VII
The next day was as rainy and dreary as the one before.
Every now and then, someone would cone out of a hut to peer anxiously into a mist-blurred world, and see if it was clearing up a little. And nothing met the eye but the slate-coloured clouds, so low that they touched the very treetops. And the rain rained on.
The folk were cooped up in the cabins, and getting out of sorts. One or two went out through the mud and rain to a neighbour’s, lamenting that So-and-so had left his cattle-litter in the forest, not having been able to remove it; that another had not yet brought in his firewood; that many, almost all, had cabbages in the ground still, and could not now go to cut them, because the pond had risen so much during the night that the sluices had been perforce opened, and the water let out into the river; which consequently had swollen very greatly and the meadows were flooded, and all the cabbage plantations like sombre islands amid the drab and foaming swirl.
Nor had Dominikova been able to get home the cabbages she had afield.
Ever since morning, Yagna was feeling greatly upset, heaving sighs of vexation as she went from corner to corner, and looked out of the window at the dahlia bushes, now beaten to the ground by the flood, and at the whole dripping landscape.
“Good Lord, how weary I am!” she said, impatiently awaiting the close of day and the start for Boryna’s cabin. The hours crawled by, like an old man trudging in the mud—so sluggishly, so wearily, so drearily, that it became intolerable. She grew very restless, and was continually scolding her brothers, and flinging about such articles as she happened to find at hand. Withal, her head began to ache, and she had to put a warm oatmeal poultice, sprinkled with vinegar, on the top of her head, before it passed off. But, though now better, she felt completely out of gear; her work fell from her hands, and she many a time cast her eyes upon that surging pond which, like some huge bird, spread out ponderous wings, and flapped them, and struggled up, foaming, till the water rose and splashed all over the road—and all but soared into the air.
Dominikova had been out since the morning, called away to attend a woman in childbed at the farther end of the village; for she knew a good deal about medicine, and how to heal various ailments.
So then Yagna was feeling very ill at ease. She longed to go out of doors and see someone; but whenever she tied her apron over her head and peered out beyond the threshold at the mire and the downpour, her desire vanished away. At last, knowing not what to do with herself, she opened her chest and took out all her holiday apparel, which she spread upon the beds, till the room glowed crimson with striped skirts and jackets and aprons. But that day she cared nothing for any of them. At all those her possessions she gazed with tired indifferent eyes; nevertheless, she drew Boryna’s gifts—the kerchief and the ribbon—from the bottom of the chest, and adorning herself with them, took a look at the glass.
“They will do. I shall put them on this evening,” she decided; but took them off again hurriedly, for someone was coming to the hut, creeping along by the fence.
This was no other than Matthew. Yagna cried out in astonishment as he came in: the very man on whose account the village folk had talked most against her as having met him by night in the orchard and elsewhere many a time. He was a man rather beyond the prime of life, being well over thirty; still a bachelor, for he did not care to marry, having sisters at home (or rather, according to Yagustynka’s malicious tongue, because lasses and neighbours’ wives were very much to his liking); a tall fellow, strong as an oak, very sure of himself, and consequently so proud and headstrong that he was feared by almost everyone. And he could—what could he not do?—play the flute, construct a wagon, build a hut, arrange a stove; and whatever he did, he did so well that his hands were always full of work. Never of money, though: however much he earned, he would get rid of it directly, drinking, standing drinks, and lending to his friends. He was called “Dove,” though in his eyes and his fiery nature he had much more of the hawk.
“Matthew!”
“Yes, ’tis I, Yagna!”
He seized both her hands, and riveted his eyes on hers with a glance of such passionate eagerness that she turned red, and looked uneasily towards the door.
“You have been away these six months,” she stammered.
“Six, and twenty-three days besides, is the true reckoning.” He did not drop her hand.
“I shall get a light!” she cried; for it was really getting dark, and she wanted to free her hands.
“Give me a greeting, Yagna!” he begged, in a whisper, and tried to put his arm round her waist. She slipped away, and ran to the fireplace to kindle a light, fearing lest her mother should find her in the dark with Matthew. He, however, was too quick, caught her, squeezed her close, and set to kissing her with wild impetuosity.
She struggled like a snared bird, but could not free herself from the ravenous creature that hugged her till her ribs cracked and showered upon her such mad kisses that she grew faint; a veil dimmed her eyes, and she could not breathe.
