the very backbone.
The door opened, creaking: they all started and cried out.
It was only Hanka standing on the threshold.
“Pete, where do the Tsiganes lie to-night?”
“They said in the forest, beyond Boryna’s cross.”
“This night ye must watch, lest they make off with aught
of our things.”
“So near their camp, they would scarcely steal from us.”
“That’s as it may be. Two years since, they lay in that
very place, and went off with a sow of Soha’s,” said Hanka,
as a warning. At bedtime, she saw to it that the byre and
stable were well locked; and, returning, she looked in at her
father-in-law’s door.
“Yuzka! run and fetch Yagna: tell her to come at once:
this night I’ll not leave the door unlocked for her!”
Yuzka was soon back. No lights were in Dominikova’s
window, and almost all Lipka was asleep.
“The gadaboutl—Well, I'll not let her in. She may spend
the night out of doors,” Hanka said, as she shot the bolts.
It must have been very late when, awaked by someone
pushing at the door, and going to open it, she shrank back
with disgust: it was Yagna, positively reeking of vodka. __
Her state was clear by her fumbling at the door-latch; and
then she was heard stumbling over the furniture and fall-
ing like a log on to her bed.
“Had it been a fair-day, she could not have quaffed
deeperl—Ah, well!"
The night was fated to bring trouble. just before day-
break, such a lamentable cry thrilled through Lipka that
all those who still were sleeping donned their clothes and
ran out, thinking the village was on ﬁre.
Balcerkova and her daughters were running about, with
167 SPRING
shrieks and screams. They had just found their horse
stolen! .
The whole population was instantly outside her cabin,
where, in the utmost disorder of attire, and with many a
sob and wailing ejaculation, they were telling how Mary
had gone out before dawn to put provender in the rack . . .
to ﬁnd the door open and the stable empty!
“O Lord, have mercyl—Good people, help me, do some-
thing!" the old woman shrieked, clutching at her own hair,
and dashing herself against the fence.
The Soltys came and sent for the Voyt, who arrived di-
rectly. but so drunk that he scarcely could stand. Utterly
incapable, he only stammered unintelligibly, and ordered the
people away, till at last the Soltys was obliged to remove
him.
The calamity, however, was so grievous that few paid any
attention to his state. Everyone was in consternation, go-
ing from the road to the stable and back again, talking one
to another, hesitating as to what course to pursue. and
completely dismayed. But suddenly someone shouted:
“This is the Tsiganes’ work!”
“So it is: they are still in the forest, and came round to
us but yesterday."
“Let us,” cried Gulbasova, “go to them quickly. take the
horse back. and thrash them soundly!”
When the wild uproar that arose at her words broke out,
it was just sunrise. They set to pulling stakes out of fences,
and running about with clenched ﬁsts 'to excite each other,
and were ready to set out, when a fresh development took
place.
Up came the Soltys’ wife, all in tears, crying that their
cart had been stolen from them!
The news was like a thunderbolt, and for a time they
stood breathless, staring at each other with panic-stricken
looks. ’
A horse and cart stolen together! such a thing had never
been heard of.
“There’s a curse upon Lipka!”
THE PEASANTS I68
“And it is heavier every week!”
“Of old, fewer mishaps took place in a year than now in
one month.”
“What, oh, what will be the end of it all!” they whis-
pered, stricken with awe.
They all immediately hastened to Balcerkova’s orchard,
wherein the footprints of a horse were distinctly seen on the
dewy grass and the damp earth; these they followed to the
Soltys’ granary. It was there that the horse had been har-
nessed and driven round about the path near the miller’s,
into the road that ran towards Vola.
Half the village followed the traces in that direction; but
these at last disappeared near the burnt cornstacks in
Podlesie so completely that no further clue could be found.
This robbery had dispirited them all so that, in spite of
the magniﬁcent weather. few were in a state to work. They
went about dejectedly. wringing their hands, condoling with
Balcerkova. and each of them most anxious for the safety
of her own property.
As to the old dame. she stood beside the stable-door as by
a catafalque. weeping bitterly. and pouring out by fits and
starts words interspersed with sighs:
“O my chestnut horse. my only one, my beloved, you the ,
best of all my servants l—Ah me! he was but in his tenth
year; I had bred him from his foaling! Even as one of my
own children he was. . . . Foaled the very year my Staho
was born !— Vhat shall we do without you now. alas!”
Her complaints were all the more sincere and hearty, be-
cause just then, no men being on her farm. it was as bad to
lose both her hands (she said) as lose her horse.
Of course her neighbours surrounded her with quaint at-
tempts at consolation, and general praises of her horse's
good points.
“A ﬁrst-rate beast. 'still in its prime, and gentle as a child!”
“It kicked my boy, neighbour; but all the same, ’twas a
splendid animal.”
“And though it had a spavin on one leg, it was worth
forty roubles any day.”
M9 SPRING
“As playful as a kitten, it was! How it used to pull
down the bedding from the fences!”
“We shall not look upon its like soon,” they all agreed,
speaking as of a dead Christian !-—And whenever Balcerkova
cast a glance at the manger, her sorrow welled forth afresh,
and the empty stable, like a freshly-dug grave, evoked the
remembrance of her loss, and the cruel injury done to her;
and she was only soothed a little when she learned that the
Soltys had taken Pete from Boryna’s, Valek from the priest’s,
and, together with the miller’s man, had started off after the
Tsiganes.
“Ye may as well pursue the wind in the plain. ‘They
that steal, can conceal,’ ” said one.
And indeed they returned very late, announcing that
every trace of them had disappeared like a stone in the water.
The Voyt showed himself at last, and, dark though it was,
took the Soltys with him to report to the police; while
Balcerkova and Mary went to explore the neighbouring ham-
lets.
They came back with no news, save that thefts had been
numerous in other villages as well. So thus there now came
another weighty aﬂliction to torment the people: anxiety
for the safety of their possessions. The Voyt therefore or-
ganized a “Vigilance Band”; and, for lack of young men,
told out two girls nightly to make the round of the village
and watch, together with all the bigger boys: besides which,
the lasses were to sleep in the byres and stables.
All this was of no avail. The very ﬁrst night, certain
thieves went to Filipka’s hut (over the water), and made
off with her sow, just about to farrow!
The woman’s grief could not have been more violent
if her own child had been stolen. For this was all she de-
pended on to pull through till harvest-time; and her howls
of despair, as she banged her head against the walls, were
frightful to hear. She went with her tale of woe to his
Reverence, who gave her a rouble, kindly promising her a
young pig of the farrow he himself expected at harvest-
time.
THE PEASANTS 170
They were at their wit’s end how to put a stop to these
robberies: everyone was ﬁlled with dreary forebodings, and
went about in fear of what the coming night might bring
forth.
Luckily Roch appeared in the evening with news simply
too good for belief. On Thursday—the day after next—a
whole troop of neighbours was coming round to help Lipka
in tilling the lands!
No, they could not believe it; but when his Reverence
came to conﬁrm the news solemnly, at last their joy burst
forth. The same day, when it had ceased from raining, and
the steaming pools glowed scarlet in the sundown, all the
roads swarmed with people. The huts seethed with the ex-
citement of it; neighbours ran out to talk the news over
with neighbours, and wonder; the robberies were quite for-
gotten, and the unexpected assistance rejoiced them so much
that but few troubled to watch that night.
Early the next day, preparations were made to receive
their visitors: the huts were cleaned, loaves baked, carts
made ready, potatoes cut up for planting; and the manure
that lay in heaps on the ﬁelds was scattered about over them.
In every cabin, too, much trouble was taken to get food and
drink for these unforeseen guests; for it was well under-
stood that they must be treated well, and as behoved farm-
ers. Many a fowl and goose which they had meant to sell
was now put in the pot; many a loan, too, was taken from
the innkeeper and the miller. In short, Lipka was, as it
were, on the eve of some great festival.
No one was more enraptured and transported than Roch
himself. The whole day he trudged about, hastening the
preparations where needful, and so bright and chatty that,
when he came round to the Borynas’, Hanka, who was un-
well and had taken to bed again, could not help remarking:
“Your eyes gleam as if ye were sick with a fever!”
“ ’Tis with joy they gleam! for l'never yet felt so happy.
Oh, think of it: so many peasants coming over to Lipka for
two whole days to do all the most urgent work! How can
I help rejoicing?”
l7l SPRING"
“But I cannot make out how this aid is to be—gratis,
paid only with a ‘God reward you!’ ”
“Aye, for those three words they will come to our help,
like true Poles and true Christians. Aye, this has never yet
been seen, and therefore has evil ﬂourished in the coun-
try. . . . Things will grow better still: ye shall see!——Our
folk will gain understanding, and know that we should look
only to ourselves; that none will assist us, unless we our-
selves do so, each helping the other in time of need—Ye
shall see: the time will come!” he cried, radiant, stretching
forth his arms as though to embrace the whole people and
unite it in the strong bonds of love.
But when they asked him who had worked the miracle,
he slipped away and wandered amongst the huts, where the
girls were getting ready the morrow’s dresses—almost holi-
day attire—in the hope'that some unmarried man might be
coming over.
The ﬁrst rays of morning had but just shone upon the
roofs, when the whole place was in readiness: chimneys
sent up their smoke, girls darted from hut to hut, and little
boys climbed up to the ridge-pole to look out along the
roads. All was in solemn silence. The day was not sunny;
sombre rather; but warm, with a touch of melancholy in the
air. B'irds chirruped loud in the orchards, but the people’s
voices were subdued and in keeping with the mild dank
weather. ‘
They waited a good while, and it was only just before
Mass that the dull beat of the hoofs on the highways was
heard, and a procession of carts appeared coming out of the
distant bluish haze.
“Here they come, from Vola I—From Rzepki !-:—From Deb-
itsa!—-From Przylek!” ‘
With these shouts, they ran‘towards the church, in front
of which the ﬁrst carts had stopped. Presently the whole
space was thronged with horses in harness, and with men.
Gain dressed peasants leaped out of the carts, saluting the
women who came crowding in on every side: while the
little ones, as usual, ba'wled a noisy welcome to the strangers.
THE PEASANTS 172
The service was beginning ; so in they went to hear Mass
ﬁrst of all.
As soon as it was over, the villagers grouped themselves
round about the belfry, the goodwives foremost, and the
girls on either side of them, a little behind; while the
Komorm'ki stood apart in a heap, unwilling to appear too
bold in the presence of his Reverence, who soon appeared,
gave all a hearty greeting, and, in concert with Roch, settled
who should work on each farm, taking care that the wealth-
iest peasants should‘work on the best farms.
Half an hour had not elapsed before all were distributed;
there only remained in front of the church a few Komomz'kz'
in tears, who had vainly hoped that some worker might fall
to their share. And now every homestead was in motion,
benches set out in front of the huts, and breakfast laid on'the
tables; while nips of vodka were tossed off “to their better
acquaintance.” The lasses served with alacrity, for most
of the visitors were unmarried men, and clad almost as
though they had come rather to a betrothal than to a long
spell of toil.
There was no time for conversation. Nor did they linger
much over breakfast; for, as they politely remarked, “they
had not yet deserved hospitality.”
So they speedily made for the ﬁelds, under the goodwives’
guidance.
And now arose a day of high solemnity along that country-
side. Waste and, as it were, palsied erewhile, it took up a
new life now. Wagons rolled out of every farm—yard,
ploughs moved forth on every road; all the ﬁeld-paths were
alive with people, hailing each other with merry cries across
orchards and enclosures; horses neighed, dogs gave tongue,
running wildly after the colts; a strong lusty joy of life,
ﬁlling all hearts, went brimming over into the very ﬁelds!
And on potato-patch and barley-plot, free space and weedy
fallow, there arose a din full of gladness and excitement and
racket, as in a ball-room just before th€ dance.
And then came silence, broken by swishing whips, and
tinkling harnesses; the horses pulled amain; the ploughs,
I73 SPRING
still rusty, cut deep into the soil, turning up their ﬁrst
black glossy furrows. And the people, drawing a ' long
breath, crossed themselves, cast their eyes over the ﬁelds, and
stooped down with a will to labour and to toil.
It was like a huge church in which the service had just
begun. With what piety did they bend over the glebe!
with what profound devotion and trust in Mother Earth did
they cast forth the sacred seed, that was to bring forth
much fruit on the morrow!
Like a swarm of bees, they beset the odoriferous soil—a
multitudinous, laborious, silent crowd: while the lark sang
overhead, poised upon unseen wings, and the wind, blowing
by, rocked the trees, tumbled the women’s garments, stroked
down the rye-blades, and then ﬂed away with a laugh to
the forest.
For many long hours they worked on at a stretch, only
from time to time straightening their bent shoulders just
for a breathing-spell. Even at noonday, they did not quit
the scene, but sat down in the ﬁeld-paths to rest awhile and
eat the food brought in pots from the cabins. But no
sooner had the horses done their meal than the men returned
to the ploughs again without a moment’s lingering. Only
the falling twilight at last put an end to their labour.
And now the village shone bright, and every cabin blazed
through open door or window: Within they were all busy
getting supper ready. Louder grew the noise and uproar:
children clamoured, horses whinnied, gates swung rasping
rustily, calves bleated, geese gaggled, driven home from
their pastures: all Lipka eﬂervesced with commotion and up-
roar. '
With the evening meal there came a hush. The visitors
were invited'to table. and offered the ﬁrst places, as honoured
guests: they were pressed to eat of all that was best: meat
was plentiful, and vodka ﬂowed freely.
Through the open doors and windows, the circle of heads
round the]! tables could be seen. spoons were heard scraping
the platt'rs, and far into the roads came the savoury scent
of fried, acon.
THEPEASANTS ' I74
, Rochpassed from hut to hut, sowingthe, seed of good
words, as a thrifty farmer, full of care for his lands—yet
at the same_time not less happy, perhaps happier, than
anyone else in the village. , _ , _ .
. At Hanka’s,too, the day of joy was felt. Though they
needed no assistance, yet they had, in order to be of service,
invited to supper two men from Rzepki, who had been
working at Veronka’s and at Golab’s. ' .
These she had chosen because the Rzepki community
claimed to .be of noble blood. _
In Lipka, indeed, people laughed that claim to scorn;
but no-sooner had they come in than Hanka was aware of a
subtle distinction that stamped all they did.
. They were undersized, thin, wore. black well-ﬁtting capotes
like townsmen; their moustaches, of the colour of hemp,
stood out stiffly; their looks were digniﬁed, their manners
courteous, and they spoke after the fashion of gentlemen.
Very well-behaved folk they were, praising all they saw with
courteous grace, and so pleasing of speech that the women
felt mightily ﬂattered. -
Hanka paid such attention and had such an eye to all
their needs that, during the plentiful supper she had had
prepared and laid out over a clean white cloth on the table,
her folk were continually dancing attendance 0n them. As
to Ya_gn-a>~,~-W~ho:-had“ m'a‘de"a..ﬁrst-class toilet for the occasion,
she was in the seventh heave‘n‘,'\her eyes simply glued on
the younger of the two men. \\ I ‘
But when Yagustynka whispered: “Isle has only his own
ladies to think of; a barefoot lass is of no \account to him!”
she turned very red, and hurried out to her-\QWTI {00m-
It was then that Roch came in to take a- lot>l<*.»\21,.’t the Table-
“How amazed our menqwill be,”'he said, “t6” learn that.
the Rzepki folk have come to help them!”
“If we fought you in the wood, it was no pr'Va'Ee COD—-
cern of ours: therefore do we bear no grudge,” th elder 0f
the two replied. ‘
“Whenever 'two men come to blows, a third is sur tO-gain-
thereby!”
\
\
175 SPRING
“Roch, ye say true. And if these twain make friends,
may not that third have to smart for it?”
“He may. Sir, you speak most wisely.”
“What Lipka must bear to-day, may be Rzepki’s burden
to-morrow.”
“Every village must be a prey to the foe, my good sir, if
they wrangle amongst themselves, instead of uniting. Wise
friendly neighbours are as sure a defence as walls and pal-
ings: no swine can pass to root in their ﬁelds.”
“We, Roch, know that; but our young men do not as yet,
and there's the pity of it.”
“Ah,'but the time is coming, honoured sir: they become
wiser!”
And thereupon they went out into the porch, where Pete
was playing on his ﬁddle for the girls who had gathered to
hear him.
The night was quiet, with but little wind; white mists
were hovering over the lands. the lapwing piped in the
morass, and the cluttering of the mill-wheels went on as ever.
But Lipka was noisy for a long while, with laughter and
merry whispers, and walks and talks by the mill-pond,
men and girls together; while their elders, sitting in front of
their cabins, chatted with the older guests, and enjoyed the
rest and the cool air.
Everybody was afoot the next day, almost ere the sk
had begun to redden in the East. -
The day was clear, and, as the night had been frosty. made
the landscape gleam like silver out of the cold shadows
of the chilly morning. Birds were screaming. trees mur-
muring, waters gurgling; and the gale that shook the thick-
ets carried away with it rattling, bawling, roaring sounds,
and the songs of the lasses as they went to work.
For some time, the ﬁelds lay frosted under the dawn,
lost in sound sleep, pregnant with swelling life; but the
workers soon pressed in on every side upon those slumber-
ous strips of land, now drowned in sun-soaked dust-clouds,
and silently attacked every patch. And,now. from the soil,
and the trees, and the grey-blue distances; from the glitter-
THE PEASANTS 176
ing reaches of the brooks, and the red-hot disk in the skyey
vault—from all these spring was pouring itself forth with
such intoxicating might that one held one’s breath for
very joy, and a blessed feeling came and made the tears
to start, the knees to bend, the bosom to heave, in the
presence of that holy miracle of Life, visible in the meanest
blade that tossed in the spring breeze. _
Therefore did the people gaze around with long looks of
awe, and cross themselves, and, having said their morning
prayers, set to work in silence, so that the Mass-bell had
not yet rung when everyone was at his post.
The mists soon dissolved, and all the ﬁelds shone in sun-
light. As far as the eye could reach over the village lands,
divided by long green strips of autumn-sown corn, they were
swarming with red skirts, ﬂashing with ploughs, broken up
with harrows (pulled by farm-girls), and hoed by ranks
of potato-planting women. Often, too, along the narrow
stretches of dark soil there would pass a peasant, with a
great piece of canvas round his loins; who, slightly bending
forward, would with a reverent motion of his opening hand
ﬂing the corn down upon the expectant soil.
All toiled zealously, scarcely noticing his Reverence, who
appeared directly after / Mass beside his farm-servant,
ploughing close to the road; and their amazement was ex-
treme when they saw him coming round to the corn-plots,
hailing his parishioners jovially, offering them snuff, and,
after some friendly words, patting the children’s heads,
joking with the younger women, seizing a bough to drive
a ﬂight of sparrows from the barley, blessing the ﬁrst hand-
ful of seed to be sown, or even sowing a handful himself:
all the while urging the work on so energetically that no
overseer could have done better!
He visited them again, too, immediately after dinner; for
though (as he told the women) it was St. Mark’s day, the
procession was not to take place till the octave, on the 3rd
of May.
“We must not interrupt our work, for our helpers will no
longer be here to-morrow.”
I77 SPRING
He stayed on in the open till the very end, with cassock
tucked up, and leaning on a stick, as he was a,corpulent
man; yet going about unweariedly, and only now and then
sitting down to wipe the perspiration from his bald fore-
head.
They were most pleased to see him; and somehow the
work seemed to go on faster and easier under his eye:
moreover, the peasants felt vastly pleased at his Reverence’s
kindness in coming to superintend the work.
The red sun was rolling forestwards, and they were al-
ready ﬁnishing the more urgent work in haste, because they
were anxious to be home ere dusk.
Several of them would not even stay to sup, but departed
after swallowing a mouthful of food; others quickly stowed
away the contents of the dishes offered them; for their horses
were harnessed and waited in front of the cabins.
The priest went round again with Roch, thanking every
man, and especially those of Rzepki, for their friendly as-
sistance.
“What you give to the needy you give to Jesus Himself.
Aye, and though ye are not liberal in your offerings for
Masses, and forget the wants of the church, and though I
have for a whole year pointed out to you that your pastor’s
roof lets in the rain—still I shall always remember you in
prayers for your generosity towards Lipka.” So he spoke,
moved even to tears, and kissing each man’s head as it bent
before him.
They were then close to the blacksmith’s, and on their
way to the farther end of the village, when they were stopped
by a crowd of weeping Komorniki, headed by Kozlova.
“Excuse us, your Reverence; we have come to ask whether
these people are not going to help us too,” she said boldly,
in a loud tone of voice.
“We were waiting for our turn to come.”
The others chimed in here: “Are we poor wretches to
remain without any help?”
The priest, much embarrassed, grew exceedingly red in
the face.
THE PEASANTS’ 178
“What am I to do?” he said; “there were not enough
workers for all. . . . As it is, they have kindly given us
their toil for two whole days . . . and . . . and . . he
stammered, looking from one to another. .
“Yes,” sobbed Filipka, “they have helped—but whom?
Why, the landowners . . . the wealthy men only!”
“For us, pestilent creatures, no one has cared or thought
at all!”
“No, not even for a furrow or two, driven through our
potato-plots!” they muttered gloomily.
“But, good women, they are leaving now . . . and . . .
yes, something will be done for you. Truly, I know it is
hard . . . your husbands are in jail with the others. . . .
Yes, I assure you, something shall be done!”
“And for that something,” cried Gulbasova, “how long
are we to wait? If we cannot plant our potato-patches,
we may as well seek a rope at once!”
_ “But something shall be done, I tell you! Ye shall have
my horses—aye, even for one whole day . . . but pray do
not tire the poor beasts. . . . And I will be the miller
too: and the Borynas may also give help perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps!” roared Kozlova. “While the grass grows, the
steed starvesl—Come away, womenl—Everything is for the
farm-owners, and we, miserable starvelings, may eat stones
and drink our tearsl—This shepherd only cares for the
sheep he can shear: we have no wool for him!”-—But here
the priest stopped his ears and took to ﬂight.
They stood huddled together, sore and angry. Roch did
all he could to pacify them, promising sincerely he would
procure assistance, and succeeded in getting them away
from the road, along which the friendly helpers were now
going home in their noisy carts, with cries of gratitude from
every threshold.
“May our Lord be your reward!”
“Health and happiness!”
“We’ll be quits some day!”
“Remember and see us every Sunday: we’re kinsfolk
now!”
179 SPRING
“Greet your parents! Bring your wives when you
come!”
“Should you ever need aught, count on us!”
“God prosper you, dear ones!”
So they cried, caps and hands waving:
The lasses and all the children escorted them out of the
village.
It was evening now, and the after-glow was still red upon
the waters here and there; silence came down with the mists
of night, but the frogs fell a-croaking in concert.
They went with them as far as the cross—ways, and parted
from them with shouts and laughter, one of the girls striking
up a song as they drove off. .
“Yasio, will you wed me now?
Father’s wagon comes, I trow,
Rattling on the way-
Da dana!
Rattling on the way!”
To which the lads answered, turning round in the carts:
“Now, ’tis cold and we should freeze;
Whom can frosty kisses please?
Let us wed in May!
Da dana!
Let us wed in May!”
And the fresh young voices echoed over the dewy grass
and rolled on and afar.
CHAPTER VII
‘ ‘ UR boys are returning!”
The news came like a ﬂash of lightning, and
spread through Lipka like wildﬁre.
Were they, truly? And if so, when?
No one knew. ' .
Only one thing was sure: the constable of the commune
had been at the Voyt’s with a certain paper, ‘and told it to
Klembova, who was just driving her geese to the mill-pond.
She had instantly rushed round to her neighbours; the
Balcerek girls had cried the news out to the nearest huts:
and in the space of an “Ave Maria,” the whole place was
quivering with glad emotion, and all the cabins were in
tumult.
It was an early May morning, rather dull and rainy,
drizzling and dripping over the blossoming fruit-trees.
“The men are coming back!”——All the cabins rang with a
merry peal of joy; a ﬂame was in every heart, and a cry in
every throat.
The excitement grew more and more: doors banging,
children rushing about, women dressing in front of their
huts, and looking wistfully out into the rain through the
blossoming trees which concealed the distant roads.
“All are coming back—farmers, servants, young men:
every one of them !—They are here!—-Out of the woods !—
Upon the poplar road!” they cried, one voice after another;
and those more ardent sallied forth, almost beside them-
selves.
Clogs clattered and splashed through the mud, and they
hurried on, past the church to the poplar road. But on all
the length of that long wet highway, there was nothing to
180
18! SPRING
be seen but deep ruts and pools of dirty water: not a single
living being along the whole interminable arcade of rain-
beaten poplars.
Bitterly disappointed, they hastened away to the opposite
end of the village, for the men might also be coming in
that direction.
That other road was empty too. Across its width, full
of hollows, the rain beat, forming a mobile veil; its ditches
brimmed with clayey water that overﬂowed the adjacent
furrows and swept down quantities of drifting foam; and
on the blossomy brambles which bordered the green ﬁelds, the
ﬂowers seemed shrinking in the chilly air.
They went on a little, till someone, coming out of the
charred ruins of Podlesie, appeared on the road and drew
nigh them.
'He was a blind old Dzz'ad, known to all of them. The
dog he held back by a string barked furiously, straining
to break loose and attack them. The man listened awhile,
his staff in readiness; but soon, hearing their voices, he
hushed the dog, greeted them in God’s name, and said
gaily:
“Ye are Lipka folk, are ye not? And a good many of
you, I think.”
The girls came thronging round him, talking all at once.
“A ﬂock of screeching magpies has beset me, i’ faith!”
he grumbled, but listened the more attentively as they
pressed closer.
So they all returned together to the village, the Dziad in
their midst, swinging along on his crutches, his distorted
legs dangling below, and his large sightless face stretched
forward above: a somewhat tubby man, with red puffed
cheeks, eyes sheathed with a white ﬁlm, grey bushy brows,
and a huge red nose.
He listened patiently till he had learned what they were
out for, and then said:
“It was these very tidings l was hastening hither to bring
you! A certain unbaptized one had told me in secret that
your men were coming back to-day; and I hoped to be
THE PEASANTS 182
ﬁrst here with the good news. Besides, Lipka is a ﬁne
village to visit. Now, who are these around me?”
They told him their several names.
“Why, the very ﬂower of Lipka, I declare !-—Oho! ye were
out after your young men . . . and found a blind old
beggar instead, did you?”
“Nay!” they roared; “each of us was after her father!”
“Dear, dear! Blind I am, but not deaf!”
“We were told.they were coming, and went forth to meet
them.”
“Far too early. If the goodmen are home by noon, it will
be well; the young fellows may not be here even at night-
fall.”
“If set free together, they surely will come home likewise.”
“Oh, but the town and its pleasures! Are the girls there
few? What in the world should draw them hither? Ha,
ha?” he said teasingly.
“Let them enjoy themselves! We shall not fret, not we!”
“Right,” said Nastka, sulkily. “There are plenty of
wet-nurses in town, and of jews’ servants too: for those
that like such, ’tis just what they want.”
“If they prefer the slums and dens of towns, they are not
the men for us!”
“Have you been long away from Lipka, Father?” one of
them asked.
“Very long: in fact, since last autumn. I spent the winter
with kindly people, and lived at the Manor all the time.”
“What! at Vola? with our Squire?”
“With the same. I am always welcome there, both to the
masters and to the masters’ dogs: all know me, and treat
me well. I had a warm corner, close to a stove; and all the
time I plaited straw-bands and praised the Lord. . . . I
have put on ﬂesh, and so has my dog—Ho, ho! the Squire
is 'a wise man. He’s a friend to the Dziads, for well he
knows they will share all they have with him. Ha! ha!”
He shook with laughter, and blinked his blind eyelids as he
added:
“But when God sent the springtime back again to us, it
183 SPRING
irked me to dwell in their chambers. . . . I longed for the
peasants’ huts and the wide world—Ah, this drizzling rain!
it is a shower of gold, warm, abundant, fertilizing; making
the young grass smell sweet throughout the land.',—But
whither are ye running, girls?”
He heard their footsteps as they scampered off, leaving
.him close to the mill, and called them once more, but to no
purpose. They had seen women going by to the Voyt’s,
and ﬂown that way.
About half the village was there by this time, eager for
some positive news.
The Voyt, who it seemed had just risen, was sitting in
shirt and nether garments on his door-step, calling to his
wife for his boots, and wrapping his feet in foot-clouts, used
instead of socks.
All rushed at him, breathless, greedy, and impatient to the
last degree. ‘
He let them talk, put on his grease-anointed boots, washed
his face in the passage, and then, while he combed his thick
fell of hair at the open window, answered them ﬂippantly:
“Want the boys so much, do ye?—Have no fear: they
will be home to-day most certainly—Mother, hand me the
paper the constable brought in; it is behind the picture.”
He turned it about, and tapped it with his ﬁngers, saying:
“Here it is, as plain as noonday.—-‘The Christian in-
habitants of Lipka, commune of Tymov, county of . . .’—-
Here, read it yourselves! Your Voyt tells you they are
returning, and return they will.”
The paper he ﬂung them passed from hand to hand, and
though no one could make out a single letter, they knew it to
be official, and, staring at it with joy mingled with dread,
passed it from hand to hand till it got to Hanka, who took
it in her apron and returned it.
“Good friend,” she asked the Voyt timidly, “are they all
to be freed—all?”
“So it is written, and so must it be!”
“My dear,” said the Voyt’s wife, “come in here out of the
rain, you will be wet through”; but Hanka had no mind
THE PEASANTS 184
to stay, and, throwing her apron over her head, was the
ﬁrst to withdraw
She walked slowly, however, being rent with conﬂicting joy
and terror.
“Antek—Antek will be here!” she said to herself, and a
strange faintness came over her, and she was fain to hold
to a fence not to fall. She struggled for breath a long-
while, and felt weak even to swooning.-—“Antek is coming—
coming back!” and she would have cried aloud with de-
light, but for a sense of dread, of disquietude, of blind
uncanny fear that surged up within her heart!
Slowly she plodded on, holding to the fences. The whole
road was full of women, ﬂushed with exhilaration, and
uttering roars of laughter, and screams and exultant shouts.
Some, heedless of the drizzle, had gathered to talk outside the
huts; some stood by the pond: all were greatly excited.
Yagustynka met her.
“So, ye know at last?——Well, this is good news. We have
been waiting for it so long that, now it has come, I feel
stunned—Have you seen the Voyt?”
“Aye; he says it is true; has even shown us the paper.”
“Then—then all must be right !--Glory to Thee, O Lord!
the poor men will come back . . . our farmers will return
to us!” she said fervently, clasping her hands.
From the dim eyes there dropped tear after tear: which
made Hanka wonder not a little.
“Why, I expected ye would be angry about this, as about
everything else: and behold, ye are weeping. Oh, wonder-
ful!”
“What would ye? Can anyone be wroth at such a time?
True, now and again, out of sheer bitterness, I let my tongue
wag; but there is something else at the bottom of my
heart that makes me, willy-nilly, rejoice or grieve with other
folk. Nay, one cannot live quite separated from all. . . .”
Now they were nearing the smithy, where hammers were
clinking in cadence, ﬂames of a peach-red hue ﬂying out of
the forge, and the blacksmith, trundling a red-hot tire,
made it shrink in cooling upon a wheel that lay close to the
l85 SPRING
wall. At the sight of Hanka, the smith stopped, drew
himself up, and ﬁxed his eyes on her face.
“Well, has Lipka cause for rejoicing at last? I hear that
some are returning.”
“Some? nay, but all!” Yagustynka corrected him. “Did
not the Voyt read it so?”
“All? but he never meant felons. No: crimes must be
punished.”
‘Hanka’s brain whirled at those cruel words. She crawled
on, struck to the heart, but said as she passed:
“May your wicked tongue cleave to the rmf of your
mouth!”
His laugh tore her like the fangs of a wolf, and she
hurried forward to escape from the sound.
She only felt quite recovered at the door of her cabin.
“ ’Tis wet to-day,” said Yagustynka; “we shall ﬁnd the
ground difﬁcult to plough.”
She made light of it.
“ ‘Wet morning weather, and an old dame’s dance, last not
long’!”
“Meanwhile we must be planting our seed-potatoes with
the hoe.”
“I am expecting the women—These tidings have delayed
them, but they will come. I sent round to them last night,
and they all promised they would not forget.”
In the cabin the hearth blazed; it was warmer and brighter
than out of doors. Yuzka was peeling potatoes, and the
baby screaming for food: Hanka, kneeling down by the
cradle, gave it suck.
“Now, Yuzka, Pete has to cart the dung from Florka’s
shed to the ﬁeld we have, by Paches’ rye-plots. He can get
several cartloads there before the rain is over.”
“Ye are no friend of the slothful here!”
“Nor am I a sluggard myself!” she returned, as she cov-
ered her breast.
“Oh, I had quite forgotten. It is a holf-holiday: St.
Mark’s procession, that was postponed till the octave!”
- “Why, the processions are to be only on Rogation Days!”
THE PEASANTS 186
“He announced one for to-day: we shall go as far as the
roadside ‘ﬁgures,’ and bless the village boundaries without
any Rogation procession.”
“Ha!” cried Yuzka to Vitek, who entered just then; “and
you boys will be thrashed at the boundaries to make you
remember them.”1
“Here are the women; run ye, and see to them. I stay
inside, to make order and get breakfast ready, while Yuzka
and Vitek take the potatoes to the ﬁelds.” ’
So Hanka gave her orders, looking out at the Komorm'kz'
who in their smocks and aprons, with baskets and hoes in
hand, ranged themselves along the cabin-wall, beating their
clogs against it to clean them. .
Presently they were at work in the ﬁelds, two and two,
two couples to each strip, each turned towards her com-
panion, digging hollows in the ground, throwing in a potato,
and covering it with earth again; and so on across the
patch.
Old Yagustynka acted as overseer to prevent idling.
The work went slowly, all the same. Their hands were
stiff with cold, their clogs full of water from the soaked
ground; and though the drizzle was not cold, still it was
continuous and drenched them.
Soon, however, the weather changed; the sky became
dappled and mottled with blue; swallows, pioneers of sun-
shine, began to dart about; and the crows, leaving the
house-tops, came ﬂapping low over the land.
The women, bent down and stooping, delved on, looking
for all the world like heaps of sodden tatters. They did
their work leisurely, with long rests, and talking among
themselves. After a time, Yagustynka, who- was sowing
haricot beans between the rows of potatoes, called out, as
she gazed around:
“To-day there are but few goodwives to be seen out of
doors!”
1 In England and Scotland there was once a similar custom, now
become a mere “perambulation.” See “Chambers’ Encyclopaedia,”
art. “Beating the Bounds.”-Translator’s Note.
187 SPRING
“Ah, no! their men are coming; ’tis not work they are
thinking of!”
I “No, indeed: only cooking fat dishes and warming feather-
beds!”
“Oh, ye laugh!” said Kozlova; “yet ye are yourselves all
of a twitter because of them!”
“Lipka, without the boys, is no place to live in: that’s
sure—Old as I am, I tell you plainly—rascals and be-
trayers and bullies though they are—let but the ugliest lout
amongst them all show himself, the world at once grows
merrier and lighter to bear. And whoso says No to this, is
a liar!”
““Yes,” one of them sighed, “we women have been pining
for our men, as the kite is pining for a rainy day!”
“Ah,- more than one will pay dear for her pining; and
the lasses most of all!”
“Before next spring, the priest will have no end of
christenings !”
“Old woman, ye are talking nonsense. What did our
Lord create women for? Is it a sin to bear a child?” Thus
spoke the wife of Gregory the Wrymouth, who always
contradicted.
“Ever the same, you! What? standing up for bastards!”
“Surely, and till my dying day I’ll tell anyone this to his
face: bastards or no bastards, the little ones are of our own
blood, and have as much right to live as any. And the
Lord Jesus will judge them all'justly and only according to
the good or the evil they do!”
They shouted her down, and jeered at her; but she only
smote her hands together, and nodded her head.
“God speed your work!” Hanka cried to them from the
stile. “How goes it?”
“Thanks: well, but somewhat damp.”
“Are the potatoes sufficient?” She seated herself on the
cross-bar of the stile.
“Quite; but cut into too few parts, I think.”
“Nay, they are halved; and at the miller’s, all the smaller
/
THE PEASANTS 188
potatoes are planted whole. Roch tells me that this gives
twice as good crops.”
“That must be a German fashion, Gulbasova cried
peevishly. “Ever since Lipka has been Lipka, we have
always made as many bits as there were eyes.”
“My good woman, folk are not more stupid now than
they were of old.”
“No, indeed! the egg would fain teach the hens, and rule
the poultry-yard.”
“Ye say true. But ’tis also a truth that years do not
bring wisdom to some,” Hanka said, as she left the stile.
Kozlova looked askance after her, and growled:
“Cocksure, as if she were really mistress at Boryna’s!”
“Say no word against her!” cried Yagustynka. “She’s
no everyday woman, but a heart of pure gold. I do not
know anyone better and brighter than her. I am with
Hanka night and day; I have eyes to see, and am no fool.
Oh, what that woman has had to endure!”
“Aye, and she will have to endure still more. . . . Is not
Yagna in the same cabin with her? Trouble and distress
will begin once more, when Antek comes back.”
“I heard,” Filipka bleated, “of Yagna having taken up
with the Voyt: is that true?” But they laughed at her
asking what the very sparrows twittered among themselves.
“Let not your tongues wag!” said Yagustynka reprov-
ingly; “the wind may hear your words and carry them where
it should not.” '
They set again to work, with hoes ﬂashing, and at times
clinking on a stone; but they talked on as they worked,
sparing no one in the village.
As she walked away to take a look at the farm-yard,
Hanka stooped, passing under the cherry-trees; for the wet
boughs, laden with buds and white blossoms and sprouting
leaves, were catching at her head and sprinkling it with
dew.
She had scarce been out at all since Easter, having suffered
a relapse after her “churching.” To-day’s tidings had
brought her out of bed, and set her on her legs; and though
1!
m9 ‘SPRING
she still felt very shaky, she peered everywhere, and with
growing vexation.
The cows had been ill cared for, and their ﬂanks were
clotted with dung; the sucking-pigs were in poor condition;
even the geese seemed unnaturally silent, as if they had
been badly fed.
“Why,” she cried out angrily to Pete, who was driving
off to cart the manure, “why have you not rubbed down
the horse?” But he only went past, muttering something
between his teeth.
A fresh motive for exasperation. In the granary, Yagna’s
pig was devouring the seed-potatoes heaped on the threshing-
ﬂoor, while the fowls were pecking at a quantity of inferior
corn that ought long since to have been taken up to the loft.
For this she rated Yuzka soundly, and pulled Vitek’s curly
hair till the boy wriggled himself loose and made off, while
Yuzka slunk away, weeping and querulous.
“I am always at work, yet ye scold me continually: Yagna
never does aught, and you let her be!”
“Now, now, be still, silly one! You see but too well all
that goes on here!”
“But how am I to do everything? How can I?”
“Be still, I say—Now carry them the potatoes, or they
will have to stop work.”
It was no use scolding, she saw. “True, the girl cannot
sufﬁce for all; and as to the hirelings—mercy on us! even
ere noon, they are looking forward to sunset! As well
engage a wolf to tend sheep, as think to get proﬁt out of a
hireling. They have no conscience!”
Revolving these bitter thoughts in her mind, she dis-
charged her fury on the pig, that ran off squealing, with
Lapa savagely hanging on to its ear.
Looking into the stable, she saw, with 'yet greater annoy-
ance, that the mare was biting at the empty manger, and
the colt, in a most ﬁlthy state, eating straw out of its litter.
“To see this would have broken Kuba’s heart!” she said,
putting hay in the racks for both, and patting their soft
warm nostrils.
THE PEASANTS 190
But here she broke down. A sense of depression took
hold of her, and she felt she must cry; so, sitting down by
Pete’s truckle-bed, she gave way, and wept aloud. . . . She
knew not why.
All her energy had collapsed, her heart felt heavy as a
stone. Her fate was too much for her, and not to be strug-
gled against. Completely alone in the world and forsaken,
her life was as a tree growing in a windy place, exposed to
every evil blast! No one even to complain to; and no end
of her ill fortune in sight: only eternal mortiﬁcation and
sorrow; only endless trouble, and looking forward to worse
things still!
The colt licked her face; and letting her head drop upon
its neck, she burst out crying afresh.
Successful farming—respect paid her by all—what did it
signify, if she had not one instant of internal happiness?
She went back to the hut. The baby was once more
screaming for her breast. Having satisﬁed it, she looked
out vacantly through the window, dingy with a sweat of
trickling drops.
But the baby still whimpered and wailed uneasily.
“Hush you, little onel—Father’s coming, my boy, and
will bring you a toy, and you’ll ride on his knee, because he’s
set free, and how happy we’ll be!” She walked to and
fro in the room, singing and rocking him in her arms.
“Perhaps he is really coming!” she repeated to herself,
and stopped on a sudden.
She ﬂushed, straightened her stooping shoulders, and
thought to go to the store-room and cut him a piece of
ham, and then to the tavern for vodka. . . . But the smith’s
words echoed within her bleeding heart, and swooped down,
tearing it as with the sharp talons of a hawk. She stopped
dead, looking round her as for help: unable to tell what
to do, what to think even!
“O Lord! what if he should never come back?” she
moaned, raising her hands to her head.
As the children were noisy and quarrelsome, she put them
191 SPRING
out and prepared breakfast, about which Yuzka, popping
her head in more than once, had been greedily expectant.
Tears and grief had to be thrust back again; the yoke
of daily labour, pressing heavily on her soul, reminded her
that her work could not be put off.
She did her best, though her legs shook under her; only
from time to time she dropped a tear, and looked wistfully
out into a dimly seen world.
“Is that Yagna going to help in potato-planting?” Yuzka
cried through the window.
Hanka left the pot of beet-root soup on the hob, and
hurried over to the other side of the hut.
The old man lay on his side, seemingly contemplating
Yagna, who was combing her long bright hair before a
looking-glass, set upon a locker.
“Ye are not at work; is it, then, a saint’s day?”
“I am not going unkempt.” I
“Since dawn ye could ten times over have done your
hair.”
“I could, but have not.”
“Yagna, I will not be triﬂed with: beware!”
“Of what?” she snarled back ﬁercely. “Of being turned
out, dismissed from service, eh? I am not here at your good
pleasure, nor in your house!”
“And in whose then, pray?”
“In my own, and I ’d have you remember it!”
“Should Father die, we’d soon see what right ye have
here!”
“But while he lives, I can show you the door.”
“What? What did you say?”
“Ye are beyond bearing! I never say one idle word to'
you, and ye always quarrelling with me.”
“Thank God, you. that I do no worse!” she said, slouching
forward with a threatening mien.
“Try your utmost! I am alone, with none to help me;
but we’d see who would have the upper hand."
She threw her hair back: their eyes, full of rage, struck
THE PEASANTS 192
at each other like knives. And Hanka utterly lost control
of herself, and shook her ﬁsts and stormed with all her
might.
“What! Do you threaten me? . . . Set to, then, O
innocent thing, O most injured one!-—Aye, aye, all the
parish knows of your doings—More than once they have
seen you in the tavern with the VoytI—And when the other
night I opened the door to you, home from your dirty
pleasures, you were drunk—drunk as a pigl—Of a truth,
who lives noisily will be whispered about—Ah! but your
power is ending, and neither Voyt nor smith will protect
you then_y0u!—you!”
She spat the words at her with a shriek.
“What I do, I do: let folk leave me alone. . . . or beware!”
Yagna vociferated, suddenly throwing back her beautiful
ﬂaxen hair over her shoulders.
Exasperated to the utmost, and burning for a ﬁght, she
waved her hands nervously about her hips, with a glare of
hatred that made Hanka quail; without another word she
left the room, slamming the door.
The brawl had overtaxed her strength. She had to sit
down by the window with the child, and let Yuzka serve out
the breakfast to the workers.
It was only when they had gone that she felt a little
stronger, and thought to. put her work off, and go to see fer
father, who had been ailing for some days past. But this
also was too much for her, and half-way there she had to
return.
After some time, however, a little strength came back to
her, and she was able to do some manual work mechanically,
while her thoughts were with Antek and far away.
As the weather was improving, they expected the sun
to come out about noon; for the swallows now ﬂew high
in air, and ﬂocks of gold-fringed clouds were sailing by;
and in the orchards, snowy with blossoms, the birds were
singing loud.
Lipka began to hum like a hive; its chimneys bore each a
plume of smoke: savoury dishes were preparing within
I93 SPRING
doors. Gaiety spread from: hut to hut with the babble of
women; the girls adorned themselves with ribbons plaited
in their tresses. Some hurried away to get vodka; for the
jew, much pleased that the peasants were to come back, was
willing now to give anything on trust to whoever asked him.
And from time to time, someone went up on the roof with a
ladder to inspect all the roads that led from the town.
Few went aﬁeld, so busy were they with preparations.
They even forgot to drive the geese out, letting them gaggle
and scream in the yards; and the children, left to their own
devices, went about playing very naughty pranks. The
bigger boys, armed with poles, climbed the poplars, and
knocked down the crows’ nests; while the parent birds,
looking like great smuts in the sky, wheeled about, croaking
distressfully. The other youngsters found a mischievous
pleasure in chasing the priest’s blind old horse, which had
been harnessed to a water-tub on runners, and which they
tried to drive into the pond. It managed to resist its tor-
mentors for a while, but at last, taking fright at the smell
of ﬁre in its nostrils, bolted into Boryna’s enclosure, knock-
ing down the gate and getting entangled in the bars: of
which they took advantage to come to close quarters and
beat it.
It might have broken a leg in its plunges to escape; but
luckily Yagna came up, drove the urchins away and ex-
tricated the poor animal; then, seeing they were still lying
in wait for it, she led it back to the priest’s.
This took her down a lane between his garden and the
Klembas’, just as the organist’s britzka came up. Yanek
was bidding his family good-bye on the door-step. and his
mother had taken her seat already.
“I am bringing back the priest’s horse,” she said de-
murely; “a lot of urchins were ill-treating it.”
“Father, call Valek to take it,” cried the organist’s wife;
then, as Valek appeared, “You lout you! to let that horse go
alone! It might have broken its leg!” she added.
Yanek, seeing Yagna, glanced at his parents, and held out
his hand to her.
THE PEASANTS 1'94
“Yagna! God be with you!”
“Going back to school?”
His mother answered with pride: “I am taking him to
begin studying for a priest.” '
“A priest!”
She raised her eyes and looked at him in admiration.
He sat down on the foremost seat, but with his back to (the
horses.
“By this means, I shall see Lipka awhile longer!” he
exclaimed, casting a fond glance on the lichen-covered roof
of his house, and on the orchards around, all bathed in dew
and overladen with blossoms.
The horses trotted off.
Yagna went after the britzka, Yanek once .more bidding
farewell to his sisters in tears in front of the house, but
gazing only on those moist azure eyes, wonderful as the
sky on a May day, which looked into his; on that fair
head, crowned with braided locks that went three times round
and ended in curves about her ears; and on that face, 'So
white, so dainty, so . . . just like,a wild rose!
She walked along, fascinated by the look in his bright eyes.
Her lips were quivering so, that she could not close her
mouth. And how her heart was beating! and how humbly
she followed him with her eyes, almost swooning for the
marvellous sweetness that ﬂooded her! A strange drowsy
feeling came over her, and a soporiﬁc fragrance seemed to be
blunting her senses. . . .
It was only after the britzka had turned off to the poplar
road, and their eyes could no longer meet, that she awoke
with a shock to the dreary emptiness of all around her, and
ceased to follow him. Yanek had waved a last farewell
“with his cap, and they had disappeared in the shades of the
poplars.
She rubbed her eyes, waking as it were from a 'dream.
“Lord, Lord!” she ejaculated; “such eyes might draw'b'ne
down to hell!
“An organist’s son! . . '. And looks like a' young Squire!
195 SPRING
. . . A priest, a priest! . . . Perchance he will be sent to
Lipkal”
Again she looked round; but the britzka, though not yet
unheard, was no longer in sight.
“Such a mere stripling! Almost a boy! . . . And yet,
when he looks at me, I feel it like an embrace, and grow
dizzy.”
She shivered slightly, licked her scarlet lips, and stretched
herself stiff, with voluptuous zest.
Suddenly she shuddered. Her head and feet were bare:
she noted it only now. And she was almost undressed——
only in her smock, with a tattered shawl on her shoulders!
She blushed for shame, and started for home by the most
unfrequented paths.
“Know ye that the lads are coming?” girls and women and
children called out to her from within their enclosures.
They were all breathless with the gladness of the tidings.
“Coming or not, what is the difference?—The fools!” she
murmured, annoyed at the mad joy they all felt at their
husbands’ return.
She looked in at her mother’s. Only Andrew was at
home. That day he had left his bed for the ﬁrst time, and
his broken leg was still in bandages. He was sitting on the
door-step, weaving a basket, and whistling to the magpies
that hopped about.
“Yagna, do you know? Our folk are coming home!”
“All day long naught else have I heard!”
“And Nastka is simply crazy over Simon’s return!”
“Why?” Her eyes ﬂashed sternly; they had her mother’s
steely glance.
“Oh, for no reason! . . . My leg is hurting me again,” he
faltered, frightened to have betrayed a secret. “Be quiet,
plaguy ones!” he vociferated, throwing a stick at a number
of cackling hens.
Then he pretended to rub his leg, and looked with anxiety
into her strangely louring face.
.s,i,.“Where is Mother?”
THE PEASANTS 196
“Gone to the priest’s—Yagna! About Nastka . . . l
. . . I said . . . what I should not . . '
“You ass! To think none knows of that!-—They’ll marry,
and there’s the end of it.”
“But—will Mother let them? Nastka has but one acre.”
“If he asks, she will refuse. But he is old enough to
know what to do, and how to do it.”
“He is, Yagna. And if he fall out with Mother and be
disobedient and marry in despite of her, then he will take
his share of the land, and settle down on it.”
“Talk ye and gabble as much as you like; but take heed
' lest Mother hear you.”
She felt out of temper. What! that Nastka! she too,~to
have a sweetheart and rejoice with the others! Each one
was returning to his own darling to-day: she raged at the
thought
“Yes, yes, they all are coming back!”
But then a sudden thrill of excitement ﬁlled her mind!—
Leaving Andrew, who remained in great awe of her, she
went straight back to her cabin, to smarten herself up like
the others for the home-coming, and like them, too, to await
the freed prisoners with feverish anxiety.
She made her toilet with great care, singing the while
for joy and longing, and running out at times to look down
the road towards which they all were turned.
“And whom are your eyes seeking?”ewas the unexpected
question put to her by someone.
Her arms dropped to her sides, as a bird’s broken wings,
and a cruel agitation ﬂuttered her heart.
Truly, whom had her eyes to seek? No one was hastening
back to hen—“Only Antek, peradventure!” she murmured
low, and heaved a sigh, while remembrances rose up in her
mind, as of a wonderful dream, but dreamt, ah! so long ago!
“Yet the smith told me only yesterday that he would not
be set free with the others, but lie in prison for many a
year.”
“But if perchance he is freed—what then?” She said the
words again, as if her soul were bent on expecting him.
I97 SPRING
Nevertheless, it was not with joy or exultation: rather with a
lurking sense of distaste. .
“What though he comes?” she said, pettishly; “he is
nothing to me now!”
At that moment old Boryna gabbled inarticulately. It
was, she knew, his way of asking for food, but she turned
her back on him with aversion.
“Die and have done with it!” she said with a sudden
burst of spite, and went out into the porch not to see the
man.
Down at the pond, there were batlets beating the linen,
and washermaidens showing crimson through the green
boughs. A dry breeze just moved the willows. Now and
again the sun peeped from behind a veil of white cloud,
making the little pools glitter, and golden rimples dance
about the pond. The rain-mists had gone; and above the
low grey stone walls rose the orchard-trees, with their
blossoming tops, like immense nosegays, wafting fragrant
odours and twittering notes through the air.
“And perhaps, too, I may see him!” she thought dreamily,
turning her face towards the wind and the dews which fell
dripping from the drying blooms and leaves.
“Yagna!” shouted Yuzka from the yard; “are ye going to
help in the potato-ﬁeld or not?”
Yes; she did not mind. She even willingly obeyed an
order that took her away from herself and her incertitude:
though she was still under the inﬂuence of a melancholy
which brought tears to her eyes. But she set to work with
such goodwill that she had presently distanced all the hired
workers; and so she kept on, paying no heed to Yagustynka’s
taunts and gibes, nor to the eyes of the other women, that
followed her every movement with the air of surly dogs
ready to bite.
At times, indeed, she would straighten herself for a mo—
ment, as does a pear-tree after bending to the blast, shower-
ing its scented blossoms on every side, and (perhaps)
remembering the past storms of winter.
She thought of Antek sometimes, but more often of
THE PEASANTS I98
Yanek’s glowing eyes, and of Yanek’s cherry lips; and the
sound of Yanek’s voice echoed in her ears. And she clung
with all the force of her will to those yearnings of her
memories: they made such sunshine in her heart! For her
nature was that of the wild hop, that for its growth and
blossoming and life, must needs twine round some other
plant; else, left without support, it falls and perishes.
The Komornikz', having ﬂung whispers about to their
hearts’ content, were now taking kerchiefs and aprons off
their heads, because it had grown warm; they talked louder
among themselves, and stretched their limbs, yawning and
longing for the noonday rest.
“Kozlova, ye are highest: pray look whether no one is
coming along the poplar road.”
She stood on tiptoe, but answered: “No one in sight!”
“They cannot so soon be here; the way is long: they will
come at dusk.”
“Besides,” Yagustynka added, after her bitter fashion,
“there are ﬁve taverns by the way!”
“Poor things! what do they care for taverns?”
“They have had so much to bear all this time
“Oh, indeed! they have had to bear warm beds and
plenty to eat!”
“Of fare no better than nettles and chaff!”
“Also, freedom with a potato is better than the very best
jaill” Gregory’s wife said.
“A strange thing,” Yagustynka mused, “is that same free-
dom, that we relish so: freedom to starve without paying
a ﬁne, nor being taken by the gendarmes.”
“Very true, my clear; but captivity is captivity all the
same.”
“And a dish of pease1and bacon is not a broth made of
aspen pegs!” Yagustynka replied, mimicking her voice so
that they all burst 'out laughing.
She followed up her success by abusing the miller, who
“lent rotten ﬂour to borrowers and gave short weight when
paid in cash”; and then, in concert with Kozlova, set to
"I
199 SPRING
running down everybody in Lipka, his Reverence not ex-
cepted.
Gregory’s wife tried to stand up for some: which made
Kozlova cry:
“Ye would fain defend even church-robbers!”
“For we all have much need of being defended,” she '
answered gently.
“Especially Gregory, when ye lift your hand-mangle
against him!”
"‘Right and Wrong have naught to do with you, you wife
of Bartek Koziol!” she returned in a hard voice, drawing
herself up to her full height.
All were ﬂuttered, and expected the two would come to
blows at once; but they went no further than a deﬁant
glare. And then Vitek came to ask them to dinner, and to
take their baskets, the afternoon being a half-holiday.
At dinner, which Hanka served out to them outside the
cabin, they talked but little. The sun was shining bright,
and everything looked beautiful, with snowy blossoms
scattered all about.
The day continued ﬁne, and the breeze moved the tree-
tops as gently as the hand of a mother caressing her little
one’s cheeks.
No more ﬁeld-work, then, was done that day. Even the
cattle were driven home: only a few of the poorest villagers
led the hungry cow (their food-giver) by a rope to graze
along the ﬁeld-paths, or about the ditches.
When the sun had begun to throw somewhat longer
shadows, the people gathered in front of the church, con-
versing in tones as low as the chirping of the birds within
the lofty maples and lime-trees that spread their branches,
scarce covered as yet with leaves, above the church-roof.
As usual when it has rained in the morning, the sun was
hot. The women, in holiday garments, stood together in
groups, some of them looking eagerly over the wall towards
the poplar road; and the blind Dziad sat with his dog at
the lich-gate, droning hymns in a singsong whine, listening
THE PEASANTS 200
attentively to every sound he heard, and holding out a
platter to the passers-by.
In a little, his Reverence came out, clad in surplice and
stole, but with uncovered head, his bald crown glistening
in the sun.
Pete carried the cross, for the way was too far for Ambrose;
the Voyt, the Soltys, and some of the strongest girls bore
the banners, which waved and ﬂapped and gleamed re-
splendent with many a hue. Michael, the organist’s pupil,
swung the holy-water stoup and brandished the sprinkler;
Ambrose distributed the tapers; and the organist, book in
hand, took his place by the side of his Reverence. So they
started off in silence, through the blossom-sprinkled village;
and as they went along the pond, its still waters reﬂected
the whole pageant.
On the way, many\more women and children joined them;
and ﬁnally the miller and the smith pressed in by the
priest’s side. Last of all, lagging far behind, came Agata
shaken with her churchyard cough, and the blind old Dgz'ad,
swinging along on his crutches; but the latter turned off at
the bridge, and made for the tavern.
They lit the tapers only on passing the mill: the priest
donned his biretta, made the sign of the cross, and intoned
Psalm XCI: “He that dwelleth . .
The whole procession took it up with fervour, and on they
went by the riverside, through the meadows where there
was still many a pool, and they had more than once to go
ankle-deep in mud. Shading the tapers with their hands,
they wound on by the narrow footpath, the women’s skirts
forming a long red line like the beads of a rosary.
Shimmering in the sunbeams, the river purled and me-
andered through the verdurous meadows, spangled with
white and yellow ﬂowers.
Overhead the banners waved, as birds ﬂapping wings of
red and gold. In front, the cross lumbered along, and
through the still transparent air rose the slow voices of the
singers.
On the river-banks, thickly studded with marsh-marigolds,
201 SPRING
the waters splashed on as a gentle ‘echo of the psalms,
rolling towards the distant sky-line on which every eye was
ﬁxed, and towards the hamlets seen on the far-off heights,
now scarcely visible through the bluish haze, amid the
whitely blooming orchards in which they nestled.
Walking with his assistants immediately behind the cross,
the priest sang with the others.
“What a multitude of wild ducks!” he whispered, glanc-
ing to his right.
“They are widgeons,” the miller answered, looking down
to the riverside, overgrown with last year’s withered reeds
and alders, out of which ﬂocks of wild ducks ﬂew out at
times on heavy wings.
“There are also more storks than last year.”
“They ﬁnd plenty to eat in my meadows: so they come
here from all parts.”
“Ah! mine is gone: it left me about Eastertide.”
“Gone off, belike, with a ﬂock of others ﬂying by.”
“What have you there, on those muddy stretches?”
“I have had an acre of land sown with maize: the soil is
rather damp, but they say the summer will be dry; so I
may make something by it.”
“May it not be like my last year’s maize! the crop was
not worth gathering.” '
“Except by the partridges. It fed many a covey,” said
the miller, with a chuckle.
“Aye, the partridges were for the Squire’s table, and my
poor beasts had nothing to eat.”
“If mine succeeds, I’ll send your Reverence a cart-load.”
“Many thanks; my last year’s clover was but a poor
crop, and, should we have a drought, things will go ill for
me!” He sighed, and continued the psalm.
They had just come to the ﬁrst landmark, a mound so
overgrown with ﬂowering blackthorns that'it rose up clad
in beauty, arrayed in white blossoms and sonorous with
swarms of bees.
They surrounded it with a circle of ﬂickering lights; the
cross towered aloft; the banners clipped and unfurled them-
THE PEASANTS 202
selves; the people knelt around, as before an altar whereon
the hallowed majesty of spring stood revealed amid ﬂowers
and the hum of bees.
The priest then read a prayer that no hail might fall,
and sprinkled holy water to the four cardinal points, over
the trees, the earth, the water, and the heads of the humble
worshippers.
The people then struck up another chant, and went for-
ward.
This time, turning somewhat to the left, they crossed the
meadows up a gentle slope. But the children stayed behind
a little; and the sons of Gulbas, aided by Vitek, and accord-
ing to the immemorial custom, here thrashed several boys
so soundly that there was a great uproar, and the priest
was obliged to intervene and quiet them.
Farther on, they came to a wide place of pasturage at the
parish boundaries, dotted over with little thickets of juniper,
growing at the border. This pasture land wound hither
and thither, like a green river, with waves of grass, and so
full of ﬂowers that even the old cart-ruts abounded in
daisies and dandelions. In places, too, there were large
trees, so fenced about with brambles that there was no ap—
proaching them; and then came wild pear-trees, all in
bloom, sung to by myriads of bees, and towering aloft, most
beautiful and godlike of shape; one felt ready to fall down
and kiss the ground which had brought them forth!
And then, the birch-trees! How they arched their lovely
trunks, attired in silvery bark, quite over-canopied with
green braids and tresses, and reminding you of a young
maiden, intensely quivering with pure emotion, who goes
to her ﬁrst Communion!
Little by little, they trended uphill, circling Lipka from
the .north, and along the miller’s ﬁelds, lush with rye: ﬁrst
the cross, then the priest, afterwards the girls and younger
women, then the old folk straggling by twos and threes
abreast, and, last of all, Agata, hobbling and coughing.
When they were out on the plain, the hush deepened. The
wind had fallen; the banners hung limply down, and the
203 SPRING
procession lengthened out to the extent of a furlong, the
women’s bright dresses set off by the surrounding greenery,
and the taper-ﬂames trembling and ﬂuttering like golden
butterﬂies.
And, high above, the sky was quite blue, except for a few
woolly clouds, white sheep on the immensity of those azure
ﬁelds, through which the huge hot sun rolled on, bathing
the world in heat and splendour.
The chants now grew louder, resounding from full throats
and hearts with such deafening clamour that the birds ﬂew
frightened out of the trees that stood near; and sometimes a
partridge rose in alarm from under their very feet, or a
leveret went bounding away.
“The autumn-sown lands are getting on well,” the priest
whispered.
“I have seen corn already in the ear there,” said the miller.
\ “Whose is that ﬁeld, so badly tilled? The furrows are
half full of dung!”
“Some poor K omorm'k’s potato-patch: it looks as if
ploughed with a cow!”
“Probably his Reverence’s farm-hand has ploughed it,
then,” the blacksmith put in with quiet malice.
His Reverence turned angrily upon him, but said no word,
and set once more to singing along with the people; now and
then casting his eyes over the vast expanse of ﬁelds, swelling
out here and there like the breasts of a mother giving suck,
and seeming to heave gently, as if she would gather to-
gether and feed all who came to her bosom.
Sunset was gilding the corn, and the trees in bloom were
throwing lengthier shadows; the mill-pond shone dazzlingly
in its lovely frame of orchards, snowy with fallen blossoms.
The village lay beneath them as at the bottom of an enor-
mous dish, and so compassed about with trees that the grey
barns were but seldom visible. The church alone lifted its
white walls up above all the huts, its golden cross gleaming
bright in the sky.
“How still it is! I hope it will not rain to-night,” said
the priest.
THE PEASANTS 204
“It will not; the sky has emptied itself out, and there’s a
cool breeze.”
“In the forenoon it was raining; and now, not a trace of
water!”
“In spring the water vanishes quick,” the blacksmith
chimed in.
Now they had come to the next mound, that formed a
landmark of the commune. It was very large: they said
that men lay under it who had been slain in “The War.”
It was topped by a small cross of shaky timber, adorned
with last year’s images and garlands, and draped with
many a scarf. Close by stood a willow with forked and
rotten trunk, that hid the ﬁssures of old age under the new
shoots that it bore. The place was drearily waste and
sinister: no birds made their nest near it. Fruitful lands
extended on every side; but among these the mound lifted
up its barren ﬂanks, with yellow streaks of sand, and abound-
ing only in houseleeks that spread here and there in patches
like a foul tetter, along with the dried stalks of last year’s
mullein and nightshade.
They recited the prayers against the plague, and, quick-
ening their pace, turned on again to the left, beyond the
poplar road, following a narrow and deeply rutted cartway.
But Agata stayed behind a little to tear off some bits of
scarf from the cross. These, as she once more went after
the procession, she buried one by one in the ﬁeld-paths, for
some superstitious purpose of hers.
The organist now began the litany, which, however, was
taken up but feebly, only a few of the people responding.
Meanwhile, the priest, now much exhausted, was wiping
his bald head, looking round on the neighbouring lands, and
conversing with the Voyt.
“I see the pease have come out ﬁnely here.”
“An early crop, no doubt, and well-prepared soil.”
“I sowed some before Holy Week, and yet mine are only
just peeping out!” _
“Because your Reverence’s land lies low and is exposed to
the north.”
205 ' SPRING
“Why, the barley here sprouts up as regular as if sown
with a drill!” I ~
“The Modlitsa folk are good husbandmen, and till their
lands like the Manor people.” '
“Ah, but how wretchedly our ﬁelds have been tilled, God
forgive us!” the priest ejaculated mournfully.
The blacksmith laughed sneeringly. “Tilled by charity!
One must not look a gift-horse in the mouth!”
“You little rascals! If you don’t leave off, I’ll pull your
ears!” the priest cried out to some urchins who were shying
stones at partridges. : g
The conversation ceased, for the organist began to chant,
the smith accompanying him, and the women’s voices rising
up in a dolorous chorus; and the litany ﬂoated across the
land like a bevy of birds that, tired by a long ﬂight, sink
slowly down towards the ground.
On they pushed through the green plots, and the men of
Modlitsa, and even those farther away, stopped work to
take off their caps or even kneel down in the ﬁelds, while
the cattle raised their horned heads and lowed.
They were about a furlong away from the third mound
and the poplar road, when someone gave a loud shout:
“There are peasants, coming out of the wood!”
“Our own people, perchance!”
“Our own! our own!” they cried, and there was a rush
forward.
“Stay!” the priest commanded severely. “God’s service
ﬁrst!”
They obeyed indeed, but stamped on the ground with
impatience. All now crowded together behind the priest,
who, though he kept them back, hurried his steps him—
self.
A breeze had sprung up, putting the tapers out, waving
the banners, and making the rye, the brushwood, and the
trees in bloom to bow before the procession as it passed.
The people sang more loudly, and were almost breaking into
a run, peeping the while between the roadside trees to make
out the peasants’ white capotes.
THE PEASANTS 206-
“They will not run away from you!” the priest said, re-
provingly, for they were pressing close, treading on his
heels.
Hanka, who walked in the ranks of the goodwives, cried
out aloud on perceiving the white capotes. And though
without hope to behold Antek with the others, the sight ﬁlled
her with the most intense delight.
Yagna too, who was walking by her mother’s side, felt
impelled to run forward. A fever of desire had taken hold
of her, and her teeth chattered so that she could not clench
them. Nor were the other women less eager to meet their
loved ones. More than one of the lasses and lads could not
hold back any more, and, though called back, ran on by a
short cut to the road, their legs twinkling as they ran.
The procession was soon at Boryna’s cross, just in front
of the mound which formed the boundary between the Lipka
territory and the Manor lands.
And there, under the birches that overshadowed the cross
--there they stood all—their goodmen—their sweethearts!
On seeing the procession, they had uncovered their heads,
and all the women could see the long-desired faces of their
husbands and fathers and brothers and sons: emaciated and
haggard, but shining with joy!
“The Ploshkas!” -— “The Sikoras!” — “Matthew!” --
“Klemba!”——“Poor dear ones!”——“Our best-beloved!”-—“O
Lord jesus!”--“O Holy Mother!”—lnvocations, cries, whis-
pers of love ﬁlled the air: every eye blazed with gladness,
every hand was stretched forth, every mouth uttered shouts
of exultation'. But the priest silenced them all with a word,
and, advancing towards the cross, he calmly read the
prayer: “From ﬁre . . But he could not read fast; he
was unable to help looking very frequently aside to cast com-
passionate eyes on those poor worn faces.
And when he had done, he sprinkled holy water over their
bowed heads, and cried with all his might:
“Praised be jesus Christ!—O my dear people, how is it
with you all?” .
207 SPRING
They answered him in chorus, pressing round him as sheep
round their shepherd, some kissing his hands, some embrac-
ing his knees. He strained each of them to his heart, stroked
their thin cheeks, and asked about their health with the
kindest attention. At last, quite wearied out, he sat down
under the cross, wiping sweat from his brow and tears of
fatherly love from his eyes.
Around him, his people gave way to all the impetuosity
of passionate tenderness.
Then arose a tumult of laughter and of kissing, of happy
tears, childlike prattle, words of ﬁre, ardent whispers, and
cries that burst out like songs from their rejoicing hearts.
Women took their husbands apart, men stood swaying about
in a ring of women and children, and speech and weeping
rose in blissful confusion. All this lasted many minutes,
and would have lasted longer, but that the priest saw it was
getting late, and gave the signal to depart.
So they went on to the last mound on the road by the
forest, skirted with young junipers and pine-saplings.
The priest intoned: “O most beloved Mother! . . which all took up as one man with a great cry, their hearts
brimming over with bliss; and the hymn, like a spring
tempest, burst forth and smote on the forest with darts
of ﬁery jubilation.
And the forest bent its head over the road, looking down
on them, waving its tree-tops in the evening sun, but within
its depths so hushed and calm that the very tappings of the
woodpeckers were clearly heard, and the cuckoo’s call, and
the twittering of the ﬁeld-birds.
In places, their way led them along upon the verge of
the tilled lands; and the peasants, silently passing in serried
ranks by the road-ditches, stooped down to cast their eyes
over the green expanse; to gaze on the blossoming trees, all
on ﬁre in the sundown, and the long strips of cornland lying
prostrate before them, and those ﬁelds, covered with long
waves of winter-corn, that seemed rolling up to their feet
with a jubilant murmur. And how their eyes gloated over
THE PEASANTS 208
that land, their true foster-mother! Some even saluted
it with doffed caps; all knelt down in spirit, mutely and
fervently worshipping Her, the Hallowed, Her, the Much-
desired!
After these ﬁrst salutations came more noisy chat and
freer rejoicings of heart. Many a one, too, would fain have
run into the wood and shouted himself hoarse, or lain down
to shed tears of pure happiness in the ﬁelds.
Hanka alone felt herself cut off from them all. Around
her everywhere and before her, the men went about, loud
in talk, and women and little ones crowded about them, en-
raptured and, as it were, pressing together under their wings.
She alone had no one there who cared for her. All were
boisterous with uncontrollable delight, and she, though in
their midst, drooped and pined—as she had seen trees sur-
rounded with lush underwood, but dying away, wherein
even the crow would not build its nest, and whereon not a
bird would alight! Few troubled to greet her. Of course:
each was hastening to his own people—And so many of
them had been sent home! even that Koziol, after whose re-
turn they would again need to watch the store-rooms and
lock the sties! The ringleaders too were back: Gregory, the
Voyt’s brother, and Matthew. Only Antek stayed in jail:
perhaps never again to be seen by her!
Those thoughts were fast becoming unbearable: they were
oppressing her so that she could hardly walk. And yet walk
she did, with head erect, and apparently as brave and high-
spirited as ever. When they sang, she joined in with a ﬁrm
voice: when the priest offered up prayers, she was ﬁrst-—
though with pallid lips—to repeat them after him. It was
only in the intervals of silence, hearing round her whispers
of ardent love, that she had to ﬁx her eyes upon the glitter-
ing cross, and march on, careful lest her tears—those traitors
making their way beneath her reddened eyelids—should
let them know what she felt. She refrained even from ask—
ing after Antek, fearing to break down and show what she
suffered. No—no! she had borne so much, and she could go
through yet more, and suffer all patiently.
209 SPRING
One other suffered also with her. Yagna was no better
off than Hanka. She walked along, moving amongst them
shyly, like some startled animal of the woods. She had at
ﬁrst been so transported with joy that she had run ﬁrst
of them all to greet the men; but no one had come forward,
nor gathered her into his arms, nor kissed her! She had
seen from afar Matthew, towering above the others, and
her ﬂashing eyes had glanced towards him, instinct with
sudden long-forgotten desires; and she had pushed through
the throng. But he had, it seemed, failed to recognize her;
and before she got there, his mother had her arms about his
neck, his sister Nastka and the other children were embrac-
ing and hugging him on every side; while Teresa (the
soldier’s wife), bathed in tears and careless who might see
her, was grasping his hand!
Her ﬁre was quenched at once, as with a stream of icy
water. How intense had been her wish to feel herself one
of that crowd, part and portion of the crush; to join in that
thrilling tumult of salutes, and enjoy herself like the others!
For indeed, like them all, her heart had glowed with en-
thusiasm, and been ready for every transport of tenderness:
and now she found herself isolated, out of it all: just like
a mangy dog, she thought!
It was very, very bitter for her, and she barely refrained
from tearful complaints, as she moved on, louring as a
dark cloud that may at any time pour down a torrent of
rain.
More than once she had thought to slip away home, but
could not: it was too hard to.leave the procession! So
she remained with the others, but as bewildered as Lapa
seeking his master in a crowd. She felt no inclination to
go either with her mother or with her brother Simon, who
had purposely slipped away with Nastka among the juniper-
bushes on the road—All these things had ﬁnally made her so
furious that she would have liked to stone all the lot of them,
with their silly grinning faces!
She was somewhat relieved that they had now left the
forest on one side.
THE PEASANTS 210
The last mound stood by the crossways, one of which ran
straight down to the mill.
The sun had set, and a chilly wind blew from the lower
levels. The priest, for whom Valek was waiting with a
britzka, now hastened the service. They still went on sing-
ing, but with tired voices; the men asked in whispers about
the farm which had been burnt at Eastertide, and whose
blackened ruins they saw quite near; and they also gazed
with curiosity at the Manor lands close at hand.
There the Squire was to be seen, riding about the ﬁelds
on his sorrel horse; also some men who appeared to be
measuring the ground with long rods. Close to the cross,
just where the roads forked, and over against the burnt
cornstacks, a large yellow britzka was to be seen.
“What may this mean?” someone asked.
“They are measuring the land, but do not look like sur-
veyors.”
“Tradespeople, I dare say: they have not the air of farm-
ers.”
“Of Germans, rather.”
“Aye, aye: dark-blue capotes, pipes in their mouths, and
long trousers.”
They stared and whispered with great curiosity, not un-
mixed with a vague sense of uneasiness; and they were so
taken up that they did not notice the blacksmith who quietly
slunk away, crawling by the ditches until he got to the
Squire.
“Are they buying the Podlesie farm, by any chance?”
“I certainly heard them say at Easter that the Squire was
looking out for purchasers.”
“But Heaven protect us from such neighbours as the
Germans!”
The procession was now over. The priest got into his
britzka and drove off with the organist; while the people
broke up into small parties, trudging slowly home, some by
the road, some along various pathways and in Indian ﬁle,
each taking the nearest way to his dwelling.
The dusk was gathering over the land and the carmine
211 SPRING
of the sunset sky passing higher up into a pallid green.
From beyond the mill white vapours came rolling up in
ﬂocculent masses. Through the stillness now descending
over the country-side, the klek-klek-klek of the stork re-
sounded loud and sharp.
No human voices were heard there any longer, for the
procession had quite melted away in the ﬁelds.
But soon the village became ﬁlled with sounds: on every
side, they were coming noisily in. Every man made the
sign of the holy cross on the threshold that he had quitted
so long since; many a one fell prostrate before the holy
images, sobbing for very fullness of heart.
And ’now there were fresh greetings, and the chattering
of women and the prattle of infants, and many a narrative
begun, interrupted by hot kisses and bursts of laughter.
The women, ﬂushed and blowzed, set the dishes before the
poor sufferers, offered them food in plenty and pressed it on
them with the utmost eagerness. '
And so happy were they to be back again and with their
families, that this made them forget all their past injuries,
and the long months of their separation, and they again and
again hugged their dear ones to their bosoms, asking them
questions without end.
Then, after supper, they went out to look at the farm-
yard; and though it was growing dark, still they managed
to go about the orchards and outhouses, patting their live
stock, or stroking the heavy blossom—laden boughs, as though
they were the heads of beloved children.
But it is quite impossible to describe the raptures of
Lipka that evening.
With the exception, indeed—and a great one—of Boryna’s
cabin.
The place was well-nigh deserted. Yagustynka had gone
home to her people; Yuzka and Vitek had found some other
hut where there was more company and greater merriment.
Hanka remained apart in the dark dwelling, nursing her
wailing child, and yielding at last to her anguish with bitter
burning tears.
THE PEASANTS 212
She 'was not, however, quite by herself. In the next‘room
sat Yagna, in prey to the very same tortures, and like a
bird beating its wings against the bars of its cage.
A strange fate it was that had fallen on both alike!
Yagna had arrived sooner than the rest, and, though
sombre and black of looks as night, had set to work at once;
had milked the cows, watered the calf, even fed the swine;
and Hanka wondered, and could hardly believe her own eyes.
But Yagna, indifferent to everyone, worked away with a
sort of fury, as if to drown her misery in fatigue.
It would not do. Her arms dropped with lassitude, and
she thought her back would break, but the tears welled up
all the same, and trickled down her cheeks, and her distress
and desolation only grew more and more.
Her eyes were so dim, she noted no one around her, not
even Pete, who had been at her heels ever since she came
home, eager to help, following her everywhere with his eyes,
and often approaching so close that she unconsciously moved
aside. And at last, when they were both in the granary
heaping cut straw into a basket, he caught her by the waist,
pushed her close against a partition wall, and sought her lips
with a muttered ejaculation.
Engrossed as she was, and unsuspicious of anything more
than the rough horse-play of a farm—hand, perhaps rather
pleased, too, at ﬁnding herself not so absolutely neglected,
she suddenly saw his intent when he threw her down on the
straw, and pressed his moist hot lips to hers. With the fury
of a whirlwind she started up, and cast him from her like
a truss of hay; and he measured his length on the threshing-
ﬂoor!
“You foul eyesore!” she gasped, catching hold of a rake.
“You plague-spotted beast! you swineherd, you! Only dare
to lay a ﬁnger on me again, and I’ll break every bone in your
body! I’ll teach you to make love, and a bloody lesson it
will be!”
In a few minutes, however, she thought no more of him,
got all her work done, and went into the cabin.
On the threshold she met Hanka. Out of eyes glazed
213 SPRING
over with weeping and sorrow, the two exchanged glances-—
and then passed each other. by in a moment.
But the doors of both rooms stood open, and the lamps
had been lit, so that they happened every now'and then to
look at each other.
Later, too, when getting supper ready together, they came
closer perforce; though neither breathed a single word.
Each well knew what the other had to endure, and they
often ﬂung mutual glances of deep rancour, and their dumb
set mouths said with silent malice:
“It serves you right—right—--right!”
Yet at certain other instants they felt a sort of compas-
sion one for the other, and might have conversed kindly if
either of the two had chosen to begin. They even lingered
near each other with side-glances of expectation: their hates
seemed lulled, and their common hard fate and loneliness
were drawing them nearer. But it went no further. Some-
thing held them back—now a wail ro‘rn the little one, now
a sense of abasement, now the sharp memofy of. wrong suf-
fered. And after a time they fell apart again, theft Kesent-
ment awake once more, and t eir souls sweltering sgite
afresh. ‘
“It serves you right !—right! right!” each of them hissed
in thought, with ﬂaming ey 5, ready for a quarrel, aye,
and even for a ﬁght, where y they might discharge their
mutual detestation.
Luckily, it did not go so ar; for Yagna went out to her
mother’s directly after supp r.
A warm dark night. In the sombre depths of the sky a
few stars twinkled. Upon the marshes lay a thin white ﬁlm
of haze; and there the fro s set up their croaking, and the
stray piping of affrighted pwings sounded now and then.
The slumbering trees stood but against the sky, the orchards
loomed grey, as though lime-sprinkled, and wafted fra-
grance as from censers: cherry-blossoms, half—open lilac-buds,
water, dew-drenched soil—all breathed perfumes; each par-
ticular ﬂower gave out its own sweet scent, all mingling in
a deliciously intoxicating aroma.


