Chapter V (2)

“Know ye that the damsels of Vola wear humps on their hinder parts, and look like turkey-cocks when they put up their tails?”

“They pad themselves with hay or rags,” the old woman explained.

“But their waists! They are drawn in like wasps. One might cut them in two with a whip. And where they stow away their bellies, none can say! Oh, I was close to them, and saw them well!”

“Their bellies? Why, they cram them in under their stays. A Manor servant, who had once been chambermaid at Modlitsa, told me that some of those damsels starve themselves, and gird their waists tight while they sleep, lest they should grow stout! At the Manors ’tis fashionable for girls 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 lo, 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 in 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 Hallow-fare, and a flask of vodka sweetened with honey. Hanka, though not without difficulty, offered these (according to the dignified custom among peasants on such occasions) to her sister and to the neighbours who had dropped in to visit and sympathize, taste the vodka, nibble slowly at the sweet cakes, and talk of various topics—especially the hole dug to rob the store-room.

Outside, too, folk had come to chat with the household, and walk to and fro in the orchard, much exercised in mind at the sight of the hole, which the Voyt had not allowed to be filled up till the arrival of the scrivener and gendarmes.

Yagustynka had repeated the whole story for about the hundredth time, when the lads entered the yard with the automaton cock. Bravely attired, even to wearing boots and Boryna’s cap (much on one side), Vitek led the band. After him came the others: Maciek, Klebus, Gulbas, Yendrek, 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 Reverence, 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 machine, 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 Reverence 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 him 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 much ado to protect their machine from rough handling and the pokes of inquisitive sticks.

Vitek, their leader, had an attentive eye to everything, stamping for them to commence singing, and signalling with his bow when to raise and when to drop their voices. In short, the whole _Dyngus_ was performed with such life and spirit that their strains filled the place, and people wondered to see such mere urchins already playing so well the part of grown-ups.

It was near sunset when the big dame Ploshkova, having first gone in to see Boryna, came also to call upon Hanka.

“As ever, as ever! O Lord!—I spoke to him: no word in reply. The sun is shining on his bed, and his fingers catch at the beams, as if to play with them: just like a little baby. Ah, I could have wept to see what such a man as he has come to!” So she said, seated by Hanka’s bedside; but she 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 the son—him at school—who looks in at times; aye, and the miller himself will let none of them alone, they say.... ’Tis true that our servants grow bolder daily. My own herdsman, now the goodman is away, treats me shamefully and insists on milk in the afternoon! Who ever heard of such a thing?”

“Oh, I know their humours, I have a man myself. But must agree to all he wants, else he would leave me when work is heaviest; and on such a large holding, what could I do without him?”

“Have a care they do not take him from you!” she said, lowering her voice warningly.

“Do ye know of anything intended?” Hanka exclaimed, greatly alarmed.

“Something I heard of—a rumour, peradventure a lie: I cannot say.—But I talk and talk, and forget what I have come for. Several have promised to come to my cabin for 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 hankering 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 I,” she jeered, “being merry, would that all might have their desires!”

Trembling with rage, Yagna left the house, staring vacantly 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 sadness of craving, which she had been suffering ever since the morning. To drive it off, she had gone round to her acquaintances, 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, though 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.

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 gossamer, or those threads of light upon the water which disappear 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 conscious of her own Self, and of something possessing that Self, making it smart and cry out and shed tears; of something 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 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 complexion.

“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 different, 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 illustrations. 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 enraptured, 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 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 shadows. 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 poplars 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 hole 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 _Komorniki_ and from time to time reaching 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 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 humbug 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 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 doth 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 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, unaccountable 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 minutes 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 conflagration leaped straight up, higher and higher: the buildings burned like bundles of resinous firewood; and a ruddy flickering blaze swept up into the shadows of the night, with pillars of dark, towering smoke.

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, crying 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 entreaties, 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 peasants 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: 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!