“Matthew, good Matthew, please let me go!”
“Yet awhile, Yagna, yet again … for I am frantic!” And he kissed till the girl drooped and sank limp in his arms, weak as water. But at that moment he heard steps in the passage; so he let her go, lit a hand-lamp at the fireplace, and rolled a cigarette, looking the while at Yagna with eyes that sparkled with delight.
Andrew came in, blew the fire on the hearth into a blaze, and pottered about the room; so they said but little, those two, whilst exchanging hot glances of hungry, starving desire all the time.
A few minutes later, Dominikova came in. She must have been vexed at something or other, for she began by rating Simon soundly in the passage. Seeing Matthew, she darted a fierce look at him, paid no heed to his greeting, and went into the bedroom to change her dress.
“Go away,” Yagna begged, “or mother will curse you when she comes.”
But he only implored her to come out and meet him.
Dominikova entered. “You … you! Back again?” she asked, as if she had not seen him before.
“Yes, back again, Mother,” he answered gently, trying to kiss her hand.
“Am I a cur, that you call me mother?” she snarled, snatching her hand away angrily. “Why do you come? Once for all, I have said you are not wanted here.”
“I come, not for you, but for Yagna,” he answered, with a defiant air: he was losing his temper.
“You’re to drop Yagna for good, I say! Drop her! Folks shall not again defame her on your account! … Off, and out of my sight, you … !”
“Why croak so loud? All the village will hear!”
“Let them hear! Let them come! Let them know that you are sticking to Yagna as a burr sticks to a dog’s tail—that we need an ovenrake to drive you from us!”
“Oh, that you were a man! How you would smart for this!”
“Try then, hound that you are! Just try, you ruffian, you bully!” And with those words she grasped the poker.
This brought the scene to an end. Matthew spat furiously on the ground and went out instantly, slamming the door. For how could he make a laughingstock of himself by coming to blows with a woman?
Thereupon the beldame turned to Yagna, to vent her fury on her. With what upbraidings did she fall upon the girl, and discharge her soul of the gall she was bursting with! At first Yagna sat dumbstruck and petrified with dismay; but soon her mother’s bitter words stung her to the quick. She hid her face in the bed she was sitting by, and burst into tears and lamentations. She was cut to the heart. … What wrong had she done? … She had not even asked him in: he had come by himself. … Mother had reminded her of last spring. … Well … he had met her at the stile. … How could she get away from so impetuous a firedrake, when a fit of faintness came over her so? … And after that … how could she keep him off? Impossible! … It was always the case with her: when a man looked deep into her eyes, or embraced her with a powerful hug … then all within her trembled, and her strength forsook her, and her inwards swooned away, and she knew nothing more. Was she in any wise to blame for this?
These complaints she uttered in a choking voice, between bursts of tears; and at last her mother, softening towards her, wiped her face and eyes with tender care, and stroked her tresses, and soothed her.
“Come, come, Yagna; be calm: do not weep. Why, your eyes will look like a rabbit’s: and how will you be able to go to Boryna’s then?”
“Is’t time to go now?” she asked after a while, a little comforted.
“It is.—Now dress and array yourself—.There will be many there, and even Boryna will notice you.”
Yagna instantly rose and prepared to deck herself out.
“Shall I boil some milk for you?”
“I have no mind at all to eat, Mother dear.”
“Simon! you hulking oaf! Warming yourself at the fire, indeed—and the kine gnawing at the empty mangers!” she cried, exhaling the last of her anger on the lad, who fled in bodily fear.
“ ’Tis my mind,” she remarked, helping Yagna dress, “that the blacksmith has been reconciled with Boryna: I met him leading a calf home from the old man’s farm.—A pity! ’twas worth fifteen roubles at least. And yet it may be as well that they agree together; for the smith has a dangerous tongue, and knows the law besides. …” She stepped back, and looked lovingly at her daughter. “Alas! they have let that thief Koziol out of jail already; and now we shall have to watch, and lock every door well.”
Yagna set off; but for some distance on her way she heard her mother inveighing against Andrew for leaving the swine out of their sties, and letting the fowls roost in the trees.
Many people were already at Boryna’s when she arrived.