THE PEASANTS 214
There were still a few sounds of talk. within the village,
on the door-steps, about the dwellings now plunged in
shade; and people swarmed in the roadways, overshadowed
by the trees, and only traversed in places by streaks of
light from the windows.
Yagna’s intention had been to call on her mother, but she
turned aside towards the mill-pond, stopping very fre-
quently; for at every step she met couples, arm about waist,
conversing eagerly and in subdued tones.
There were her brother and Nastka, embraced and kissing
passionately.
She also came unintentionally upon Mary Balcerek and
Vavrek, standing close to a hedgerow, kissing tenderly and
forgetful of everything in the world.
There were others whom she knew by their voices. From
every shadow about the pond or the fences came whispers,
words softly breathed, burning sighs, and sounds of rustling
and struggling; Thaw ole village seemed boiling over with
tender passiqr,‘ and even flappers and mere boys were play-
ing at lnygamaking down the lanes.
Asuddien feeling of disg st came over her, together with
thf resolve to go on at one to her mother’s. On the way
$ne met Matthew face to fac but he took no more notice
of her than of a tree-stump. e was walking with Teresa,
in rapt conversation, both» cl nging close together; they
passed her by, and she still’hear their voices and smothered
laughter.
Turning back brusquely, she ook to her heels as if pur-
sued by a whole pack of dogs, a d ran for her cabin.
The evening meanwhile flowed n tranquilly, redolent of
spring, instinct with the gladness of all these meetings and
all the unearthly serenity of imm nse happiness.
Far away in the night, eitherlamong the sweet-smelling
orchards or out in the ﬁelds, a ﬂute was twittering a love-
tune—the accompaniment, as itywere, to all those murmurs
and kisses and raptures. \
And in the marshes the frogs had set up a grand croaking
concert, interrupted at times, while others replied to them


