XI
“Are you sleeping, Yagna?”
“How can I sleep? I woke at dawn … with the thought that I am to be married today.”
“You are sorry, darling, are you?” she whispered; there was in her heart a mingling of hope and fear.
“Wherefore? Shall I be sorry that I must leave your home, and go to my own?”
Dominikova, crushing down the pang which suddenly seized her at the words, did not reply at once. She rose from her bed, dressed herself carelessly, and went out to wake up the lads in the stable. These had overslept themselves somewhat, the “Unbinding of Hair” having taken place in the cabin the evening before. It was broad daylight, and the morning, clad in hoarfrost, flooded the world with silvery splendour.
Dominikova washed her face in the passage, and went quietly about the house, ever and anon peeping at Yagna, whose face was scarcely discernible in the shades of the bedroom, dark as yet.
“Lie there, darling! lie there still! Lie for the last time in thy mother’s home,” she murmured, love and sorrowing pain contending within her many a time. What she had coveted so ardently, she had now: yet she felt such anguish that she could not but wince at the smart of it, and sat down upon the bed.—Boryna … a kind man, who would treat her daughter with due respect. … And Yagna could do whatever she liked with this man, who saw nothing in the whole world but her!
No. It was not he that she dreaded, but the stepchildren.—Ah, why had he driven the Anteks from his home? Now, if ever, would they brew mischief and seek revenge. But yet, if he had not done so? … Antek at Yagna’s side!—A sin against God might have ensued.—Well, there was no help for it now. The banns were published, the guests invited; the pig was killed, the settlement safely stowed away. … No, no, no! What would come of it had to come; and while Dominikova lived, she would suffer no wrong to be done to her daughter.—Having come to this final decision, she went out to rate the lads for their sloth.
When she returned, she thought to rouse her daughter too; but Yagna had fallen asleep again, and the quiet regular breathing of slumber was heard from her bed. Once more did the mother feel anxieties and uncertainties swoop down upon her, like hawks with talons tearing at her heart, screaming distrust, and predicting some vaguely awful impending doom. But she dropped on her knees by the window and, with red bleared eyes fixed upon the flushed dawn, prayed very hard for a long time. And she rose, full of strength to meet any fate that might come, no matter what!
“Now, Yagna dear, get up; it is high time. Eva is coming at once to cook, and we have so much to do still!”
“Is the weather fine?” the girl inquired, raising her heavy head.
“So fine that all the country round is glistening over with hoarfrost. The sun will rise presently.”
Yagna, aided by her mother, was soon dressed. Then the latter, after due consideration, spoke thus:
“What I have told you before, I will repeat again. Boryna is a good, kind man; but you must take great care … not to make friends with any chance acquaintance, or let tongues ever again wag against you. People are curs: they love to bite.—You hear me, dear?”
“I hear, yes; but you speak as though I had not any judgment at all.”
“No one is the worse for good advice.—See well to this: Boryna must never be set at naught, but always treated with tender respect. An old man cares much more for that sort of thing than a young one does. … And who knows whether he may not settle all his land on you? or perhaps give you a big sum—from hand to hand?”
“For that I care nothing,” she interrupted impatiently.
“Because you are young and inexperienced. Look round you: what is it men quarrel for, work for, and make every attempt to get? Why, what but property, property alone!—The Lord never, never made you for toil and suffering.—Whom have I laboured for all my life, if not for my Yagna?—And now I shall be alone—quite alone!”
“But the lads will not quit your side; they will always be with you.”
“Of them I have as much joy as of the day that is no more!” She wept, and added, wiping her eyes: “You must also live in harmony with your husband’s children.”
“Yuzka is a kindly girl. Gregory will not be back from the army for some time yet. And—and. …”
“Beware of the smith!”
“Why, he is on the best of terms with Matthias.”
“If so, it is for some reason of his own: be sure of that.—The Anteks are worst of all; they will not be reconciled. … His Reverence wanted to make peace yesterday, but they would none of it.”
“Oh, but Matthias is a wicked old man to drive them from his house!” Yagna burst out passionately.