The fire was leaping up the chimney, lighting the big room, making the glazed picture-frames glisten, and giving a semblance of motion to the many globes made of coloured wafers that dangled from the grimy, smoke-blackened rafters. In the middle there lay a heap of cabbages, round which, in a wide semicircle, with faces turned towards the hearth, a good many girls and some women of maturer age sat side by side, stripping the cabbages of their outer and withered leaves, and throwing them on to a great sheet that was spread out under the window.
Having warmed her hands at the fire, Yagna took her clogs off, and at once sat down to work at the end of the row, next to old Yagustynka.
The room soon grew noisier, more men and women coming in: some of the former, together with Kuba, helping to bring the cabbages in from the barn, but for the most part only smoking cigarettes and grinning at the lasses, or cracking jokes together.
Yuzka, though hardly in her teens as yet, presided over the work and the fun; for old Boryna had not come home, and Hanka was as usual flitting about everywhere like a moth.
“Why, the room glows like a field of red poppies!” exclaimed Antek, who, having rolled several barrels into the passage, had now set the cabbage-cutter by the fire, but a little on one side.
“Bah! they are dressed up as though for a wedding!” remarked an elderly woman.
“And Yagna looks as if she had been washed in milk,” Yagustynka said, in a spiteful tone.
“Let me be, will you?” the girl whispered, flushing deeply.
“Rejoice, O ye lasses,” the old woman continued; “for Matthew is back from his wanderings. And now will the time begin for music, and dancing, and trysts in the orchards!”
“He has been absent all the summer.”
“Yes; building a farmhouse at Vola.”
“A grand master-builder: could build a castle in the air,” said one of the farmhands.
“And achieve a bantling in less than nine months,” observed Yagustynka.
“Always speaking against somebody, you are!” one of the girls protested.
“Take heed lest I choose to speak of you!” was the retort.
“Have you heard them say the old wanderer has come to Lipka again?”
“He will be with us tonight,” Yuzka boasted.
“He was away for three years.”
“Yes, at the Holy Sepulchre.”
“Fiddlesticks! Who saw him there? He lies like a gipsy, and only fools believe him. Just like the smith, telling us what he has read in the papers about foreign parts.”
“Do not say that, Yagustynka. His Reverence himself told Mother that the man was there.”
“Ah, we all know that Dominikova’s other home is the priest’s house, and whenever his Reverence has a stomachache, she knows all about it.”
Yagna said not a word, but would have loved to knife the old hag, for her gibe was the signal of a burst of laughter. But just then Ulisia, Gregory’s wife, leaned over towards Klembova and asked her whence the man was.
“Whence? From far away; where, no man can tell.” She stooped to take up another cabbage, and as she cut off the old leaves, said in a louder tone, so that all might hear her: “Every third winter he comes to Lipka, and takes up his quarters with Boryna. Roch is the name he chooses to go by; but it certainly is not his. He is a dziad, and yet no dziad: what he really is, who knows? But a good and religious man, that he is no doubt; he only needs a halo round his head to be just like a saint in a picture. Round his neck he wears a rosary that has touched the sepulchre of our Lord. He gives the children holy images, and also—to some of them—pictures of the kings who once ruled our country. He has prayer-books besides, and other books that tell about everything in the world. … He was reading some of them to our Valek. We listened too, my husband and I: but the things were hard to make out, and I have forgotten them. … And so pious! Half the day, he is on his knees; and then again before the crucifix, or out in the fields; he never goes to church but for mass. His Reverence asked Roch to stay with him, but his answer was:
“ ‘My place is with the common people, and not in chambers.’
“Everybody knows he is not a peasant, though he speaks as we do. And how learned he is! He can jabber in German with a Jew; and at the manor of Djazgova, where dwells a young lady who was in a warm country for her health, he spoke with her in an outlandish tongue!—Nor will he take aught from any man, save a drop of milk or a morsel of bread: and he teaches our children besides. They say. …”—Here she was interrupted by a great burst of laughter that made the company hold their sides.
The cause was Kuba, who had been bringing cabbages in a sheet and, receiving a push, had fallen sprawling on the floor, all the cabbages rolling about the room. He tried to rise, but as soon as he began to scramble up, another push sent him down again.
Yuzka took his part, and came to help him up at last; but he was exasperated, and uttered fearful language.