.215 S P R I N G
‘ from the mist-covered pond with long slumberous snoring
crpaks, fainter by degrees; and the youngsters who played
about the lanes caught up their song, vying with them with
doggerel mimicry.
“The stork’s bad, bad, bad:
May he choke, choke, choke!
He shall croak, croak, croak,
And' be glad, glad, glad!”
CHAPTER VIII
which the peasant, after a hearty sleep, jumps up as
he wakes, and—his prayers ﬁrst said—sets to work with
scarce the shadow of a yawn.
A huge red globe was slowly ascending the sky, on whose
immeasurable expanse, amongst a few thin ﬁlaments of
haze, there ﬂoated cluster on cluster of woolly clouds.
The breeze bustled about, with the air of a farmer calling
his household up at dawn; rousing the limp corn, blowing
away and dispersing the mists, tossing about the overhang-
ing branches, rushing round the orchards and dashing in
and scattering the last cherry-blossoms like snow upon the
ground.
Lipka too was waking and getting up swiftly. Many a
dishevelled head peeped out upon the world with drowsy
eyes: some were washing; not a few half-dressed women
carried water to their houses. Here a man was splitting
logs; there carts were being wheeled out into the roadway.
Smoke rose in festoons from the chimneys, and lie-abeds
were rated by shrill tongues.
Early it was. The eastern sun was not more than a
man’s height in the sky, and shooting its ruddy rays aslant
through the orchard-trees; yet everybody was already in
lively motion.
The wind had ﬂed away somewhere; they enjoyed a
pleasant calm, a fresh balmy morning: the sun played upon
the waters, from- every roof the dew dripped in pearly drops,
swallows swept through the clear air, storks seeking a regale
ﬂapped away from their nests. Chanticleer beat his wings
and crowed lustily on the hedges, and cackling geese led
their ﬂedgelings down to the rose-red pond. In the cow-
I T was a delightful day, warm, yet bracing: a day on
216
217' SPRING
sheds the cattle lowed: around them and about the yards,
cows were being hurriedly milked. From every enclosure
they were driving oxen into the roads, and they lumbered
along, bellowing lazily, and rubbing themselves against
trees and fences; while sheep that went by, lifting their heads
and bleating, ﬂocked to the middle of the ways amid clouds of
dust. All these were hurried to the open space in front of
the church, where elderly peasants on horseback, 'cracking
whips and swearing to the top of their bent, assembled the
scattering droves and ﬂocks, and urged the laggards for-
ward.
Somewhat after these came the gooseherds, driving their
snowy gaggling bands, or one leading a cow, or taking out a
hobbled horse to feed in the fallows.
All these, however, had soon passed out, and the rest
of the villagers were making ready to go to the fair; this
was about a week after the men’s return from prison.
Everything in Lipka had little by little returned more or
less to its usual state. -
Not that all was yet as it should be. They were still
rather indolent, often lying too long abed. Some paid too
frequent visits to the tavern—to be abreast of the news,
they said; and not a few would squander half a day going
about and gossiping: others would scamp their most press-
ing work. To get into gear again, when once out, was no
easy matter, after such a spell of forced inactivity. But
things were improving daily: the tavern had fewer and
fewer guests on work-days, for want had-caught men by
the throats, and was forcing them to labour in the sweat
of their brows.
All the same, as that day there was a fair in Tymov, they
preferred to go there and put the work off.
Besides, the days of dearth before harvest-time had begun
early and with such severity that a bitter cry now arose in
most huts. Whatever, then, they still had to sell, they took
in all haste to the fair. And others also went, but only to
chat with their neighbours and have a look round, and per-
haps drink a nip of vodka.
THE PEASANTS 218
Everyone had his own troubles; and where should people
ﬁnd comfort, or pour out their complaints, or seek words of
good advice, unless either at the fair, or at the local festival?
So, no sooner had the cattle been all driven out to graze,
those that had carts got them ready, and those that had none
started off on foot.
The poorest were ﬁrst on the road. Filipka, to her sorrow,
drove six old geese before her; she had to sacriﬁce them.
Her husband had fallen sick on returning, and she had noth-
ing to put in the pot.
Some Komorm'kz', too, were taking heifers that were but
recently with calf. Misery has long legs and sharp claws;
and Gregory the Wrymouth had to sell a milch-cow, though
he possessed eight acres; while his neighbour joseph Vahnik
was driving a sow with all her farrow.
They had to keep things going as best they could. More
than one was so hard up that he was forced to sell his best
horse. For instance, Gulbas. He owed Balcerkova ﬁfteen
roubles; she had brought an action and obtained a sentence
against him. So, amid the tears of his family, the poor
wretch went off astride of his chestnut mare to sell it.
Wagon after wagon rolled on close together. Well-to-do
farmers were also taking some of their possessions there:
they had to pay their taxes, as the Voyt reminded them.
Many goodwives likewise were carrying things to the fair:
hens clucked under their aprons in carts; and those on foot
had eggs or butter in their kerchiefs. Some bore on their
shoulders articles of holiday attire, or pieces of linen for
sale.
Mass had been said earlier than usual, and more hastily
too; and Teresa the soldier’s wife, who had to speak with the
priest, came just as he was leaving church for his breakfast.
She durst not accost him then, and stood waiting outside the
garden palings for him to come out; but before she could
reach him, he had got into the britzka and driven away to
Tymov.
She sighed, looking sorrowfully after him, as he went up
the poplar road, whence a cloud of dust continually arose,
219 SPRING
to settle down in the ﬁelds around: the carts clattered on
as before, and a thin line of red petticoats, in Indian ﬁle by
the roadside, twinkled now and again among the trees.
Presently Lipka relapsed into silence. The mill, the smithy,
were closed; shortly the roads were also deserted, and all
that remained at home were busy at work in the gardens, or
pottering about the enclosures.
Teresa went home in sore trouble.
She lived beyond the church, close to Matthew, in a bit
of a hut consisting of one large room and the half of a
passage! At the division of the property, her brother had
halved the'cabin, and carried his share away to rebuild it
on his own land. The sawn timbers of the roof and walls
stood out like gaunt ribs against the soot-begrimed chimney.
Nastka saw her from her threshold, there being but a
narrow strip of orchard between them.
“Well? well? has he read your letter?” she cried, running
to her.
' Teresa explained her disappointment.
“I fancy the organist is able to read writing. He could
make it out.”
“Certainly; but how can I go empty-handed?”
“Take him a few eggs.”
“Here I have ducks’ eggs only; Mother has taken the
others to sell.”
“No matter; he won’t refuse ducks’ eggs.”
“I would fain go; but I fear so much! If I but knew
what is written there!” . . . She took from her bosom a
letter of her husband, which the Voyt had brought her from
the office the day before. “What can there be in that
letter?”
Nastka took the grimy paper from her hands and, sitting
down on the step of the stile, while Teresa seated herself
on the upper bar, made a painful attempt to read it.
Teresa, with her hands on her chin, gazed in terror at the
cabalistic signs that Nastka was trying to spell out. But
she could make out no more than “Praised be Jesus Christ!"
at the beginning.
-'T’HE PEASANTS 220
“I cannot read any farther: ’tis useless. But Matthew
would manage, no doubt.”
She ﬂushed a deep purple, and returned in a faint voice:
“0 Nastka! I do entreat you, tell him naught of this
letter!”
“Were-it but in print! I can read any book, I know the
letters perfectly—But I can make nothing of these strokes
and crooks and curls. . . . Just like a ﬂy dipped into ink,
and crawling over the paper.” '
“But, Nastka, you’ll not tell him?”
“Only yesterday I said to you that I could not be mixed
up in this—But, if your man is coming home, all will have
to come out!” she added, rising to her feet.
Teresa could not answer a word; the tears she was trying
to keep back choked her.
Nastka withdrew, rather out of humour, calling her fowls
as she went; and Teresa, making up ﬁve ducks’ eggs in a
bundle, went to the organist’s.
She was a good while getting there, stopping as she did
every while, and slinking- about in the shade, and staring at
the incomprehensible symbols before her.
“Perchance he is returning.” . . .
She writhed in the grip of dread, her knees shook, her
heart throbbed wildly; with misty eyes she staggered on, as
one in sore need of succour; more than once she had to lean
against the trees not to fall.
“And perhaps he is only writing about money!” . . .
Her steps began to ﬂag; the letter had become a burden,
a torment to her; she was always shifting it from hands to
bosom and back again.
Nobody seemed at home at the organist’s. All the doors
were open, all the rooms empty. One window had a petti-
coat hung up in lieu of curtain, and a sound of snoring pro-
ceeded thence. She advanced timidly towards the passage,
looking round her at the yard. A servant-girl Was sitting
at the kitchen-door, churning butter and driving ﬂies away
with a bough.
“Where’s your mistress?”
22! SPRING
“In the garden; ye’ll hear her soon!”
Teresa remained standing there, crushing the letter in
her hand, and drawing her kerchief forward over her head,
for the sun was now shining directly from above the sheds.
Fowls cackled noisily from the priest’s yard, separated
only by a hedge from the other: ducks were riotous in pools,
little turkeys plaintively clamorous near the hedge; big gob-
bling turkey-cocks, with drooping wings, made furious onsets
at sucking-pigs wallowing in the mire; and pigeons circled
in air, slowly settling—a snow-white cloud—on the red roof.
Teresa’s eyes were wet. She averted her face to ask:
“Is the organist within?”
“Where else? His Reverence is away, so he has lain
down to sleep again.”
“The priest has gone to the fair, no doubt?”
“Ah, yes; to purchase a bull.”
“What, has he not possessions enough?”
“Whoso has much wants more,” the servant grunted.
Teresa was silent awhile. It was hard that she should
have so little, and others so much!
“Mistress is coming!” the servant announced, working the
dasher up and down in the churn so violently that the
cream spurted out.
“ ’Tis all your doing, lazy boy! you let the horse into the
clover on purpose because ye had no mind to go as far as
the fallows!” she was heard to scream. “Two rods of clover
eaten! But I’ll tell your uncle at once, you good-for-
nothing, and you’ll get such a beating!”
“But I drove it to the fallows myself, I did, and tethered
it to the ring!"
“No lies! Your uncle will have a talk with you!”
“But I tell you, Aunt, I did not drive any horse there.”
“Who did, then? His Reverence, eh?” she asked sarcas-
tically.
“Ye have guessed, Aunt. Aye, the priest has grazed his
horses there,” the lad replied, raising his voice.
'“Are you mad? Hold your tongue, lest someone hear.”
“I will not! To his face I’ll say it !——I went at daybreak
THE PEASANTS 222
to fetch the horses in; the bay one was lying down, the mare
feeding: both just where I had left them last night. I
loosed them and mounted the bay one, when I saw horses
grazing in our clover. It was grey dawn.--I rode on aslant,
nigh the priest’s garden, to head them off; so I passed along
Klemba’s pathway. And then I saw the priest saying his
breviary, and looking round, and whipping his horses fur-
ther and further into the clover!”
“Hush, Michael! . . . What an unheard-of thing! . . .
The priest himself! . . . I always said that last year’s
hay . . . But silence; here comes a woman.”
She waddled in hurriedly, and the organist called for
Michael from under his bed-clothes.
Teresa handed over her eggs, embraced the goodwife’s
knees, and begged to know the contents of her husband’s
letter.
“just wait a little.”
Some time later, they called her 'into the room. The
organist, scantily attired—in shirt and drawers only—was
taking his morning coffee. He began to read to her.
Her heart died within her as she listened. Yes, he—her
husband—was coming back at harvest-time, along‘ with
Kuba Yarchyk of Vola, and Gregory, Boryna’s son! The
letter was affectionate: he longed to see her, asked about
everyone at home, sent messages to his acquaintances, and
felt brimming over with gladness at the thought of returning.
Gregory added a few words, asking her to tell his father
he was coming. Poor fellow! he little knew what had taken
place.
Those kind words smote Teresa like a whip and cut her to
the heart. She did her best to bear up against this dread-
ful news, but her eyes were soon wet and streamed with tell-
tale drops.
“How pleased she is that her goodman is coming!” the
organist’s wife said, with derisive emphasis. ,
At the words, she wept yet more abundantly, and took to
ﬂight that they should not see her break down yet more.
For a long time she went crouching about the hedges.
223 sPRiNo'
“What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?” she cried
helplessly, in bitter pain.
Her goodman was coming . . . and would learn every-
thing! Terror, like a destroying blast, swept over her at
the thought. Her Yasyek was a good-natured fellow, but
very impetuous, like all the Ploshkas. Never would he
forgive the wrong done; he would kill him. “O Lord,
have mercy!” she cried, but without one thought for herself.
Full of tears and rent within her soul, she found her way
after a time to Boryna’s cabin. Hanka was out; she had
left long since; Yagna was working at her mother’s. Only
Yagustynka and Yuzka were at home, spreading out linen
to bleach in the orchard.
She told them about Gregory, wishing to get away at once.
But the old woman took her aside, and said in a low and
unusually kind tone:
“Teresa, control yourself; be reasonable. Evil mouths
cannot be prevented from speaking. . . . Your Yasyek will
return, and will know all in any case. Think of it: a lover is
but for a month, a husband for life. ’Tis good advice I
give.” _
“What do ye mean?” she stammered, feigning not to
understand.
“Do not pretend: we all know all about you both. Send
Matthew about his business while it is yet time. If ye do.
Yasyek will not believe what they say. He has been yearn-
ing for you; easily will you make him believe anything!
Matthew has had a liking for your bed, but is not bound to
it: get rid of him while you can. . . . A love! it passes by in
a moment, as yesterday has passed: were you to lay down
your life for it. it would not stay. A love—’tis but a
Sunday dainty: who feeds on it daily will care not for it
at all.—Folk say: ‘Love of heart makes us smart: when
we wed, then we’re dead!’-—It may be; but death with a
goodman and children is better than wild outlawed freedom.
--Do not whimper, but save yourself while it still is time.
What if your man should cease to love you, because of this
your deed, and chase you from his home? Whither should
THE PEASANTS 224
you go? To your ruin: to be the laughing-stock of every-
one! Fool! Every man has breeches: Matthew and Kuba,
both alike: everyone swears the same oaths, and is sweet
as honey so long as his fondness endures—Now think well,
and take to heart what I say; for 1, your aunt, wish you
well.”
But Teresa would hear no more. She ﬂed away into the
ﬁelds, and sat down in the rye to give a free course to her
grief.
But it was in vain that she attempted to think over
Yagustynka’s advice. Her passion for Matthew was such
that the very idea of giving him up made her writhe on
the ground like a wounded beast.
Some time elapsed before the sounds of a quarrel close at
hand made her start to her feet.
Just in front of the Voyt’s cottage a ﬁerce brawl was
in progress.
The Voyt’s wife and Kozlova were loading each other with
the ﬁercest invectives.
Opposite to one another they stood, with the road and their
respective enclosures between them, clad only in their smocks
and petticoats, each panting with fury, reviling the other
with all her might, and shaking her ﬁsts at her.
The Voyt was loading his cart, and now and then glancing
at a peasant from Modlitsa, who, sitting in the porch, en-
joyed the scene with keen relish, and set the women on.
The cries were heard afar; and soon many a head peeped
from behind the neighbouring hedges and hut-corners.
And, Lord! how they both stormed! The Voyt’s wife,
usually so quiet and mild-tempered, was terribly on the
rampage to-day, and her rage waxed higher every minute;
and Kozlova, as of set purpose, taunted and mocked her,
omitting nothing to increase her fury.
“Talk, talk, talk, my lady Voyt!” she called out; “talk
away! There’s no dog can outbark your ladyship!”
“Not a week goes by, but something is missing from my
premises! Laying hens—chickens—even an old goose—-
have disappeared. Aye, in my garden, in my orchard, I
225 SPRING
have untold losses to put up with! Ah, may the wrong
done to me p'oison you! May it choke you to death!”
“Very good I—Screech, old crow! Screech, my lady Voyt!
’Twill soothe you!”
“Why, this very day,” she said, addressing Teresa, who
stood in the road, “I had taken ﬁve pieces of linen out into
the orchard to bleach. . . . After breakfast, behold, I come
out to sprinkle them—one is missing! . . . I seek it!--
Swallowed by the earth, as it werel—And lo, I had weighted
it with stones; and of wind there was none at all! . . . Good
linen, ﬁne linen! Ye could get none better at any shop . . .
and behold, it is gone!”
“Your eyelids are so puffed out with fat, you could not
see it!”
“I could not, for you, thief, have stolen it!” she vocifer-
ated.
“I, a thief !—-Say, oh, say that once more!”
“You thief! you thief! Thereto, and before all men,
will I bear witness! And that you’ll confess when I take
you to jail in irons!”
“She—she has called me a thief !—-People, have ye heard?
As there’s a God, I’ll bring an action for that—Ye all have
heard her. What, have I robbed you, you blockhead?
where are your witnesses?”
At that, the Voyt’s wife snatched up a stake, and dashed
out into the road with the rush of an infuriated dog, shriek-
ing: “I’ll witness it on you with my stick! I’ll prove it!
I’ll . .
“Come on, my lady Voyt! Yah! only touch me, you pig!
Only touch me, you scarecrow of a bitch!” she cried,
running forward likewise.
She pushed aside her goodman, who would have kept her
back. and with legs wide apart and arms akimbo, called out
jeering:
“Strike me, strike me, my lady Voyt, and you’ll lie in
,jail for it!”
“Hold your peace, woman!” the Voyt interposed, “or I’ll
send you off to jail ﬁrst!”
THE PEASANTS 226
“Lock up your own mad dog, ’tis your duty; tie up your
wife with a rope, lest she bite!” Kozlova screamed, ex-
asperated.
“Woman!” he shouted, threatening her. “When I speak,
do respect my ofﬁce!”
“I spit on your ofﬁce”—but the words used were bolder
far—“do you understand me? He threaten, he?——Look at
him! He may just as well have stolen the stuff himself to
get his light—o’-love a smock! Why, the money of the com-
munity is all gone that way; you have drunk it all, you
toss-pot!~—Oh, we know about your doings, never fear!—
Aye, you too, my lord the Voyt, will lie in jail!”
This was the last straw: both of them ﬂew at her like
wolves. The Voyt’s wife hit her ﬁrst with her stick across
the face, and then, with a savage cry, went at her with her
nails, while the Voyt belaboured her wherever he could
ﬁnd a place.
Bartek ﬂew instantly to the rescue of his wife.
They all three closed together like ﬁghting dogs; no one
could tell whose ﬁsts, whose heads, were seen whirling
through the air, nor whose voices were bellowing. From
fence to road, from road to fence, they went staggering and
tossing like sheaves blown along in a great wind, till in
their fury of ﬁghting they fell to the ground on a sand-
heap.
Plunging in a cloud of dust, they were audible still with
their imprecations and invectives; but presently they got
out into the road, ﬁghting and shrieking at the top of their
voices.
At times one or other of them fell apart, and now and
then they were all upon their feet; then, clutching one an-
other by the hair, or the throat, or the nape of the neck, they
began the battle again.
But all the village was soon aroused by the noise; women
came hovering helplessly around the battle-ﬁeld; and, at
last men arrived and separated the combatants.
But the curses and imprecations and wailings and threats
went on, and were beyond all description. The neighbours
'227 SPRING
made off at once, fearing they might be called in to bear
witness: but throughout the village the whisper went that
the Voyt and his wife had given the Koziols a fearful
thrashing.
A few minutes later, the Voyt, with a swollen face, drove
off accompanied by his wife, also much battered and
scratched, to depose against their enemies.
About an hour afterwards, the Koziols started likewise:
‘old Ploshka having very kindly offered to take them to
town gratis—to pay out the Voyt for siding with the Squire.
They went to make their complaint, just as they were at
the end of the ﬁght, and without doing anything to make
themselves more presentable. -
They drove slowly through the village, telling everybody,
as they went, about their ill-treatment, and showing the
wounds received.
Koziol’s head was cut open to the bone, so that his face,
neck, and breast, visible through a rent in his shirt, were
all covered with blood. The hurt was in reality not great;
but at every moment he would press his side and moan:
“My God! I can bear no more! He has broken every
one of my ribs!-—Help, good people, help! or I die!”
His wife then took up the lament.
“He took a club to beat him withl—Ah, poor man! be
‘easy; you have had much to suffer, but there’s justice to
punish ruﬂians, there is! . . . Yes, he meant to slay my
man, and folk had hard work to prevent him from doing
it: as they will all testify in court.” These explanations
she would frequently interrupt with dreadful howls. Indeed,
'she was disﬁgured almost past recognition: bare-headed, with
tufts of hair torn out scalp and all, her ears torn and
bleeding, her eyes running blood, and her whole face clawed,
scratched, harrowed like a ﬁeld. And though all knew well
what a “daisy” the woman was, the sight roused pity in
many a heart.
“Dear, dear! ’twas too bad to treat them so horribly!”
“A sin and a shame it is! They have been well-nigh
killed.”
THE PEASANTS 228
“Aye, they have been frightfully beaten. But is aught
forbidden to my lord the Voyt?—Such an ofﬁcial, such a
great man?” Ploshka put in maliciously, addressing the
people.
They were completely bewildered, and remained astounded
and upset long after the Koziols had passed out of sight.
Teresa, who had taken cover during the fray, did not
show her face till both parties had gone.
She looked in at the Koziols’, Bartek being distantly re-
lated to her. No one was in; but the three little children
that Kozlova had just brought with her from Warsaw, sat
outside the cabin, huddled together, greedin devouring
some half-boiled potatoes, defending their food from the
pigs with their spoons, and crying out at them. They were
so wretched, so miserably neglected, so ﬁlthin dirty, that
her heart pitied them, and she took them into the passage,
and shut them in from their foes; then she ran off to tell
the news.
At the Golabs’, there was no one but Nastka.
Matthew had, before breakfast, gone over to Staho
(Bylitsa’s son-in-law) to look over the ruined hut and see
if anything could be done with it. The old man, too, was
with him, now and then stammering a word or two. Mr.
Yacek, sitting as usual at the threshold, smoked a cigarette
and whistled to the doves that circled about over the cherry-
trees.
Noontide was not far off.
The heated air was quivering over the ﬁelds like rippling
water; the ﬁelds and orchard-grounds basked delightedly in
the sunbeams; now and again, a blossom fell from Bylitsa’s
cherry-trees, ﬂickering down like a white little butterﬂy.
It was well past noon when Matthew had ﬁnished his
examination. While still poking the timbers here and there,
he gave sentence:
“’Tis all rotten wood, crumbling to dust: ye can build
nothing with it. Quite useless.”
“Perchance,” Staho said anxiously, “I might buy some new
timber, and then . . .”
229 SPRING
“Ye’d require timber for a whole cabin. Not one beam
here is ﬁt for aught.”
“Gracious heavens!”
“But the lower beams may hold yet,” old Bylitsa faltered;
“we should only have to get new upper timbers, and clamp
the woodwork together and prop it up.”
“Then do so, if ye be so clever! I do not build with
touchwood!” he retorted, putting on his coat.
Here Veronka, lamenting bitterly, and holding a child in
her arms, came on the scene.
“What, alas! what shall we do now?”
“A new hut,” said Staho in sore distress, “would cost about
two thousand roubles—Yet we might get some timber from
our forest; and I could manage for the rest. . . . An
application to the Government Board . .
“But the forest is now in the hands of the law court:
what timber would they give us just now? Why, we are
even forbidden to gather wood there for fuel! Wait
till a sentence is given, and then build!” was Matthew’s
advice.
“Indeed! Very ﬁnel—And where shall we dwell this
winter, I ask?” said Veronka, with a fresh burst of tears.
No more was said. Matthew put his tools together, while'
Staho scratched his head, and Bylitsa blew his nose round
the corner.
In that moment, Mr. Yacek stood up, and raising his
voice: -
“Weep not, Veronka,” he said; “the timber for your cabin
shall be found!”
All stood open-mouthed, lost in amazement; till Matthew,
recovering himself ﬁrst, burst out with a loud guffaw.
“Clever men promise, fools believe theml—He has not
where to lay his head, yet talks of giving cabins to others!”
he cried roughly, staring at him_ under his bent brows; but
Mr. Yacek sat down again, went on smoking and playing
with his beard. his eyes ﬁxed on the sky-line.
“In a little, he will promise you a whole farml” Matthew
said, with a laugh and a shrug, as he left them.
THE PEASANTS 230
He at once turned to the left along the path that led to
the outhouses.
Few were at work in the gardens that day: there was but
the red glint of a stray petticoat, or the sight of a man here
and there mending a roof, or pottering about the granary
gates, open to the ﬁelds.
Matthew was in no hurry; he loitered about willingly,
chatting with the neighbours on the topic of the Voyt’s battle,
grinning and talking merrily with lasses, or making such
strong—ﬂavoured jokes with the elder women in the gardens
that they could not help laughing; many a one sighed and
cast fond looks after him, as he passed out of sight.
And a handsome fellow indeed he was: built like an oak,
and the king, as it were, of all the young men in Lipka;
ﬁrst in strength (after Antek Boryna) ; and as a dancer, not
inferior to Staho Ploshka. And withal, a man of much
ability in every ﬁeld of work; able to construct a cart, to
set up a chimney, to repair a cabin; and he played the
ﬂute beautifully too. So, though he had next to no land at
all, and was so open-handed with everybody that he never
put anything by, many a mother would have gladly drunk
with him the price of a calf, could she but have disposed
'him favourably thereby towards marriage with her daughter;
more than one girl, too, had allowed him much intimacy,
hoping to get the banns sooner published.
All would not do. He drank with the mothers, made love
to the daughters, but on the question of marriage was
slippery as an eel.
“’Tis hard to choose—Each one has her good points;
and others are growing up, worth more than any—I’ll wait,”
he would say, when match-makers beset him.
Then. the preceding winter, he had that entanglement
with Teresa, and lived almost openly with her, disregarding
both gossip and cautions. _ -
“When Yasyek comes, I’ll give her back to him, and he’ll
stand me treat into the bargain for having taken good
care of her,” he once said laughingly, shortly after his re-
turn. He was tired of her, and slowly drifting apart.
231 SPRING
And now, as he went in to dinner, he chose a longer way
round, merely to joke with the girls, and have some horse-
play with those who would let him.
And thus, quite unexpectedly, he came face to face with
Yagna, weeding her mother’s garden.
“Ah! Yagna!” he cried out, joyfully.
She suddenly shot up to her full height, tall and graceful
as a hollyhock.
“So you’ve noticed me? Oh, how very soon! Not more
than a week since your home-coming!”
“Why, you look lovelier than ever before!” he said in
low tones of wonder.
Her dress was tucked up to the knees; and beneath her
red kerchief, knotted under her chin, those great sweet tur-
quoise eyes of hers looked out, her white teeth gleamed
between cherry lips, all her face glowed apple-red—and so
fair, it seemed asking to be kissed.
She boldly set her arms akimbo, and shot such irresistibly
bright glances at him as thrilled him through and through.
Looking round carefully, he drew nearer.
“For a whole week I have been seeking you-—in vain!”
“Tell a dog lies: it may believe you—Ha! the man goes
grinning about the gardens every evening; every evening
he ﬂatters another girl: and now he’ll dare tell me ’tis not
true?”
“W by, Yagna, is this your greeting to me?”
“Better fall on my knees and thank you for remembering
I exist, eh?” ~ - '
“Last year I had another welcome!”
“But this is not last year!” She turned away from him
and hid her face. He at once stepped forward, clasping her
with eager arms.
She tore herself in anger from his grasp.
“Let me alone; Teresa would tear my eyes out because
of you!” /
“Yagna!” he sighed.
“Get back; make love to her, the soldier’s wife; r’ender
‘her every service till he come back to her.—-You were in
THE PEASANTS 232
prison, and she fed you well: now must you make her some
return!” ,
Each word of hers was like a blow, and uttered with such
scorn that Matthew, taken aback, could ﬁnd no answer.
Shame took hold of him; he turned a dusky red, hung
his head and took to ﬂight at once.
Though Yagna had but told him what she felt and had
been feeling all the week, she now regretted her words.
Never had she expected he would have been so offended as
to leave her.
“Foolish one! I spoke but out of spite!” she thought,
gazing sorrowfully after him. “To be so angry all at once
with mel—Matthew!”
Rushing away through the orchard as if running for his
life, he did not hear her call.
“That wasp! that vixen!” he growled, making straight
for home now, anger and astonishment alternately upper-
most in his mind. Before, she had always been so sweet,
so mild! And now she had treated him like dirt. He felt
the shame so keenly that he looked round to make sure no
one had heard.
“And she reminded me of Teresa! Silly thing !——Teresa
is naught to me—naught but a toyI—How her eyes blazed!
In what a posture she set her arms l—Ah, it were no shame
to be stung by such a one . . . if only the honey were
forthcoming afterwards.” He was now close to his hut, and
slackened his pace. .
“She was angry that l~ alluded to the past—But was I in
the wrong? . . . As to Teresa”--\here he made a wry face,
as one who has gulped down vinegar—“I have enough of
that cry-baby. I have taken no oath to remain with her,
have I? . . . The tail sticks to the cow, but I am no cow’s
tail! . . . And then she has a goodman of'her own; and
I might get a public rebuke from the pulpit ’pn her ac-
count. . . . Such a woman is the ruin of a ma .—To the
devil with women!” he concluded, in a most cantankerous
mood. .
Dinner was not ready at home. He scolded his sister
233 SPRING
for dawdling, and went in to Teresa, who was milking in
the orchard, and raised to him very sad tearful eyes.
“Whimpering again? And wherefore?”
She excused herself, looking on him fondly.
“Pay more attention: the udder squirts milk upon your
pettico'at.” ‘
Why was he so unkind, so hard to her to-day? she won-
dered. What had come over him? She was as gentle as
could possibly be; yet he snapped her up ﬁercely at every
word she said.
He seemed looking about the orchard for something, but
ever and anon ﬂung a furtive glance at her, and wondered
more and more.
“Where had I mine eyes? . . . Such a paltry ﬂabby
thing! . . . Neither beauty nor savour! . . . Raw-boned
and sour-tasting! . . . Black as a gipsy, too; and of car-
riage, none whatever!”
True, her eyes, and they alone, were beautiful; perhaps
as much so as Yagna’s: large, bright as a blue sky, and
peering under black brows. But as often as he met them,
he turned aside and swore softly to himself. '
“She rolls her eyes like a calf!”
Those looks of hers made him impatient and angry.
“I will not see them, I will not !—Yes, yes, ogle as much
as you like, ye will not catch me.”
They had dinner together, but he never spoke once to
her, nor so much as glanced in her direction. To Nastka
he spoke, indeed, but no pleasant words.
“A dog would not touch these groats: they are dis-
gustingly burnt!”
“Only a little: just enough to have a taste.”
“Do not cross mel—And ye have put more ﬂies than
bacon-scratchings in them!”
“What, do you object to ﬂies now? Don’t be so very
dainty! They will not poison you.” .'
The cabbage dish, he then complained, had been cooked
with rancid lard. ’
“Ye might as well have seasoned it with axle-grease!”
THE PEASANTS 234
“You don’t know how that would taste? I do not, nor
will I try,” she returned sharply.
But he continued to seek every occasion to grumble.
Teresa was dumb all the time; so he set at her directly after
dinner, seeing her cow rubbing herself at the corner of
the hut. ~
“She’s ﬁlthy with dung, crusted all over: can ye not rub
her down?”
“Our byre is wet, and she gets dirty there.”
“Wet, indeed!” he vociferated. “There are pine-boughs
enough in the forest for dry fodder: but ye must wait for
someone to collect them and bring them here to you.
And the beasts might rot their ﬂanks off with the dung
meanwhile—So many women in the hut, yet not a stiver’s
worth of cleanliness!”
But Teresa never answered back; she durst not defend
herself, and only begged his mercy with her eyes.
She was quiet and obedient, and as hard-working as an
ant: she felt even glad to see him so masterful and high-
handed with her! Which was precisely What angered him
yet more. Those loving timorous eyes enraged him; so did
her quiet footsteps, her humble mien, her way of following
him about. He was on the point of crying out: “Away
from my sight!”
“Blood of a dog!-—Plague take it all!” he exclaimed at
last; and, taking up his tools, without any after-dinner
rest, he passed over to the Klembas’, where he had some-
thing to do about the hut.
They were all out in the yard, and at dinner still.
He sat down by the wall for a smoke.
The Klembas were talking of Gregory Boryna’s return
from the army.
“What? home so soon?” he asked.
“Why, know ye not?” said old Klemba. “Together with
Yasyek, Teresa’s goodman, and Yarchyk from Vola.”
“They are to be here in harvest-time. This morning,
Teresa went to get the letter read by the organist, who told
235 ' SPRING
me about it.—-That’s news for you, that Yasyek is return-
ing!” he blurted out.
A silence followed. All eyes were ﬁxed on vacancy, and
the women, stiﬂing their desire to laugh, turned very red.
He gave no heed, and seemed pleased at the news, remark-
ing tranquilly:
“ ’Tis well that he returns: now they will peradventure
cease from slandering Teresa.”
Their spoons stopped, suspended in air over the dish, so
confounded were they all. He looked round him, un-
abashed, and then added:
“Ye are well aware how little they spare her. She is
naught to me but a distant relative on my father’s side.
But if any dirty sneak should hint at anything else, I’d
stop his mouth so that he’d never forget it! But women
are the worst of all; they never spare another woman. Be
she white as snow, they would ﬁnd means to foul her!”
“Quite so, quite so,” they replied, with their eyes upon
the dish.
“Have ye been at Boryna’s yet?” he inquired, anx-
iously. '
“I have long been about to go; but something always
prevented me.”
“He suffers for us all, and we—we forget him!”
“And you—have you looked in there?”
“I?-—Should I go in by myself, folk would say I was
after' Yagna!”
“As particular as a girl after she has tripped!” muttered
old Agata, who sat by the hedge, with a small bowl on her
knees.
“Well, but I have enough of all this yelping.”
, Klemba laughed. “The wolf,” he said, “changes his life
when his teeth are gone.”
“Or,” Matthew added, “when he thinks of settling down.”
, “Ho, ho! we shall soon have you sending messengers to
some lass?” young Klemba cried in high glee.
5~,“A_ye, I. am weighing the matter seriously.”
THE PEASANTS 236
“Make your choice quickly, Matthew, and ask me to
be your bridesmaid!” piped Kate, the eldest daughter.
“Ah, but there’s the rub. All are equally excellent, and
every one’s better than the other. Magda’s the richest,
but she’s toothless and blear-eyed; Ulisia’s a ﬂower, but
has one hip too big, and no dowry but a barrel of sour-
crout; Franka has a baby; Mary is too friendly to all the
boys; Eva has a hundred zloty, all in coppers; but she’s a
sluggard, always lying abed. All would fain eat fat things,
drink sweet things, and do nothing. Oh, they are pure
gold, these girls! And others there are besides, nice, but
not yet grown up.”
They all laughed till the pigeons ﬂew off the roof.
“I say true. Till she is grown up, I care naught for a
girl, be she ever so comely.”
Here Dame Klemba rebuked him for talking of such
things.
“Oh, I am only joking. And girls like these jokes, they
say, as well as any.”
*At this the lasses were offended, and grew red as turkeys
in angry protest.
“A ﬁne fellow he is: not one of us is good enough for
him!”
“If there are none in Lipka you can like, then take one
from elsewhere!” they cried.
“But there are, there are! ’Tis easier to ﬁnd an old maid
here than a silver zloty. Ah, how many there are! They
'every Saturday beautify themselves at daybreak very
thoroughly, and braid their hair, and chase chickens through
the orchard to barter with the Jew for vodka, and are all
the afternoon on the watch for messengers bringing a pro-
posal. Why, have I not seen them on the roofs, waving
their kerchiefs at me, and shouting: ‘Come to me, Mat-
thew, come!’?—-And the mothers, too, taking up the cry:
‘To Kate ﬁrst, Matthew, to Kate! I’ll add to her portion
-—a cheese and eight eggs: Matthew, come to Kate!’ ”
The men were near splitting their sides with laughter, he
237 SPRING
amused them so; but the girls, indignant, made such an
uproar that old Klemba interposed:
“Hush, girls! ye’re as noisy as magpies before rain.”
The din went on nevertheless. So, to end the squabble,
he inquired:
“Were you present, Matthew, at the Voyt’s affray?”
“Not I. But the Koziols were very soundly swinged,
they say.”
“Aye, swinged with a vengeance! They were awful to
behold—Well, well, the Voyt has had his ﬂing, i’ faith.”
“He has waxed fat on the Commune’s bread, and now he
plays pranks!”
“Aye, indeed, he fears none. Who would stand up to
him? Any other should pay dear for such sport—he’ll not
lose a hair thereby. He knows men in ofﬁce, and can do
as he pleases here.”
“Because ye are but sheep to let him. He puts you down,
and sets himself above you all!”
“Having chosen him ourselves, we must respect his rule"-
“But they that set him up can put him down again.”
“Hush, Matthew, not so loud: folk may hear your words.”
“——And tell him. Then he’ll know what I have said.—
Let him fall foul of me, though, if he darel”
“Matthias, who alone could have held against him, is at
death’s door. No one else would put himself forward: each
has troubles enough of his own,” the old man concluded,
rising from his seat.
All rose with him, and went, some to rest awhile, some to
stretch their legs and loosen their girdles; others—the lasses
--to wash the dishes in the pond, and take a little recrea-
tion. But Matthew went directly to set up props and stays
for the cabin, while Klemba lit his pipe and sat on the
door-step.
As he puffed, his mind reverted to the late talk. “Who
stands up for others, shall have many bothers!” he growled.
The sun was high above the cabin, the afternoon hot.
The orchards stood motionless, the sunlight trembled
v
THE PEASANTS 238
through their rustling leaves, and many a petal ﬂoated
down upon the grass. Bees buzzed among the apple-tree
boughs; athwart the greenery, the mill-pond shimmered, and
the birds were all hushed. A pleasant afternoon drowsi-
ness pervaded the place.
Klemba, who wanted to keep awake, sauntered over to
his potato-pit. '
A little later he returned, pufﬁng hard at his extinguished
pipe, and spluttering, and throwing back the long hair that
had fallen over his brow.
“Have you seen?” his wife asked him, peeping out at the
doon
“I have. Our potatoes will only last us till harvest, if
we cook them but once a day!”
“Once a day only!”
“What’s to be done? We are so many!—-Ten hungry
mouths, the ravenous maws beneath them!-—We must think
of something.” I
“Not of the heifer, at any rate. I tell you, I will not
have her sold. Do what ye will, the cattle must not
go!”
He waved his hands, as if to drive away an importuna-te
wasp; when she had gone, he lit his pipe again.
“A pig-headed old thing! . If needs must . . . A
heifer’s no holy thing to die for!”
The sun now shone in his eyes; he only turned his back,
and puffed more slowly. Loosening his girdle (the meal
of potatoes lay heavy upon him), he began to nod. The
doves cooed on the thatch, and the leaves were quivering
. with slumberous murmurs.
“Thomas!”
It was Agata’s voice. He opened his eyes. She was sit-
ting beside him, with an anxious look. ,
“These months before harvest are hard times for you,”
she said. “If ye are willing, I have a little money: ye
could take it. I was keeping it for my burial; but if ye
are so hard pressed, I’ll lend it. Why sell the heifer? I
stood by when she was dropped; she’s of a good race of
239 SPRING
milkers. Perchance I may, God willing, live on till har-
vest . . . and then ye will give the money back. ’Tis no
shame, even for a farmer, to take from his own folk, when
in need. So here!” And she pressed into his hand three
roubles, all in silver zloty.
“Nay, take it back: I shall manage.”
“Here, I can add half a rouble more. Take it,” she
begged him in a whisper.
“Nay. But thanks notwithstanding. It is exceeding kind
of you.”
“There, then: here are thirty zloty all told: pray take
them!” She looked into her money-bag, counting out ﬁve-
kopek bits and keeping down her tears. It was a hard
sacriﬁce for her; every coin she told out gave her a sharp
pang.
The money glittered very temptingly in the sun. His
eyes shone with desire as he gloated over them; they were
all new bright pieces. But, heaving a deep sigh, he mastered
himself with a great effort, and said to her:
“Hide all that carefully, or folk may see it, and per-
adventure rob you.”
She still went on imploring him in a low voice; but he
said no more, and she slowly put her treasures back again.
“Wherefore will ye not dwell with us?” he asked her,
after a while.
“How can I? I am good for nothing, not even to follow
the geese—I "am very weak, expecting my end day by day.
It would truly be more pleasant to die amongst one’s own
kinsfolk: much more. Yea, even in the stall where the
heifer has been.—-And I have forty zloty ready for my
burial: perhaps ’twould also suffice for a Mass . . . as beﬁts
a farmer’s kinswoman! . . . I should leave my feather-bed
to you. . . . Fear ye not: I should fall asleep quietly
9,
amongst you, and sooner than ye expect; very soon . . .
she faltered anxiously, waiting with a throbbing heart for
him to say: “Stay with us!”
He did not, but made as if he had not followed the drift\
of her rambling talk; and stretched himself, and yawned,
THE PEASANTS 240
and walked uneasily about before the hut, the barn, the
hayrick. . . .
She sobbed and moaned plaintively. “How could he,
indeed? He, a husbandman of such repute—Tand I, a
wretched beggar-woman!”
And thereupon she started on her daily search for some
place in the village where she could die in good odour, as a
respectable peasant-woman.
On and on she crawled to ﬁnd some such nook, and ever
drifting about like gossamer in the gale, to stick fast no
one knows where.
People joked about her, and enjoyed saying that she ought
to stay with her family, and telling the Klembas, with mock
friendship:
“Why, she is of your family, and she has money for her
funeral besides, and then she will not trouble you very long.
Where else should she be but with you?”
Dame Klemba thought of those words, when her goodman
told her at night of what Agata had said that day. They
were in bed at the time, their children had begun to snore,
and she whispered to persuade him:
“There will be room for her . . . She may lie in the
hay . . . Or we shall drive the geese out into the shed.—
For her food, she wants next to naught . . . And she
cannot drag on very long . . . Moreover, she will be buried
at her own cost—So people will not speak against us . . .
And then, the feather-bed would be ours: we could not
easily get such another one.” This she pointed out to him
very eagerly.
In answer, Klemba merely snored at the time; but in the
morning he said:
“If Agata were quite destitute, I should take her in; it
were then God’s will, and I could not do otherwise. But, as
things stand, they will say we have taken her in for the sake
of what she leaves us. As it is, they blame us for having
let her go and beg—Nay, it cannot be.”
Klembova obeyed her husband in all things, but she
241 SPRING
sighed bitterly over the feather-bed lost to them, and got
up to hurry the girls out to their work; for that day they
had to plant the cabbages.
It was then May weather at its best. The breeze blew,
stirring the corn in rippling waves. The orchards whispered
as they waved, and shook down their blossoming petals; and
heavy clusters of lilac and bird-cherry blossoms ﬁlled the
air with perfume. From the ﬁelds, songs came borne on
the wind; and in the smithy, the hammer rang on the
anvil. Since morning, the roads had been full of people
and racket, and the women wended their way to the cabbage
patches, bearing young plants with them in sieves and
baskets.
Before the morning dew was quite dry, the black ﬁelds,
cut into many a furrow full of water sparkling in the sun-
shine, were dappled all over with red aprons and skirts.
Dame Klemba went with her daughters, the while her
goodman with his sons were helping Matthew to repair their
cabin.
Old Klemba, however, presently ﬁnding the sun too hot,
called Balcerek and went over to see Boryna.
“A ﬁne day, friend,” he said, taking a pinch from Bal-
cerek’s snuff-box.
“Splendid. But let’s hope this great heat will not last.”
“Rain is falling on all sides: our turn must come soon.”
“Yet it looks like drought: the trees are covered with in-
sects”
“And the vegetables, how late they have come up! A
drought would destroy them. But, by God’s grace, it may
not come to that.”
“Well, and what of the fair? Any news of your horse?”
“I gave the police officer three roubles, and he gave me
promises.”
“We have naught in safety! We live in constant alarm,
as hares do, and there’s no help for it.”
“Our Voyt is a mere ﬁgure-head,” suggested Balcerek, in
low cautious tones.
THE PEASANTS 242
“We ought,” Klemba rapped out, “to seek another.”
Balcerek gave him a warning look; but he went on, ex-
citedly:
“He brings the village to shame—Have ye heard what
he did yesterday?”
“Oh, his brawl? that’s naught—But there’s more, and we
may have to pay dear for his spell in office.”
“But there are checks on him: the cashier, the scrivener,
the rest of the council.”
“Like dogs set to watch over meat! Aye, they’ll watch
so well that we peasants will have in the end to pay for
their negligence.”
“What’s to be done?—-Any other news?”
Balcerek spat and tossed up his hand; he cared little to
talk, being a cross-grained man, and henpecked besides,
which made him still more taciturn.
They arrived at Boryna’s. In the porch, Yuzka was peel-
ing potatoes.
“Ye may go in; Father is lying there alone. Hanka is
out planting cabbages, and Yagna working at her mother’s.”
The room looked very empty. A lilac-bough now and
then peeped in at the window, and the sunlight ﬁltered in
through the verdure outside.
The old man lay as usual, but much emaciated, with his
grey beard bristling all over his discoloured cheeks. His
head was still bandaged, and his ashen lips were moving as
if to speak. .
They greeted him. No answer, no movement in reply.
“Do ye not know us?” said Klemba, taking his hand.
He seemed totally unconscious, or lost in rapt listening
to the twittering swallows, building their nests under his
thatch, or the brustling of the leaves against the wall out-
side.
“Matthias!” Klemba said, shaking him slightly.
The sick man started, his eyelids quivered, he looked round
at them.
“Do ye hear?—This is Klemba, this Balcerek, your com-
panions: surely ye know us!”
Z43 SPRING
They waited a little, gazing into his eyes.
“Boys!” he cried suddenly, in a thundering voice. “See
me here alone! To the rescue! Smite them, those sons of
dogs! smite them!” He raised his arms as to ward off a
blow, and fell back on his bed.
At the cry, Yuzka rushed in, and put fresh moist band-
ages on his head. And now, once more, he lay quite motion-
less: in his wide-open eyes there gleamed an expression of
intense fear.
They went away, distressed and disheartened.
“Why,” said Klemba, “he is no longer a living man .
he’s a corpse!”
Vitek’s stork was stalking about the orchard; the wind
now and then swept the branches into the open windows
to shade them.
Back they went, plunged in sad silent thought, as if they
had been to visit a grave.
“We must all come to this!” Klemba said at last.
“Truly,” sighed the other. “He has perished, and others
gain thereby.”
“ ‘A goat dies once, and then—never again!’ ”
“We too shall follow him shortly.”
And they looked with hardening eyes at the world around;
at the waving corn; at the forest, clear-cut and plain in
the distance; at the green-growing ﬁelds, and at the bright
warm day of springtide: and their spirits settled down in
a stony resignation to the will of God.
“No; man cannot shun what is to be.”
And so they parted.
Others, too, both on that day and afterwards, came to
visit the dying man: but he recognized no one, and at last
they came no longer.
The priest had said: “All he needs is prayers for a speedy
departure.”
And as everyone was full of his own cares and troubles,
they naturally forgot him, or spoke of him as of one
dead.
Who was there, indeed, to take thought of him?
THE PEASANTS 244
There were even days when he remained without a drop
of water, and might have died of starvation, but for the
kind heart of Vitek, who would snatch up anything he
could get and take it to “Master”; and he would sometimes
milk the cows in secret, and bring him to drink. He was
indeed ﬁlled with attention and respect for the sufferer, and
with disquietude also: which made him at last question
Pete:
“Is’t true that whosoever dies without confession must-go
to hell?” ~ _
“Most true. Why, the priest tells us so in church ever so
often.”
“Then . . . Master shall also go to hell?” And he
crossed himself in dismay.
“He’s a man like any other!”
“What? Master a man like any other?”
“You are as senseless as a cabbage-head!” said Pete, grow-
ing angry; for he saw that Vitek did not believe him. . . .
And thus did the days. go by at Boryna’s cabin.
The village meanwhile, on account of the Voyt’s battle,
was in a state of great animation, each party eagerly look-
ing for witnesses in its favour.
It was of no great importance in itself : yet the Voyt
exerted himself with might and main; and his inﬂuence in
Lipka proved so considerable that more than half the in-
habitants were on his side. They knew him to be no saint;
but he was their Voyt all the same, and able to make things
hot for opponents. So, by dint of insistence, ﬂattery, and
vodka, he got together as many Witnesses as he required.
Koziol was very ill in bed, and the priest had been to
him with the last sacraments. As to that illness, opinions
differed: some went so far as to whisper low that it was
only a feint to give the Voyt more trouble—But who knew
really what to think of it?
In the meantime Kozlova was going about all day, tell-
ing the people that she had sold her sow and farrow to
purchase medicines for her goodman; and well-nigh daily
she stationed herself outside the Voyt’s house, loading him
245 SPRING
with invectives, shrieking that her Bartek was about to die,
and calling God and all honest people to witness in her
favour and take sides with her.