“What’s that—what do you say, Yagna? Do you know that Antek would have taken back the land from us—that he cursed you, and said of you things unfit to repeat?”
“Antek against me? Antek? They lie who told you so. … May their foul tongues drop out of their heads!”
“Oh! And what is it sets you so strongly on his side? Say!” she asked with a threatening look.
“Their being all against him! I am not a begging dog that fawns on all who toss him bread. He is ill-used, and I know it!”
“You would like to return the deed of settlement to him, would you not?”
Yagna could speak no further; a stream of tears fell from her eyes; she rushed into the inner room, bolted the door, and cried there for a long while.
Dominikova did not try to interfere. The scene had awakened new feelings of anxiety in her mind, but she had no time to brood over them. Eva came; the lads slouched into the passage; the last preparations and arrangements were now to be made.
The sun was up, and the morning-tide rolling on.
The frost of the previous night had been hard enough for the roadside pools and the borders of the pond to be coated with ice, and the quagmires to bear the weight of the lesser flocks.
Now it was growing warmer, though in the shadow and under the hedges the frost still reigned. The thatches dripped with crystal drops, and wreaths of smoke-like vapour were curling up from the marshes.
Not the least little cloud floated in the dark azure of the sky.
Nevertheless, crows hovering about the cabins, and cocks frequently crowing, foretold bad weather to come.
It was Sunday; and though the bells had not yet begun to ring, the whole village was like a hive of swarming bees. Half the inhabitants were smartening themselves up for the wedding of Boryna with Yagna.
In every cabin, turmoil and racket prevailed; everyone was getting ready, trying things on, and dressing carefully; and out of many an open window and door came the sounds of merry voices.
On Dominikova’s premises, of course, everything was in seething tumult, as usual on such a day.
The cottage, freshly whitewashed, was noticeable from afar, having been decorated with green boughs in Whitsuntide fashion. Already the day before, the boys had come to fix pine-branches on the thatched roof and where possible along every chink in the wall. From the fence to the porch, fir-tree boughs had been likewise set up, so that the fragrance was like that of the woods in the springtime.
Within, the arrangements made were very fine indeed.
On the farther side of the house, generally used as a storeroom, a great fire had been made, and Eva from the miller’s was cooking there with some neighbours and Yagustynka to help her.
All the furniture had been removed from the other side, the room whitewashed afresh within, the chimneypiece veiled with a great piece of blue drapery. Nothing remained but the holy images on the walls; but the lads had carried in stout benches and long tables, which they set up along the sides. The ceiling, with its age-darkened rafters, had been adorned with paper figures that Yagna had herself cut out. Matthias had fetched her coloured paper from town, out of which she had snipped many a fringed and variously coloured circle, and imitating flowers, and curiosities of different descriptions—as, for instance, a dog running after sheep, its master following it, staff in hand; or a church procession, with priest, banners flying, and images borne aloft—and so many other marvels of the same kind, it was impossible to remember them all! And all were well-shaped and artistic in appearance, and had been greatly admired the evening before, when they were unplaiting Yagna’s tresses. She knew how to make many another thing besides—anything that caught her eye or fancy; and in all Lipka there was not a cabin without some cutting made by her hands.
Having partly dressed herself in the other room, she came out to paste the rest of her cuttings upon the walls beneath the holy images, there being no room anywhere else.
“Yagna! will you have done with those fancy things of yours? The people are assembling, the band is marching through the village: and that girl is amusing herself with drolleries!”
“Plenty of time, plenty of time,” she returned briefly; but she now stuck no more cuttings, and busied herself strewing the floor with pine-needles, laying the tables with fine linen cloth, exchanging a few words with her brothers, or strolling about the place and looking out at the scenery. But she felt no pleasure in all this: not the least. She was going to dance and hear the band play, and was fond both of music and of dancing: that was all. Her soul, like the present day of autumn serenity, was cloudless and radiant, but lifeless. Were it not that all things reminded her it was her wedding-day, she might even have forgotten that. At the “Unplaiting,” the day before, Boryna had put in her hands eight strings of coral beads—all that his wives had left at their death. And now they lay at the bottom of her trunk: she had not even put them on. Today she felt no interest in anything. Willingly would she have flown away somewhere—but where, she knew not! Everything teased her; and what her mother had told her about Antek recurred persistently to her mind. What! he speak evil of her? She could not, would not believe it: the very thought made tears start.—Yet, it might be! … Yesterday, she was washing linen; he had passed by, and never looked her way! In the morning, she was going with Boryna to confession. Antek, coming in their direction, had turned back as from a savage dog. … Well, then, let him snarl at her if he would; let him snarl!
