Chapter V

The 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 delectation 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 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. 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 somewhere 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 surroundings, a change came over her and her irritation disappeared. 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 morning been standing in the pail, throwing corn to the fowls, sweeping the room, setting things in order, and meantime 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 everywhere 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 return 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 delicate 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 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 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,” Nastka 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 imminent, 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 themselves 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 head.”

“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 remain 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.”

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.[8] And now he is always moaning and groaning.”

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Footnote 8:

Compare this anatomical error with what Falstaff says, “Henry IV,”