Only the riff-raff of the community, however, and a fevK
tender-hearted women, were with her; Kobus also, a third-v
rate farmer and a most litigious and quarrelsome man.
The others would not listen to her. Some paid no notice to
what she said; others, in her own interest, advised her to
make friends with the Voyt.
Many broils arose thence; for Kobus had an ungovernable
tongue, and was very ready with his ﬁsts; while the women,
on their side, used extremely violent language. Their anger
and acrimony were most intense: for how could they hope to '
get the better of the farmers and the Voyt together?
In the end, the Jew himself treated the K )ziols with con-
tempt, and refused them credit.
Within a week after the battle, everyone had enough of
the affair, and the complaints and lamentations connected
therewith, and would not listen any longer.
But at that juncture, new helpers came, and the village
was again in an uproar.
Ploshka, joining forces with the miller, now stood up
openly and strongly for the Koziols.
Not that they cared for their cause in the least: each had
his own aims and sought his own advantage. ‘
Ploshka, an underhanded and much-aspiring man, put un-
bounded trust in his own wealth and cleverness: and as to
the miller, he would have risked his life for money.
And thus the struggle between the two parties began,
ﬁerce, yet courteous: they treated each other to shows of
friendship, and conversed as before, and even went some-
times arm in arm to the tavern together.
The shrewder Lipka folk were soon aware that this
coalition aimed at something more than the mere redress of
Koziol’s grievance—~possibly at the Voyt’s office itself.
And the elders nodded their heads, saying:
“One man has made a good thing by the office: others
may do so too!”
THEPEASANTS 246
And as the days passed by, the village dissensions in-
creased.
Once, about that time, there came round to every hut the
dews that there were Germans stopping at the tavern.
As someone guessed, they were no doubt bound for
Podlesie.
The people were taken with a ﬁt of uneasy curiosity. The
news ﬂew from orchard to orchard, it was discussed over
the fences, and many a one hurried to the tavern to see.
It was true. Five large tilted wagons, each painted yel-
low and blue, and ﬁtted with iron axle-trees, stood outside
the inn. "They were laden with articles of furniture, and
women were sitting inside. In the tavern bar, ten Germans ‘
were drinking.
They we e tall, stout, bearded fellows, clad in dark-blue
capotes, wi-h silver chains that dangled from their bulging
waists, and faces that literally shone with good feeding.
The peasants stood grouped together at a distance from
them, calling for vodka, looking on and listening to their
talk, but unable to make anything out. Matthew, who
could speak Yiddish, tried speech with them by that means,
and so ﬂuently that the tavern-keeper looked at him in
amazement. The Germans eyed him, but answered nothing.
Gregory, the Voyt’s brother, then said a few German words
to them: at which, ctrunting among themselves as swine do
over a trough, they turned their backs on the peasants.
Matthew took ﬁre at this. “Let’s punch their snouts for
them!” he cried.
“Aye; or tickle their sides with a cudgel to make them
speak/’
And Adam Klemba, a ﬁery young fellow, exclaimed:
“I’ll hit this nearest one in the stomach; and if he strikes
back, ye all come in for fair play.”
But they restrained him; and the Germans, probably
guessing some harm was intended them, took with them a
barrel of beer, and left the place.
“Hey, ye Long Trousers, do not hurry so: they might fall
down by the way!”
247 SPRING
And as they drove off, the peasants shouted after them:
“Breed of swine!”
No sooner had they left than the Jew informed the peas-
ants that the Germans had almost completed the purchase
of Podlesie: ﬁfteen families were to settle on that farm.
“And then we shall be hemmed in and squeezed to death
on our poor strips of land, while they stretch and multiply
over those broad acres!”
“Then let us bid higher and keep them out!” said Staho
Ploshka to Gregory, who had spoken last. “Use your wits,
since ye think yourself clever!”
“Blood of a dog!” Matthew shouted, thumping the bar
with his ﬁst; “ ’tis a ruinous business, this! If they settle
down in Podlesie, ’twill be a hard thing for us to keep our
homesteads in Lipka.” Of this he was sure: he had been
about the world, and knew what Germans were.
His hearers were at ﬁrst incredulous. All the same, it
troubled them, and they fell a-thinking: how could evil
come to them in Lipka from neighbours in Podlesie?
Every day, herdsmen and wayfarers came to tell how the
lands of Podlesie were being measured, and landmarks laid
down, and wells dug. Of this, too, so many as wandered out
of curiosity in the direction of Vola had ocular demonstra-
tion.
But what was the true situation of affairs? That as yet
they had not ascertained.
They urged the smith to ﬁnd out, for he had made friends
with the Germans and shod their horses; but he fought shy,
and either learned or told them nothing.
It was Gregory who at last sought information and got at
the truth. .
The fact was that the Squire owed a certain German ﬁfteen
thousand roubles, which he could not pay. The latter pro-
posed taking Podlesie for the debt, and paying the differ-
ence in ready money. The Squire seemed inclined to agree
to this, but secretly looked out for some other purchaser,
the German offering only sixty roubles an acre.
“He will have to agree,” Gregory declared. “The Manor
THE PEASANTS 248
is swarming with Jews, all crying out for their money. And
the forester told me the Manor cows had been attached for
the taxes. How, then, can he pay them? Everything is
sold! And he may not cut down the forest, so long as his
lawsuit with us is not ended—No, he must sell Podlesie at
any price.”
“Why, such land is worth a hundred roubles an acre!”
“Then buy it at that price, and he will be only too glad
to sell!”
“Alas, money is short! Whence is it to come?”
“So then, the Germans must get all, and we nothing!”
They talked on, with sad forebodings. How hard it was
that such land should be lost to them—so near, so fruitful,
so suitable for their sons and sons-in-law! They could have
founded another village there, with fertile meadows and
water in abundance. . . . But there, all was of no avail!
The Germans were there, they would get the upper hand
and crush the life out of the poor peasants.
“And whither shall all these go?” the old men murmured
sadly, looking on while their children played about the roads
in the evening—so numerous that the huts could scarce
contain them. “But how is it possible to purchase any land,
since we get barely enough to live on out of ours?”
They cudgelled their brains not a little; they even went to
the priest for advice. But he could give them none. “Out
of an empty pot, nothing is ever got!”
“Ah! ‘money makes the mare go’; but, ‘wherever the
poor man goes, the wind against him blows!’ ”
Useless complaints, useless lamentations!
To make matters worse, the weather grew excessively hot:
July weather in May. The sun rose in the very East, a
vast ﬁre in the azure: on every height, in all sandy soil, the
vegetables drooped and faded. The grass was sear and
burnt upon the fallows; and the potato-plants, which had at
ﬁrst sprouted well, hardly covered the ground with their
poor puny shoots. The autumn-sown lands were alone to
suffer little; being already in the ear, they grew splendidly
249 SPRING
and very high: the low cottages they surrounded seemed to
have shrunk yet lower, crouching earthwards with only their
roofs well above the forest of waving corn.
The nights being so hot and sultry that it was painful to
lie in the huts, people slept in the orchards.
As a consequence of the great heats, of those troubles
which beset them in troops, and also of the hard times pre-
ceding the harvest (harder than usual that year), it came to
pass that the people of Lipka quarrelled and fought among
themselves. more than ever. Everyone seemed to enjoy
thwarting his neighbour, and life there became a real tor-
ment. From the peep of day, the village rang with bicker-
ings and angry words, some new contest taking place every
day. Now it was Kobus and his wife, who had such a
set-to that the priest had to go and rebuke and reconcile
them; now Balcerek’s wife, who came to blows with Gulbas
over a pig that had strayed into her carrot-patch; now
Ploshkova, who had a row with the Soltys, on account of
their goslings’ getting mixed: besides countless wrangles
about the children, or unneighbourly behaviour, or anything
that could serve for a squabble and outcries and noisy in-
vectives. There seemed to be a curse on the village, bring-
ing no end of altercations, breaches of the peace, and law-
suits.
Ambrose even made fun of this waspish disposition before
strangers.
“This year times are not so very hard for me before har-
vest, by the goodness of Providence! No one dies, no one
is born, no one is married; but they daily offer me vodka,
and ﬂatter me, and beg me to bear witness for them! Let
them but wrangle so a few years more, and I shall have
drunk myself to death!”
Lipka was in a bad way indeed; but things went worst of
all at Dominikova’s.
Simon had returned with the others, Andrew’s leg was
well now; they were not in sore straits as others were, and
things ought to have gone on as of old. Far from it!
THE PEASANTS 250
Her sons would no longer obey her. They were grown re-
bellious, always at loggerheads with her, objected to being
beaten, and refused to do woman’s work!
“Ye must hire a maidservant,” they said tartly, “or do
the work yourself.”
Now Dominikova had ruled them with a rod of iron,
and tyrannized over them for many a year; so she was very
much shocked to see her own children rise up against her
now.
“Grant me patience!” she would scream on such occasions,
ﬂying in a rage, and taking up her stick; but they made
stout resistance, and were as stubborn as she. Every day
there were fearful quarrels, hunts all over the premises, and
so on, till the neighbours would rush in to smooth matters
over.
The priest himself called her sons to him, and exhorted
them to live in concord and obedience. They heard him
out with patient respect, kissed his hand and humbly em-
braced his knees as in duty bound; but they behaved as
before.
“We are no children; we know what to do, and Mother
must yield. Why, the whole village was making laughing-
stocks of us!”
Choler and exasperation had made the old dame yellow as
a quince. Do what she might, she could not get the better
of them; and now, instead of attending church services or
gossiping as she had been accustomed, she had to work at
home! She was always calling on Yagna to assist her; but
from her too she got shame and sorrow in plenty.
The Voyt would look in frequently, to take her advice, he
said: in reality, to get Yagna out with him, and play pranks
with her in the garden.
Nothing can be hidden in a village: all knew perfectly
well what was going on. And their guilty love becoming
more and more openly scandalous, certain good people
spoke several times to the old woman on the subject'.
What was she to do? Yagna, notwithstanding prayers
251 SPRING
and supplications, ﬂaunted her wantonness as though to spite
her mother. The most grievous sin, the most shameful
obloquy, was preferable in her eyes to staying by that hus-
band whom she loathed.
Hanka too did nothing to oppose this state of things, and
said so openly. _
“So long as there is no one to prevent the Voyt from
wasting the community’s money, she may do as she pleases.
He grudges her naught, fetches her all he can from town,
and would, if he could, put her in a frame of gold. Let them
have their sport . . . and see the end of itl—I have naught
in common with them!”
And truly, she had troubles enough of her own. She had
given the lawyer whatever he asked, but could as yet not tell
when ArItek was to be tried, nor what destiny awaited him.
And meanwhile he was pining away in prison, hoping God
would have mercy on him.—ln the cabin, besides, things
went ill.
Pete had grown insolent of late—no doubt the smith had
tampered with him; he did no more work than he chose.
Once she had been in town: he had spent the whole day out
of doors; and as she threatened to call him to account be-
fore Antek on his return:
“On his return?” was the jeering reply. “Bandits are
never set free in such wise!”
The impertinent words made her blood boil, and she would
have longed to strike him on the mouth; but what good
would that have done? She had to pocket her affronts, till
the right time should come. Otherwise, the man would
leave, and all would be thrown on her hands. She could
hardly manage to pull through as it was, and her health was
breaking down under the strain. “Steel is devoured by rust,
and rocks last but for a season”; how, then, could a feeble
woman hold out for ever?
One day—May was then drawing to an end—the priest
had driven off with the organist to a local festival. Am-
brose had been drinking so deep with the Germans (who now
THE PEASANTS 252
looked frequently in at the tavern) that he was not there to
toll the evening Angelus, nor to open the church-door for
the May service!
It was therefore decided to have the service in the burying-
ground, where, close to the lich-gate, there stood a little
shrine containing a statue of the Mother of God. Every
May, the girls adorned it with paper ribbons and a gilt
crown, and cast wild ﬂowers all around, doing likewise all
they could to preserve it from complete ruin. It was of
great antiquity, and so cracked and crumbling and dilapi-
dated that the birds no longer made their nests in it; and
if a shepherd-boy ever took shelter there, it was only during
the autumn rains. To some extent it was screened from
the winter storms by the churchyard trees, the old lindens,
some slender birches, and a few crosses which stBod near,
leaning out of the perpendicular.
A good many people had assembled, and quickly decked
the shrine with ﬂowers and verdure; and, having placed a
taper and some small lamps at the feet of the statue, they
knelt down piously.
The blacksmith bent in front before the threshold,
sprinkled with tulips and eglantine blossoms; and he struck
up a hymn.
It was then much after sunset, and growing dark; but the
sky was still burning and golden in the West, with pale
emerald higher up. All was very still; the long locks of the
birches streamed down in cascades, and the corn stooped
down, as though listening to the shrill quavering of the
crickets.
The herds were wending their way home; and from ﬁeld
and village and pathways now unseen, there ﬂoated the
graziers’ noisy songs, mingled with long melancholy lowings.
And the people looked into their Mother’s face, and lifted
up their voices, while she stretched her hands out in bene-
diction over the world.
“Good night, O Lily white!
Good night!”
253 SPRING
The scent of the young birch-trees ﬁlled the air, and the
nightingales began to try their notes, ﬁrst in broken bursts,
then gathering force, and ﬁnally breaking out into foaming
streams of golden euphony-—wonderful trills of long—drawn
music, of melody dropping like pearls; while at no great dis-
tance resounded the violin of Mr. Yacek, which accompanied
the human singers so sweetly, so gently, and so powerfully
at once, it seemed that it came from the rye—stalks rustling
against each other, or that the soil itself were breathing that
chant of May.
All then sang together in ecstasies: the people, the birds,
the violin; and when they paused to take breath awhile, an
innumerable choir of frogs raised their husky voices all in
tune and whirringly, as if hurrying them on to begin again.
So the chant went on—now these singers, now those.
The service lasted very long, and in the end the smith
called out more than once to those behind him:
“Pray, do not drag the words so!” For many of them
were lengthening out the notes beyond measure.
His remark to Matthias Klemba went even farther:
“Don’t bellow so; you’re not following the oxen!” And at
last they sang together all in harmony, and their voices
were like a ﬂock of doves soaring up in the dusky sky.
“Good night, O Lily white!
Good night!
Mary, our hearts’ delight,
Good night!”
It was now black overhead, warm, and very quiet; but
a few stars began to appear and sparkle and twinkle like
dew-drops.
The girls in couples, arms about waists, sang together as
they went home.
Hanka was returning alone, carrying her baby and ab-
sorbed in thought, when the smith approached and walked
by her side. ‘
She held her peace until close to her home; then, seeing
him still beside her, she said:
THE PEASANTS 254
“Are ye coming in, Michael?”
“Only into the porch,” he answered in a low tone; “I
have to speak with you.”
She felt somewhat agitated. Had he any fresh misery in
store for her?
“You have probably been to see Antek,” he said.
“Yes, but was not let in.”
“ ’Tis what I feared!”
“Say, then, what ye know!” She was shaking with ap-
prehension.
“What I know? Only so much as I could get out of the
police inspector.”
“And what is that?” She pressed her little one closer.
“That Antek is not to be released until after the trial.”
“How is that?” she stammered hoarsely. “The lawyer
told me the contrary.”
“’Tis because he would take to ﬂight. In such cases, a
prisoner is never set at liberty. Bear in mind that I come to
you as a friend to-day.—Bygones are bygones. . . . Though
you will see one day that I was right. . . . But hear what I
have to say now: I am speaking the truth as in the con-
fessional.—Antek is in a very sorry plight, and sure to be
cruelly punished: perchance for ten years! You hear?”
“I do, and believe not one word,” she said, with sudden
self-control.
“Seeing is believing; and I have told you the truth.”
“After your fashion,” she replied, smiling ironically.
He seemed offended, and assured her warmly that he had
come for no other purpose but to give her friendly advice.
She listened as he talked, looking round impatiently; the
cows lowed unmilked in their byres. the geese were still out
of doors, the colt and Lapa sporting in the enclosure, and
the little ones playing in the barn: while of all he was tell-
ing her she believed nothing. “But I’ll let him talk on,” she
thought, “till I ﬁnd out what he’s aiming at”; and she held
herself on the alert.
“What is to be done?” she asked mechanically.
“There is something,” he whispered.
255 SPRING
She faced him suddenly.
“Pay doWn enough money, and he will be released even
before the trial. And then he can escape. Even to
‘Hamerica’! They will not catch him there.”
“Lord! to ‘Hamerica’!” she cried, appalled.
“Hush! I tell you in great secrecy. ’Tis what the Squire
said to me. ‘Let him get away,’ he said; ‘ten years of
Siberia will ruin any man’s life.’ . . . That he told me but
yesterday.”
“What! and ﬂee from our village . . . our children . . .
our lands?” It was the only misfortune that appealed to
her.
“Pay the sum wanted, and Antek will do all the rest.—
Give it to them.”
“But where—where am I to get it? . . . O my God! . . .
Away to the very back of the world. . . . So far from every-
one!”
“They ask for ﬁve hundred roubles. Why, ye have father-
in-law’s money: take it and pay; we shall reckon together
later—eonly save Antek!”
She saw the trap, and started to her feet.
“Obstinate dog! Always on the same trail!” she said,
about to leave him.
“This is foolishness!” he exclaimed, losing patience.
“’Twas but a word that escaped me. Must ye take of-
fence at a word, when your man is rotting in jail?—Oh, he
shall know how much ye do to set him free!”
She sat down again, quite bewildered.
He talked to her for some time about “Hamerica,” and
folk he knew that had gone there, who wrote letters home,
and even sent their families money. Antek might get away
at once; Michael knew a Jew who had wafted many a one
over the frontier. Multitudes got away thus. Hanka. too,
might follow later, without attracting attention. Gregory
would return from the army, and repay all from the in-
heritance; or if he could not, a purchaser would readily be
found.
“Take ye counsel of the priest,” he concluded; “he will
THE PEASANTS 256
approve my plan, as ye will see. I have only urged you
to do right, and for no proﬁt of my own.-—But breathe not
a word of this to anyone else, or the gendarmes will know
of it. And then he would not get out of prison at all, and '
be perchance put in irons into the bargain,” he concluded
grimly.
“But where is the money to come from that will set him
free?” she said, with a groan.
“I know a man in Modlitsa who would lend it—at high
interest. Oh, the money can be found! I’ll lay my life I
could manage that!”
For a long while he went on counselling her, and at last
slipped away abruptly. She, lost in thought, took no note
of his going.
Everybody else had gone to bed, except Vitek, who seemed
to be waiting for his mistress. The moon went up through
the heavens, a silver reaping-hook moving athwart the deep
expanse. Over the meadows crept white sheets of mist;
above the rye was hanging the dust of its saffron pollen;
moveless as an ice-ﬁeld, the mill-pond glittered amongst the
trees. Broken by the nightingales’ rills of bubbling music,
the silence made the ears ring and tingle.
“Heavens! To ﬂee one’s village, and one’s land—and
all!” she thought, the same idea ever returning; and her
dread grew more intense, and she felt her trembling heart
shrink in the clutch of pain.
Lapa then howled aloud; the birds sang no more, and the
gales whistled and moaned among the dark shadows of the
branches.
“Lapa now sees Kuba’s ghost!” Vitek muttered, and
crossed himself with awe.
“Foolish one! go to bed!” said Hanka.
“But indeed he does come, and looks after the horses,
and brings them their fodder. Aye, and not once only!”
She took no notice of his words. All was now plunged in
deep stillness; and there she sat, repeating, as one paralysed
with appalling anguish: “To ﬂee a whole world away!—
And for ever, merciful Jesus!--—For ever!”
CHAPTER IX
doors, had not yet quite withered,.when one morning
Roch dropped most unexpectedly into the village.
It was only after hearing Mass, however, and having a
long talk with the priest, that he went round to the village.
There were but few people about, most of them being oc-
cupied tumping their potato-plants; but when, with its usual
speed, the news had gone about, a good many hastened to
bid him welcome after his long absence.
He came, according to his wont, slowly, leaning on his
staff, but with head erect, and wearing the same grey capote
and the same rosary about his neck. The wind blew his
grey hair loose, but his thin features were gleaming with
kindness and geniality.
He gazed around him, smiling gladly upon all he saw,
with a special greeting for everybody; patting the little ones’
heads, and accosting the women with great pleasure to ﬁnd
everything in its former state.
When they inquired curiously of him where he had been
so long, “In Chenstohova, to gain the indulgences,” he re—
plied.
Glad to see him back, they at once set to telling him all
,the village news: asking advice, complaining of their neigh-
hours, and all wishful to explain their troubles to him in
private. \
He was extremely tired, he told them; they must wait:
he would be staying in Lipka a day or two.
At that they all begged him to stay with them. But he
said he was engaged for the beginning by his promise to
Hanka; after, if anyone would take him, he might stay
longer. And so he made for Boryna’s.
Hanka of course was overjoyed to receive him. No
’1" HE green Whitsuntide boughs, decorating the cabin-
257
THE PEASANTS 258
sooner had he laid down his staff and wallet than he went
over to the old man.
“Ye will ﬁnd him lying in the orchard: it is too hot in the
room—Meanwhile we are boiling some milk for you . . .
and eggs too, if you care.”
Roch was at once in the orchard, bending under the droop-
ing branches, as he made his way to the patient, who lay in
a basketwork contrivance, covered over with a sheep-skin
coat. Lapa, curled up at his feet, watched over him; and
Vitek’s stork was strutting bravely about amongst the trees,
as if on guard.
In this old leafy orchard, the.well-grown trees kept the
sun out so completely that only a few spots of light, like
golden spinners, moved about on the grass beneath.
Matthias lay upon his back. The boughs waved their
dark mantle over his head, murmuring softly, and only now
and then, when tossed by the winds, letting a patch of blpe
sky peep through, and a sunbeam-fall on his face.
Roch sat down by his side. The patient at once turned to
him.
“Ah! Matthias, don’t you know me? don’t you know me?”
A slight smile passed over Boryna’s face, his eyelids
ﬂuttered, and his ashen lips moved; but no sound came from
them.
“If it be our Lord’s will, ye may yet recover.”
This he must have understood, for he shook his head, and
-—unconsciously, it seemed—turned his face away, to look at
the tossing boughs, and the bright rays that from time to
time shone into his eyes.
Roch sighed, made the sign of the cross over him, and
went back.
“Well,” Hanka inquired, “is not Father better now?”
He pondered some time; then replied, in low grave tones:
“A lamp always ﬂickers more brightly' just before going
out. Belike Matthias is passing away. For my part, _I
wonder he has held out so long.” . .
“He eats naught: often will he not even take milk.’
259 SPRING
“Ye should be ready for the end any day.”
“We should indeed—Ambrose told me so only the other
day, and advised me not to delay having a cofﬁn made.”
“Ye may,” he answered mournfully; “ ’twill not be empty
very long—The soul that is panting to leave this world noth-
ing can keep back, not even our tears. Else some should re-
main with us for centuries.” And, supping the milk she had
prepared for him, he asked her about things in the village.
What she told him he had learned on his way to her; but
she afterwards dilated at length and eagerly on her own
troubles.
“Where is Yuzka ?”
“In the ﬁelds, tumping our potatoes along with the K amor-
m'kz' and Yagustynka. Pete is off to the forest, fetching
Staho timber for a new hut.”
“What, is he building one?”
“Aye. Mr. Yacek has given him ten trunks of pinewood.”
“Given him? I heard something of that sort, but could
not believe it.”
“For it is incredible! No one would credit the thing at
ﬁrst. The man had promised; but that anyone can do.
‘Promises are toys made to give fools joys,’ as the saying is.
—Well, Mr. Yacek gave Staho a letter he was to carry to
the Squire. Even Veronka said no to that: why should he
wear his boots out for nothing, and be laughed at into the
bargain for believing a Squire? But he would have his
own way. And when he had given in the letter (he told us)
the Squire called him into his room, 'offered him vodka, and
said: ‘Bring ye wagons, and the forester shall mark out
ten logs for you.’ Klemba and the Soltys gave him wagons,
and I gave him Pete besides. The Squire was actually in
the clearing, waiting for him, and himself chose ten of the
straightest and longest of all, that had been hewn down in
winter for the Jews! And now Staho is setting up a beau-
tiful cabin.--No need to say how or with what excuses he
thanked Mr. Yacek; whom indeed we all held for a pauper
and a lackbrain, forasmuch as no one can tell what his
THE PEASANTS 260
means are, and he plays the ﬁddle under the holy ﬁgures or
in the corn, and sometimes talks in rambling wise, and as
one not in his right wits—Yet is he such a big man that the
very Squire does his bidding. Who could have believed
such a thing?”
“Look not upon the man, but on his deeds.”
“But to give such a quantity of timber, worth (Matthew
says) a thousand zloty at least, and all just for a Thank-you-
kindly! Why, it is unheard of!”
“They say he intends to take over the old cabin, to live
in for the rest of his life.”
“Absurd! it has the worth of a split wooden clog: no more.
-—Folk were so suspicious of something underhanded that
Veronka went to ask his Reverence about the whole busi-
ness; who scolded her, and called her a silly woman.”
“So she was—Take what is given you, thanking God for
His goodness.”
“Aye, but to get aught for naught is so monstrous a
thing: and out of a Squire besides! So unheard of! Did
anyone ever give a peasant anything at all for love? When
we want the simplest advice, they look to see what our
hands offer. Just accost an ofﬁcial empty-handed: how
surely he’ll tell you: ‘To-morrow,’ or ‘Come next Sunday’!
Oh, Antek’s business has taught me how things are done,
and I have spent not a little that way already.”
“ ’Tis well ye put me in mind of Antek.-—I have been in
town.”
“And seen him?”
“No time for that.”
“I too went not long ago, but did not see him. God
knows when I shall.”
He smiled. “Sooner perchance than ye think.”
“Good Lord! what is it ye say?”
“The truth. I have been told at head-quarters that Antek
may be released before the trial. But someone must stand
bail for him to the amount of ﬁve hundred roubles.”
“The very sum the smith spoke of!” And she told him
Michael’s advice, word for word.
2m SPRING
“There is something' in it; but, coming from him, ’tis
unsafe! He surely has only his own gain in view—Be not
hasty to sell: ‘A man rides away from his lands on a
stallion, but on foot he comes back—a tatterdemallion.’--
Would anybody stand bail? We must seek someone—If the
money were but at hand!”
“Perhaps it is,” she said timidly. “I—I have a little cash
in hand, but cannot count it aright.”
“Show it me; we shall do the sum together.”
She disappeared, and soon returned, shot the bolt, and
laid a parcel on his knees.
It contained notes, some silver and some gold pieces, be-
sides six strings of corals.
“These belonged to his dead wife. He gave them to
Yagna, and (I suppose) took them back again later,” she
whispered, squatted down by the settle on which Roch was
counting.
“Four hundred and thirty-two roubles, ﬁve zloty—From
Matthias, hey?”
“Yes—yes!” she faltered, turning red. “He gave them
to me after Eastertide.”
“It will not sufﬁce entirely, but you might dispose of some
of the animals.” _
“It might be done. Our sow could go . . . and the barren
cow likewise. The Jew asked to buy her; she might still be
worth some bushels of corn to us.”
“Then we shall bail Antek without aid.—ls it known to
anyone that ye have this money?”
“Father gave it to me to set Antek free, forbidding me
to say one word of it to any creature. You are the ﬁrst to
know.-——lf Michael . . . I”
“Be easy; your secret is safe. When I hear the time has
come, we shall go together and free Antek. The clouds will
roll by and the weather clear up, my dear child!” he said,
and kissed the top of her head, as she fell at his feet to thank
him.
She wept tears of joy. “My own father could not have
been fonder,” she sobbed.
THE PEASANTS ‘ 262
“Your man will return to you, thank Godl—Where is
Yagna?”
“She started for town this morning in company with her
mother and the Voyt. They say Dominikova is going to
the notary, intending to make all her land- over to Yagna.”
“All to Yagna?--And her sons?”
“They want her to divide the land, and she would spite
them. Hell is in their cabin now, and the Voyt is on
Dominikova’s side: at the father’s death, he was named the
orphans’ guardian.”
“Is it so? About the Voyt I had heard another tale.”
“Ye have heard true. He does indeed care for Yagna,
but in such wise ‘as I shame to speak of. He is past his
prime, but still vigorous; and she, a wanton. I do not re-
peat hearsay; myself I saw them in the orchard.”
“I would lay me down somewhere: may I?”
She wanted him to sleep on Yuzka’s bed, but he preferred
going to the stable.
“Keep your money safe!” he said on leaving her.
He was not seen until dinner-time. After the meal, he
was making for the village, when Hanka hesitatingly prof-
fered a request.
“Roch, would you help us to adorn our altar?”
“Ah! yes: to-morrow is Corpus Christi Day—Where are
you to erect it?” -
“Where we do every year: outside our porch. I am send-
ing Peter instantly to the forest for young ﬁr-trees and pine-
bough decorations, whilst Yagustynka is to hurry off with
Yuzka and get ﬂowers for garlands.”
“And have ye the tapers and candlesticks yet?”
“Only this morning, Ambrose promised to bring me some
from the church.” ‘
“And on whose premises are altars to be set up besides?”
“At the Voyt’s, on this side of the pond; on the other,
at the miller’s and at Ploshka’s.”
“I shall help: but ﬁrst I must see Mr. Yacek. Ere dusk,
I am here again.”
263 SPRING
“Then pray tell Veronka to come over by daybreak to-
morrow, and make herself useful.”
He nodded, and walked away towards the ruins of Staho’s
hovel
Mr. Yacek was, as usual, on the threshold, smoking, strok-
ing his beard, and looking far away to where the birds
ﬂuttered above the undulating corn.
In front of the hut, close to the cherry-trees, lay several
enormous trunks; ancient Bylitsa went pottering among
them, now dealing a blow at them with an ax, now smooth-
ing away some protruding knag with a hatchet, and talking
to them all the time aloud:
“Aha! So you have come into our yard. Many thanks!
Matthew‘will soon cut you asunder into shapely beams that
shall do you\ no little honour. Aye, you shall dwell here se-
cure from moisture: fear not.”
“He talks to it as though it were a living thing!” Roch
observed in some surprise. _
“Sit ye down: he is mad with joy to-day.-—Hark to him!”
“And you too, poor sufferer, lived in the forest; now will
you rest, and none shall come to trouble you any more!”
continued the old man, patting the resin-stained bark with
loving hands.
Then, stepping over to the largest trunk, that had been
ﬂung down by the roadside, and crouching close to the
ﬂat sawn resin-sweltering surface with yellow rings that he
gloated fondly upon, he muttered: -
“So great a one? yet overcome all the same, hey? The
Jews would fain have carried you to town, but through our
Lord’s grace you remain here with your own, your husband-
men: they will hang sacred images upon you, and the priest
will bless you with holy 'water. Aye, Aye!”
At this, Mr. Yacek smiled faintly, and, having spoken a
few words with Roch, took up his violin, and made for the
forest by the ﬁeld-paths.
Roch stayed listening to Veronka as she talked, and
evening slowly came on.
THE PEASANTS 264
The morrow being a festival, the day’s work was sooner
ended than usual. Women began to weave festoons outside
the cabins, children'came in, bringing armfuls of green
ﬂags and rushes. In front of Ploshka’s and the miller’s
houses, birch and ﬁr-boughs were piled in heaps, to be
planted wherever an altar was raised; and the girls decked
the walls behind them with greenery. They also ﬁlled up
many hollow places in the roads with gravel and sand.
Roch, who had left Veronka, was just emerging on the
poplar road, when someone on horseback appeared, gallop-
ing at breakneck speed in a cloud of dust. The carts that
carried Staho’s timber impeded him and he tried to pass
round them by the ﬁeld.
“If ye haste so, you will founder your horse,” they cried
in vain. He went by them, and galloped on, till the horse
was panting and blown.
“Adam!” Roch exclaimed; “wait a minute!”
Young Klemba just stopped long enough to roar:
“Know that two people lie murdered in the forest. O
Lord! how frightened I am! I had been just by, tending
the horses, and was coming home with the lad Gulbas,
when—just at Boryna’s cross—my horse shied. I looked
and saw two people lying in the juniper-bushes. I called
out to them; but they made no more answer than if dead.”
“O fool, what fable are you telling us now?” his hearers
cried.
“Then go look yourselves: there they lie! Gulbas saw
them as well, but he ran away to the Komorniki.”
“Good God !-—-Then make haste to the Voyt and tell him.”
“He is not yet back from town,” someone said.
“Then to the Soltys! He is near the blacksmith’s, mend-
ing the road with other workmen,” they called after him as
he clattered away.
The news of the murder had ﬂashed round the village, and
people were crossing themselves with fear. Someone in-
formed his Reverence, who came out to ask about it; and all
most impatiently awaited the return of the Soltys, who at
once had gone in a cart, with Klemba and some labourers.
265 SPRING
They waited for ever so long. It was growing dusk when
he came back, and—to everybody’s amazement—along with
the Voyt’s horse and britzka; in a very ferocious humour too,
cursing, slashing at his poor jade, and doing his best to
pass through the crowd. But someone seized the bridle;
and, forced to stop, he cried:
“Those mischievous boys! they have been trying a practi-
cal joke. There was no one slain: only some people asleep
in the bushes. Oh, let me but catch that young Klemba,
he shall pay for the fright given—and that soundly!--So
I met the Voyt and brought him home with me . . . and
that’s alll—Vee—o! Little One!”
“But,” one man remarked, looking into the open cart,
“what ails the Voyt? He is sprawling there like a sick
man!”
“He’s asleep, that’s all!” And the Soltys whipped the
horses into a trot.
“What mischievous rascals! To make up such a story!”
“It’s all young Gulbas’ doing: he is always the ﬁrst in
such games!”
“Rub them both down with an oaken towel! Teach them
to scare folk for nothing!”
Very indignant over the whole affair, they were going
home, when on their way they met the Komornzki, with
heavy faggots on their backs, and Kozlova marching at their
head, though nearly bent double with her load. Seeing
them, she leant back, and remained propped up by her
burden.
“He has duped you ﬁnely. has the Soltys!” she sneered,
almost speechless with fatigue. “Ha! No dead men in-
deed were in the forest, but worse perchance.”
A large group was soon attracted by her words; and then
she burst forth with her tale.
“1 was going back to the cross by the forest-path, when
Gulbas, scared to death, came running to me, telling of dead
folk that lay in the juniper-bushes hard by. I thought it
were well to look at them, at any rate. We went. and I saw
from afar two people lying as dead. Filipka pulled my
THE PEASANTS 266
sleeve to drag me away, and Gregory’s wife was pattering
her prayers, and I too felt creepy all over. . . . But I
crossed myself, went up to them, and looked—and what do
I see? My lord the Voyt, lying, with his coat off, and be-
side him Yagna Borynova: both sleeping very deep. . . .
And how they reeked of vodka! . . . And she, unclad in
such guise that I shame to say. . . . It was as bad as Sodom!
I am old, but such a scandal I never yet heard of.—-So the
Soltys came up, and Yagna ran off; but his Lordship the
Voyt was hard to get into the cart—Drunk as a pig!”
A voice was heard: “Merciful Lord! this is a new thing
in Lipka!”
“If it had been only a farm-hand with a wenchl—But a
husbandman, a father, and our Voyt!”
“Boryna lies close to death, with no one to give him to
drink; and she! . .
“I would escort her with tapers out of the place, the har-
lot! Nay, I’d beat her with rods before the church!” Koz-
lova shouted once more.
“And where is Dominikova?”
“They left her in town; she was in their way.”
“Oh, the sin, the scandal of it! And the shame extends
to us all.”
“That Yagna—so careless of honour—ready .to do the
same again to-morrow!” 1’
In their huts, they went on complaining, full of horror
and indignation, some of the kinder-hearted women also
weeping, in fear of God’s judgment upon all of them;
and all the village was full of talk and lamentation.
Some young fellows took Gulbas aside to question him
about particulars. ’
“A famous fellow with women, that Voyt of ours,” said
Adam Vahnik.
“He’ll have to pay for this: his wife will tear his hair
out!”
“And hold aloof from him for six months.”
“Oh, he will not care so much for that now!”
“Yes, one might do any folly for such a lass as Yagna!”
267 SPRING
“Surely. Among the Manor damsels, none more fair
than she, and when she but looks at any man, she sends a
thrill through him!” -
“So honey-sweetl—No wonder if Antek Boryn
“Hold your tongues, men! Gulbas is a liar; so is Koz-
lova: all this they say out of spite, and we do not know
the truth as yet,” Matthew interfered, in tones of great
concern; but he was interrupted by Gregory the Voyt’s
brother’s arrival.
“Well? Is Peter still asleep?” they asked him. He
answered:
“That man was my own brother; but after what he has
done, he’s no more to me than a dogl—But,” he added with
a burst of fury, “that carrion is the cause of all!”
“’Tis a lie!” vociferated Pete, the farm-servant at B0-
ryna’s, pushing forward towards Gregory; “and he that
utters it is a yelping cur!”
They all were amazed at this unexpected explosion; and
he went on, with clenched trembling ﬁsts:
“No one is guilty but the Voyt. Was it she gave him
corals? or enticed him to the tavern? or lurked for him
in the orchard all night long? How he tempted her, how
he forced her on! Oh. I know too well! He may even
have drugged her: do I know?”
“You plague-spotted protector of hers, be still, or your
girdle may come off!”
“But she’ll know how you’ve stood up for her . . . and
reward you well!”
“Peradventure with a pair of breeches Matthias wears
no more!”
’They jeered and laughed till they nearly burst their sides.
“Since her goodman cannot speak for her, I who can will.
Aye, I will, blood of a dog! . . . Let me but hear another
word against her! 0 you loud—mouthed curs, how silen't
you'd have been had she been your sister or your wife!”
“Now then, hold your peace, you stable-boy!” Staho
Ploshka thundered. “What right have you to meddle here?
Meddle with your horses' tails!”
,7
THE PEASANTS 268
“And beware,” Vahnik added, “lest you get more than this
rebuke!” _
“And leave farmers alone, you ﬁlthy matted-pate!” was
the shout they sent up as they withdrew.
“O you scurvy bumpkinsl—A stable-boy I am, yes; but
never at least did I take a measure of corn in secret to
the Jew! Ye know me not!” he called after the retiring
group; and they, feeling somehow small and mean, answered
nothing, but went home.
The weather was strange that evening: windy, but very
bright. Long after sundown there yawned huge gulfs of
blood-red ﬁre far up in the depths of the sky. There pre-
vailed a feeling of unrest; the gale howled aloud, but so
high above that it only tore at the lofty tree-tops. Geese,
no one knew why, would fall a-clamouring in the enclosures
all together; dogs ran about nervously, even beyond their
homes. No one remained in the house or sat on the door-
steps; all gathered at some distance from the dwelling, and
talked with their neighbours in low voices.
Hanka had with her a few friends, who had come to
condole, and learn something more about Yagna. But when
they came to the subject, she answered them scornfully:
“ ’Tis‘a shame and a sin, but an affliction too!”
“Certainly; and the whole parish will know all to-
morrow!”
“And will say we are the worst village of all.”
“And the shame will fall upon all the Lipka women.”
“Because they all are so good that, driven like Yagna,
they all would do the same!” Yagustynka said, mocking.
“Be silent! ’tis not the time for jeering now!” snapped
Hanka, with such stern rebuke that she uttered not another
word.
Hanka was still half choked with shame; but the anger
which at ﬁrst surged up within her had now passed away.
And when her friends had gone home, she looked in at the
other side, ostensibly to see to Matthias. Perceiving Yagna
lying asleep in her clothes, she bolted the door and undressed
her carefully in the dark.
269 ' SPRING
“May God have pity on such a fate as hers!” was the
thought which came to her a little after, ﬂooding her with
' immense compassion. ,
Yagustynka must have noted this change of attitude; for
she said, though reluctantly:
“Yagna is not guiltless, but the Voyt is still more to
blame.” _
' “True; and it is he—he!—-that ought to be punished for
everything,” Hanka returned, in such energetic agreemuit
that Pete cast a look of gratitude towards her.
They had gauged the common feeling. Till late in the
night Ploshka and the Koziols were going about the village,
stirring people up against the Voyt. The former would
enter the huts and say, as in jest:
“Well, well, we have got a splendid Voyt: the most strap-
ping fellow in all the district!”
And, ﬁnding them slow to follow his drift, he would take
them with him to the tavern, where some of the smaller
farmers were gathered already; plied them assiduously with
vodka, and returned to the attack when he saw them ﬂushed.
“Our Voyt is great for doing things, hey?”
“And not for the ﬁrst time either,” Kobus replied, cau-
tiously.
“I know about him . . . I know . . . I know . . . what
I’ll not tell,” growled Sikora, who was tipsy, and leaned
heavily against the bar. -
“And about you too, I know . . . I know . . . what I’ll
not tell,” he went on growling.
“The only thing,” said Ploshka, ordering glasses round
again, “is to depose him. Whom we have made Voyt, we
can unmake. What he has just done shames all the village;
but he has done worse. He has always held with the Squire,
to the hurt of our community. He would have had a
school opened in Lipka;1 and ’twas he no doubt who
recommended the Voyt to sell Podlesie to the Germans. He
revels and drinks continually; he has built a barn and
purchased a horse; weekly he eats ﬂesh-meat; and he drinks
1A Russian Government school, that is.-Translator’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 270
tea !—At whose expense, pray? Not at his own, belike!”
“I know,” Sikora growled, interrupting, “that the Voyt is
a swine, but also that in this trough you would fain put
your snout too!”
“The man’s drunk and talking nonsense!”
“And likewise do I know that you shall never be Voyt!”
Thereupon they went apart from him, and took counsel
far into the night.
On the morrow the Voyt’s adventure was talked about yet
more loudly, for the priest had forbidden the altar which
had been in former years erected before his cabin. Early
in the morning, he had sent for Dominikova, who had not
come home till midnight the day before; and he was so
angry that he even chid the organist, and gave Ambrose
a beating with his long pipe-stem!
Corpus Christi, like the former days, rose serene and
splendid, but remarkably sultry and still. Ever since dawn,
the sun had been blazing pitilessly; the air was so parched
that all the leaves drooped; the corn bowed/ earthward,
faint and limp; the sand burned the bare feet like hot embers,
and great drops of resin came trickling out of the walls.
This heat was really a visitation, but the people troubled
little about it, plunged as they were in their preparations
for the service. The girls appointed to bear the feretories
and shrines and pictures in the procession ran like mad from
cabin to cabin to try on their robes and comb their hair,
while their elders were adorning the altars as fast as they
could—at the miller’s, outside the priest’s (instead of at
the Voyt’s), and before Boryna’s cabin, where Hanka with
her household had been working hard ever since the peep of
day.
They were also the ﬁrst to have done the work, and so ar-
tistically that everyone admired it even more than the
miller’s altar.
It was indeed ﬁner. In front of the porch there stood a
sort of little chapel, made of interwoven birch-boughs, cov-
ered with pieces of woollen cloth, striped in many a hue;
whilst inside: on a platform, rose an altar with white
271 SPRING
napery and ﬁne linen, embellished with tapers and ﬂowers
in pots, to which Yuzka had stuck various patterns in gilt
paper to adorn them.
There hung above the altar a large-sized painting of
our Lady, and several smaller ones on either side. To
enhance the effect of the whole, they had suspended over
the altar a cage containing a blackbird that Nastka had
brought.
From the very gate a lane had been made of ﬁr-branches,
alternating with birch-boughs, planted and neatly tumped
with yellow sand; and the sanded path had been sprinkled
over with sedges.
Yuzka had brought whole armfuls of cornﬂowers, lark-
spurs and ﬁeld vetches, with which she wreathed images,
candlesticks, and whatever else could be wreathed, even
strewing ﬂowers all over the ground before the altar. The
cabin too came in for its share: walls and windows were
drowned in verdure, and waving sedges stuck all along the
top of the roof.
Everybody was hard at work, except Yagna alone, who
early in the morning had slipped out of the hut, and was
not seen any more that day.
So they were the ﬁrst to be ready, but not before the sun
shone well over the village, and the clatter of the carts
Coming in from the other hamlets began to increase.
Very hurriedly they made ready for church.
Vitek alone was to remain in the enclosure; for swarms of
children came pressing in to admire the altar and whistle to
the blackbird. He tried to keep them at a distance with
a bough, but it would not do. So he loosed his stork,
that came on stealthily, prodding and thrusting at their bare
legs with its sharp beak, and made them disperse with
screams. ’
They started all together, just as the Mass-bell began to
tinkle. Yuzka went in front, dressed all in white, book in
hand, and with bows of bright red to her shoes.
“What do you think of this, Vitek?” she had asked,
spinning on her heel before him.
THE PEASANTS 272
“You’re as fair to see as the whitest goose!” he answered in
admiration.
“Your boot knows as much about it as you do! But
Hanka says no one in all the village is clad so well,” she
said, stamping and pulling down her short skirt.
“Your red knees can be seen through the skirt, as the
ﬂesh of a goose through the feathers!”
“Silly lad !—But,” she added, in a warning whisper,
“hide your stork away! The priest will come with the pro-
cession, and might see and know it again.”
“Oh, but how ﬁne the mistress looks! For all the world
like a turkey-cock!” he murmured in ecstasy, gazing after
them down the road; and then, mindful of Yuzka’s warning,
he shut the stork up in the potato-pit, and let out Lapa to
watch before the altar: after which he betook himself to
Matthias, lying as usual in the orchard.
The village was deserted. In the church, the service had
commenced. The priest came out for Mass, the organ
pealed; and, the sermon ended, all the bells were set ringing
till they frightened the doves off the roofs. Then the people
poured out, streaming through the great door, with banners
dipping forward, tapers ﬂaming, holy pictures borne by
white-clad maidens, and, at last, the red canopy over the
priest, who bore the golden Monstrance.
They formed in procession, with. a long lane, edged with
ﬂickering lights, cut through the dense throng; and his
Reverence intoned:
“Lo, at Thy gate 1 stand, 0 Lord!”
to which all the multitude answered, thundering in unison—-
one great Heaven-reaching voice!—
“My soul hath waited on Thy word.”
Singing, they moved forward, with a great crush about the
narrow lich-gate; for the concourse was immense, consisting
of the whole parish. All the folk of all the Manors were
present: several Squires supported the priest on either side,
or walked close by, taper in hand. The canopy was borne
273 SPRING
aloft by husbandmen of the parish: only (perhaps on account
of the recent disgrace) none of them men of Lipka.
From the churchyard shadows to the open space beyond,
white, dazzling, broiling hot, where the burning sun made
the eyes to blink with its living ﬁres, on they walked to the
sound of the whole tolling belfry. The chants rose up, the
incense-smoke soared forth along with clouds of dust;
lights scintillated, and bright showers of ﬂowery petals fell
continually, scattered at the feet of his Reverence.
The crowd surged along, heavy-footed, chanting mightily,
like to a noisy many-coloured stream; and in its midst
a boat in the rapid current, as it were—ﬂoated the crimson
canopy. And the holy banners waved and tossed beside
the pictures and statues of saints, veiled in gauze and gay
with ﬂowers.
Onwards they moved, dense, serried, squeezed, heads close
to heads, and each one singing for all he was worth—each
as if the whole world sang with him the glory of the Lord
—as if those tall lime-trees, those dark alders, those waters
sparkling in light, those tapering birches, those lowly or-
chards and green ﬁelds and vague distances beyond human
ken—all and everything—were adding to the hymn their
hearty and joyful accompaniment; and the notes rolled and
ﬂew through the heat-laden air, up to the radiant sky, up
to the sun!
That choral song stirred the very leaves upon the trees,
and brought the last blossom-petals ﬂoating down!
The priest read the ﬁrst Gospel at Boryna’s altar, and,
after a short rest, went forward to the miller’s.
It was now still hotter than before, and fast growing un—
bearably hot. Every throat was dry as dust; a whitish haze
had come over the sun; athwart the bright sky long ﬁlmy
streaks were ﬂoating; the overheated air made the outlines
of things quiver and wave as though seen through boiling
water.—-A storm was at hand._
The procession had lasted a full hour; the priest was
drenched with perspiration and as red as a beetroot: yet