But the interest turned to other matters presently. All spoke at once, and this—though no one spoke loudly—made a hubbub as in a hive before swarming-time; and there were peals of merriment, and banter; and eyes flashed, and tongues waxed bold, and the work went on swifter and swifter. The knives rattled upon the stalks, the cabbages fell into the sheet like a running fire of cannonballs: every moment the heap rose higher. Antek was using the cabbage-cutter over a big barrel rolled close to the fire—undressed, save for his shirt and the striped drawers that he wore, flushed, dishevelled, streaming with perspiration, and yet so handsome that Yagna feasted her eyes on his picturesque form. From time to time he paused to take breath; and then he would look at her, and she would cast her eyes down and blush. This, however, was noticed by none save Yagustynka, who pretended to have seen nothing, whilst taking thought how best to spread the news about the village.
“They say Martianna is confined,” Klembova said.
“That’s no news, but a yearly thing.”
“The woman’s an aurochs! But for the babies she has, she would certainly get a stroke!” Yagustynka grumbled, and would have gone on, had not the others rebuked her for talking of such things in the presence of girls.
“Fear not for them,” she replied. “They know a good deal more than that already. In these days, you cannot speak to a goose-boy about the stork, but he will laugh in your face. No, no, it was otherwise of old times.”
“Well, you at any rate knew everything when you were a cowherd,” said Vavrek’s old wife, very gravely. “Have I forgotten all you did when tending cattle?”
“If you have not, then keep it to yourself!” cried Yagustynka, with wrathful asperity.
“I was then already married. Let me see: with Matthew? No, with Michael; Vavrek was my third,” she muttered, not quite clear as to the date of the old hag’s youthful frailties.
Here Nastusia, Matthew’s sister, burst breathless into the room, crying out: “What, are you all sitting here, and know ye not what has befallen?”
Questioned on every side, and with every eye fixed on her: “Why,” she said, “the miller’s horses have been stolen!”
“When?”
“But two minutes ago. Our Matthew has just heard of it from Yankel.”
“Yankel always knows of this sort of things from the first—and perhaps a little before, too.”
“They were taken out of the stables. The farm-servant went to the mill to get provender; and when he came back, the stable was bare, both of horses and harness! And the dog was found poisoned in its kennel.”
“Winter is coming on, and strange things happen in winter.”
“Because there is really no punishment at all for thieves. Why, what do they get? A warm prison cell, food in plenty, and so much to learn from their fellow-thieves that, when they get out, they know twice as much, and are twice as bad.”
“Oh, but if anyone should steal my horses, and I got hold of him, I would kill him on the spot like a mad dog!” cried one of the farmhands.
“Only fools look for justice in this world. Anyone who can, may right his own wrongs.”
“Should such a one be caught by a great number of men and killed, these surely could not be punished: impossible to punish all of them!”
“I remember,” said Vavrek’s wife, “something in that way, done here amongst us. … I had then my second husband—no, let me see; Matthew was yet living then. …”
Her reminiscences were cut short by the entrance of Boryna.
“Oh,” he cried in a merry mood, “the noise of your chattering can be heard across the water!” and taking off his cap, he greeted each guest, one after another. Possibly he was already slightly elevated, being as red as a beetroot; and contrary to his custom, he unbuttoned his capote, and talked loud and long. He greatly wished to come over and sit by Yagna, but durst not: it would never do, so long as things had not been settled between them. So he only enjoyed the looks of her—so comely, so well dressed—adorned, too, with the kerchief he had bought for her!
Vitek and Kuba brought a long bench and set it in front of the fire. And Yuzka, having wiped it with a clean linen cloth, at once set on it the necessary dishes and spoons for supper.
Out of the pantry Boryna brought a big-bellied bottle, containing four quarts of vodka, and went round drinking to each visitor, and with him.
The girls, however, hung back with affected dislike, until one of the farmhands cried out: “They’re all as fond of vodka as a cat of milk, but just hold off for the look of the thing!”
“The hopeless drunkard! Always at Yankel’s, he thinks everyone is like him!”
So they held off no more, but drank, first turning away and putting their hands before their faces, then throwing the last drops on to the floor, with due rites; and each made a wry face and exclaimed: “How very strong!” as she returned the glass to Boryna.
Yagna alone refused to drink, however much she was asked.