She began to feel herself in indignant revolt against him. But a sudden flash of memory brought that evening back to her, when they had returned together from plucking cabbages at his father’s. The recollection went to her head, her mind was wrapped and plunged in flames all over; it revived so intensely that it was not to be borne. Thereupon, to make a diversion, she cried point-blank to her mother:
“I’ll have you know I won’t let my hair be cut off after the wedding!”
“Here’s a clever one for you! Who ever heard of a girl whose hair was not shorn after the wedding?”
“At manors, and in towns.”
“Certainly. Yes, they—they have to keep their hair, to cheat the folk, and pass for what they are not.—Why would you bring in a new order of things, you? Let the manor girls make laughingstocks of themselves by all means; let them go about, hairy as Jewesses. They are fools, and they may. But you—no town rubbish, a daughter of the soil from grandsire and greatgrandsire—you have to do as has ever been done amongst our peasantry!—Ah, I know them, those town conceits and fancies!”
Yagna, however, stuck to her point. Eva, an experienced woman, who knew many a village, and year after year went on foot to Chenstohova with the pilgrim companies, tried her best to persuade the girl; so did Yagustynka, though according to her way seasoning her advice with jests and bitter railleries. At last she said:
“Keep your tresses, do; they will serve Boryna, when he beats you. He’ll twist them round his hand, and so use his stick better upon you. And then you will cut them off by yourself. … I knew a woman. …” But here she broke off. Vitek had come to call her. She was staying with Boryna since Antek’s expulsion, Yuzka proving too young for a housekeeper. Now helping Eva in the cooking, she would once in a while run round to the house to see to things there, as the old man’s brain was topsy-turvy that day. Ever since morning, Yuzka had been at the blacksmith’s, smartening herself; and Kuba lay continually ill in bed.
The lad had come in a hurry. “Kuba wants you sorely: pray come this instant.”
“Off at once!—Good friends, I shall just see what it is, and be back here directly.”
“Hurry, Yagna; we are expecting the bridesmaids,” said Dominikova warningly.
But she made no haste at all, seemingly in a drowsy fit. … Her work fell from her fingers, and she would stand sometimes gazing vacantly out of window. Her soul was as though turned to water within her—water that flowed hither and thither, and now and again splashed and broke on some rock of memory.
In the cottage, the hubbub was ever increasing, with the constant arrival of many a dame—now a kinswoman, now a housewife: these, according to ancient custom, bringing Dominikova fowls, or a loaf of wheaten bread, cake, salt, flour, pieces of bacon, or a silver rouble wrapped up in paper—all these things as thank-offerings for the invitation, and to make up for the heavy expenses incurred.
Each of them drank a little nip of sweetened vodka, chatted a few minutes with the old dame, admired everything, and hurried away.
Dominikova herself superintended the cooking, cleared things away, and saw that everything was duly done; not omitting to scold her sons for laziness; and, indeed, they dawdled much, and each of them slipped out whenever he could into the village to the Voyt’s, where the musicians and the bridesmen had gathered already.
Few people attended High Mass, and this vexed his Reverence, because folk had forgotten the Divine Service on account of a mere wedding. Which was very true; but people also said to themselves that such a wedding was not to be witnessed every Sunday.
All those invited came driving in at once after the noonday meal from the neighbouring villages.
The sun, shedding a dim hazy splendour over the autumn fields, had begun to roll westward; the ground seemed shiny and glistening as if with dew, the pond shimmered tremulously, the roadside ditches had a glassy gleam; the whole landscape was soaked in the dying light and the cooling heat of the last autumn days.
Burning down like a candle, the day was slowly approaching extinction.
The village of Lipka, however, was inspired with all the animation of a fair.