THE PEASANTS 274
he continued to ofﬁciate with grave dignity, going from altar
to altar, listening to the various Gospels sung and intoning
the various hymns.
There were moments when the people ceased from chant-
ing; and then the larks took up the song, and the continual
cry, Cuckoo, Cuckoo! rang out. Meanwhile, and never-
endingly, the great bells boomed.
And though the chants recommenced, and the peasants
roared with stentorian throats, and the women’s thin shrill
voices joined in with the pipings of the children, and the
rippling music of the tiny jingling bells carried in the
procession, and the loud footsteps upon the trampled earth:
still the voice of that grand tolling was loud all the time—-
pure, high—with deep golden notes that reached to Heaven,
full of joy and gladness and sonorous beauty: as if ham-
mers, beating on the sounding disk of the sun, were striking
out of it those mighty notes, making the whole country-side
toss and ring again! I
Then came the return to the church, and a long service
within doors: organ pealing loud, voices lifted up!
At last the congregation dispersed: when on a sudden the
sky grew dark, the rolling of thunder resounded afar, a dry
blasting wind came in whirling gusts, the! trees lashed each
other, and volumes of dust ﬁlled the air.
The people from the neighbouring villages drove away at
once and at the top of their speed. A drizzling rain fell,
making the air still more close and sultry, while the sun
went on pouring down its pitiless heat. The'frogs’ croaking
grew fainter and more drowsy to the ear. The gloom came
nearer, and the far-off landscape was now already shrouded;
the thunder growled again, and from the livid East brief
pallid lightnings ﬂashed forth.
It was from the East that the storm came, extending
crescent—wise its ponderous masses of slate-blue clouds, preg-
nant with rain—possibly with hail. It whistled in the
tree-tops, it tore along the corn, while the birds ﬂew with
noisy cries to the shelter of the eaves, and even the dogs
275 SPRING
sought the cabins. The cattle, too, were ceming back from
the ﬁelds; whirls and pillars of dust were dancing along the
'roads, and closer and closer still came the sound of the
thunder.
Presently the sun was submerged in a mass of rusty-hued
vapour, through which it shone as through a pane of semi-
transparent glass. The thunder growled close to the village,
and such gusts came now and then as might have torn the
trees up by the roots. The ﬁrst thunderbolts struck some-
where far away in the woods; the whole sky quickly became
of a dark livid tint; the sun vanished. Gusts ﬂew raging
by; bolts fell in quick succession; the earth shook with
thunder, and the black sky shone brilliantly with ﬂashes
whose sudden glint plucked the eyes out.
The very dwellings quivered to the sounds, and all crea-
tion quailed and shrank with fear.
Luckily, however, the storm passed over on one side.
The lightning struck somewhere far away, the wind went
down, having done no harm, the sky brightened up jagain,
after a plentiful rain had fallen a little before Vespers,
bringing with it such a ﬂood of water that all the corn
was laid instantly, the mill-stream ran in spate, and every
ditch, ﬁeld-path and furrow was ﬂowing with foaming
water.
It was only at evening that all was as before, the rain
having given over, and the sun shining forth behind the
western clouds—a huge bright-red ball.
Then did Lipka breathe once more, its inhabitants looked
out upon the world again, gratefully inhaling the cool air
and the scents of the land after the rain, especially those of
the young birches and the mint-plants in the gardens. The
pools all along the roads burned in the sunset, the leaves
and grasses sparkled, and the frothy waters seemed liquid
ﬁre, as they bubbled with joy, streaming down to the mill-
pond.
A slight breeze rustled the laid com; a bracing cool now
breathed from the woods and ﬁelds. The children, shout-
THE PEASANTS 276
ing merrily, went out to paddle in the brooks and ditches;
.birds chirruped in the boughs, dogs scampered about; the
metallic notes of the priest’s guinea-hens sounded from
the hedge: in all the roads and all about the huts there was
a din of talk and merry calls. Soon, too, not far from the
mill, rose the sounds of the love-ditty:
“Long, long waiting, I am drenched with dew:
Loved one, loved one, take me in to you!”
And from the ﬁelds, together with the bellowing of the
cattle driven homewards, there ﬂoated a song bawled by
some herdsman:
“Sweetheart, your rye once reaped, you said
That me without delay you’d wed:
Rye, wheat and oats are reaped; and yet
My marriage lines I cannot get!
Oy dana, da dana!”
' Now the carts of those who had stayed out the storm
began to drive off; but a good many farmers from the
neighbouring places remained as the guests of the Lipka
folk—those, that is, who had so kindly come to help the
women not long since. They were receiver' in the homes of
the wealthier farmers with plenty to eat and drink; but
the poorer took their kind friends to treat them at the
tavern, so as to enjoy the pleasure of company: the more,
the merrier.
Some musicians came too; and, immediately after Vespers,
there was heard inside the tavern the thin melody of the
violin, the rumbling of the bass-Viol, and the deep-toned
boom of the drum.
People crowded all the more eagerly to enjoy themselves,
because since Easter there had been no occasion for merry-
making.
So many had gathered together that there was not room for
all, and quite a crowd had to be satisﬁed with the logs
that lay outside the tavern; but as the weather was now
ﬁne, with a grand display of gold in the sky, they sat down
there in numbers, and called for drink.
277 SPRING
The tavern itself was brimful of young people, and they
at once set to dancing the Oberek, making walls and ﬂoors
groan with their impact and tread as they whirled along.
And who led the dance with Nastka?—who but Simon, son
of Dominikova? In vain did his brother Andrew dissuade
him, plucking him by'the sleeve; he was in a gay unruly
mood, and drank vodka, and pressed it on Nastka and his
boon companions, and ﬂung ﬁve-kopek pieces to the band,
that they might play with more spirit. And he took Nastka
round the waist, vociferating with might and main: “Come,
boys, be lively! Stamp and tramp as Poles do!”
And he galloped about the room like a runaway colt,
shouting and striking the ﬂoor with great violence.
“He has no straw in his boots, that young blade!”
Ambrose muttered, his throat twitching greedily, as he
looked on at the drinkers. “As a ﬂail, so wields he his limbs!
. . . I hope they may not come off!” he added louder, and
coming near.
“Take care lest one of yours come off!” Matthew re-
torted grimly, alluding to the other’s wooden leg.
“Oh, I wish so much to drink friendship with you!” he
answered, with a propitiatory smile.
“Here, drunkard! and have a care to leave the glass un-
swallowed!” Matthew replied, pouring out a full glass, and
turning his back. Gregory. the Voyt’s brother, was holding
forth to his group in low tones; they listened, crowded up
against the bar, and with such attention that they neither
noted the dancers around nor the vodka that stood before
them. They were six, all of the best families in the place,
and very keen on the matter under discussion; but as the
noise and the crowd increased, they presently passed into
the jew’s private parlours, which he occupied along with his
guests.
It was a small place indeed, so crammed with the beds
of the jewish brats that it was hard to ﬁnd room at the
table. A single tallow candle, stuck in a brass chandelier
that hung from the rafters, burned with a smoky ﬂame.
THE PEASANTS 278
Gregory passed the bottle twice, and they drank, but no
one referred to the talk they had broken off, till Matthew
cried tartly: ‘
“Now, Gregory, let’s hear you: we all sit here like crows
expecting rain!”
But before the latter could begin, the blacksmith entered,
greeted them, and looked around for a seat.
“Pah! Here comes Sooty-Face, always springing up where
he has not been sown!” Matthew blurted out; but, stiﬂing
his annoyance, he at once added: “Michael, here’s to you!”
The smith tossed the liquor off and, trying to put a good
face on the matter, remarked as if in jest: “I care not to
learn the secrets of other folk, and perhaps I am not wanted
here?”
“As you say!” Ploshka returned. “Being so friendly with
the Germans—eating bacon on Friday and drinking coffee
with them—would you not rather be still with them on a
holiday like this?”
“You speak as one of the drunkards speaks!”
“I say but what all men know: you are ever in converse
with them.”
“I work for them that give me work: I do not pick and
choose.”
“Work!” hinted Vahnik; “there’s more than work be“
tween them and you!”
“Of such work,” Prychek added signiﬁcantly, “as you
did with the Squire and our forest.”
“Oho! It seems I have met my judges here!-—Much yr.
all know of the affair!”
“Let him be,” said Gregory, staring sternly into the.
smith’s shifty eyes. “He is free to do his business by
himself . . . as we too to do ours by ourselves.”
“Should a gendarme look through the window here,” said
the smith with a poor attempt at mockery, while his lips
were twitching with rage, “he would take you for con“
spirators.”
“And perchance we are, but not against you, Michael.
you’re not worth it.”
279 SPRING
At that he pulled his cap on, and made his exit, slamming
the door.
“He scented something in the wind, and came here to ﬁnd
out all about it.”
“He might even play the eavesdropper outside.”
“Let him: he will hear something about himself that he
will not like!”
“Now hark to me, boys!” Gregory said, gravely. “As I
told you, the Germans have not purchased Podlesie yet, but
the deed of sale may be signed any day. They talk of
next Thursday.”
“That we know: the question is, what’s to be done!”
Matthew cried impatiently. .
“Advise us, Gregory, you who can, who are book-learned
and read the papers.”
“You see, if the Germans buy it and settle next to us,
it will be like Gorka over again: we shall not have room
to breathe in Lipka.”
“Our fathers sigh, and scratch their heads, and cannot
make out what to do.”
.“Yet they will not give up their farms to us!” several
voices exclaimed at once.
“The Germans, what are they?” cried another. “Some
settled in Lishka, and our peasants bought them out to the
last acre—True, in Gorka it was the other way round, but
by our own fault: we drank, we went to law continually,
and we all went a-begging in the end.”
“Why, then, we too may buy Podlesie later!” said Yendrek
Boryna, Antek’s cousin.
“’Tis easy to talk. At present, we cannot manage to
pay so much as sixty roubles an acre: how shall we ever
pay a hundred and ﬁfty?”
“If our fathers would but give each man his proper por-
tion, we should mend matters more easily.”
“That’s sure. I should know what to do directly.”
Here Gregory interfered. “O ye fools, ye fools! With
all their land entire, our elders can scarce make both ends
meet; and ye think to lay by from a part thereof?”
THE PEASANTS 280
They were struck dumb—stunned by the evidence of the
truth he uttered.
“No,” he went on to say; “the evil is not that our fathers
will not give up their holdings, but that Lipka has too little
land and too many people. A plot that gave food for three
in our grandfathers’ time must now be shared by ten.”
“How true you speakl—Aye, it is the truth,” they all
agreed, much abashed.
“Then,” someone proposed, “let’s buy Podlesie, and share
it amongst ourselves.”
“Ye may buy a whole village; but whence shall the money
come?” Matthew grunted.
“Wait a little: peradventure we may ﬁnd a means.”
“Wait, do as ye please; I have enough of waiting, and
am disgusted—I’ll leave the country and go to the town!”
“Please yourself. But we—the others—must stay and
take some step or other.”
“The devil take it all! We are so close that I wonder the
walls do not fall apart, so many we are in each hut, with
misery clamorous therein: while hard by, there are broad
lands, asking but to be taken up. No, were we starving,
there’s not the wherewithal to purchase it; nor can we borrow
aught from anyone. To the devil with it!”
Then Gregory told them how things went on in other
countries, and they listened mournfully, until Matthew in-
terrupted him:
“Others are well off: what is that to us? Show a hungry
man a dish and put it by: shall he ﬁll his belly with the sight
thereof? Elsewhere folk are protected; not so here, where
every man grows like a wild tree upon waste land, and
whether he succeeds or fails—provided only that he pay the
taxes, serve in the army, and obey the oﬁicials—who cares?”
Gregory heard him out in silence, and started afresh.
“There is but one way to get Podlesie into our hands.”
Here they pressed closer to him, for a sudden hubbub had
filled the great room: the panes were shaking with it, and
the music had ceased. Someone went out and returned to
tell them with a laugh what had taken place. Dominikova
28! ' . . SPRING
had come in with a stick for her sons, and caused a dread-
ful disturbance. She would have beaten and driven them
home; but they had stood up to her, and made her leave
the tavern; and now Simon was drinking to his heart’s con-
tent, and Andrew, completely muddled, was howling up the
chimney.
They cared to hear no more, for now Gregory set to ex-
pound his plan. It was for the village to be reconciled
with the Squire and then barter each acre of the forest for
four acres of the Podlesie land! '
The possibility of such a solution equally surprised and
delighted them; and Gregory went on to tell them how a
similar agreement had been made with a village near Plotsk,
of which he had read in the papers.
“Good for us peasantsl—Jew, more vodka!” Ploshka
called out through the door.
“Aye, for every three acres of forest, exactly twelve of
cornland!”
“And for ten, a big holding!”
“But he ought to let us have some faggots besides for
ﬁring!”
“And an acre of meadow-land each by the wood-skirts into
the bargain!”
“And some timber for building also!”
Everyone had a fresh condition to add.
“And a horse apiece too,” Matthew sneered, “with a cart
and a cow!”
“Be quiet!” cried Gregory—“And now the farmers must
meet, then see the Squire, and say what they wish to have.
It may be that he will come to terms.”
Here Matthew cut in.
“That he will not, unless the knife be at his throat.
He needs money now: the Germans will give it him any
day. Whereas, ere our people have scratched their heads
and agreed on one single point, and ere their wives too have
given their advice, a month will pass by, and the Squire
will by then have sold the land and turned his back on
us, having money to await the result. of the lawsuit.
THE PEASANTS 282
Gregory’s plan is good; but, to my mind, it needs setting
Upside—down to work well.”
“Say on then, Matthew, and advise us.”
“Not to talk—not to take counsel—~but to act! . . . as
we did for the forest!”
“To act is possible sometimes, and sometimes not,” Greg-
ory muttered.
“I tell you it is possible . . . not by the same means, but
to the same end—Let us go tell the Germans not to venture
on purchasing Podlesie!”
“Are they such fools—-to fear us and obey?”
“If they refuse, we tell them they shall not either sow or
build . . . nor move one step beyond their ﬁelds. Will
they have no fear, think ye? Why, they would be like a
fox that we smoke out of its earth.”
But here Gregory burst out: “As there’s a God in heaven,
such threats will get us put in prison once more!”
“We should not lie in jail for ever; and when we got out,
’twould be all the worse for them! . . . They are no fools,
and will ﬁrst take good thought whether they have aught
to gain by ﬁghting us._-—And when we have driven his
buyers away, the Squire will take another tone—Or if
not . . .” .
Gregory could keep silence no longer. Starting up, he
did all he possibly could to dissuade them from such a
reckless plan of campaign. He pointed out what actions
at law must come of it, what fresh calamities to all of them,
and the possibility of their being clapped in prison as rebels,
and for several years! He showed. too, how everything
might be arranged peaceably with the Squire alone. He went
on talking to them till he was crimson, kissed them all,
begged and implored them to give up that idea. All would
not do, his words were in vain, and at last Matthew said:
"‘Ye‘ are preaching! Ye talk like a book; but ’tis not
what we want!”
At this they all set to banging their ﬁsts on the table,
speaking at the same time, and shouting enthusiastically:
283 SPRING
“Hurrah! Hurrah !—--Down with the Germans! Away
with the'Long-Trousers! Matthew is right, we’ll do as he
says, and whoso fears, let him hide his face!”
They were so excited, there was no reasoning with them.
At this juncture the Jew came in, bringing a bottle: he
listened, as be wiped the vodka spilt upon the table; then he
said difﬁdently:
“ ’Tis good advice that Matthew is giving you.”
“What! is Yankel against the Germans now? Can this
thing be?” they cried in amazement.
“Because I prefer to hold with those of my own land.
We live here—wretchedly, but by God’s help we live. . . .
But when the Germans have come, then not only a poor
Jew, but even a dog, will have no food to eat. . . . Oh,
may they all drop down dead! May the pestilence sweep
them away!”
“What, a Jew to side with our folk! Who ever heard of
such a thing!” They were astounded, stupeﬁed.
“Yea, I am a Jew, but not a wild man of the woods: born
here as you were, as my father and grandfather were too!
. . .. Am I not, then, one of you? . . . What is better for you
will be better for me: the bigger farmers you will be, the
more business I shall do with you—And this wise plan of
yours against the Germans I am ready to back thus, offering
a whole bottle of rum! . . . To your healths, O farmers of
Podlesie!” he exclaimed, drinking to Gregory.
They then drank very copiously, and became so joyful that
they scarcely refrained from kissing the Jew’s long beard:
they set him in their midst, and went over the whole matter
again, consulting him on every point. Even Gregory began
after a time to feel less gloomy.
But now the meeting came to an end, for Matthew sprang
to his feet. “To the big room, boys! let’s stretch our legs!”
he cried. '“We’ve done enough for to-day.” And they went
in together.
Matthew immediately took Teresa out of another man’s
arms into his own. Following his example, the others
THE PEASANTS 284
brought the girls out of the corners, called to the musicians
and began to dance.
These suddenly set to playing up with great liveliness,
being well aware how quick Matthew was both with kopeks
and with blows.
In the tavern they were now at last dancing in earnest,
with hot and steaming brows; and the din, and the stamping
and music and boisterous cries, poured out of doors, as out
of a boiling pot, by every aperture; and those outside, too,
were enjoying themselves well, clinking glasses, drinking
one another’s health, and chatting ever louder and more
excitedly.
It was night; the stars’ rays shone keen and vivid, the
trees rustled and murmured; from the marshes came the
frogs’ hoarse glee, and now and then a beetle passed by with
a buzz. Nightingales sang in the orchards, and all was
warm and fragrant. The people, too, longed to enjoy the
cool night air, and now and again a couple, arms round
waists, would leave the tavern to vanish into the shadows;
while outside the conversation became so loud, everyone
besides speaking quick and all together, that they .were
nearly unintelligible.
“. . . And hardly had I let the hog go, ere it had even
time to put its snout among her potatoes, behold! she was
upon me, bellowing!”
. . Drive her out of the village! Away with her!”
‘. . . I remember that they did the same to one such in
my young days. She was scourged even to blood in front
of the church, and then driven outside our boundary marks;
and we had peace.”
“ . Jew, a whole measure, and quickly!”
. We must elect a new one: so say all.”
. Weed the evil out, ere its roots strike too deep!”
. . . Now drink you to me, and I’ll tell you what!”
“. . . Take the bull by the horns, nor loose it till ’tis
down!”
. . Two acres and one are three: three and one are
four!”
(
(l
285 SPRING
“: . . Drink, brother, dear as if you were my own!”
Thus scraps of sentences spurted out of the darkness, it
being doubtful who spoke and who was spoken to: except
when Ambrose, much the worse for liquor, was heard to
pass from group to group, with his everlasting and whining
request for a dram, though he staggered so heavily that he
could hardly walk.
“You, Voytek, I baptized; I rang your wedding-bell until
my arms were stiff: O brother, but one glass!—-Or will you
stand me a full dram? I’ll ring her ‘Everlasting Rest’ and
bring a second wife to you—a young one, ﬁrm of ﬂesh as
any turnip is l—Brother, a full dram, pray!”
And the young people danced on unweariedly; and the
whole room was full of the rustling of waving skirts and
capotes. Songs too were sung to the tunes of the music;
the revels grew so wildly uproarious that even old women
joined in leaping and capering with shrill screams; while
Yagustynka, pushing forward to the middle, set her arms
akimbo, and stamped on the ﬂoor to the lilt of the doggerel
stave:
“I’d never fear wolves, were they more
Than a score;
Nor foes, were I ﬁghting with men
Ten times ten!”
CHAPTER X
passed slowly for Matthew, Gregory, and their
friends. Matthew had to suspend his work on
Staho’s cabin, and the others too gave up their occupations,
all their days and evenings being devoted to stirring up the
people against the German settlers, and urging upon them
the necessity of driving the latter out of Podlesie.
On his side, the tavern-keeper was lavish of persuasions
and—with opponents—of free drinks, and even loans.
Nevertheless, it was very uphill work. The elders would
scratch their heads and heave a deep sigh, but go no farther
without consulting their women, who unanimously con-
demned any such enterprise against the Germans.
“What folly is this?” they cried. “Have we not suffered
enough on account of the forest? One affliction is not yet
past, and they would bring down another upon us?” And
the wife of the Soltys, usually a quiet woman, was near
taking a besom to Gregory!
“If you’d egg us on to another rising, I’ll give you up to
the gendarmes! The lazy rogues!—-they won’t work, and
only want to lounge about!” she bawled at him outside her
hut.
Balcerkova, too, stormed at Matthew as ﬁercely:
“Ye pack of idlers! I’ll set the dogs at you! . . . Aye,
and have boiling water ready besides!”
So they stood up stubbornly and unanimously against all
persuasions, deaf both to arguments and to prayers, and
would not hear reason. They clamoured against the men
uriously, and often added tears to their clamours.
“I’ll not let my goodman go! I will hang to the skirts
T HE days between Corpus Christi and the next Sunday
286
287 SPRING
of his capote, and hold fast, aye, should they break my arms!
We have had woes enough!”
Matthew cursed with rage. “May a brimstone thunder-
bolt blast you all l—Like magpies before rain: always
shrieking, shrieking l—You’ll sooner teach human speech to
a calf than words of wisdom to a woman,” he declared,
bitterly disappointed.
“Let them alone, Gregory; you’ll never get at their under-
standing,” he complained. “Were the woman your wife,
perchance she might listen then. Otherwise, the only argu-
ment for her is—a stick!”
“Nay, force is useless here,” Gregory said; “we must
employ some other means with them. We must not con-
tradict them at ﬁrst, we even must approve . . . so as to
bring them round little by little.”
He was unwilling to give all up for lost. Though he had
at ﬁrst opposed the plan, he had, when convinced it was
the only thing to do, gone in for it afterwards with heart
and soul. A bold stubborn fellow, determined to succeed
in whatever he undertook, he allowed nothing to discourage
him. They shut the door in his face; he talked to them
through the window. They used threats; he, without loss of
temper, ﬂattered them freely, speaking to them of their
children, praising their tidy ways, and little by little coming
to the point; and if unsuccessful with one, he would go on
to another. For two whole days, the village was full of
him: in the cabins, in the gardens, even about the ﬁelds,
talking of one thing, then of another, and at last coming to
his subject. For such as found it hard to follow, he would
draw a map in the dust of the domain of Podlesie and its
divisions, so as to show forth the advantages of the plan of
campaign to everyone. Yet in spite of these artiﬁces his
trouble would have been lost had it not been for Roch’s
assistance. On Saturday afternoon, seeing they could not
carry the village with them, they asked Roch to come be-
hind Boryna’s granary; and there they opened their hearts
to him, though much fearing lest he would oppose their
scheme.
THE PEASANTS 288
But after thinking a short time, he replied:
“A lawless proceeding it is; but we have no time to proceed
otherwise—I’ll help you willingly.”
At once he went to the parish priest, who was sitting in
his garden, while his servant mowed the clover hard by.
The servant told them later that his Reverence was at ﬁrst
angry with Roch, would not listen, and stopped his ears,
but that they afterwards sat together talking for a long
time. Roch had no doubt convinced him; for when the
people came back at dusk from the ﬁelds, the priest went out
as if to take the air, and, passing from cabin to cabin, he
(talking ﬁrst of indifferent matters) came at last to confer
with the women chieﬂy, and dropped words to the following
effect in the ears of each:
“The lads mean well. While there’s yet time, haste must
be made. Take your determination: I shall go to the Squire
and advise him to agree.” So, when he had overcome the
women’s opposition, the husbandmen began to perceive that
a plan approved by the priest was worth following.
They still spent the evening in debate, but early on Sun-
day morning they had decided to go after Vespers with Roch
at their head, who would talk matters over with the German
settlers.
This he had promised them to do; and when they had
gone home, shouting loud cuckoo-calls of delight, he re-
mained seated in Boryna’s porch, telling his beads and
pondering deeply.
It was as yet early; they had but just cleared away after
breakfast, Pete having lingered over his: a warm though yet
not too hot day, with the swallows cutting the air swift as
bullets. The sun had risen over the cabin, the grass glittered
with dew in the shade; a fresh corn-scented breeze blew
from the ﬁelds.
The hut, as usual on Sundays, was silent: the women
busied with tidying the place, and the children out of doors,
eating together at their porringer, and keeping Lapa off with
spoons and cries. The sow grunted at the wall in the sun-
shine, the little ones nuzzling against her belly for milk;
289 SPRING
the stork was driving the hens off and running about after
the colt that frisked in the court-yard. The orchard trees
whispered, their branches waved; from the ﬁelds outside,
the humming of bees on the wing resounded, and the lark’s
song rang through the air.
This Sunday quiet was so deep that only the quacking of
ducks about the pond was heard, or the laughter of the
lads as they washed themselves there.
The roads lay deserted and bright in the sun, with very
few wayfarers. Girls combed their locks on the door-step;
and the notes of a shepherd’s pipe bubbled forth.
Roch, as he said his rosary, heard all these sounds, but
was mostly thinking of Yagna, whom he ‘could hear bustling
about within, sometimes coming close behind him, some-
times going out into the yard, and, as she returned, dropping
her eyes before his, and ﬂushing a deep red. He felt sorry
for her. ‘
“Yagna!” he whispered kindly, raising his eyes.
She stopped short with an intake of the breath, expect-
ing he would say more. But he, as though doubtful of what
he ought to say, only murmured a few inarticulate words
and was silent.
She went her way again and sat down at the open window,
where, leaning on the sill, she looked out mournfully upon
the sunny scene and on the white clouds, wandering like
wild geese through the bright ﬁelds of heaven. A heavy
sigh burst from her bosom, and tears dropped more than
once from her reddened eyelids, rolling slowly down her
cheeks, now somewhat worn and thin. For ah! how much
she had gone through in those last days! The women
turned their backs upon her when she passed, and some
spat after her. Her friends looked another way; the
youngsters laughed contemptuously, and the youngest of
the Gulbas family had once ﬂung mud at her, calling out:
“The Voyt’s leman, you!”
The words had stabbed her like a knife; and she felt
suffocated with the shame of it.
But, in God’s name, was she to blame in all this? He had
THE PEASANTS 290
made her drunk—so drunk that God’s world had vanished
from her eyes !-—And now they all accused her; the whole
village ﬂed from her as from one tainted, polluted: no one
stood up in her defence.
And whither should she go now? They would slam the
doors in her face—nay, set their dogs upon her. To ﬂee
to her mother’s availed nothing: she, in spite of entreaties
and wailings, had all but driven her away. . . . And, had
it not been for Hanka, she would have done herself a mis-
chief. . . . Aye, it was she—the wife of Antek—who alone
had held out a helping hand to her and protected her from
her enemies! . . . No, no, no! she was not guilty, the Voyt
was! guilty of tempting her, of forcing her to sin . . . But
the most guilty of all was . . . he! . . . that old monster!
(She meant her husband!) “He has fettered my whole
life . . . Had I been a free woman, would any have dared
to injure me so? Nay, none. . . . And what have I enjoyed
with him? Neither life nor freedom!”
As she went on brooding, her grief turned to passion,
and she set to pacing the room under its sway. “In truth,
he is the fountain-head of all I suffer . . . Without him, I
should have lived in quiet still, as all the others do . . .
The devil set him in my way, tempting my mother with that
land . . . And now I must endure . . . endurel—Oh, may
the worm devour you speedily!”
At this height of fury, she looked through the window, and
perceived the litter with her husband in it under the trees.
She ran out and, bending over him, hissed cruelly:
“Die, old dog! die! And the sooner, the better!”
He rolled his eyes at her and mumbled something; but
she had gone. The outburst relieved her: she had someone
on whom to revenge her grievances!
When she returned, the smith was standing in the porch,
but feigned not to see her, and continued talking to Roch,
raising his voice:
“Matthew is telling everyone in the village that ye are to
go at their head and encounter the Germans.”
“As they have begged me, I intend to go with them and
291 SPRING
meet our new neighbours,” he replied, with a stress on the
last word.
“The Lipka people are forging fresh fetters for them-
selves—that’s all. The affair with the Squire has turned
their heads, and they fancy that a mob with sticks and shouts
can deter the Germans from buying.”
He was so angry that he could scarce control himself.
“Perhaps they may prefer not to buy: who knows?”
“Oh, indeed! The lots are measured out; the families
have arrived. They are digging wells and laying corner-
stones!”
“This much I know: the deed is not yet signed before the
notary.”
“It is as good as signed: so they have sworn to me.”
“I speak of my own certain knowledge; and, should the
Squire ﬁnd better purchasers . ”
“Not in Lipka, at any rate: no one smells very strong of
money here.”
“Gregory has made a few calculations, and, as I take
it . . .”
“Oh, Gregory!” he interrupted rudely. “He is a meddler
who misleads folk, and will only bring evil on them!”
“Well, we shall see how it turns out; we shall see!”
Roch returned with a quiet smile, noting how the smith
in his exasperation was tearing out his moustache.
“Here comes Paul of the police station!” he exclaimed,
seeing the messenger enter the enclosure.
“An ofﬁcial paper for Anna Boryna,” Paul said, taking an
envelope out of his pouch.
Hanka turned it about uneasily, uncertain what to do
with it.
“I’ll read it for you,” Roch said.
But as the smith came behind, to read it over his shoulder,
Roch folded the paper immediately, saying without interest:
“A permission for you to visit Antek twice a week in
future”
Roch waited till the smith had gone, and then followed
Hanka into the cabin.
THE PEASANTS 292
“The letter was not what I told you: I did not think
the smith ought to know of it. Ye are advised that, either
on your giving a sufﬁcient guaranty or paying ﬁve hundred
roubles into court, Antek will be set free directly—What
ails you?”
No reply. Her voice had failed her; she stood motion-
less, her face suffused with crimson ﬁrst, then pale as death,
her eyes blinded with tears. She stretched out her arms
and, drawing a deep breath, fell on her face before the
holy images.
Roch went out and, sitting down in the porch, read the
document over again, smiling with joy. It was some time
before he looked in again.
Hanka was on her knees, glowing with gratitude, her heart
almost bursting with gladness. Short broken sighs and
whispered ejaculations seemed to be ﬁlling the room with
ﬂashes and pillars of ﬂame, fed with the ﬁre of her life-
blood, and rising up to the feet of Our Lady of Chenstohova.
The bliss of it was almost too much for her to bear: her
tears ﬂowed in torrents, washing away the memory of all
her past sorrows and sufferings.
At length she rose, and, wiping her tears away, said to
Roch:
“And now I am ready for anything in the future. The
worst that may hap will be less evil than what has been.”
He looked with astonishment at the change that had taken
place in her. Her eyes sparkled; her cheeks were no longer
pale, but full of colour; she stooped no more, and looked
ten years younger.
“Sell the things, quick,” he said; “get the sum together,
and we shall go to fetch Antek to-morrow or on Tuesday.”
Dazed, she again and again repeated the words: “Antek
is coming back—coming back!”
“Not a word about it! When he comes, why, folk will
know of it anyway. Ah! and we must let it be supposed
that he was set free unconditionally, or the smith would want
to know where the money came from.” x
All this he told her in a low voice, and she promised to
\
\
293 SPRING
obey, excepting Yuzka, however, whom she had to tell, and
trust with the joyful secret; Hanka could hardly have
borne alone such an awful weight of gladness. 'She went to
and fro like one ﬂushed with strong drink, kissed all the
children twenty times over, talked to the colt, talked to the
pig, and frisked with the stork; and as Lapa followed her
about, looking wistfully into her eyes as if he understood
something of the matter, she said in his ear:
“Tell no one, silly one! The goodman is coming home!”
Then she laughed and cried by turns, and spoke to Mat-
thias, telling him all about it, till he rolled his eyes as if
in fear, and made an indistinct murmur. And she so for-
got the whole world that Yuzka had to remind her she must
get ready for church.
She was so happy that she even wanted Yagna to come
with them; but Yagna refused.
Her no one had told the news, but she easily guessed at
it, from words dropped here and there, and from Hanka’s
extraordinary gaiety. The news elated her likewise, and
touched her with a sort of silent hope; and, heedless of meet-
ing people, she ran over to her mother.
She dropped in just when a terriﬁc quarrel was at its
height.
Directly after breakfast, Simon had sat down by the
window, smoking a cigarette, and spitting about the room,
while he considered and reﬂected for a long time, casting
many a look at his brother. At last he said:
“Now, Mother, give me some money, for l have to put up
the banns. The priest told me to come after Vespers for
the examination in Religion.”
“And whom would you wed?” she asked, with a bitter
sneer.
“Nastka Golab.”
She said no more, but busied herself about the pots on
the ﬁre-place. Andrew put some more wood on, and though
the ﬁre drew very well, he blew upon it out of sheer trepida-
tion. Simon paused for a reply, and, getting none, spoke
once more: this time in a more decided tone.
THE PEASANTS 294
“I shall need a ﬁve-rouble note, for there is to be the
betrothal ceremony besides.”
“Oh!—And have ye sent her the proposers yet?”
“Klemba and Ploshka went to her.”
“And the answer was Aye, no doubt?” Her chin wagged
with chuckling.
“Most surely.”
“She’s the ‘blind hen that happened on a grain,’ hey?
-—The idea of a Nay from her, the beggarly thing!”
Simon knitted his brows, but waited to hear her say
more.
“You, fetch me water from the pond; and you, Andrew,
let the pig out: it is squealing.”
They both obeyed mechanically. But when Simon re-
turned to his place, and his younger brother was again potter-
ing about the ﬁre-place, the old dame commanded sternly:
“Simon, give the heifer to drink!”
“Do that yourself: I am not your maidservant!” he re—
turned boldly, sprawling on the settle.
“Have you heard?—Drive me not to punish you on the
Lord’s Day!”
“Have ye heard me asking for money?”
Then she exploded: “Neither money nor leave to marry
will I give!”
“Leave I can do without!”
“Simon, keep your temper. Make me not angry!”
On a sudden he bent down before her, humbly clasping
her feet.
“See, Mother, I beg, I implore you; I am crouching at
your feet like a dog!”
His voice was choked with sobs.
Andrew too fell prostrate at her feet, and kissed her hands,
beseeching her and moaning pitifully.
She repulsed them both with fury, shaking her ﬁst.
“Dare but to oppose my will,” she cried out, “and I’ll
sweep you to the four winds of heaven!”
But Simon’s hesitation was over now. Her words had
roused him, and his blood boiled. The inborn stubbornness
295 SPRING
of the Pacheses had laid hold on him: he stood up erect,
and, striding forward:
“Give me the money!” he roared. “I shall wait no longer,
nor beg for it any more!”
“Never!” she cried stormily, and looked about her for
some weapon of offence.
“Then will I seek it!”
With a wildcat’s leap, he bounded to the great chest,
wrenched the lid open, and began to empty the clothing
it contained on to the ﬂoor. She shrieked and darted at
him, at ﬁrst endeavouring to force him back; but she could
not move him an inch. Then she caught hold of his thick
fell of hair with one hand, battering his face with the other,
while kicking his body and screaming all the time. He
shook her off, and went on searching for the money; but,
having received a terrible kick in the groin, pushed her away
with such strength that she fell down ﬂat upon the ﬂoor.
She was up again, however, in an instant, and, seizing the
poker, rushed at him. Unwilling to ﬁght with his mother,
he only tried to defend himself, attempting to wrest the
poker from her hand. The din made the room ring again;
and Andrew, in ﬂoods of tears, was hovering round them,
weeping aloud and crying out:
“O Mother! for God’s sake! O Mother!”
Yagna, coming in then, ran forward to stop the struggle.
In vain. Dominikova stuck to him like a leech, and bat-
tered him with insane fury, though he tried to give way and
leap aside: she assailed him all the more ﬁercely, raining
down blows on him, till, maddened by pain, he struck back
again.
So they ﬂew “at each other like quarrelling dogs, staggering
backward and forward about the room, and hitting the walls
and furniture with extreme violence.
The neighbours were now coming in, and striving to
force them apart, but to no purpose. The ﬁght went on, the
mother belabouring the son, the son seeking to keep the
mother at bay. But, at last losing patience, he put forth
all his strength, grappled her round the waist and ﬂung her
THE PEASANTS 296
from him. She sthmble‘d and fell like a log onto the blaz-
ing ﬁre-place amongst the pots of boiling water; and the
whole range came down on her with a crash!
They extricated her at once from among the fallen
brickwork. She was fearfully scalded: yet, recking noth-
ing of the pain nor of her burning petticoats, she wanted to
ﬂy at him still!
“Unnatural child! Accursed one! Away, away with
you!” she bellowed with insane frenzy; and they had to use
force to hold her back and quench the ﬂames. They put a
wet compresses on to her scalds, and she yet was ready to
rush at him again.
“Quit my sight! let me behold you nevermore!”
As for Simon, breathless, beaten all over, unable to utter
a word, and streaming with blood, he stood staring at his
mother in the utmost bewilderment and dismay.
The uproar had scarce begun to subside, when she tore
herself free from the women round her, darted to the
pole behind the ﬁre-place, on which Simon’s things were
hanging, pulled them all down and threw them out of the
window.
"‘Go! may mine eyes not see you any more! Naught is
yours here, all is mine! . . . You shall not have one strip of
land, not one spoonful of food, were you dying of hunger!”
she vociferated with the rest of her failing strength; and,
overcome at last by the intensity of her pains, she then fell
to groaning and screaming most horribly.
So she was carried to her bed.
So many people had pressed in that the cabin was chock-
full, and the passage as well; even the open windows were
bIOcked up with heads.
Yagna, at a loss what to do, was completely disconcerted.
The old woman was now howling in frightful agony. No
wonder: all her face and neck were scalded fearfully, her
arms were burnt, her hair was singed off, and her eyes were
all but sightless.
' Simon had gone out and was sitting in their little orchard
close to the cabin-wall, his chin resting on his ﬁsts, stiff as
297 S P R l N G
a corpse, bruised all over, with clots of blood upon his face:
he was listening to his mother’s groans. .
After a while, Matthew came up to him, saying, as he
took him by the hand:
“Come over to our hut. You have naught to do here
now.”
“Go I will not! . . . The land is mine, the land of my
forefathers, my own: here will I remain!” he growled with
sombre obstinacy.
Neither arguments nor entreaties could prevail against
him; he sat still, and spoke no more.
Uncertain what to do, Matthew seated himself near him;
but Andrew made a bundle of the clothing just thrown out
and, placing it before his brother, said timidly:
“With you, Simon! I’ll go away with you!”
“O mothers of dogs!” cried the other, heating on the
wall so hard that Andrew winced to hear him; “once for
all I have said that I will not budge; and budge I will
not!”
Now they were again silent; dreadful shrieks were heard
within. Ambrose had come to bandage the old woman. He
put fresh unsalted butter on the scalds and burns, covering
them with the leaves of certain herbs, over which again he
put a layer of curdled milk, and bound up the whole with
moist bandages. Having directed Yagna to pour some cold
water on the clouts every now and then, he hurried away to
church, hearing that the Mass-bell was already beginning
to tinkle. '
It was Mass-time indeed; the roads were swarming with
people, carts were rattling by, and so many acquaintances
sought to call on the patient that Yagna was at length com-
pelled to close her door on her prying neighbours, and only
Sikora’s wife remained with her.
And now there was again quiet in the hut. Dominikova
was mute. The still murmurous drone of the organ was
just audible; and the voices of the singers, with their plaint-
tive, soothing, quavering melody, were wafted along through
the orchards.
THE PEASANTS 298
Both the young men were still sitting outside the hut.
Matthew was talking on in a low voice; Simon nodding in
reply; while Andrew, lying on the grass, gazed on the smoke
of his brother’s cigarette, rising in tangled threads above
the thatch, like bluish gossamer.
Matthew rose at last, promising to come again in the
afternoon. He intended to go to church, but at the sight
of Yagna sitting at the water’s brink, he drew near her.
Her pail stood full by her side; she was bathing her feet
in the mill-pond.
“Yagna!” he whispered very low, approaching beneath the
alders.
Instantly she let her skirt down over her knees, and bent
a look on him—a look so tearful, so full of pain and sorrow,
that he felt cut to the heart.
“What is it, Yagna? are you ailing?”
The trees waved very silently, pouring down their rain of
lights and shadows upon her bright head, like a shower of
green and gold.
“No, but things go not well with me. Not well.” And
she looked away from him.
“If I could but aid . . . or advise you . . .” he went on
kindly.
“What? did you not lately turn away from me in my
garden . . . and never come near me since?”
“For you had spurned me! . . . How could I dare? O
Yagna!” His tone was gentle and full of sympathy.
“Aye, but I called after you, and you—you would not
hearken!”
“Did you call me back, Yagna? Truly?”
“Truly—I might have died and no one have come near
me. I am a poor forlorn creature, that everyone is free to
humble and ill-use!”
Her face was burning; she turned it away in confu-
sion, splashing the water with her feet—Matthew was re-
ﬂecting.
All through the silence which ensued, the symphony of
the organ went on trickling in a soothing gentle stream—a
299 'SPRING
streak of mellow sound. The mill-pond shimmered, rolling
sinuous ripples from Yagna’s feet, like iridescent serpents:
while between her and him there passed warm glances,
wreathed and twined together.
Matthew was growing more and more fascinated; he
longed to take her in his arms and fondle her like a little
child, pressing her to his breast and comforting her with
the tenderest caresses.
“And I thought you unfriendly!” she whispered.
“Never was I that; and you know it.”
“Never last year, peradventure,” she said, but added un-
thinkingly: “All the same, ye have gone with the others
now!”
All at once he remembered, with anger and jealousy gnaw-
ing at his heart.
“Because . . . because ye have . . . ye are . . .
He could not utter the hateful words that choked him, and,
checking himself, said harshly:
“Fare ye well!”
And he turned to leave her, lest he should reproach her
with the Voyt.
“So once again you gol—But why? what harm have I
,3
done you?”
She felt startled and pained.
“None—none. . . . But—” and he spoke hurriedly, look-
ing into her deep-blue eyes, and feeling sorrow, anger and
tenderness rise up within him by turns—“but—Yagna! do
put away from you that abominable creature! Put him
away!” he repeated most earnestly. _
“Ha! did I ever speak him fair? am I now doing aught
to keep him?” she cried out angrily.
Matthew stood perplexed and hesitating.
A tempest of weeping shook her, and the tears poured
down her glowing cheeks.
“Oh, the cruel wrong he did me!—To take my senses
away! . . . And yet no one came forward on my behalfto
accuse him! . . . No one has any mercy; ye all cry: Down,
down. with her!” she lamented bitterly.
THE PEASANTS 300
“The villain! I will pay him out for it!” Matthew ex-
claimed, clenching his ﬁst.
“Aye, pay him, Matthew! pay him! And ye shall
have . . . !” Her eager appeal died away on her lips.
Without another word he hastened to the church—She
sat for a long time by the pond, wondering whether he would
indeed take her part, and suffer no more wrong to be done
to her. '
“Antek, perchance!” the thought ﬂashed through her brain.
She returned home, her mind agitated by secret but not
unpleasant anticipations.
The bells were pealing as the people came out of church,
and the air rang with their laughter; but those who passed
by Dominikova’s cabin went silently, with gloomy looks
and meaning glances at one another.
None of the merry sounds that echoed through all the
rest of the village during the noonday meal was heard in
her but. Nor was anyone eager to visit her, as she lay
there moaning and feverish. Yagna, to whom a long stay
by her side was unbearable, went out at times to the porch,
now and then walking as far as the gate; or she would sit
by the window, looking out with weary desire for change.
Simon sat motionless outside. Andrew alone remembered
that the dinner had to be cooked, and set about cooking it.
Some time after dinner, Hanka came to look in. She was
in an odd state of excitement, asking questions without
number, deeply interested in the sufferer, but at times cast-
ing a stealthy troubled glance in the direction of Yagna, and
sighing deeply.
After a time, Matthew dropped in to see Simon.
“Will you go forth with us to the Germans?”
“This place will I not quit: ’tis my father’s land and
mine; from it I will not budge,” he answered, full of one
thought only.
“A great ass you are!——Sit ye here till to-morrow, if you
will.” Matthew was annoyed at this foolery; and as Yagna
was then seeing Hanka to the gate on her departure, he went
out with her, without bestowing so much as a look on the
other.
301 SPRING
They went along by the mill-pond road.
“Has Roch left the church yet?” he asked.
“Aye, and a good many peasants are waiting for him.”
He glanced back, and saw Yagna gazing after them.
Quickly turning his head round, and with eyes cast down,
he inquired of Hanka:
“Is it true that the priest has denounced anyone from the
pulpit?”
“Why ask?—Ye have heard.”
“I came too late for the sermon—They told me some-
thing, but I thought they were lying.”
“He denounced . . . more than one—Oh, how he clenched
his ﬁsts l—To be stem with sinners, to throw stones at them
—anyone can do that—But there is no one can prevent the
evil thing!” She felt deeply mortiﬁed at the slur on her
own family, and her mood was very angry—“But,” she
added, dropping her voice, “he made no allusion whatever
to the Voyt.”
Matthew cursed savagely. He would have put one other
question, but hesitated; and they moved on in silence,
Hanka much vexed at the whole business. Yes, Yagna had
sinned, she said to herself. Yes, she deserved punish-
ment. . . . But to be rebuked from the pulpit, and almost
by her name—it was too much! . . . She was the wife of
Boryna, and not a common drabl—He had said naught
against Magda or the girls in the mill: yet all knew of their
doings !-—And the lady of the Manor of Gluhov: did not
all know of her fondness for peasant lovers? Had he
said one word of her? Her dignity as a Borynova was
hurt
“Did he . . . did he mention Teresa?” The question was
put at last, so low that she scarcely heard it.
“Aye. He mentioned both. And everyone guessed of
whom he was speaking. Someone must have set him against
her.”
He was near exploding with rage.
“They say it is either Dominikova’s work or Balcerkova’s.
The former is .avenging herself on you for Simon and
THE PEASANTS 302
Nastka; the other would fain have you for her own girl
Mary.”
“Aha! Sits the wind in that quarter? I should not have
dreamed it.”
“Men only see what is under their noses.”
“Well, Balcerkova has lost her trouble; and she may well
be trounced for it yet by Teresa. Besides, to spite Domini-
kova, Simon shall marry Nastka: I’ll see to that myself.
--Those miserable hags !”
“They work out their schemes, and honest folk have to
suffer for them,” she said with sorrow.
“Each one tries to hurt everyone else: ’tis hard to bear
life here.”
“So long as Matthias was with us, they had someone to
keep them in bounds, someone to listen to.”
“Very true. Our Voyt is a fool who knows naught, and
who plays such pranks that the folk can abide him no longer.
Oh, if Antek were but to come back!”
“He will—he will! And shortly! But”—-and her eyes
sparkled—“would he be obeyed?”
“Yes. ’Tis settled between me and Gregory and the others.
And when he returns, we shall set the village in order, with
him at our head. Ye shall see.”
“It is high time. Things here are getting loose, as a wheel
when the linchpin has dropped off.”
They were now at the hut, where several people had
already gathered in the porch--somewhat under a score of
farmers ready to start, along with the best of the farm-
hands. Yet (as previously, and for the forest expedition)
all the villagers had declared that they would go . . . to
a man!
“Our V—oyt ought to come with us,” someone observed,
stripping the bark off a stick.
“The Head Official,” another answered, “has summoned
him to the District Office; and the scrivener says he will be
ordered to call a meeting and get a school voted by Lipka
and Modlitsa.”
303 SPRING
“He may call a meeting, but we’ll vote no school!”
laughed Klemba. ..
“We should have at once so much more per acre to pay in
taxes. Just as in Vola.”
“Surely,” the Soltys admitted; “but when the Head Oﬂi-
cial gives an order, we have to obey.”
“What orders have we to take from him? Let him order
his gendarmes not to join with the thieves to rob us!”
“Gregory, you are growing saucy,” said the Soltys severely.
"Men’s tongues have ere now taken them farther away than
they wished to go!”
“Ye shall not put me down. I know our rights, and fear
no Head Ofﬁcial. Only you poor ignorant sheep shake from
head to foot before every Jack in office.”
He spoke so loud that they were shocked at his rashness,
and more than one felt his ﬂesh creep. Klemba went on
to say:
“But truly, such a school is of no use to us! For two
years my boy Adam went to the school in Vola. The
teacher got three bushels of potatoes a year from me, and
eggs and butter from my wife besides at Yuletide and Easter.
And what has come of it all? He can neither read a Polish
prayer-book nor say his ABC in Russian! Whereas my
younger ones, whom Roch taught last winter, can both make
out writing, and read the books our gentry read.”
“Then,” said Gregory, “let us engage Roch to teach our
children.”
Here the Soltys stepped a little aside from the group, and
said, lowering his voice:
“Roch would be the best, I know, and he has taught my
boys; but it cannot be. The police have found out some-
thing, and they are on his trail. The Superintendent saw
me in the office, and inquired diligently about him—said
he was sure that Roch taught the children, and distributed
Polish books and newspapers to the folk.—-W_e must tell
him to take good heed.”
“That’s a bad business,” said old Ploshka. “He’s a good
THE PEASANTS 304
religious man; but the whole village may come to great
harm through him. . . . Yes, measures must be taken—and
quickly.”
“What, man!” said Gregory in an indignant whisper; “are
ye such a coward as to think of betraying him?”
“Should he stir up the people against the Government
to the destruction of us all, we ought all to do so. You
are young; but I recollect well what took place in the war
of the gentry, and how we peasants were cudgelled formerly
for the least thing we did. With them we have naught in
common.”
“Ah, ye would fain become Voyt! And ye are no more
good than a boot with a hole in it!”
They said no more, for Roch then came out of the cabin,
looked round at the people, crossed himself, and cried:
“It is time!-—On, in the name of the Lord!”
He stepped forward, and behind him surged the mass of
peasants in the middle of the road, with a few women and
children after them.
The heat of the day was over, the bells were just pealing
for Vespers, and the sun was rolling forestward. It was
ﬁne bright weather, and the sky-line showed so clear that
the remotest villages were made out distinctly.
To keep up their spirits, some of the men were striking
the ground with their oaken cudgels; some spat in their
palms, and put on an indomitable mien as they marched
along.
The women went no farther than the mill, while the men
went on slowly up the slope, their feet raising puffs of dust.
They trudged on in silence, with proud hard faces and eyes
glittering deﬁantly.
Their ranks moved as solemnly as in a procession, and if
anyone began talking, the stern looks of the others silenced
him soon. It was no time for conversation then: each man
withdrew within himself to ﬁnd courage and strength there
for what was coming.
At the cross and the village landmarks they stopped awhile
to rest. But they were still silent, gazing out upon the land-
305 SPRING
scape: on the huts of Lipka, scarce visible amongst their
orchards; on the gilt cupola of the village church; on the
vast expanse of green, green ﬁelds. And, as they listened
to the shepherds’ pipes playing far away and drank in the
sweet peace and joy of springtime all around, many of them
felt a dull sinking of heart, and looked out towards Podlesie
with painful misgivings.
“Come!” Roch cried to stir them up; “we are not here to
triﬂe the time away!” For he saw in his men clear signs
of weakening resolve.
They turned and made straight for the farm-buildings.
Their way led them through lands overgrown with weeds,
miserable rye-ﬁelds, blue with corn-ﬂowers, patches of late-
sown oats, all yellow with ﬂowers of gold, land where the
thin wheat crop was quite scarlet with wild poppies, and
plots where the potatoes were hardly above ground yet.
Gross carelessness and neglect were seen at every step.
“A Jew could not have tilled the land worse! It is an
eyesore!” growled one of the men.
“The worst farm-hand would have done better work.”
“This one, though a great owner, has had no respect for
the sacred land which is his!”
“No, he treats it as one that only milks and never feeds
his cow: small wonder if it gives him naught!”
They had now reached the fallows. At a slight distance
rose the dingy ruins of the burnt buildings; the orchard
was black with charred trunks. Around stood the mes-
suages, some of the roofs fallen in, and the chimney—stacks
standing up stark and black. Near the houses a group of
,persons was to be seen: they were the Germans. A cask of
beer stood upon the paving-stones; a man on a door-step
played the ﬂute; the others, either lolling on benches or upon
the grass, were taking their ease, in shirt-sleeves, with pipes
in their mouths, and drinking beer out of earthenware jugs.
Some children frisked outside the house, and lusty cows and
horses grazed hard by.
They saw the men coming; for they started up, looking
in the direction of the new-comers, shading their eyes, and
THE PEASANTS 306
bawling out in their own speech. But one of them, an old
man, said a few words, and they sat down quietly to drink
again. The ﬂute-player played his sweetest strain; high
above their heads the larks sang; while from the corn, the
rapid and incessant shrilling of the crickets dinned yet
louder in the ear, and the piping of the quails was heard
from time to time.
The ground, baked by the sun, sounded hard beneath the
peasants’ feet, and the stones rang under their hobnailed
boots as they drew near: the Germans remained motionless,
as though they had not heard anything, but sat enjoying
their beer and the fragrance of the evening air.
The men, coming in with slow ponderous tread, were
close to them now, grasping their sticks tight and striving
,to breathe easily; but their hearts were throbbing, a hot
thrill ran down their backs, and their throats went very
dry. Nevertheless, they drew themselves up, and glared
boldly at the Germans.
. “Praised be . . . ,” said Roch in German, coming to a halt,
while the whole company drew up in a crescent behind him.
The Germans replied in chorus, but without moving from
their places. The grey-bearded old man alone rose and
gazed around him, turning somewhat paler.
“We,” Roch began to say, “have come to see you on a
certain matter.”
“Then sit ye down. I see that ye are husbandmen of
Lipka: let us talk together in neighbourly wise.——johann!
Fritz! bring settles for our neighbours.”
“Many thanks, but our business will be soon over: we
may as well stand.” .
“Soon over?” he cried in Polish. “Can that be, when the
whole village has come?”
“That is but because the matter interests all equally.”
“Also,” Gregory added meaningly, “we have left thrice
as many at home.”
“Well, we are glad to see you—And, since ye have been
the ﬁrst to pay a visit, perchance ye will taste some beer
with us.”
307 SPRING
“How generous!” cried several voices. “’Twas not for
beer we came!”
Roch hushed them with a glance. The old German said
dryly:
“We are listening.”
A stillness ensued, in which quick short breathing was
heard. The men of Lipka drew closer together, trembling
with excitement; the Germans rose like one man and faced
them in serried array, exchanging ﬁerce looks with the peas-
ants, and muttering low, and twirling the strands of their
beards.
The women looked on, terriﬁed; the children ran to hide
in the passages; close at the wall, a few tan-coloured dogs
began to snarl: while, for the space of one “Hail Mary”
at least, the men stood facing one another in profound
silence, like a troop of rains, with ﬁery eyes rolling, backs
tense, heads lowered, and ready at any moment to charge
one at the other. Then Roch broke the silence, thus speak-
ing in Polish, in clear ringing tones:
“We; come in the name of the whole village to request
you—and in friendly wise—not to complete the purchase
of Podlesie.”
“Right! Quite right! We come for that!” they all
agreed, striking on the ground with their sticks.
For the Germans, this was a thunderclap.
“What says he? What would he have? We understand
naught,” they stammered, thinking they had not heard
aright.
Roch therefore repeated his request, this time in German;
and when he had done, Matthew burst out with the words:
“And to take yourselves away—you and your long trousers
—to all the devils!”
At this, they jumped as though doused with boiling water.
The quarrel then began and waxed furious, all the more
embroiled by their ﬁerce-sounding unintelligible jargon, as
they stamped their feet and waved their arms; some of
them, with lifted ﬁsts, making as if to rush at the peasants,
who stood ﬁrm and immovable as a wall, eyeing them with
THE PEASANTS 308
bold looks and clenched teeth, while their hands twitched
nervously upon their cudgels.
“What, are ye all mad?” exclaimed the old man, with
uplifted hands. “Would ye forbid us to purchase land?
Wherefore? and by what right?”
Roch calmly explained the whole situation in all its de-
tails; but the German, reddening with anger, cried out:
“The land belongs to him that pays for it!”
“We,” Roch replied gravely, “think otherwise: we think
the land should belong to him that hath need of it.”
“Belong? And how? Without payment, by robbery per-
adventure?” he cried with a sneer.
“Our hands can give exceeding good payment,” Roch an-
swered in the same tone.
“Why shall we waste time bandying jests? We have
bought Podlesie; it is ours, and ours it shall remain. And
whoso likes not this, let him go his way, and not come near
us!—-Well, wherefore do ye wait?”
“Wherefore?” Gregory exploded. “To tell you: ‘Hands
off the land that’s ours!’ ”
“Take yourselves off it, you!”
Here someone called out: “Mark this: ours has been a
neighbourly request . . . so far!”
“Ye threaten us? Then we’ll go to law! Oh, there are
means to master you. Your term of jail for the forest
brawl is not yet done: you will get some more, and do both
terms together!” The old man attempted to laugh, but was
too much upset, and his companions were exasperated.
“Ye lousy devils!” '
“Thievish, stinking hounds!” they shouted in German,
writhing about like snakes disturbed in their nest.
“Dogs’ blood! be silent when men speak to you!” Matthew
thundered at them; but they cared nothing for him, and
began to come on in a body.
Roch, fearing there would be violence, got his men to-
gether and urged them to be calm; but they were out of
hand, each vociferating louder than the other.
“A slap in the face to the ﬁrst who comes near us!”
309 SPRING
“They want to have a little blood let!” /
“What, boys! shall we let them ﬂout all our people thus?”
“No, no! we must not—we must not!” cried the rest,
pressing threateningly forward, till Matthew, setting Roch
aside, pushed on to the Germans, showing his teeth like an
angry wolf.
“Hear me, ye Germans!” he roared, clenching his ﬁsts.
“We have spoken to you words of kindness, with honest
intent; and you not only menace us with prison, but insult
us as well! Good; but we play another game with you
henceforth. Ye refuse to agree: therefore here we swear to
you, before God and man, that you shall never settle down
in Podlesie. We came to offer peace: you chose war. Very
well: war let it be! Ye have the courts for you, the ofﬁ-
cials for you, the power of money for you; and we—nothing
but our bare hands. And who will get the better—we shall
seel—Let me say, besides, that ye may remember it after:
Fire can burn, not straw only, but even brick-built houses,
even unripe corn; and cattle may come to fall down in the
pasture—lands; and men may be unable to escape deadly mis-
adventure. Remember this that I have told you: war by
day, war by night, war in every place.”
“War! Warl—So help us God!” they all cried together.
The Germans sprang to their long staffs, standing by the
wall; some ran for their guns or took up stones, while the
women shrieked aloud.
“Let but one man shoot at us: all the villages will be
here anon!”
“Kill one man, Long-Trousers! and ye’ll be beaten to
death, as men beat a mad dog!”
“O Swabians! tackle not us peasants, or ye’ll be tackled
yourselves.”
“And so well that the hungriest dog would not touch your
carcasses !”
“Dare but to touch us, Long-Trousers!” they cried in loud
deﬁance.
And now both parties were about to close, each glaring
at the other, stamping, beating on the ground with their
THE PEASANTS 310
sticks, ﬂinging menaces and insults broadcast, and boiling
over with eageiness to clapperclaw the enemy. But Roch
at last succeeded in drawing his party somewhat to the rear;
and his men, wheeling round, carefully protected their ﬂanks
as they withdrew, followed by the derisive shouts of the
Germans.
“Away from our country, abominable swine!”
“Or stay till the Red Cock wake you up at night!”
“We shall look in again to dance with your maidens!”
Their language at last grew so strong that Roch was
obliged to silence them.
And now twilight had come; a cool wind swept the com,
the dew lay silver-grey on the damp grass, and evening,
quiet and fragrant, reigned over the land.
The men were coming home, their white capotes ﬂapping
behind them. They talked and sang till the Woods rang
again, stopping from time to time, whistling and gloating
over the Podlesie ﬁelds.
“They are easy to portion out, these lands,” said old
Klemba.
“Aye, we can divide them into complete farms—each with
its own meadow and bit of pasture.”
“Provided the Germans give in!” said the Soltys, with
a sigh.
“No fear: we know they will,” Matthew said reassuringly.
“I should like the piece near the road, just at the end,”
said Adam Prychek.
“And I,” said another, “the one in the middle, near the
cross.”
“And I,” said a third, “want the patch close to Vola.”
“Oh,” sighed a fourth, “could I but get the garden-plot
in the farm itself!”
“No fool you! You would snap up the best lot of all!”
“Come, come; there’s enough for us all,” Gregory said to
pacify them, for they were near quarrelling over it!
“If the Squire agrees and gives up Podlesie to you,”
observed Roch, “you will all have a great deal of work
to do.”
311 ' SPRING
“We shall manage to get through with it, though!” they
cried in great glee.
“Work on one’s own land is never hard toil!”
On such terms, who would not willingly take all the
lands of the Squire?”
“Let him but give it you—you would see!”
“Why, we should take root in the soil, like trees; let him
pluck us thence who can!”
And so they talked on, as they neared home; faster now,
for they saw the women running out to meet them.
CHAPTER XI
with a deep azure bloom of haze like a ripe plum,
when Hanka drove up to the cabin, whose inmates
were all asleep as yet. But with the sharp clatter of the
wheels, Lapa fell to barking for joy, and leaping up in
front of the horses.
“Why, where is Antek?” Yuzka exclaimed on the door-
step, putting on her skirt over her head.
“He is to be released in three days only,” was the tranquil
reply, as Hanka kissed the little ones, and distributed
pastry among them.
Vitek now came running out of the stable, and after him
trotted the colt, whinnying and going straight to the mare,
still in harness, while Pete was taking the parcels out of
the cart.
“Have they begun to mow yet?” she asked, sitting down at
once on the threshold to give suck to her baby.
“Yes, they began at noon yesterday: ﬁve of them. Philip.
Raphael and Kobus to work out their debts to us; Adam
Klemba and Matthew for hire.”
“What?-—-Matthew Golab?”
“I too thought it strange; but he would have it so. Said
his carpentry work made him stoop too much, and he wanted
to get straight again, scythe in hand.”
Yagna then opened her window and looked out.
“Is Father sleeping still?” she was asked.
“Aye, in the orchard. We left him out at night, so hot
it is within doors.”
“And your mother, what of her?”
“As usual; perhaps somewhat better. Ambrose, who tends
her, came yesterday with the shepherd of Vola, who fumi-
gated her, rubbed her with ointment, and said that, provided
I T was early dawn, and all the country was covered over
812
313 SPRING
she stays at home till the ninth Sunday from now, she will
by then be healed.”
“ ’Tis the best remedy for a scald!” she said, and, passing
her baby to the other breast, listened attentively to what
had occurred in her absence. But not for long: it was now
broad daylight, the sky ﬂushing red with bright streaks
athwart the air. Dewdrops fell from the trees; birds were
garrulous in their nests; bleating and lowing resounded all
through the village, and hammers, hammering scythe-blades,
whose thin keen tinkling made a piercing din.
No sooner had Hanka undressed after her journey than she
ran to Boryna, who was lying asleep under a bed of down,
in a great basket beneath the trees.
“Hark!” she said, pulling him by the arm; “Antek will
be home in three days. He had been taken to the Govern-
ment prison. Roch followed him with money that must
be paid. Both will come home together.”
On a sudden the old man sat up, rubbed his eyes, and
seemed to listen; but he sank back at once, pulled the down
covering over his head and fell asleep again.
There was no more talking with him; besides, the mowers
were just then coming into the yard.
“Yesterday,” Philip told Hanka, “we mowed the meadow
adjoining the cabbage-plot.”
“To-day ye will go beyond the river, by the boundary-
market; Yuzka will show you where.”
“ ’Tis in Duck’s Hollow; a big piece of land.”
“And the grass comes up to the waist, lush and rank:
very different from yesterday’s meadow.” -
“Was the grass so poor there?”
“Aye, all but dried up: it felt like cutting a brush.”
“Then it may be tossed this very day, since the dew will
soon be quite dry.”
They started‘at once: Matthew. smoking a cigarette in
Yagna’s room. was the last, and cast a rueful look behind
him as he went. like a cat balked of its bowl of milk.
The rest of the village, too, soon poured forth its troops
of mowers.
THE PEASANTS 314
Scarcely had the sun risen, huge and ruddy, when the
weather grew warm, and presently very hot indeed.
On the mowers marched, in Indian ﬁle, preceded by
Yuzka, dragging a pole after her.
They passed the mill. The meadows were veiled in a low
creeping haze, through which tufts of alders peered out
like puffs of dark smoke; here and there the river peeped
from under its greyish screen, glittering brightly; the dew-
drenched grasses drooped their heads in the meadows, and
the piping of lapwings came on the eastern breeze, scented
with the bland fragrance of many blossoms.
Yuzka, having taken them as far as the landmarks, meas-
ured the extent of her father’s meadow-land, stuck the pole
up at the border, and scampered away home.
Pulling off their spencers and tucking their breeches up,
they formed into line, and thrust the scythe-handles into
the ground, to sharpen the blades with their whetstones.
“The grass is as thick as the wool of a ﬂeece; some of us
will sweat soundly,” said Matthew, who stood ﬁrst, testing
the sweep of his scythe.
“Thick it ~is--—and tall!” said his neighbour. “Well,
there’ll be plenty of hay.”
“Yes, if the weather be ﬁne,” said a third, glancing up at
the sky.
“When you’re mowing a meadow, rain always is ready,”
remarked the fourth, with a grin.
“The saying’s not true this year!-—Come, begin,
Matthew!”
They all crossed themselves. Matthew tightened his
girdle, straddled forward, spat on his palms, took a deep
breath, and launched his scythe far into the grass, plying it
with swift strokes; the others following him one after an-
other, in a slanting line, for fear of accidents. So they cut
their way into the mist-covered meadow with a steady
rhythmical advance, their cold blades glistening, with a
swish at every stroke, and forming long swaths heavy with
dewdrops.
The breeze rustled in the grass; overhead, the lapwings
315 SPRING
screamed more and more plaintively: and they, rocking their
bodies from right to left, mowed on unweariedly, conquering
the meadow foot by foot. Only now and again did one or
another of them halt to whet his scythe or straighten his
back, and then once more he mowed away with a will,
leaving behind him ever more and more numerous swaths.
Before the sun had risen above the village, all the meadows
echoed beneath the strokes of the mowers: the blue steel of
the scythe-blades ﬂashed everywhere; everywhere could be
heard the stridulous clang of the whetstones; everywhere the
strong perfume of mown grass was inhaled.
It was perfect weather for haymaking. An ancient adage
says, indeed: “Begin to make hay: rain will fall the same
day”; but this year it was quite the other way round. In-
stead of rainy weather, there was drought.
The days began, moist with dew, and yet parched, like
a man in a fever; they ended in nights baked with heat.
Some wells and rills had been dried up; the corn was turning
yellow, the plants withered away. Countless insects assailed
the trees, which began to cast their yet unripe fruit. Cows,
returning hungry from the sere grass of the pastures, had
ceased to give milk; and the Squire allowed none to graze
their beasts on his clearings but those who paid him ﬁve
roubles a head.
Very many had not so much cash to pay him.
But, setting aside these particular inﬂictions, the hard
times usual before harvest were this year harder than
even
They had reckoned on rain falling surely in June, and the
ﬁeld crops beneﬁting thereby: nay, money had even been
offered for Masses to that intention. And now, some had
really nothing to put in the pot!
But the worst of all was that not even the oldest inhabit-
ant could remember a time when there had been so many
law troubles: the great forest action not yet settled, and the
Voyt’s affair still setting people by the ears, and Domini-
kova’s quarrel with her son, and the Germans, and many
another matter of dispute between neighbours: so many, in
THE PEASANTS 316
fact, that what with such incessant brawls and wranglings,
they almost forgot their more material afﬂictions.
Of course then, as soon as ever haymaking time had come
round, all the people began to breathe more freely, the poorer
among them hurrying off to seek work at the Manor farms,
and the wealthier peasants, deaf to all other matters, setting
at once to mow their grass.
They did not, however, quite forget the Germans, but got
someone or other to go daily and see what they were about.
They still were there, but had given up digging wells and
fetching stones to build; and, as the blacksmith announced
one day, they had laid a complaint against the Squire for
money matters, and against the men of Lipka for “threats
and conspiracy.”
At this the peasants laughed very heartily.
It was just this topic which was discussed that day in the
meadow at dinner-time. '
An intensely hot noontide, with the sun overhead, the
sky hanging above with a whitish glow, a blasting heat
around as from an oven; no breath of wind; leaves shrivel-
ling up; birds silent; short thin shadows that scarcely shaded
at all; the strong aroma of the heated grasses; corn and
orchards and huts standing as if wrapped in white ﬂame;
all things, as it were, melting away in the air that trembled
like water simmering on the ﬁre. Even the river ran more
slowly, its stream shining like fused glass, so transparent
that beneath the surface-currents every gudgeon, every stone
at the sandy bottom, every crayﬁsh scuﬂ‘ling about in the
luminous shadows of the banks, showed forth clear and dis-
tinct. A deep calm, spinning its slumberous web, crept over
the sunlit earth; and nothing was noisy save the buzzing
ﬂies.
The mowers sat down on the river-bank, beneath a clump
of tall alders, eating their dinner out of the porringers
brought, for Matthew by his sister Nastka, for the others
by Hanka and Yagustynka. These seated themselves on
the grass in the sun’s full glare, and, with their kerchiefs
drawn over their heads, listened attentively to the talk.
317 SPRING
“I,” said Matthew, scraping his emptied porringer, “have
always held that the Germans would take themselves off one
of these days.”
“The priest held so too,” Hanka remarked.
“And so they will, if the Squire wills it,” growled Kobus,
always ready to argue, stretching himself out under a tree.
“What?” Yagustynka asked, sneeringly as usual; “did
they not fear the noise ye made, and run?”
Her jeer was unnoticed, and someone observed:
“The smith said yesterday that the Squire would come to
terms with us.”
“Strange that Michael is on our side now!”
“He has,” the old woman hissed, “found he would get
more thereby.”
“The miller too, they say, has pleaded at the Manor-
house for the village.”
“Those good souls! They are all on our side now!” said
Matthew. “Why?—-l’ll tell you. The Squire promised the
smith a goodly reward for the reconciliation. The miller
fears the Germans may set up a windmill on the high ground
in Podlesie. And the tavern-keeper befriends the people out
of fear for himself: he knows well that where a German
settles, no Jew can get his bread.”
“The Squire wishes to be reconciled: does he fear us
peasants, then?” ,
“Ye have hit the mark, Mother; of all of them, he is
the most afraid.”
Here Matthew broke off; Vitek was coming from the
village at full speed.
“Mistress, come at once!” he bawled from a distance.
“What, is the house on ﬁre?” she faltered, terriﬁed.
“ ’Tis Master, and he is crying out for something.”
She ran off instantly.
The fact was that, ever since morning, Matthias had been
strange, plucking at his coverlet and seeming to look for
something. Before setting out for the meadow, Hanka had
charged Yuzka to take special care of him, and the latter
had many a time gone to look; but he had lain quiet till
THE PEASANTS 318
about dinner-time, when he suddenly fell a-shouting very
loud.
On Hanka’s arrival, he sat up, and called out:
“My boots—where are they? Give them to me, and
quickly too!”
“I’ll get them from the store-room in an instant she
said, to pacify him; for he seemed quite sensible, and looked
keenly about him.
“Mother of dogs! how I have overslept myself!” and he
yawned wide and deep.
“It is broad day, and ye are sleeping, all of you !--Let
Kuba get the harrow ready,” he commanded; “we shall go
out and sow.”
They stood before him, hesitating, when he suddenly
collapsed, falling helpless to the ground. _
“Fear not, Hanka, I had a ﬁt of dizziness. Is Antek
aﬁeld, hey? Aﬁeld?” he repeated, when they had replaced
him on the bed.
“Aye,” she stammered. “Ever since daybreak.” For she
feared to cross him.
He looked about him brightly and talked much; but one
word out of ten was sense. and the rest drivel. He again
wanted to get up and go out, called for his boots—and then
put his hands to his head and moaned pitifully. Hanka
knew that the end was at hand; so she ordered him to be
borne within doors, and sent for the priest in the afternoon.
He came presently with the Holy Sacrament. but could
only give him Extreme Unction.
“His state needs nothing more,” the priest said; “in a
few hours he will be with his fathers.”
In the evening, many people visited the cabin, for he
seemed on the point of death; and Hanka put the lighted
taper of the dying in his hand. But presently he fell mto
a quiet sleep.
The next day there was no change. ' He recognized
people, and spoke sensibly, but lay for hours together as
still as a corpse.
!))