“I do not so much as know how vodka tastes, and I do not care to know.”
“Well, now, sit down, dear friends, and partake of what we have for you,” was Boryna’s invitation, after the vodka.
Several formalities, commanded by good breeding, having been gone through, they all seated themselves to eat deliberately and engage in conversation.
The food was so very excellent as to surprise many of the guests. There were boiled potatoes, served in broth; there was sodden meat, with barley meal; there was cabbage together with peas in one dish: all offered with great hospitality on the part of the master, who not only invited, but pressed his visitors to enjoy themselves.
Vitek heaped the fire with dry roots, which made a joyful crackling noise; and while they were eating, Kuba brought in a heap of fresh cabbages, which he piled up, greedily sniffing the dainties on the table, and sighing.
“Those creatures!” he grumbled to himself; “all eating away like starved horses! Very likely they will not leave a man as much as a bone to gnaw!”
Presently, however, the meal was over, and all stood up to say “God reward you!” to the founder of the feast.
“May it do you good!” was the set reply.
A few minutes of unrest ensued, during which some went out to take a little air and stretch their limbs, some to see whether the sky was clearing up; and the farmhands, to stand about the porch and chaff the girls.
And then Kuba sat down upon the threshold, with a dish on his lap, and gorged himself with such an intensity of appetite that he did not so much as notice the dog Lapa, notwithstanding its gentle hints; and Lapa, finding it would get nothing in that quarter, made for the passage reserved for the other dogs that had come with the guests and were gnawing the bones thrown to them by Yuzka.
They were about to fall to work again, when Roch appeared upon the threshold, and “praised Jesus Christ.”
“World without end!” was the reply of all.
“ ‘See ye come not too late, but when food’s on the plate,’ ” Boryna quoted.
“Let Yuzka but give me some bread and milk; ’twill do.”
“There’s some meat remaining still,” said Hanka, timidly.
“No, thanks; I never eat meat.”
At first, all were silent, staring at him with friendly curiosity; but when he sat down to eat, they soon again fell a-talking and a-laughing.
Yagna alone eyed the old pilgrim again and again, with wondering looks, surprised that such a one, not unlike other men, should have visited the tomb of Christ our Lord, and gone over half the world, and seen so many a marvel. What was it like, then, the great world he knew? Where should one go, to arrive at it? Around her there were only hamlets and fields and pine-forests, beyond which again stretched fields and pine-forests and hamlets. One must go a hundred leagues, or perhaps a thousand, she thought. She was strangely drawn to put some questions to the man; but how could she? The folk would only laugh at her.
Rafal’s son, who had just come back from the army, had brought his fiddle; and now, having tuned it, began to play one tune after another. Silence came over the room; only the rain was heard, pattering upon the panes, and the voices of the dogs whining outside.
He played and played on, ever some new tune, drawing his bow across the strings, and the melody seemed to come forth by itself at its caressing touch. First he played religious tunes, as though in honour of the pilgrim, who never took his eyes off the young man. Then came other and quite worldly airs; for instance, the one about “Johnny has gone to the wars,” which the girls were used to sing in the fields so often; and he drew the notes out with such infinite sadness that an icy shudder ran down one’s spine; and Yagna, who was sensitive to music as are but few, felt tears, one after another, trickling down her cheeks.
“Oh, do leave off!” Nastka called out. “You are making Yagna cry.”
“No, no; I always feel tearful when there is music,” Yagna whispered, covering her face with her apron.
But she could not help the tears that flowed against her will, called forth by the strange yearning which she felt within her—and for what? She knew not.
The young fellow went on playing; only the fiddle now poured out riotous Mazurs and such lively Obertas that the girls could scarce remain seated, but must perforce squeeze their restless quivering knees together to do so, while the boys stamped merrily and hummed the tunes, and the whole room was in a tumult of noise and laughter, and the very windowpanes were shaking.
On a sudden, a dog in the passage set up a lamentable howl, a howl so piercing that on the spot the room became as still as death.
“What is that?”
Roch had dashed out so suddenly that he had narrowly missed falling over the cabbage-cutter.
“No great thing,” Antek cried, after a look into the passage; “some lad has been squeezing a dog’s tail in the doorway.”
“Vitek’s work, I make no doubt,” Boryna said.
