Chapter VIII (1)

It was a delightful day, warm, yet bracing: a day on 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 overhanging 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-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 forward.

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 pressing 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 perhaps drink a nip of vodka.

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 nothing to put in the pot.

Some _Komorniki_, 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, 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.

“I cannot read any farther: ’tis useless. But Matthew would manage, no doubt.”

She flushed a deep purple, and returned in a faint voice: “O 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 petticoat hung up in lieu of curtain, and a sound of snoring proceeded 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?”

“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 gobbling 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 sarcastically.

“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 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 further 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 dreadful news, but her eyes were soon wet and streamed with telltale 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.

“What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?” she cried helplessly, in bitter pain.

Her goodman was coming ... and would learn everything! 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 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 yearning 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 you go? To your ruin: to be the laughing-stock of everyone! 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 I, 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, enjoyed 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 have untold losses to put up with! Ah, may the wrong done to me poison you! May it choke you to death!”

“Very good!—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 were!—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 vociferated.

“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, shrieking: “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!”

“Lock up your own mad dog, ’tis your duty; tie up your wife with a rope, lest she bite!” Kozlova screamed, exasperated.

“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 community 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 sandheap.

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 another 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 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 with!—Ah, poor man! be easy; you have had much to suffer, but there’s justice to punish ruffians, 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: bareheaded, 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.”

“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 related 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, greedily 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 filthily 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....”

“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 fine!—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 them!—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 farm!” Matthew said, with a laugh and a shrug, as he left them.

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 return. He was tired of her, and slowly drifting apart.

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 turquoise 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?”

“Why, 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; render her every service till he come back to her.—You were in 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 me!—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 uppermost 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 toy!—How her eyes blazed! In what a posture she set her arms!—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 I 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 on her account.... Such a woman is the ruin of a man.—To the devil with women!” he concluded, in a most cantankerous mood.

Dinner was not ready at home. He scolded his sister 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 petticoat.”

Why was he so unkind, so hard to her to-day? she wondered. 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 carriage, 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 disgustingly burnt!”

“Only a little: just enough to have a taste.”

“Do not cross me!—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!”

“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 something 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 me about it.—That’s news for you, that Yasyek is returning!” 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, remarking 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, unabashed, 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, anxiously.

“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.

“Aye, I am weighing the matter seriously.”

“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 sourcrout; 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 proposal. Why, have I not seen them on the roofs, waving their kerchiefs at me, and shouting: ‘Come to me, Matthew, 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 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 dare!”

“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 recreation. 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 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 drowsiness 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 door.

“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.”

“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 importunate 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 sitting 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 milkers. Perchance I may, God willing, live on till harvest ... 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 peradventure 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 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, 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—and 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 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 sunshine, 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 Balcerek’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 insects.”

“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.

“We ought,” Klemba rapped out, “to seek another.”

Balcerek gave him a warning look; but he went on, excitedly:

“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 peeling 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 outside.

“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 companions: surely ye know us!”

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 bandages on his head. And now, once more, he lay quite motionless: 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.”