319 SPRING
The smith’s wife was at his bedside continually; also
Yagustynka, who wanted to fumigate him!
“Let alone; ye may set the place on ﬁre,” he burst out
unexpectedly.
And at noon, when the smith came and looked into his
half-closed eyes, he smiled strangely, and uttered these
words:
“Do not trouble, Michael; I shall drop off soon enough-—
soon enough!”
So saying, he turned his face to the wall, and spoke no
more. He was evidently going rapidly downhill, so they
now watched him with care; especially Yagna, over whom
an extraordinary change had come.
“I alone shall tend him! It is my right,” she had told
Hanka and Magda so peremptorily that they had not op-
posed her.
She no longer left the cabin at all: a vague terror op-
pressed her.
All the village was out in the meadows: the haymaking
had been going on since dawn; ever since the very ﬁrst
faint ﬂush in the sky, they had started for the meadows.
Rows of peasants in shirt-sleeves, looking like grey storks,
were now all over the lands, whetting their ﬂashing scythes,
and mowing amain all day long; all day the hammers rang
upon the scythes, and the girls sang their merry impromptus
as they raked up the cut grass.
All those verdurous glossy ﬂats were swarming with
people, noise and clamour; loud ditties and peals of
laughter resounded to the accompaniment of the tinkling
blades, and the work went on everywhere with energy and
goodwill. Every day, too, when the blood-red sun was
descending towards the woods, and the air full of the twitter-
ing of the birds, and grass and corn alike seemed quivering
to the crickets’ merry notes, while the frogs in the marshes
struck up their croaking serenade, and perfumes rose from
the incense—breathing earth—then all along the roads were
crawling great heavy wagons ﬁlled with hay; the mowers
THE PEASANTS 320
went home with songs, and on the meadows, now yellow and
trampled, stood close crowds of haycocks and ricks, like so
many fat gossiping dames, squatting down to have a quiet
talk together. Amongst these the storks strutted, above
them the lapwings wheeled, with their sad piping cry; and
on towards them the white mists came driving up from the
marshes.
Through Boryna’s window there came these voices of
men and of the land—the glad sounds of life and toil, and
the aromatic scents of corn and meadow and sunlight; but
Yagna was deaf to them all.
The undergrowth round the cabin protected it from the
glare and spread within it a greenish slumberous twilight.
Flies buzzed; and now and then Lapa, watchful beside his
master, would yawn, and then go and fawn upon Yagna,
who sat for hours without motion or thought—as still as
a statue.
Matthias spoke no longer, moaned no longer. He just
lay still; but his eyes rolled unceasingly—those bright eyes
of his, as shiny as glass globes, following her with cold~
persistency, piercing her through and through like knife-
blades.
She turned her back on him, endeavouring to forget. It
was in vain—in vain! They peered out at her from every
sombre nook, ﬂoated in the air, glowing with fearful bril-
liancy, and a fascination so irresistible that she had to obey
their call and stare back into them as into some unfathom-
able abyss.
At times, as though waking from a horrible dream, she
would beseech his mercy: “Prithee, look not thus: ye are
tearing my soul out of me: look not thus!”
No doubt he heard her: a quiver passed over him, his
face twitched dumbly, as if to cry out, his eyes stared yet
more gloomily, and big tear-drops rolled down his livid
cheeks.
Then, driven by sheer terror, she would rush from the hut.
Hidden in the shade of the trees, she would peep out at
the meadows full oflpeople and of tumultuous joy.
32! SPRING
And the sight made her cry bitterly.
Then she ﬂed to her mother’s. But hardly had she looked
in and seen the darkened room and scented the rank pun-
gency of the medicines, when she would hasten away once
more.
And again she would weep.
Then she wandered abroad, and looked out upon the
country-side with longing eyes. But thence sprung yet more
'bitter and dreary and agonizing tears; and she mourned
grievoust over her own sad lot, like a bird with broken
wings, deserted by its mates.
Thus one day-after another went by without any change.
Hanka, along with the rest of the village, was absorbed! in
haymaking, and it was only on the third day that she stayed
at home since morning.
“’Tis Saturday: Antek is sure to come!” she thought
joyfully, setting the cabin in order to receive him.
Noon came and went, and he was not there yet. Hanka
ran beyond the church to look up the poplar road.
They were carting the hay, hurrying it home, for the
weather was about to change. The air was stiﬂingly sultry,
'cocks were crowing, hailstorm clouds hanging about in the
sky, winds wheeling and whirling.
All expected a storm with a great downpour, but there
only came down a short though plentiful rain, at once
swallowed up by the thirsty soil, and only cooling the air
.a little.
The evening, somewhat less sultry, was redolent of hay
and of the sprinkled earth. Mists rolled along the ways;
the moon had not risen yet; the dark sky was but scantily
studded with stars. Through the orchards, the light of the
cabins glimmered like glow-worms, reﬂected in the pond
and multiplied to myriads. Everywhere the people took
their supper out of doors. Hard by, the air trembled with
the ripplings of a pipe; from the ﬁelds came ﬂoating the
crickets’ feeble ditty, along with the voices of the land-rail
.and the quail.
At Boryna’s, too, they were all outside the hut: the hay
THE PEASANTS 322
being brought home, Hanka had invited them to a .ﬁrst-
class supper; and the great dish clinked with the tapping
of the spoons in a lively measure. Yagustynka’s rasping
tones were often heard, accompanied with shouts of laughter.
Every now and then, Hanka would ﬁll the dish again from
the pots, while anxiously watching all the time for any
least sound on the road; and she frequently slipped out
into the enclosure, looking for Antek.
There was not the least trace of him; and only once
did the shape of Teresa, leaning against the hedge, no doubt
waiting for somebody, meet her eyes.
Matthew, unable that day to get speech of Yagna, who
was then sullen and unpleasant of mood, was beginning to
wrangle with Pete out of sheer ill humour, when Andrew
came to call his sister, whom her mother wanted to see.
The party broke up thereupon; but Matthew lagged be-
hind for some time.
Hanka also went out a little after for another vain look
into the darkness, when she heard his voice, gruff and cross,
wafted from the mill-pond bank.
“Why dog me so? I shall not ﬂee you. . . . Are we not
enough on the lips of folk already?”—-He added still more
cruel words, to which there came in answer a storm of sobs
‘and a ﬂood of tears.
But there was nothing in that to interest Hanka, who
was awaiting her husband: she cared little then for other
folks’ doings. Yagustynka did the evening household work
for her, whilst she herself dandled in her arms the baby,
that was rather troublesome; carrying it out with her and
rocking it, she went to see the patient.
“Antek may be here at any moment!” she cried from the
door-step.
Boryna was lying with eyes ﬁxed on a lamp that smoked
above the ﬁre-place.
She whispered in Boryna’s ear: “He has been released
to-day, Roch is awaiting him,” and her beaming eyes
watched him to see if he had understood. It seemed not:
be neither moved nor looked at her.
323 S P R I N G
“He may be in the village by now. Belike it is so,”
she thought, as she ran out every now and then to see—So
sure was she of his return, so agitated with her long wait,
that she spoke to herself, walking unsteadily as one drunk.
To the darkness she talked about her hopes, and conﬁded
in the cattle as she milked them, informing them all that
their master was coming back.
She waited on.-—But every minute was wearing out her
strength and her patience.
Night was ~there, the village abed. Back from her
mother’s, Yagna had gone to rest at once. All in the house
were sleeping presently. Hanka still watched outside the
hut, and far into the night; but at last, exhausted with
weariness and crying, she too put out the light and lay down.
The whole land was now' plunged in the deep stillness of
repose.
The village lights had gone out one by one, like eyes
that close in slumber.
The moon rolled up the soaring black-blue sky, sown with
a twinkling dust of stars, and rose higher and higher, as a
bird that wings its way athwart the void on silver pinions.
The scattered clouds slept, huddled up into balls of soft white
down; whilst on the earth all ’creatures lay quiet, wearied
out and lost in sleep. Only a bird sang sweet exuberant
lays from time to time; only the waters whispered drowsily;
and the trees the moonlight bathed stirred now and again,
as if they dreamed of day. Sometimes a dog growled, or
the night-jar ﬂapped its wings as it passed by; and low
earth-clinging vapours now began to wrap the ﬁelds, but
slowly, as a tired-out mother wraps her child. ’
The sounds of quiet breathing rose from the almost in-
visible orchards and buildings, about which the people lay
in the open air, trusting to the mildness of the night.
In Boryna’s room as well, sleep and tranquillity pre-
vailed, except for the cree-cree-cree of the cricket on the
hearth, and Yagna’s breaths, ﬂuttering like a butterﬂy’s
wings.
It must have been at some time in the small hours (the
THE PEASANTS 324
ﬁrst cock was crowing already) that Boryna began to move,
the moon at the same time shining through the window-
panes, and pouring on to his face its cold though seething
torrents of silvery splendour.
Sitting up in bed, and clearing his throat, he attempted
to call out, but could utter no other sound than a gurgle.
Thus he sat for a time, looking round with a vacant
stare, and fumbling with his ﬁngers in the light of his cover-
let, as though he thought to grasp that luminous stream of
moonbeams that struck his eyes. .
“Day has come. . . . It is time,” he mumbled at last,
standing erect upon the ﬂoor.
He looked out of the window, and, like a man awaking
from a deep sleep, thought that it was day, that he had
slept overmuch, and that some pressing work was awaiting
him.
“I must get up, it is time,” he repeated, crossing him-
self again and again, and beginning his morning prayers.
Then he glanced round for his clothes. Not ﬁnding them,
he forgot them quite, and, passing his hands over himself,
made a feeble attempt at dressing. His prayer broke off
in the saying, and he could only mutter a few incoherent
fragments in a soundless voice.
His brain was vexed with vague thoughts of things to do,
remembrances of things done, and, as it were, the echoes
of what had gone on around him when he was lying ill.
In evanescent ﬂashes there came to his mind dim recollec-
tions, activities that had been indistinct as the furrows on
reaped land, and now started up clear and sharp; they took
shape in his brain, struggling to come forth, and every in-
stant formed some fresh phantasm which vanished away
ere he could grasp it, like rotten tissues that crumbled into
dust; so that his mind was as restless as a wandering ﬂame
that ﬁnds nothing to feed upon, and strays perforce.
And thus, whatever he now did, he did out of mere habit,
like a horse that has for years walked round, turning the
beam of a threshing-machine, and when set at liberty still
goes round.
325 SPRING
He opened the window and looked out; he gazed into the
store-room, poked the ﬁre-place after much pondering—and
then, just as he Was, barefoot and in his shirt, walked out.
The door was ajar, the passage ﬂooded with the rays of
the moon. Curled up on the threshold, Lapa was sleeping.
At the sound of a tread, he woke, growled, and, recognizing
his master, followed him out.
Matthias halted outside the hut, scratched his ear, and
strove hard to remember what that urgent piece of work
that awaited him could be.
The dog was leaping up joyfully at his master, who
patted him as of old, whilst staring bewilderedly about him.
It was bright, like day. The moon had now risen above
the cabin, casting deep blue shadows on the white walls, and
making the mill-pond waters shine like a mirror. Lipka
was still as death, but a few birds were noisily ﬂuttering in
the thickets.
Something came to his mind on a sudden: he hurried to
the yard. All the doors were wide open, and the men
snoring in the shadow of the barn. He looked into the
stables, patted the horses; they whinnied at his touch.
Then he peered into the byre: the cows lay in a row, and
only their rumps were visible in the light of the moon.
He then tried to drag a cart out of the shed; but a glit-
tering plough hard by the sties drew off his attention. and he
moved towards it . . . and ceased to think of it before he
got there.
In the middle of the yard he stopped short and looked
round on every side, for he thought someone had called
him.
The well-sweep stood high in front of him, throwing a
long shadow.
“What is it?” he asked, and paused for a reply.
The orchard, slashed with moonbeams, seemed to block
his way; its silvered leaves were whispering to him.
“Who calls?” he asked, stumbling against a tree.
Lapa, following at his heels, uttered a whine. At the
sound he stopped and drew a deep breath; then he said,
THE PEASANTS 326
gaily: “Quite right, good dog! Aye, it is seed-time!”
And this idea too passed from his mind in an instant:
everything slipped out of his memory, as dry sand creeps
through the ﬁngers.
Continually fresh thoughts kept him moving, puzzled,
bewildered, and like a spindle that is turned round by the
thread that runs out, though it turns in the same place.
“Aye, aye, it is seed-time,” he repeated, and moved quickly
to the part of the premises which adjoined the ﬁelds. There
he saw before him that hayrick of bitter memory, burnt
down last winter, and but just set up again.
He meant to pass by it, but started back on a sudden. In
a ﬂash he saw the past, which memory made present. He
tore a stake from the fence; brandishing it in both hands
like a pitchfork, he dashed forward with rage in his eyes,
ready to smite and slay; but before his blow could be struck,
the stake fell from his grasp, now weak and slack.
Beyond the rick, along the road that skirted the potato-
ﬁeld, there stretched a long strip of ploughed land. Here
he stopped, and cast troubled glances round him.
The moon had gone through half her course, bathing the
earth in misty beams; it lay covered with pearls of dew,
and, as it were, silent in rapt attention.
Impenetrable depths of silence came down from the
upper ﬁelds, and from where earth and sky met in the
hazy distance; from the meadows rose up white vapours,
crawling over the corn, enveloping it in its warm damp
folds, as it rose.
The tall yellow-green rye-borders bent over the ﬁeld-
pathways, drooping under the weight of the ears, that hung
down like the saffron-hued beaks of unﬂedged birds in their
nests; the wheat stood upright boldly, as straight as so many
pillars, lifting their glossy and dusky heads; the oats and
barley, as yet in the blade, lay green as meadows, but sil-
vered by the moonlight and blurred with dark veils of mist.
It was about the second cock-crow now, and the night
far spent. The ﬁelds rested, lost in profound sleep, some-
327 SPRING
.times rustling quietly as it-were with an echoof the day’s
toil and troubles, and sighing as a mother. may sigh when she
lays herself down to rest with her little ones.
Boryna knelt down immediately, and. set to gathering
earth in a fold of his shirt, like seed-corn in a sower’s bag,
and in such quantity that he could scarce rise. He made
the sign of the cross, swept his arm round to try his reach,
and began to sow.
Bent down beneath the burden, he went slowly, step by
step, sowing the ﬁeld with that semicircular sweep of his
arm, like a priest’s benediction.
Lapa followed him; and when some frightened bird rose
from before his feet, he would run after it awhile, and then
go back to his master.
In this charmed world of night and spring, Boryna, gazing
straight before him, walked on through the patches of corn,
like a spirit blessing every clod of earth, every ear of corn;
sowing on, sowing ever.
At the furrows he stumbled; at the hollows he staggered,
sometimes even fell. But of this he was unconscious—
aware of nothing but the dull irresistible craving to sow the
land.
Thus he walked on to the end of the ﬁeld. When there
was no earth remaining for him to throw, he took up. more
and sowed on. When his way was barred by trees and
brambles, he would turn back.
He had walked a good distance. The birds’ twitterings
were no longer to be heard; the whole village had disap-
peared in the misty darkness, and the billowy sea of tawny
cornﬁelds surged all about him. There he stood, forlorn
and lonely and lost—as a soul that is wandering away from
this world—And then, once more he came back towards the
village, toWards the ring within which the twittering of birds
was again audible, and towards the circle of human activity,
now stilled for a time: he, a waif thrown back to the shores
of life and existence by those waves of the surging sea of
corn!
THE PEASANTS 328
So the time passed; and so he went on sowing indefatigably,
stopping at times to rest his' limbs a little. Then he would
again take up his bootless toil and vain exertions.
Later, and near the close’ of the night, he worked more
slowly, stopped oftener, forgot to gather the earth for his
seed, and sowed empty-handed: as though he were now sow-
ing his very being in those ﬁelds of his fathers—all the
days he had lived, all that life he had received, and was
now giving back (a sacred harvest) to the Everlasting Lord!
And in those last moments of his life there came to pass
a very wonderful thing. The sky turned grey, like a shroud;
the moon set; all light went out; the whole land was plunged
in murky inextricable depths of sudden and utter darkness.
And then a Something beyond all thought seemed to arise
from . . . none knew whereL—and to walk in those shadows
with footsteps so ponderous that they made the very earth
to rock. ’
Then a long blast blew from the woods, with an ominous
murmur. ' ’
The trees in the ﬁelds were shaking; the com, the grass,
waved shudderingly; from the trembling plots of land there
came a low moan of dread:
“O Master! Master!”
The green ears of barley quivered convulsively, as if weep-
ing, and bent to kiss his weary feet.
“O Master!” the rye-patches trilled, stopping his way,
and shaking down a shower of dewy tears. Birds gave forth
a melancholy cry. _The wind sobbed over his head. The
mist enveloped him in her dank dripping folds. And the
voices sounded ever louder, ever more sadly, and always
repeating: ‘
“O Master! Master!”
At last he paid heed to them, and said, under his breath:
“Lo, here I am: what will ye, say?”
No answer came; but when he would have moved on
farther, sowing with that tired empty hand, the earth cried
out to him, in a mighty voice:
“Remain with us! Remain with us! Remain!”
329 sPRINo
And he stood in astonishment. All things seemed press--
ing forward against him. The grasses came crawling, the
corn billowing towards him; the ﬁelds beset him round; the
whole country-side rose up and fell upon him. Dismayed,
he would have cried aloud; but his fast-closed throat let no
voice pass. He tried -to ﬂee; his strength failed him quite.
The ground caught his feet, the corn entangled them, the
furrows tripped him up, the stubborn glebe balked his steps,
the trees shook their boughs at him to stop his way. He
was pricked by thistles, hurt by stones, chased by the angry
wind, and led astray by the night and the many voices cry-
ing out from everywhere:
“Stay with us! Oh, stay!”
On a sudden he became motionless, and all things with
him. His eyes, now growing dark in death, saw clear with
a lightning ﬂash. Heaven opened out before him—and
there. seated on a throne of wheat-sheaves, the Everlasting
Father stretched out His hands. and said to him mildly:
“Come unto Me. O human soul; O weary toiler, come
thou unto Me!”
Boryna reeled at the words, and, stretching forth his hands
(as at the Elevation) :
“O Lord God, I thank Thee!” he cried. and fell prostrate
on his face before that most holy Majesty.
So he fell, and so he died, in the hour of God’s loving-
kindness.
Dawn was rising; and over him Lapa howled long and
mournfully.
END OF PART III
THE PEASANTS
SUMMER
CHAPTER I
HUS 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 life-
less 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 eﬂiuence
3
THE PEASANTS 4
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 resound-
ing 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 say-
ing, “he had children that were good, and did him no wrong.”
Yagustynka turned snappishly upon her. “Say your
5 SUMMER
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 at-
tiring 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 her-
self 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 gloomin
bright, with an expression of stern awe.
It was a good thing that Hanka presently recovered her-
THE PEASANTS 6
self 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 Cross-
bones’ 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 bel—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.” I
“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
7 - SUMMER
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 de—
ceased. 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 god-
fathers and godmothers go round the altar with lighted
tapers: they will drop you kopeks in plenty—What!” dis-
paragingly; “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
THE PEASANTS - 8
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 Sun-
day, 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.”
é SUMMER
, “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 black-
smith, 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 but 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, pleas-
ant 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.
THE PEASANTS 10
“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 to-
getherI—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 blink-
ing 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
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
!))
she said, bending
U SUMMER
around her cautiously. Beneath the cherry-trees, leaning
against the trellised fence, Yagna stood, absorbed in un-
pleasant thought. '
“What, never one moment of peace!” Hanka com—
plained; 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 con-
cealed. 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 over-
worked 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, smoulderi-
ing 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
THE PEASANTS 12
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 weep-
ing; 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 un-
happy 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 be-
ing 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
!3 SUMMER
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 pres-
ently 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
THE PEASANTS 14
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 ad-
dressing 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 cau-
tiously now; the cow is but a puny thing—She will be
mated in an instant. . . . Aye, the bull is exceeding clear.
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
15 SUMMER
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: l 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.”
THE PEASANTS ’16
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 as-
sembled 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, leav-
ing 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, un-
broken 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
l7 SUMMER
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 move-
ment 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
now for evermore!
The wind was rising higher, streaming through the or-
chard 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 liollyhocks,
bending and bowing at the windows, not unlike llCl-Ch66k6d
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
THE PEASANTS l8
drone and whirring hum—the voices of all these things, re-
peating: '
“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 corn-
ﬁelds, 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 beet-root, and cried out in a passion:
“Say what ye will, and to the whole worldl—Look at that
man! He thinks that all are like himself!”
He glared at her, pulled at his moustache, and drove off.
l9 SUMMER
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-
Iid 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 lotl” 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 reproach-
fully.
“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?
THE PEASANTS 20
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,
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 peo-
ple!” 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
((
and
21 SUMMER
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 peas-
ants 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.
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 in-
tense life.
A votive Requiem Mass was celebrated by the parish
priest, who afterwards, in company with his Reverence of
1The “Sobotki” correspond to the St. John’s Eve ﬁres—Trans-
Zator’s Note.
THE PEASANTS 22
Slupia, and the organist, seated in pews on either side of
the sanctuary, chanted the Ofﬁciu-m Defmzctorum in Latin.
High on a catafalque lay Boryna, amid a grove of burning
tapers. Around him the whole village knelt humbly, pray-
ing 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 congre-
gation; 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 pre—
vent 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 in-
ﬁnite 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
23 SUMMER
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 emo-
tions; 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 irre-
parable 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 fruit-
lessness of all his endeavours; on the utter vanity of his
life, his joys, his possessions, his hopes—~all mere smoke,
dust, illusion, nothingnessl—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 cloth man live?
Such were the meditations of the people, as they walked
in procession, gazing around upon the verdant ﬁelds with
THE PEASANTS 24
looks of sorrow unutterable, faces set hard and souls shud-
dering 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 ab-
solutely 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 in-
satiable 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
25 SUMMER
was led by Yagna, and walked bent down, almost blind,
struck up as well as she could the psalm: “He that dwell-
eth . . . ,” which they all sang with great fervour, reliev-
ing their depressed spirits with this declaration of un-
bounded 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
he 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
poon
“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!
“Gonel—Taken by death, that wolf that chooses for him-
THE PEASANTS ' 26
self 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 where-
for 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 dur-
ing 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.
27 SUMMER
“ ‘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 oppreS-
sion, 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
THE PEASANTS 28
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 re-
pentance.
Then, after a breathing-space, he again spoke of the de-
ceased, 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 ex-
pelled 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 reverberat—
ing torrents of earth were now pouring down, for whom the
bells were tolling so mournfully, and over whom the people
were so sorrowfully lamenting.
Z9 SUMMER
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 lead-
ing 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
THE PEASANTS ' 30
Boryna in such high-ﬂown terms and'such a wealth of Latin
quotations that, little as they understood, they wept copi-
ously, 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 remem-
ber 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 be-
hind 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 peo-
ple, 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
31‘ SUMMER
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 1 I can
have naught to do, and there is no man amongst you now
who can represent Lipka.”
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 effect. 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 bewilder-
ment found tongue.
“Well, well! The Squire himself coming to a peasant’s
buriall”
“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 whenl”.
"‘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.”
1The representative of the‘ Russian Government—Translator’s
Note.
THE PEASANTS 32~
“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, 10, 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 agree-
ment, 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, accom-
panied (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 op-
pressed 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
33 SUMMER
his back with terror; and then the dull interminable still-
ness 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 win-
dows 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!
0 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 some-
one . . . someone unseen. They felt-now, more strongly
than ever, that the dead man’s soul was straying somewhere
about in their midst.
‘ Atlast Hanka thought of the Evening Hymn, and intoned,
in a trembling husky voice:
“All our actions, done this day,
At Thy feet, 0 Lord, we lay!” . . .
which the others took up heartily, and to their great relief.
CHAPTER 11
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
IT was an ideal summer’s day.
34
35 SUMMER
the country-side than all sorts bf 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:
“K yrie l—K yrie l—K yrie eleison !”
“Madonna!——Madonna!—Most holy Madonna!”
“To Thee, O God !—To Thee I cry—I cry—l cry aloud!”
All the huts were decorated with greenery; and in the
whole aspect of the village, on this noted day of high solem-
nity, 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 comﬁelds: bluebells
and corn-ﬂowers were seen in every patch, and the hollows
where water had been now teemed with forget-me-nots, mak-
ing 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 over-
whelming.
THE PEASANTS 36
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 exchang-
ing 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 Dgz'ads, 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 out-
side, 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
37 SUMMER
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 daz-
zling 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 en-
veloped them!
Even the Dgz'ads had ceased from their importunate beg-
ging. 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
THE PEASANTS 38
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 re-
serve.
“If ye cannot pay, I am willing to vouch for Antek.”
39‘ SUMMER
, “Thanks, most heartily,” she said, bending down to his
feet. “It may be that Roch can arrange all things by him-
self, 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 pretextof 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 per-
fumed 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 Podlesiel” 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 fur-
niture, 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 PEASANTS 40
The people drew near to look at them, several even leav-
ing 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 murder-
ous looks.
“Ha! ha! Long-Trousers! . . . Carrion!”
“Ye horse-begotten onesl”
“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 dogsl”
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?”
I),
41 SUMMER
Gregory replied, in tone of mock pity: “Our sheep-
skins 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 !”Q.
“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 . . .
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 tell-
ing what trouble he had had to get rid of the Germans. The
peasants listened with civil assent; but, as to his kind feel-
ings, they kept their own opinion.
“Surely butter would not melt in our benefactor’s mouth,”
7,
one of them was
THE PEASANTS ‘42
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 mak-
ing 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 in-
defatigably 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
today.”
“For his son, at least, the grasping old skinﬂint is liberal
enoughf’
43 SUMMER
“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
wrse.
“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!”
THE PEASANTS 44
“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, Dgiadl—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 Dgz'aa’s, 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 sur-
rounded 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