Yuzka defended the boy most earnestly: “What, Vitek cruel to a dog? Never!”
Roch now returned, very greatly agitated. He had probably let the dog loose, for it was heard outside, whining close to the fence.
“A dog, too, is God’s creature,” he said excitedly, “and it suffers when ill-treated, as does any man. Our Lord also had a dog of His own, and suffered no one to use it ill.”
“What? The Lord Jesus had a dog, just as men have?” queried Yagustynka the doubter.
“I tell you that He had; and Burek was its name.”
The statement was received with a chorus of exclamations: “Well-a-day!—How now? Can this be!” and so on.
Roch was silent for a while; then, raising his hoary head, covered with long hair save in front, where it was cut straight and short over the forehead, and fixing upon the fire those eyes out of which the colour seemed to have been washed by many a tear, he began to speak slowly, his beads slipping meanwhile through his fingers.
“In those far-off bygone times, when Jesus our Lord yet walked upon this earth, and ruled over the nations in His own Person, the thing of which I shall tell you came to pass.
“Now, Jesus was going to the local feast in the parish of Mstov. And there was no road thither, but the way was through desolate burning sands only; and the sun beat hot upon them, and the air was even as when a storm is nigh at hand.
“Nor was there any shade or shelter anywhere.
“Our Lord walked on patiently; but though He was not yet near the forest, His holy feet were quite numb with weary travel, and He felt exceeding great thirst. Therefore did he again and again stop to rest on some hillock upon the way: albeit the heat there was still greater, and there was not enough shadow from the few dry stalks of mullein for even a fowl of the air to find shelter.
“But when He had seated Himself, it was hard for Him, without air to breathe; for lo, immediately the Evil One—as a foul goshawk swooping down on some weary little bird—would swoop down, beating up the sand with his hoofs, and wallowing therein as would some unclean beast; and a cloud of sand arose, hiding all things from sight in darkness.
“Now Our Lord, although He neither could well breathe, nor indeed move (so dark it was), rose up and walked on, only laughing to scorn the foolish one, the fiend who would make Him lose His way, so that He might not be there at the local feast to save the sinful people.
“And Jesus walked and walked, until He came to the forest.
“There, in the shadow, He rested somewhat, and refreshed Himself with water, and with that which was in His scrip. … Then, breaking off a bough for a staff, He crossed Himself, and entered the forest.
“Now, that forest was most ancient and thick, with great fastnesses of deep mire, and matted tangles of undergrowth and dense brushwood, almost impervious even for a bird, wherein the Evil One himself surely did dwell. Yet Jesus entered thither.
“Whereupon, what did the fiend not do? He shook the forest, and howled, and broke in twain the great branches with the help of the blast, as his wicked attendant aiding him all it could; blowing the oak-trees down, tearing the branches off, and roaring through the forest like one mad!
“Moreover, it grew dark, blindingly dark, and on this side there was a hubbub, and on that side a din, and on the other a whirlwind. And round about Jesus there ran hellish imps, leaping, showing their long teeth, glaring and snarling, and all but clutching at Him with their claws. Only that they durst not do, for the awe they had of Christ’s most sacred Person.
“But when our Lord grew weary of all those foolish hobgoblins, being in haste to arrive at the local feast, He made the sign of the Cross over them—and behold, all the evil spirits with their impish helpers straightway disappeared in the brushwood.
“And lo, there remained only one wild dog; for in those days the dog had not yet become the friend of man.
“This dog therefore fled not, but, running after our Lord, barked at Him; and following after, it tore at His capote, and snapped at His scrip, and would fain have seized the meat which was therein. … But our Lord, being merciful, and unwilling to harm any of His creatures, said unto it:
“ ‘Silly one, hungry one, behold! here is meat for thee!’ And He threw it some, which He took from out of His scrip.
“But the dog waxed still more angry, and in its fury it bared its teeth and, snarling, attacked our Lord, and tore the hose which He was wearing.
“ ‘I gave bread unto thee; I harmed thee not: and yet thou tearest My garments, and barkest to no avail? Thou art foolish, thou little dog of mine, that thou knowest not thy Master! Because thou hast done this, shalt thou be the servant of man, and helpless without him evermore.’
“When our Lord had said this, speaking in a loud voice, the dog sat down on its hind quarters; and then, stupefied, with its tail between its legs, it went away into the wide world.
