IV
Since daybreak on Christmas Eve, the whole village 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 transparent 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 being. Yet the world was steeped in bright sunshine, and radiant with glittering splendour; on every side the sparkling 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 hoarfrost.
A keen piercing cold, luminous with glacial sheen, now shimmered over the whole world, and plunged it in icebound stillness.
Not a single cry broke the hard silence of the countryside, 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 Voyt’s, and who can 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, Yuletide 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, humming 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-cheesecakes, that were rising under warm coverings, 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 beyond 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 disorder 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: at which he turned crimson like a beetroot, 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?” Dominikova 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—I 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 merrymaking 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 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, hardworking, 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 today. 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 unpleasant 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, blushing, 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?”
“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 today, 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 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 homecoming, her various occupations 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 haunting 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 he 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 person!—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 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 Dominikova 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 telling 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 Yuletide now. … Then—then it will be only in July.—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.
“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 bloodred streaks, and all the snows were fiery and as if oversprinkled 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 passersby. The far-off fields now lost in murky darkness, the winter evening reigned over the country; the 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 bleached linen napery; and they looked out eagerly through the windows 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 piously repeated after him, gazing up with eager eyes at the bright far-off witness of the miraculous 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 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; therefore 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 beetroot 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 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 Yuletide 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 children.—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.
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 today: 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 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 themselves to Him—His faithful servants forever 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, saying: “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?”
“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 hut: 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 Yuletide night, all the animals understand what men say, because our Lord was born in their midst. And whosoever 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 tomorrow evening, 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 must 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 today, everything knows that the Lord is born.”
“My God!” Yagna exclaimed. “What! even clods and stones?”
“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 fashion have merit, and praise the Lord in its own way. … And tonight, 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, waterdrops, 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 firewood 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 at 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; but since you say she screams, I must look in.”
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 cherry-orchards in blossom: when out of the last of the thickets the robbers came leaping upon him! They were twelve, all armed with knives. Bravely he fought, and though they soon overpowered him, he would not give up his money, and shrieked for help. So they threw him down, put their knees on his chest, and were going to slay him. Suddenly, they were all struck motionless, and remained so—bending over him, knives in air, full of rage, but, as it were, turned to stone!—And at that same instant all things around also became 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 remained 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, O 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 newborn Babe, along with all the creatures which lived on earth or in air.”
They wondered much at the legend told them; but presently 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!”
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 somewhat calmer, 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, agitated, with tears in their eyes and dread in their hearts, as if they were in church and during the Elevation—they nevertheless 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 naught!”
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 listened, 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!”
“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 piously 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 storeroom.
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!” Yagustynka snarled.
“That likewise he will get back, since his soul has remained 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 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 headgear 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 and one cap for three”; they came all in one band, taciturn, looking down and askance at everyone they met. Their 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 precedence 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 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 another, and 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. 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 obeying 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 suddenly 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 herself 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 apprehension, 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 dear, yet awful might which went forth 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 nothing, 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! Yagna!”
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.
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 whatsoever. …
Seizing a handful of snow, and swallowing it greedily, he leapt over the wall and into the road—rushing away, out on to the countryside, wayward as the blast.