45 SUMMER
Yuzka, most unexpectedly happened to see her father.
He was amongst the Dgz'ads, 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 Dgiad! 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 be-
hind him Iest she should be seen.
“Hanka! . . . Yes . . . it is I.”
“Come with me !—-Come home!--lnstantly!~—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 be-
hold 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 cairldron! _
The barrel-organ played lustily, the Dgiads cried aloud,
THE PEASANTS 46
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 them-
selves 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 delight-
ful 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 pas-
sages, 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
47 SUMMER
asleep somewhere in the shadow—Ah! ye little wretchesl”
he cried, and went stumping after the urchins.
Greatly upset, Hanka returned home, and told the oc-
currence 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 king-
dom, 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 sayP—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 Il—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
THE PEASANTS 48
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 Dgz'aa’.
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 Dgiadsl—Brought me in much, quotha!
-—Whoso sees a Dgz'aa’ 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?”
".7
49 SUMMER
“Oh, may the plague stop their breath!” the Dgiad 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 be emptied the por-
ringer, 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 ponder-
ously 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 ﬂutter-
ing ribbons now failed to rejoice her; and the barrel-organ’s
tunes, and the crowd and the hubbub, failed too.
THE PEASANTS 50
She walked along, carried on by the multitudes, and stop-
ping 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 Pry-
chek’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 ob-
served 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 engrav-