“Now, at the local feast, there were many, many people, thick as the blades of grass on the meadows.
“Only the church was empty. They were carousing in the taverns, and had set up a great fair in the church cloisters, with drinking and lechery, and sins against God, such as do happen even in our days.
“Our Lord arrived when High Mass was over. He saw the people agitated like the corn in the breeze, and running to and fro, some striking with whips, some pulling stakes out of the fences, and others seeking for stones; and the women were screaming and rushing to scramble over the hedges, or into their carts; and the children wept.
“They all were shouting aloud: ‘Lo, a mad dog! a mad dog!’
“And through the waves of the people the dog sped on, for all made way for it to pass: so, with tongue lolling out, it darted straight towards the Lord Jesus.
“Our Lord feared it not, and He knew that it was the dog from the forest; and He doffed His capote, speaking unto the dog; and it straightway went no further.
“ ‘Come hither, Burek,’ He said; ‘here, by My side, thou shalt be safer than ever thou wast in the forest.’
“He covered it with His capote, and spread His hands out over it, and said:
“ ‘Kill it not, O men: for behold, it is a creature of God, wretched and hungry, hunted and without a master.’
“Howbeit the peasants began to cry aloud, murmuring, and striking with their staves upon the earth.
“ ‘It was a wild and savage beast; it had carried away many geese and lambs of theirs, and never ceased from doing evil. Nor did it reverence man at all, but snapped at him with its fangs, so that none could go abroad, unless he bore a stick. Wherefore it must needs be slain.’
“But Jesus waxed wroth, and cried:
“ ‘Let no one stir!—O ye drunkards, ye fear a dog, and ye fear not the Lord your God?’
“They then shrank back, for He had spoken with a mighty voice. And then He said further that they were evildoers, who had come to gain the indulgence, and did but drink in the taverns, and offend God, and repented them not; men accursed, ungodly, thieves and torturers one of another; but they should not escape the judgments of God!
“And having ended these words, the Lord Jesus took up His staff, and made as if to depart.
“But the people now knew who He was, and knelt down before Him, and cried out and wept with great lamentations, saying: ‘Abide with us, abide, O Lord Jesus! and we will be faithful unto Thee, we drunkards, we ungodly ones, we evildoers—only abide with us! Punish us, smite us, but forsake us not, helpless orphans, a masterless people!’ And they wept so sore, and begged so earnestly, kissing His sacred hands and feet, that His heart softened towards them, and He remained the space of a few prayers, teaching and shriving and blessing them all.
“And when He departed from among them, He said: ‘Hath the dog done any harm to you? Lo, it will henceforward be your servant, and watch over the geese and drive your sheep: and if one or another of you shall sleep, having drunk over much, it shall be the guardian of your little holdings, and your friend.
“ ‘Only do ye treat it with kindness, nor do it any wrong.’
“So Jesus went forth, and left them. And looking round, He saw Burek, sitting where He had stood by its side to defend it.
“ ‘Wilt thou come with Me, Burek, or abide here in thy foolishness?’
“And thereupon the dog rose up; and thenceforth it always followed Jesus, as quiet, as faithful, as watchful as the best of servants could be.
“And from that time forth, they were always together.
“And if at any time a famine came over the land, the dog would catch a small bird, or a gosling, or a lambkin; so that they both had wherewithal to live.
“Ofttimes also, when Jesus was tired, and rested Himself, Burek would drive away wicked men and evil beasts, and not let them hurt Jesus.
“But when it came to pass that the vile Jews and their cruel Pharisees seized our Lord to put Him to death, then Burek flew at them all, poor loving creature! and defended Him, using its teeth as it could.
“But Jesus, stooping beneath the Tree which He was bearing for His sacred Passion, said unto Burek:
“ ‘Thou canst do no good: and behold, their consciences will bite them deeper than thy teeth!’
“And when they hanged Him on the bitter Cross, Burek sat beside it, and did howl.
“Now, the next day, when all men had departed, and neither His blessed Mother, nor His holy Apostles were there, Burek alone abode by His side, and licked again and again the sacred dying feet of our Lord, pierced through with nails; and it howled, and howled, and howled.