51 SUMMER
ing 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 sol—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?”
THE PEASANTS 52
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 op-
posite 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 l—Nastka gazed on him, open-mouthed in wonder. An-
drew 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.”
“1 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.”
53 . SUMMER
“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 re-
turned.
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 chat-
ting 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
TH‘E PEASANTS "sli
ﬁgures how the land should be divided, and how much each
was to get.‘ ' - ’
“ ‘A promise is a toy made to give fools joy!’ ”
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 ad-
ditional holding: think of that, my masters!”
The blacksmith here repeated what the Squire had di-
rected 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 Com-
missioner 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
grumbled

55 SUMMER
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‘WIII l.—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.”
THE PEASANTS 56
“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 in.-
deed 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 Komorm'kz' 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 starva-
tion? The lands must be meted out equally to alI.-—Ye
are all of you carrion and Squires!--Look at them, those
bare-backed ones, who yet hold their heads as high as if they
.Sneezed 'at us all!” He screamed so loud, and With such
,!
l
57 SUMMER
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 grass-
hoppers’ 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 out-
side 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 Dgiad. He, sitting in the porch, in-
haled 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
THE PEASANTS 58
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
Dgiad 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 profes-
sional 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 Dzz'ad 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 Dzz'ad, 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 vil-
lage. 7 She gazed long upon the waters, now dark, yet visible
as they trembled to the breeze; on the gently stirring shad-
ows; on the cottage lights that shot over the surface of the
pond and died away in the distance. Then, impelled on—
ward, she cast a glance beyond the mill at the meadows,
59t SUMMER’
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 out-
side 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
THE PEASANTS 60
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 re-
appeared, coming into the lamp-lit 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 sis-
ters 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 dean—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 op-
posite 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, star-
ing 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
61 SUMMER
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.
THE PEASANTS 62
Then the night fell upon her. She still remained there
a long time, gloating upon the blackness of the silent win-
dow. The chill of the darkness struck through her, sprink-
ling its silver dew over her hot desires, quenching the
ardour in her blood, and shedding over' her a sense of unut-
terable 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 mar-
vellous 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
laying her head down upon the pew-seat.
I “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 dart-
ing 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, Am-
brose 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.”
63
“PRAY, Hanka, may I go home?” Yuzka entreated,
THE PEASANTS 64
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 divid-
ing 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 mak-
ing 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 em-
braced 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 es-
pecial 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
65 SUMMER
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, Michaell” 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 tem—
pered 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 K omorm'kz' are
really starving.”
“And the Koziols,”; the blacksmith added, “are prowling
about to snap up anything they can lay hands on!”
THE PEASANTS 66
“Say not that. The poor creatures keep themselves alive '
as best they can. Yesterday Koslova 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 mat-
ters.”
“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 dis-
may. *
“ ’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. ' -< 1
67 SUMMER
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, Domini“
kova! 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 clear-
ing 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 sub-
ject.
“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 di-
vision.”
“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.”
THE PEASANTS 68
“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 pre-
fers it so. I shall not quarrel over this with you: the de-
cision 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 be-
longings 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, “Per~
chance,” 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 prat-
ing? 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.
69 SUMMER
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 wit-
ness to anything. The' miller will take one colt, and it may
THE PEASANTS 7O
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 bet-
ter advice than l.—Why, even the Squire takes mine gladly.
——Well, what say you?”
She answered in slow tones, looking at the man stead-
fastly 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 choosel—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 con-
fer with her for some time, angrily and with.clenched ﬁsts.
She came bringing an oﬁfcial document with her.
“’Tis for you, Hanka: the policeman has brought it in
from the bureau.”
“About Antek, perchance!” she thought in great trepi-
dation, taking the paper in her apron-covered hand.
“I think it concerns Gregory. My goodman is out—
7! SUMMER
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, fore-
seeing 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 beet-root. Yet, though overwhelmed
with shame, she nevertheless took refuge in reckless stub-
bornness; and as if to spite the other, she held her head up,
and fastened her eyes upon her enemy with a taunting ex-
pression and a malicious smile.
The look, the smile, infuriated the other, and she de—
nounced her lubricity in a torrent of invectives.
THE PEASANTS 72
“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 mis-
fortune.”
“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 con-
demned 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 your-
self—-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
73 SUMMER
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 con-
trolled 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? Bet-
ter 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?”
THE PEASANTS 74
“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!” . T . 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!
75 SUMMER
Nay, not to see you any more, he willingly would have done
himself a harm. . . . You sought the truth; you have it
now l—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 through-
out 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 danger-
ous 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 sud-
denly 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; Y uzka 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 re-
lief. 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
THE PEASANTS 76
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 chil-
dren 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 mel—And at any rate,” she added to comfort her-
self, 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, outl—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 stem emphasis.
Here the old dame would have interfered, eager to bring
forward explanations and excuses; but Yagna merely
shrugged her shoulders.
77 SUMMER
“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. I
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 amaze-
ment. 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
THE PEASANTS 78
drive your cow to your hut. And send someone ror 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 pres-
ently: 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 un-
easy about what Antek would say on his return.
“How he will knit his brows when I show him the deed!
--'-Oh, the fool l—Six whole a'cres! ’tis all but a farm by it-
self.”
“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 pub-
licly 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! "Y e 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
newsl—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 deadl—So strong a man !—-And so young l—He
79 SUMMER
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, “heri-
tages 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 there-
upon 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 Han-
ka’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
THE PEASANTS so
out a curse under his breath; but, hearing what.they said
outside Ploshka’s hut, he cOuld not help cryingout indig-
nantly: , _ ‘
“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 for—
given 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,Ya,gna 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
81 -SUMMER
might cut them into shape now: when are ye coming?”
“On Tib’s eve perhaps. I am disgusted with this vil-
lage, 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.——l 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
THE PEASANTS 82
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 sur-
mises, 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 apart-
ment—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
this:
83 S U M M E R
“Are you speaking as the defender of my victim, or 0
your mistress?” '
His whip struck the horses so hard that they bounded
away at a gallop.
CHAPTER IV
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
HANKA could not sleep a wink that night, after such
84
85 SUMMER
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 dis-
tinct.
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
THE PEASANTS 86
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 feel-
ingquickened 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 red--
dened 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
)7
!
87 SUMMER
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, bus-
tling 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 every-
'where, 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 “ 1
“Take all the dung‘out of the byrel” 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
THE PEASANTS 38
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 care-
fully, 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 clear! 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 clearly cherished, long
ago man had perished.’—-'-It must, then, be good for some—
thing, 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
89 SUMMER
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 pleas-
ant, 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, 'Hankfa! Antek is home!”
THE PEASANTS 90
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 II—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 clear! 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
.91 SUMMER
,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 ~im-
pulse, 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 hap-
piness, bedewed with her heart’s blood; and these her faith-
ful 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 easilyl—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!”
THE PEASANTS 92
"‘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
be 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:
93 SUMMER
“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 yesterdayP—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 l 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 barsgcz.
“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 itl—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 any-
whither.” 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 for-
gotten. We went together to make our choices and pur-
chases.”
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,
THE PEASANTS 94
but green; also a, fr'ill 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 be-
wildered amazement! J
“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 beauti-
ful 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 banger, 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 gar-
lic 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 l smelt the smell of the land
95 S U M M E R
-—-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, shewent 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 l—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 sprout-
ing cucumber-plants.
The day was painfully long, but there was no help for
THE PEASANTS 96
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 sleep-
ing 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 pf the house.
Beer and vodka were not lacking there, not even a desert--
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 fes-
tival?” she answered, busily serving them, and eating very
little herself.
'97 SUMMER
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 1 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 0
each crop. When she had ﬁnished, he said: '
“I can hardly ~think that you have done all this by your-
self.”
“For your sake, I could have done still more!” she whis-
pered, overjoyed at his praiée; 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 cher-
ries, 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 win-
idow. :
“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.
THE PEASANTS 98
He knit his brows, pondefed aw'hile,‘then lit a cigarette,
and said quietly and with seeming indifference:
“Dominikova is a bad animal; she will not be ousted with-
out 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, omit—
ting 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!” a-
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.
99 SUMMER
He stopped to examine almost every ﬁeld in particular.
“Ha! that weed is simply choking the ﬂax!” he cried, ob-
serving 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 magnif-
icently, the straw was thick in the stern, 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 reg-
ular—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;
.THE PEASANTS 100
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 vi-
brated; 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 burn-
ing 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 com-
plaining of its rough behaviour.
Antek, having reached his fallow at the skirt of the for-
est, 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 mat—
ter 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 peeked 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!
101 SUMMER
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 num-
berless black wild bees and bumble-bees buzzing around
them.
He recalled those days of the near past, when he was long-
ing 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, ﬂutter-
ing, bickering, ﬁghting, and ﬂying down into the sand be-
neath, 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.”
THE PEASANTS ioz
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, no-
ticed 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
103 SUMMER
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 in-
deed 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.
THE PEASANTS 104
He bent his head over his hands, bowing it low; for many
and various thoughts had now come into his mind, mourn-
ful 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 trans-
gressions 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.
105 SUMMER
“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 harn, 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.
THE PEASANTS 106
“Were you in the ﬁelds?” she asked him timidly.
“l 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 1”
“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!”
107 SUMMER
“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 wifh 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 theml—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 be-
comes 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 as-
sembly 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
THE PEASANTS 108
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 pro-
trude 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, indeedP—l 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 good-
wife anew; a third sets to whining for a bit of meadow ad-
jacent 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
109 SUMMER
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?” sev-
eral 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, ayel—You and none other l—We’ll fol-
low you!” were the cries that arose—not much to the smith’s
taste, seemingly. He twisted about, scratched his mous-
tache, and grinned maliciously when Antek said:
“Well, well, they say: ‘Pot-making is for others than
saints.’—l can but try; and we’ll talk the matter over an-
other 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.”
THE PEASANTS 110
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 bed-
ding, 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
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, mak-
ing every movement wearisome. The ﬂies, too, hummed in
myriads over the cart, and the horses, assailed, and mad-
dened by them, came near breaking their halters, and per-
haps their legs, in pulling and straining to avoid their bites.
The yard was so ﬂooded with the heat, together with the
pungent eﬁ‘luvium 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 of-
fensive had reached him from the cow-byre.
“God bless you, Dgz'ad!”
4‘ PETE, bring ﬁrewood in!” Hanka called out from
111
THE PEASANTS 112
“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, hal—Did you get used to that, pray?”
“I soon had enough of such drilling, and meeting th'e'ruf-
ﬁan 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 an-
other, 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. A
“I shall not feed the ﬁre; ’tis no duty of mine!” he
shouted back.
113 SUMMER
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
stiflineg 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 perspira-
tion, 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 Kamamiki, 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.
THE PEASANTS 114
“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 dis-
pose 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
ll5 SUMMER
aﬁeld, and the poor girl has no one to fetch her water even!”
“What ails her, then?”
“The small-pox, 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 Komomz'kz' 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
THE PEASANTS 116
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 earth-
worms; 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 pa-
tiently, 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 work-
ing because of you; and you come on now slow as a rag-
picker !—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 famish-
ing!”
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
117 SUMMER
there blew a breeze laden with resinous fragrance, and carry-
ing 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 Komorm'ki 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 bar-
vest comes, ye can work the price out.”
THE PEASANTS 118.
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 starva-
tion!” she declared, sobbing. “Yes, I’ll work for you when-.
ever 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.” 1
“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 signiﬁance. ~ “Often and often ye have!”
“Ah, was it possible that our Lord should ever have l’is-
tened to my senseless outcries?” But she added, in a tone of
secret uneasiness: “Even when a mother curses her chil-
dren, her heart never really wishes them evil.-—‘Wrath and
woe make tongues go!’ Aye, indeed. . . .”
ll9 SUMMER
“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 itl—And perhaps some-
one 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, lick-
ing 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 wan-
dering over the country-side:
“How are they getting on at Dominikova’s?” -
But she guessed what was in his mind, and smiled wit
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 conﬁ-
dences, rose to go away, moaning with pain. ~
“Pete!” he ordered curtly. “Take her back with you in
the cart!” ~
5‘ '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 PEASANTS 120
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 oﬂ. '
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. I ‘
The cabin was empty, and everything there untidy and
soiled with ﬂour: Hanka, in the orchard, quarrelled with a
neighbour. ' i
“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 l—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,
121 S U M M E R
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 some
one 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
saw-mill.”
Antek rolled a cigarette and sat down by the door-step.
The hammers went on with pertinacious fury, smiting rhyth~
mically again and again on the red-hot iron, slowly chang-
ing 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.”
THE PEASANTS 122
i “Whom I do’ not know!--If yciu 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, thun-
dered down out of the carts, till the earth shook; while half
a dozen workmen were busy with theiriaxes, 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 tim-
ber 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,
123 SUMMER
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, try-
.ing 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
THE PEASANTS 124
“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 itl—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 exceed-
ingly 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 some-
one 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 con-
tempt 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!
125 SUMMER
“Only, 0 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, work-
ing 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!”
“1 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 brokeri, 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 dogl—Aye, and a resolute one: who
knew what he had to do, and did it!”
“Did they ever prove that he slew the gendarme?”
THE PEASANTS 126
“He did not wait so long. No fool he, to submit to ’rot
in prison!” ' 7 '
“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 Para-
dise 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 re-
paired the plough, he said lightly:
“And now I am off to the dealers. Have your cart ready
to carry the ti~mber.—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.”
127 SUMMER
Antek, however, could not forget his words. He had
swaIIQWed 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 prov-
ender 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?”
THE PEASANTS 128
' "‘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
eIs-e 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 instal-
ments.——Is’t not a good thought?”
“As good as any, indeed—But . . . whence shall the
money come?”
P,
129 SUMMER
“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, spring-
ing 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 Qleisurely, and at length was'close to
T'HE PIE‘ASANTS I30
his cabin. The windows were open and alight, the children
wailing within, Hanka raising her voice and Yuzka retort-
ing shrilly. He could not quite make up his mind, till
Lapa came joyfully whining and leaping up. Then—-—fol-
loWing 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 ,di-
rection of the village, he would turn round quickly, in seem-
ing 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 ansa-ppe-
>
I31 - SUMMER
tite 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 ever-
lasting rest—or make the loss up in some other wayl—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 swinel—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: V-alek has gone to the Manor house. But those
misbegotten beasts of mine—Heaven save the markl—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, seat-
ing himself on a stone.
“Sit down; we’ll talk together. What splendid weather
THE PEASANTS 132
we havel—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.
‘1 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 doneP—Wait a little: I shall say Mass
for you at the altar of the Transﬁguration here l—Pray drive
133 SUMMER
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. M.
“.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 be-
haviour 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
THE PEASANTS 134
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 mem-
ories 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 ac-
count 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—~alll—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 step-
mother? 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 van-
ished from his soul, and he again felt love stirring there.
“Hush, my Yagna, hush, my little one!” he whispered
tenderly.
1% ‘SUMMER
“And this wrong besides have I suffered, that you—eyou,
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 child-
like trust. -
But Antek’s blood was by/ now all on ﬁre; his kisses grew
ﬁerce and stormy, his embr/aces 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- com-
pletely helpless,"and knew again the power of his hot kisses,
that she attempted to break loose, begging him in terror,
almost wjlfh tears:
“Let the go! Antek, for God’s sake, let me go!--I shall
cry out.»!”
Butjescape was impossible: his wild impetuosity crushed
all resistance down, and prevailed utterly.
' “fjor the last—the very last, last time!" he ejaculated,
in a} hoarse breathless voice.
And the world turned round them both, and they both
wertt down headlong into the boiling whirlpool. Both loved
pa ’sionately, as they once had loved before—fainting, swoon-
in;, near to death.
' s once—as of old—as in the past!
hey 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
.p ssion in the tempest of their own. And for that one short
minute of a rapture soon to expire for ever, after this last
ex berant outburst, their former love had revived.
moment afterwards, they were again seated side by side,
feel 'ng their souls very dark within them. Each glanced
T'HE PEASANTS “136
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 irf her ear the sweet names of en-
dearment he had once given her. She looked up at the
moon, and replied not a Word. In him, this hearing 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 spokeﬁjrst, with barely con-
cealed 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. \
l “Neither yours nor anyone’s!-—Understand thath—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?” i,
“And whither?” she returned, her wet eyes looking lhim
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 11
her face, and begged and entreated her to run away w th-
him—somewhere—and be with him for evermore. *e
spoke a long while of his plans and hopes; he had sudde ly
caught hold of that idea—ﬂight with her—as a drum en
man catches at a fence to steady himself. He talked,/ too,
~-_ '3'“-
137 SUMMER
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, for-
sooth! You are too saucy!”
“Then off with you—go! G0, even to that old Jew!” he
almost spat the words at her.
But she stood there still. They were both together, pant-
ing 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
THE PEASANTS “138
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——l 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
1:39 SUMMER
mantle of grey cloth, but Antek was yet waking: and as
soon as the daylight had come, Hanka appearedat 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 side-
board, “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 winter-
time; 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 squar-
ing 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 had 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 thisl—lf I
THE PEASANTS 140
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 con-
stantly 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 every-
thing up and ﬂee; but again, looking round him at the
countryside, and reﬂecting that ﬂight would mean leaving all
that for ever, he was panic-stricken, and would have pre-
ferred 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 in-
stantly 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 pat-
~ tern 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
l4l ' SUMMER
autumn night—not angry, not ill-tempered—only sighing
deeply; 'often spending his whole evening with his acquaint-
ances 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 devo-
tion 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 win-
dows. 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 as-
surance, bringing a bottle out of the store-room.
“After thieves—and others. . . . Drink to us, goodman.”
THE PEASANTS 142
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, the took another glass of
vodka; and their leader, wiping is moustaches, said im-
pressively:
“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 like-
wise. 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?” a
“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 informa-
tion 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 l have him in my
pocket?”
“Boryna!” the gendarme returned ﬁercely; “I am here on
duty: understand that!”——But he took leave in more friendly
I43 SUMMER
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 “Harnerica.” '
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 re-
straining her tears:
“You will work out your time and come back. Fear noth-
ing: 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 every-
thing. And our Lord will help me to pull through with this
aﬂliction 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
growled, rolling over on the other side in a bad
temper.
Simon was quiet for a minute; but as soon as ever Mat-
thew 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 stealthin 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
“I IE still once for all, and trouble me not!” Matthew
144
145 SUMMER
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 any-
thing 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!
“1 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 gar-
ments. The cool of the night had been somewhat penetrat-
ing: 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 grow-
ing 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
THE PEASANTS 146
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, l, a poor destitute orphan:
come Thou to mine aid! Yes, I am sinful; but succour
me, O Lord of mercy1—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 join-
ing 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!”
147 - SUMMER
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 him-
self 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 stop—
ping 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: .
THE PEASANTS . 148
“No use resisting, foolish one: you cannot withstand me.
What, should I leave you standing here to tear my galli-
gaskins?” -
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 for-
saken 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 Podlesiefarm 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.
149 SUMMER
-“Ho, ho!” he cried, his eyes round with amazement;
“you’re working as hard as ten, 1 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 inerer 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, ad-
dressing 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 moor-
lands?”
“Everythingl—As you’ll see. There will even be wheat
for you to bake cakes of!”
“Oh, yesl—‘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.”
THE PEASANTS 150
“Our cottage? Built of mud, perch‘ance, like a swallow’s
nest?”
“Of wood and branches, and clay and sand, and what-
soever 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 ex-
planation.
“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 Dgiads: 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
15'1 SUMMER
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 Lordl”
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 de-
THE'PEASANTS 152
serVes help.” But no one put himself .forwa-rd, everyone
waiting for him tio 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 greatlyl—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
1 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 heed-
less 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. Scarcer anyone could work in the ﬁelds:I
I53 .. SUMMER
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 pur—
pose. 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 per-
sonage, 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

THE PEASANT’S 154
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 obe-
dient 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.
155 SUMMER
“Hey-day! Is he not your swaint? To forestall the wed-
ding a clay 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:
“1 should never have had your patience!”
But next daybreak saw Simon hard at work again, and
indefatigable. Only, when Nastka brought him his break-
fast, 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?”
THE PEASANTS 156
“I shall, and will help you to build your hut.’ Think'you
l cannot?—-You will see.” . - I
Henceforth they worked together. The old man had in-
deed 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. A‘nd 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 ofiwisdom 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 kind-
ness. 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 ﬁn-
ished, 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 shav-
157 ‘ SUMMER
ings 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 An-
drew 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 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

THE PEASANTS 158
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 an-
other 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 daytime 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, n'o
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,
159 SUMMER
not having refused the invitation, had (as was proper) sent
various presents in aid of the wedding-feast. Their ab-
sence being remarked upon, Yagustynka made a character-
istic 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 unex-
pectedly 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!”
THE PEASANTS I60
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 win-
dow 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 to-
gether 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
gathered some wild strawberries, and brought them
for Yuzka. Hanka was then milking the cows out-
side 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 Domini-
kova.” '
“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 ’11 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,
Ishe 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!
YAGUSTYNKA went to the Borynas’. She had
161
THE PEASANTS 162
Having spoken thus with Hanka, she gave the straw-
berries to the sick child, and prepared an ointment for her,
made up of pure buckwheat meal, mixed with much fresh un-
salted 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 th
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 incanta-
tion over her, fumigated her with the smoke of dried house-
leek, 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 truel—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: ' I '
“Drive them offl—They’ll trample me down !-----Baa!
Baa! Baa!” ' ' ' "»
Then of a sudden she collapsed, lying 'still as in sleep.
163 ' SUMMER
Vitek went out, but returned at frequent intervals. Once
she asked him anxiously:
“Is it noon yet?” :
“Nearer midnight: everybody is asleep.”
“True: ’tisvdark.”
“Take those sparrows away: they are chirping like un-=
ﬂedged 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 wed-
ding; yetrwill 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 par-
tridges.
“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
THE PEASANTS 164
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 in-
stantly; Vitek followed, shouting; and the noise and up-
roar 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 run-
ner 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 squir-
rel that leapt about the room the most funnily in the world;
or a brood of young swallows, twittering so very sorrow-
fully 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?”
16:5 . SUMMER
“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 grain-
less 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
vapoun
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 des-
peration, 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 un—
touched.
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 pasturelands, 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
THE PEASANTS 166
came to pass that—at the very point of noon, when every-
thing 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 dark-
ness, there poured forth shaft after shaft of dazzling splen-
dour; 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 bril-
liancy; 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
16"7 SUMMER
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 fre—
quently, 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 but and the ad-
, jacent 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 a-kimbo, 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 wood-
lands, 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
THE PEASANTS \ 168
met Yagna, carrying a hoe and a basket. He greeted her
cordially; she glared at him like a wolf, and passed on in
silence. 1
“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 per-
mitted 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. 1
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
169 SUMMER
tell you all—but you’ll never believe rile—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 lick-
ing 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 gendarmz'e. 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.”
THE PEASANTS 170
“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? 1 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 in-
quired.
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.”
l7l SUMMER
“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!”
THE PEASANTS 172
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 some-
one else.” .
r “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 whis-
pered passionately.
Raging, she tore herself from his clutch.
173 ‘SUMMER
“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 comingl” she crooned
to herself, darting forward suddenly with the rapidity of a
THE PEASANTS 174
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 rriany 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. Some-
times a faint breeze swept gently by, like the touch of
tender hands; and then the pleasant waft, warm and odor-
ous, 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
I75 SUMMER
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 exulta-
tion, to that which was to be.
CHAPTER VIII
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.
50 they waited patiently. The Voyt alone rushed bus-
tling 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 peas-
ant, 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
IT was near noontide, and the heat greater and greater.
176
177 ‘ s u M M E R
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 out-
stretched 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 al-
ways 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
THE PEASANTS 178
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,” some-
one 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 Mat-
thew: 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,
I79 SUMMER
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 Dis-
trict 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 embar-
rassed 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!”
THE PEASANTS 180
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
181 SUMMER
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, uni
daunted, 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 pay-
day comes? Why, we peasants! When the Cossacks are
THE'PEASANTS 182
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, more-
over, 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 la-
bourer who can say to his master: ‘1 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
183 SUMMER
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 every-
thing. 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. 1
“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?”
Theylroared with laughter at this; but presently their
attentionlwas diverted to the roof of the ofﬁce, on to which
the constable Joseph had climbed, and, holding to a chim-
ney, 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:
THE PEASANTS 184
“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 beet-root,
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 in-
deed before the head ofﬁcial showed himself: while from the
scrivener’s apartments there came the noise of jingling
185 SUMMER
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 Voytl”
They also aimed a good many jibes at the constable, who
was not able to get the calf into the yard without the as-
sistance 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, fear-
ing 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, how-
ever, 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:
THE PEASANTS 186
“Ye may try 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, re-
minding 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 headl—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 Of-
ﬁce. “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 Modlitsal—Our secretary will read you things con-
cerning 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 ex-
claimed:
“Why, we understand naught!”
“Read it in our tongue! We cannot make it out!” re-
peated many voices.
187 SUMMER
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 delib-
erately:
“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 educa-
tion 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
.‘or 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. Every-
one 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?”
THE PEASANTS 188
“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. Strok-
ing 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 sen-
tences 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 for-
ward, and declared fearlessly: “For such a school we’ll not '
vote half a kopek!”
“We will not! No, we will not!” a hundred voices re-
peated.
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
189 SUMMER
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. En-
couraged by these gestures, the Voyt spoke strongly in fa-
vour of the school, and those of his party likewise, the miller
distinguishing himself amongst them, and scorning the in-
terruptions 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 for-
ward 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 main—
taining 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
THE PEASANTS 190
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 talk-
ing 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 stem 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 usl”
“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 for-
bidden our own!”
“Always commands, and naught except commands!
Obey, and pay, and sweep the ground with your hat, you
peasant!”
l9] SUMMER
“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 be-
ware of . . .
“Hold your peace, Klemba!--His Majesty the Czar him-
self 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 pro-
claimed 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!” in—
dicating 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
THE PEASANTS 1.92
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! Si-
lence, when I speakl—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 schooll—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.
193 SUMMER
“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 persis-
tently; 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 be pleased.”
THE PEASANTS 194
“There have been so many abuses that we might well
make an appeal.”
“Come all to the tavern!” cried Matthew. “May a brim-
stone 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 any-
one, making for Lipka by a short cut across the ﬁelds.
CHAPTER IX
driven away from a bowl of milk. He was even de-
liberating 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 Oﬂice: 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 of-
ﬁcial 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 stal-
wart 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,
a NTEK left the assembly about as willingly as a cat

195
THE PEASANTS 196
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 reﬂec-
tion on his mother. Antek, who had no mind to bandy in-
sults 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 vil-
lages 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,
197 SUMMER
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 soundl—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 splen-
did joke we have played off on you!” He burst out laugh-
ing, 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 sud-
denly 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 jestl—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 grot-
toes. 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 oﬂ, 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
THE PEASANTS I98
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, alter-
nately 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 dry-
ing 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,
199 SUMMER
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 miser-
able! 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 rag-picker—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 solilo-
quized, 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:
THE PEASANTS 200
“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 lustin 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 kopeksl”
“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 perad-
venture?—No?—Then may I offer rolls or scones or cara-
mels . . . 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 him-
self 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 morn-
ing’s assembly. It appeared that the jew had special in-
201 SUMMER
formation 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 say-
ing, 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 (loty’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
THE PEASANTS 202
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 contem-
plation 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 tran-
quillity 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.——ln 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 every-
where 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 presencel—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.”
203 SUMMER
“But who gave you the idea?” he asked, lowering his
voice, and approaching.
“Untaught, children may learn to think aright,” he an-
swered 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 con-
dition.
“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, prayP—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 bet-
ter! 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.
THE PEASANTS 204
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!” lnfuriated, he strode along, crushing the toad-
stools 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 crim—
son 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 straw-
berries, 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
205 SUMMER
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
greedin 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: “1 could not tell, for they were slip-
ping away into the thickets. On account of the heat, no
doubt.”
THE PEASANTS 206
“Saints of the Lord! -what has come to your mind?
YanekI—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 tender-
est affection, and crying out from his heart:
“O my dear, my darling mother!”
“Saints of the Lord I—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!——l met Yagna coming out of the wood with them,
and she gave me some.” He coloured bashfully.
207 ' SUMMER
“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 scapegracel—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 misdeedl”
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 1—1 should die of shame and sorrow! O
God! have mercy upon us!”
“My dear mother, have no fear for me.”
THE PEASANTS 208
“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,iwere 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 him-
self? 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. Be~
hind it ran the priest, clad only in shirt and breeches, bare—
headed, 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,
209 SUMMER
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 al-
lowed 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 againl—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 set-
tling. 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 mean-
while 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 set-
tling 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, accom-
panied him; Ambrose followed, now ringing, now sprinkling

THE PEASANTS 210
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, with-
out 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 block-
head! and where are the bees now?—In the woods and the
forests l—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
robberl—What, have you heard about Felix? . . . Ah!
these wretches, they sting like wasps!” he broke off all at
211 SUMMER
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 warnee. 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 your-
self 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 outl—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 twin-
kling 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 bare-backed, or to keep company with herdsmenl”
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 neighbour-
ing 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
THE‘PEASANTS 212
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 willl—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 morn-
ing, 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 be-
213 SUMMER
ginning 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 wor-
shippers were kneeling round the altar, when the service
began.
Yanek, though serving Mass and praying fervently be-
tween 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
Yanekl”
“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 await-
ing 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-
THE PEASANTS 214
room for my last hours—on a bed, beneath the Holy Im-
ages, 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 pres-
ence 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 ac-
quaintances—I tell you true, young master: they do come!
——Once, too,” she whispered with a smile of ineffable rap-
ture, “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~

215 SUMMER
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 be-
held 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 convulsiver 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 feast-
ing 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 harden-
THE PEASANTS 216
ing 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: some-
thing 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
217 SUMMER
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 with-
out 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 mean-
ing 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 mia‘ch ironing to be done.”
A/nd presently she came, but so ﬁnely dressed that he
worfideredf
{“What? are ye off to a wedding?”
(One of the girls here cried out: “Rather she has received
ajh offer of marriage.”
I “Let them but dare! I should soon send them ﬂying!”
fhe 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
THE PEASANTS 218
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 thur-
ibles, 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 jo n
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!”
219 SUMMER
“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 mar-
vellous 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
THE PEASANTS 220
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 head-gear!” 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,
221* SUMMER
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 at-
tentive 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
--t‘o 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 sum-
mer 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 sul-
try 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
THE PEASANTS 222
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, in-
differently expecting all!
Thus did Yagna spend the short warm clear nights and
the burning days of july: they passed by her like a delight-
ful dream, repeated again and again, and always more de-
sirable.
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 re-
joiced 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
Y 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.”
223 SUMMER
“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 de-
light 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, gruﬁ‘ly, not
much pleased at having her company; and on he went,\read-
ing the book to himself half aloud.
“What 'does it tell of?” she inquired, with a glance at the
open pages.
THE PEASANTS 224
“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 bash-
fully: ~ ,
"‘Can I tell?—I-t 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 corn-
ﬂowers 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
225 SUMMER
to her about the. poem, and quoted many .a passage, describ-
ing 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 nightl—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 dis—
appointed.
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, Koz-
lova walking by her side.
.THE PEASANTS 226
“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 sightl—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
N 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 excite-
ment; 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
nu; 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!” -
221'
THE PEASANTS 228
Yagustynka came up. “1,” 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 mole-
hills! 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 . . .”
I “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 hav
come.” \
“Some evil thing is certainly at hand,” old Bylitsa stam-
mered. '
“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!” Gr'egory
rejoined, suddenly breathless with apprehension.
“No, I think they mean to seize Roch!” Staho asserted.
229 SUMMER
"‘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 gar—
dens, 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
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 l—Roch! Get behind the haystack and into
the rye this instant. Wiggle into some furrow, hide youi-
self 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:
')7
he cried. “Here,
THE PEASANTS 230
“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 rhythmi-
cal 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, look-
ing on in silence, while the cottage was searched and ran-
sacked 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 every-
where, and were so careful to overlook nothing that one of
them even peered under the bed!
231 SUMMER
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. I
“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 l”
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:
small-pox.”
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
Dgiaa’s’ wont.”
They peered into every hole and corner, even looking
behind the holy images; while Yuzka followed their move-
ments with eyes full of dread, trembling all over. One of
them having approached her, she cried out wildly:
“Oh, have 1 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
THE PEASANTS 232
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 any-
body 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 consulta-
tion, 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 prem-
ises. 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?”
233 ' SUMMER
“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 under-
standing!”
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 than 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 the 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.
“’T he britzka is waiting at Simon’s hut in Podlesie, and
M} tthew will drive for you.”
,/“But I must still pay a visit here in Lipka—Where are
we to meet?”
L “At the cruciﬁx by the forest, whither we are going at
nce.
“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:
THE PEASANTS ‘ 234
“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 bn carrying it for
him, at least to the forest. He agreed, ands 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 ﬁ ul barking.
They were nearing the forest, when Roch, co ing to a
standstill, took Yagna’s hand. j
“Hear me, Yagna,” he said in a kindly tone, “and\take to
heart whatl am going to say.” g
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 Vloyt
. 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 hezi‘d
deﬁantly. !
“With him I have done no evil whatsoever!”
He pointed out gently to her the temptations to whicl
they were exposing themselves . . . the sins and scandals tr!
which the Evil One might give occasion thereby. 1
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!” j
Her glowing eyes gazed afar, and circled in fancy over his #
adored head.

235 SUMMER
“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. 1
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
'7)
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
goodf’
“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?”
THE PEASANTS 23h
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 min»-
gled 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 con»
ﬁdence:
“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 remainl—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 abun—
dantly 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
237 SUMMER
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 in-
effable 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 per-
haps never see again. Yagna sobbed aloud, and the others
were struggling with deep emotions.
Such was their parting.
THE PEASANTS 238
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 path-
way 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
N the lighter soils, they were beginning to reap al-
ready; 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.
239
THE PEASANTS 240
“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 ex-
tortioner 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 pur-
241 SUMMER
chased 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 R'och?”
“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 Chensto-
hova?”
“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, 1 ex-
pect.”
“And a good season they have chosen—just when the
work is hardest!” Antek grumbled; but he would not for-
bid 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!”
“Tereska’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. Yagus-
tynka broke in on their talk, saying:
THE PEASANTS 242
“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 worldl—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 some-
one 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.
243 " SUMMER
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 ut-
tered an oath.
They returned to the village together, Matthew looking
gloomy and downcast, and more than once heaving a high.
“I see,” Antek said, weighing each word, “that you are
grievously troubled in mind.”
“For her? Not 1! 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 la-
mented 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.”

'THE PEASANTS 244
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 con-
ceal all he felt—dropped several words in Yagna’s praise.
The whole manoeuvre 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 re-
sponded deliberately, though horribly tortured with jealousy
at the thought of Matthew possibly becoming her husband:
it hit him with all the venom of a mad dog’s fangs.
To what the latter said, though his talk was not infre-
quently 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.
245 SUMMER
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 backl—He knows all.”
“Glad of it! I shall not have to lie.”
“Teresa has been in here more than once: talks of drown-
ing 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 or-
chard, 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 over-
come 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!”
THE "PEASANTS 246
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! . . . l was at work in the priest’s ﬂax,
when_someone came and told me. . . . I had like to fall
dead on the spot, a’nd'went home with death in my heart._
1 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!”
,1 Matthew, shaking in every limb, wiped the cold sweat
from his face. a
' '“S_o ~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.
-v, . 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.
.-,“P,oor 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 rne?
wherefore lead me on to sin?”
“Hush, hush! All the village will be here!”
1 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
Z47 ' SUMMER
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 look
ing 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 mingd:jshe 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-1
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 bothl—A well-matched pairL—a
wanton and a thief!” ' '
And" with an awful shriek, she fell faintinth the ground.
'Ma'tthew stood beside her, at a loss what to do; his
mother sat whimpering by the walk—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!”
THE PEASANTS 248
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 Yagus-
tynka, 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’swthat’s his game!”
249 ' SUMMER
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 Klem-
bas’. 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, look-
ing 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:
THE PEASANTS 250
’ “How grand it will be! “I look quite like a notable good-
wife.” .
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 Klem-
bas 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 dis-
tributed 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,
lwith holy pictures above her—and just as it had been the
dream of her life to die! She was in a state of serene ela—
tion, of unspeakable happiness, and tears of joy were rolling
down her cheeks. Her lips moved in faint but rapturous
251 “SUMMER
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 a-bysses, 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 twi-
light 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
THE PEASANTS 252
stopping half-way. “Look at her, this tender nurse of ours!
Pity—is it notP—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, besidr
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
N a sudden he made a start to rush after her.
0 “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, strug-
gling 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 1 ex-
pelled her. And now you know!”
“Lord Almightyl—What is this you say?” he cried in-
dignantly.
“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!”
253
THE PEASANTS 254
"7
“Yagna . . . the worst . . . .
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 be~
fore him, he would have turned from her with angry loath-
ing. 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
He could not believe

255 SUMMER
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 un-
der the trees, in company with his painful thoughts.
“And yet, it may be true! Mother could never have in-
vented 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
THE PEASANTS 256
. and a ﬁrst-rate breed of cows—Know ye if the Klem-
bas 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 noth-
ing 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
257 _ SUMMER
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
I,
. 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 sur-
prised them in the wood together . ”
Here everything began to turn round, his eyes saw noth-
ing 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 beet-root, 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,”
THE PEASANTS 258
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 un-
consciously 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 re-
turned, 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 de-
sired?” he thought, as the memory of her scorching kisses
259 ' SUMMER
and ﬂaming eyes and husky voice came back to him. “And
I—-l 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 day-
break 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 broil-
ing. 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 al-
most 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
THE PEASANTS 260
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 whis-
pered. “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 ad-
vised.
“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 suf-
fer in consequence. . . . It all ended, however, in her ban-
daging 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.
261 SUMMER
“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 mis-
took his Responses. As the body was on its way to the
churchyard, she walked almost at his side, utterly indif-
ferent 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 cus-
tomary 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 peo-
ple from the other hamlets, and even some from neighbour-
ing 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
Yanel; had to stay and help his Reverence in settling many
various matters. It was only quite at evening that he found
THE PEASANTS 262
a convenient time to take his book and slip out behind the
barn and to that pear-tree under which he had once sat to-
gether 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 in-
most 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
263 SUMMER
of a beloved hand—those eyes instinct at once with sub-
tle 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 re-
counted 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 knowl-
edge 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 untruel—euntrue!” 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 sin-
ful!”
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 PEASANTS 264
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 inexorablel—At the sight, he fal-
tered, 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
265 SUMMER
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 some-
where and sung something . . . something she could not
remember. . . . And always, always the same dream, end-
lessly repeated!
Her mother woke her to reality; but Hanka did the wak-
ing 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 thatl—I entreat you most sincerely
to pardon me.”
“I bear you no malice in my heart,” Dominikova re-
turned, 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!”
THE PEASANTS 266
But there was no discussing the matter now: half the vil-
lage 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 ly-
ing 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, be-
cause 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
267 SUMMER
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 daz-
zﬁng ﬁght
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
see'n 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 anywherean
more love—no more hope!
Even her tears failed her in the end, although her eyes,
full of awful desolation and despair, glittered like fathom-
less 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
Yagna ,was always straying about like someone dis-
traught, 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
couldﬂnot do all by herself, having to grope about with her
stick, half blind and her eyes bandaged. No wonder if
sjhe‘almost went mad with trouble and mortiﬁcation.
She, hired a komorm'tsa for the work, and did all she
could, both by herself and by her inﬂuence over her chil-
dren. But Yagna seemed deaf to all entreaties and remon-
strances; 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 aston-
ished!”
“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
I IFE was fast becoming impossible at Dominikova’s.
l
268
269 SUMMER
:ill 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 unwill-
ingly, 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 Chensto-
hova, to protect him from youl—Do you hear that? Oh,
think what you have done!” she cried indignantly.
“Jesu Marial—Yanek beaten l—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 swol-
len 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, omit-
THE PEASANTS _ ting not a single-one, and pouring out 'beforeher all.- the.
bitterness that she had endured in silence for ever so long. I ’
“Can you not see that all this must come to. an e-nd?=thati
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 formy old age.
good Lord! Oh, what a shame!” she murmured des~pair~
ingly. I ‘ ' . - ‘ ‘ - t . “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 eve;
- ning, 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; _
“er went, to the Police Bureau yesterday; since then," no
neWs of him.” i ' “Yesterday evening,” Matthew’s. voice returned, “he went-
to the District Ofﬁce; and the Soltys saysv the head official
had sent both for‘him and for the scrivener.” ' a a
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 50.
Even Matthew he’s not to be disdained; a clever fellow,
and an honest.” . ~ > 1 - L
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

27l SUMMER
their-edges were‘silvery,iand 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 purposeP—No, I’ll not go!”
“Not go to confession!" Her mother’s' voice was stridu-
lous with horror.
“N0. Quick to punish, slow to help: that’s what the
priest is.” _
! “Hush, lest the Lord ~God"puni_sh you for those wicked
wordsl—And I say to you: Go to confession, do penance,
beg God’s forgiveness; do so, and all may yet be well!”
“Penance indeed! ls mine slight? And for what wrong
that I have done, pray? No doubt, because I’love, and be-
cause I suffer, I am rewarded thus.- For me, the worst that
can be has already come -to pass!” And she went on be-
wailing herself in her sullen mood of exasperation.
Alas, poor thingl- '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 Massé-the incredible rumour
that the Voyt_ had'beent'arrested for a deﬁcit in the village
accounts! : i " ' ‘ i ‘
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. h
,The‘graver members of the community only said: “The
idle love inventing stories and spreading them for a pas-
time.” ‘ . '
'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 commu-
nity’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
TH'E PEASANTS 272
they all were in such straits, and misery cried aloud every-
where; 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 1! 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 to-
gether 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!”
273 SUM'MER
“Oh, but she has enjoyed herself very well as it is!” Koz-
lova bawled, attacking her like Ploshkova, but in a dif-
ferent 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 in-
difference:
“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 any-
one, 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 be-
lieved her implicitly. All but Yagustynka, who cried out
in a passion:
“Great saints, Shuffle 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 in-
stigation too! Ah, but she is capable of any crime;
THE PEASANTS 274
naught on' earth is sacred to her, that shameless, that con-
seienceless 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 mer-
ciful Jesus!” _
“Ah, how much drunkenness and quarrelling and iniquity
are‘ all owing to her!”
“She is an ulcer that infects the whole village, and be-4
cause 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 ex-
tremity. 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, ft'is God’s truth,” the other lamented in despair.
275 SUMMER
“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 mar-
ried 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,
land 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 as—
l
THE PEASANTS 276
sembly! 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. v
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 greedin 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 hon-
est 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 meas-
ure 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 rewardl—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:
277 SUMMER
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 be en-
dured, 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 vil-
lage: 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:
“1, 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 organ-
ist and his wife. . . . Shall we put up with such injustice?
THE PEASANTS 278
-'-In what has 'she been to blame? Allrthei’r accusations are
mere lies! . .' . Lord! are they're h'unt'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
stone.” '
“O Antek, rescue her I—Do something, for God’s sake! ‘I
shall go mad-é—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?4-=Nothing!”
“Aha!—-You have a grudge against her!” Matthew sud-
denly ﬂashed outf ' ‘
“Grudge or no grudge, that‘concer'ns‘none but myself!”
Antek replied sternly, and leaned back against the well-
cover, looking into vacancy. ' His passion for Yagna, sup-
pressed 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 ex-
ceedingly. ’ ’
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.
1'
is no more to me than a
279 S U M M E .[f


Scarcely anyone went to work in the ﬁelds. The cattl
left at home, lowed plaintiver in the byres. Nor! there any Mass on that day, the priest having left the' placg
at daybreak. And every minute the feeling of unrest ing
creased in every mind. ' ' Antek, seeing that the people were gathering on the org,
ganist’s premises, shouldered a scythe and went off to oné
of his ﬁelds that was close to the forest. The wind ham;
pered his work, waving-the corn to and fro, and blowing?
into his eyes; but he stood his ground ﬁrmly and reapei
away, listening—now more calmly—to the distant soundg
he heard. ' “Perchance they are about it'at this instant!” was ' thought that ﬂashed through his brain, making his heagf
beat like a hammer. A wave of rage 'swept over him: lg?
drew himself up and was on'the point of tossing his scythle,
away and running to the rescue of Yagna; he only mastered
himself just in time. ,»
“Whoso has done evil must suffer the penaltyl—So @
it! So be it!” The rye bent in ripples round his knees, like the wav§5
of a stormy lake; the gale blew his hair about, drying tit?
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 scythe and laying the rye low, swath by swath! _
Once, however, there came upon‘the wings of the wind shriek, loud and long-drawn-out, that came from the villag§
He ﬂung the scythe on the ground and sat down in corn that rose like a wall' around him. He' grovelled closew
to the earth, and clung to it with a mighty effort, and helféf
himself down with an iron grasp. And he kept himseﬁf
fast, and did not weaken, though his eyes wandered away Lipka; though his heart cried out aloud in terror; thou an awful ﬁt of trembling shook him from head to foot. “All things must take their course: they must! plough to sow, we sow to reap; and if anything hinder, rig;
pluck it out like an evilweed!” ’ t1
gHE PEASANTS 280
iThus spoke within his sOul an inexorable immemorial
t. oice—Whose? '. . . Was it not that of the earth and its
hihabiianis? : ,
He still felt himself rebelling, but now listened to it
.’ ith more willing obedience.
~ “Even so. Everyone has the right to defend himself
iggainst a wolf. . . . Everyone!”
A few last regrets, a few idle thoughts, came- still like
Intinging gusts of wind, wrapping him in darkness, and urg-
‘iing him to rise and act.
But he started to his feet, whetted his scythe, crossed
imself, spat on his hands—and set to work with a will,
ying low swath after swath With such furious energy that
Eris scythe-blade hissed through the air, and the walls of
iiipe grain around him resounded to his strokes.
In the village, meantime, the fearful hour of judgment
ﬁnd chastisement had arrived. What took place there can
x$arcely be related. All Lipka was as in the delirium of a
,ﬁigh fever; the people seemed to have gone stark staring
:ﬁiad. Those of more sensible natures kept within doors, or
fled to the ﬁelds. The others were gathered on the banks of
ge pond, and so drunk (if we may say so) with rancour
1
-
s
Iii—Q’Qams.
‘l‘
in
if, at, before wreaking revenge on Yagna, they had begun
do wreak their fury on one another, with spitefal words of
diate . .
But in a minute the whole multitude had set out to Do-
*ﬁ’lIDIl/(OVH’S, like a foaming torrent in spate. The Voytova
Yanek’s mother led them on, and a howling infuriated
iffabble followed.
They burst into the cabin like a tempest. Dominikova
glocked the way—she was trampled down in an instant.
"Andrew sprang forward to her aid, and was knocked down
once. Lastly, Matthew, standing in front of the inner door,
grove 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.
281 SUMMER
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 en-
closure.
“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 mo-
ment. The sky had grown still more gloomy; the tall
poplars tossed to and fro in the gale; clouds of blind-
ing dust ﬂew up beneath their feet, and far-off thunder
rumbled.
They cried: “Faster, Pete, faster!” They looked sky-
wards ill at ease, less noisy now, and walking by the road-
side, 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:
THE PEASANTS 282
“You swine! You wanton! To the soldiersl—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 ooz-
ing from her beaten limbs, disgraced for all her life, un-
utterably 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 loath-
some 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,”
283 ' SUMMER
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 in-
deed the hail fell only in scanty showers, beating down a
few leaves and boughs.
This, with few intervals, lasted all day long and till eve-
ning 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
'THE PEASANTS 284
ceaseless and most fruitful work. Scarcely anyone re-
mained at home. All the doors of all the huts stood wide
open; even the children went aﬁeld, the aged and the in-
valids; 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 al-
ready, for the people were in a hurry to get their corn made
into bread. Without, on the vast expanse of stubble, mul-
titudes 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.
.285 SUMMER
- 'The. aye. wasnot yet all.'cut down, before the .oats on the
uplands 'were more than ready fer 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, wnen 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 andgone; the barns were full, there was corn in abun-
dance, 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.
“ls 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
THE PEASANTS ’ 286
forgotten all thingsin the World. Her state would move a
heart of stone. . . .2 Oh, what creatures men are!”
“Aye, to ruin thus the mind of a Christian! . . . But I
hear her mether 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
Dgz'ad shuddered as he spoke. .
Matthew ﬂared up hotly“ “Fearful, yes; but senseless
and spiteful and unjustexceedi'ngly!”
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 Brian! 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.” i"
“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 some-
wither . . . 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 totake 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
Transﬁguration1—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.”
287 S U M M E R -
, The sound of the Angelus rose up from Lipka, with thew .
clatter of carts, the ringing of scythes on the Whetstone, 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. ’f,
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 WHIC{H_THIS
BOOK IS SET
This book is set (on the Linotype) in Elzevir No. 3,
a French Old Style. For the modern revival of gm ex—
cellent face we are indebted to Gustave gA/I’aji‘enr “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 type face is open and
readable but relatively narrow in body.


SET UP, Erncrirorvpran ANDGPRIN'I‘ED
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC., BINGHAMTON, Y‘.
PAPER FURNISHED
BY H. LINDENMEYR & sous, NEW YORK
BOUND BY THE H. WOLFF ESTATE,
NEW YORK

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