“And when the third day rose, Jesus awoke from His swoon, and looked; and no one was nigh Him beside the Cross, save only Burek, whining pitifully, and fawning at His feet.
“Then did Christ Jesus, our most Holy Lord, look mercifully upon it in that hour, and say with His last dying breath:
“ ‘Come with me, Burek!’
“And the dog at that very instant did breathe its last, and follow its Lord!
“Amen.
“All this came to pass as I have said, O dearly beloved,” Roch concluded, pleasantly; and, making the sign of the cross, he passed over to the other lodgings, where Hanka had prepared him a corner to sleep in; for he was very tired.
There was dead silence through the room for a time. All were pondering over that strange fantastic story. Some of the girls—Yagna, Yuzka, and Nastka amongst them—stealthily brushed their tears away; for their emotions had been strongly excited, both by the doom of Christ, and by the part played in it by the dog Burek. Also, the very fact that there had been a dog upon earth better and more faithful to our Lord than men were, gave them all much matter for reflection. Slowly, and at first under their breath, they began to make various comments upon so wonderful a Divine ordinance; when Yagustynka, who all the time had listened with great attention, lifted up her head, and said with a sneer:
“Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee!—One fable and two make three! I’ll tell you a far better tale: how a man made an ox.
“ ‘Of old the steer,
Not the ox, was made;
But a man took a blade—
Lo, the ox is here!’
“My tale is at least as true as Roch’s,” she said, with a burst of laughter. Those about her laughed likewise, and presently the room was full of jokes, and funny sayings and tales of all sorts.
“Ah, there’s nothing that Yagustynka does not know!”
“She has learned, she has learned; has she not buried three husbands?”
“Oh, yes: the first taught her in the morning with a whip; the second at noon with a strap; and the third in the evening with a cudgel!” Rafal cried.
“And a fourth would I take, but not you: too stupid a hobbledehoy for me!”
Here one of the young men observed: “As our Lord’s dog could not do without men, so women cannot do without beating: the want of that is what makes Yagustynka so spiteful.”
“You’re a fool,” she retorted, with a fierce snarl. “Just you take heed no one sees you, when you steal your father’s corn for Yankel; let widows alone, they are beyond your understanding!”—Everyone was silent, fearing lest she might, in a fit of anger, tell all she possibly might know. Indeed, she was a most stiff-necked woman, who held her own opinion on every matter, and would often utter such words as made men’s flesh creep, and their hair stand on end. She had respect for no one, not even for the priest and the Church. His Reverence had more than once admonished her, but without effect: nay, she even talked about his rebukes in the village.
“Oh, without any priest we can all manage with God, if we are but honest folk!—Let him rather take more heed of his housekeeper: she is with child for the third time, and will soon be dropping it somewhere, as she did before.”
Such was her character.
When they were about to separate, the Voyt came in with the Soltys, giving orders that the peasants should go next day to work at repairing the road by the mill: it had been damaged by the rains. No sooner had the Voyt come in than he exclaimed, stretching out both arms:
“Why, the old boy has invited all the prettiest girls in the village!”
And so he had: all were of the best stock, and robust and blooming.
The Voyt had a private talk with old Boryna, but no one could catch what they said. He withdrew, after a few words of banter with the lasses, having still half the village to summon for the morrow. They too departed soon after, it being late.
Boryna said farewell to each one in particular, and even saw the elder women to the gate.
Yagustynka, on leaving, raised her voice, and said:
“God bless you for your good cheer; but all was not as it might have been.”
“Indeed?”
“You need someone to keep house for you, Matthias: without such a one, how can things go right?”
“What’s to be done, friend? What’s to be done? … She died, it was God’s will. …”
“Have we no girls here? Why, every Thursday they all wait for you to propose to one of them,” she said, cunningly trying to draw him out. But Boryna only scratched his head and smiled, looking instinctively towards Yagna, who was going out.
Antek expected her exit; so he dressed quickly and slipped out first.
Yagna had to return alone: her companions all lived in the direction of the mill.
“Yagna!” he whispered, coming suddenly out of a hedge-side.
She stopped, knew his voice, and was at once seized with emotion.
“I’ll see you home, Yagna!”—He looked round; the night was black, starless. Above them, the wind roared, sweeping over the treetops.
His arm enclosed her waist in a tight grasp; and, one close to the other, they both vanished in the gloom.