No sooner had the Vesper bells rung for the first time than all the musicians at the Voyt’s sallied forth into the road.
First came the fiddlers, each marching abreast with a flutist; then the bass-viol-players, and the drummers, to whose instruments there were little bells attached: all adorned with flying ribbons, and advancing with elastic steps.
After the musicians walked a troop of eight: the two “proposers,” who had arranged the match, and the six bridesmen. These were all handsome young fellows, slender as pine-trees, slim-waisted, broad-shouldered, enthusiastic dancers, audacious of speech, fond of a fray, and great sticklers for their rights: such were they all six, and all of good families, pure farmer’s blood.
Together they marched, shoulder to shoulder, down the middle of the road, the ground echoing under the tramping of their boots: with such merry daredevil looks, and so gayly adorned, that they killed the whole scene—a vision of striped trousers glancing in the sun, of scarlet jackets, hats decked with bunches of floating ribbons, and white capotes, open and flapping in the breeze like wings.
Uttering shrill cries, and humming joyful tunes, on they dashed, tramping noisily in measure—a young pine-grove in motion and rushing with the blast!
The musicians played polonaises, going from hut to hut to call the wedding guests; here vodka was offered them, there they were asked in; elsewhere a song would answer to their tunes; while on all sides the folk came out, dressed in their best raiment, and went swelling the main body. And under the windows of the bridesmaids all sang in unison the following verse:
Lasses, lightly treading,
Come ye to the wedding—
Hear our gleeful tune!
Hear our voices’ chorus
Join with flute sonorous—
Hautboy and bassoon!
Let the tankard clink now:
Who is loth to drink now—
He’s a scurvy loon!
Oy ta dana dana,
Oy ta dana dana,
Oy ta dana da!
And then they shouted so loud that they could be heard throughout the whole village, and beyond in the fields and the forests.
The folk had come out in front of their houses, into the orchards. Many who had not been invited joined the party, merely to look on and listen; so, before it had reached its destination, pretty nearly the whole village was round them, pressing and surging on every side, while the children ran on in front: a dense crowd, a swift and a noisy one.
Having brought the guests to the bridal cottage, playing them in with a joyful strain, they returned to fetch the bridegroom.
Vitek, who, brave in his short jacket adorned with ribbons, had accompanied the bridesmen, now ran fast before them.
“Master!” he cried through the window. “They are coming!” And off he ran to where Kuba lay.
They played a good while there before the porch. Boryna came out directly, threw the door wide open, and would have had them all in; but the Voyt and the Soltys took him by each arm and led him straight away to Yagna; for it was high time to go to church.
His gait was full of mettle, and he looked surprisingly young. Clean-shaven, with hair newly cut, and his wedding-suit on, he made a rarely handsome figure; besides which, portly and broad-shouldered as he was, the dignified expression both of his features and his whole outer man made him conspicuous from afar. He smiled and talked pleasantly with the young men who had come; especially with the smith, who managed to be always close to him.
They brought him in ceremony to Dominikova’s, where the crowd made place for him; and, with tumultuous cries, and sounds of many instruments and songs, he entered the cabin.
Yagna was as yet invisible: the women were arraying her in the inner room, carefully watched and strongly bolted. For the young fellows knocked and battered at the door; they cut narrow slits in the partitions, and made careless jests with the bridesmaids: whereupon rose great screaming, much laughter, and of old women’s scolding not less.
The old dame, with her sons, received the guests, offered vodka, conducted the elders to the places reserved for them, and in short had an eye to everything.
All the guests were of high condition: no common men, but only men of property and of good family; and of these only the wealthiest. All were connected with the Borynas and the Paches by ties of family and friendship, or were at least acquaintances who had driven over from distant villages.
None of your Klembas, or your Vincioreks, none of your one-acre starvelings were there: nor any of the small fry that eked out their existence by working for others, and were the closest adherents of old Klemba!
“No dainties for dogs, and no honey for hogs,” says the adage!
Presently the door opened; and the organist’s wife and the miller’s ushered Yagna into the big room. The bridesmaids formed a circle round her—a wreath of human flowers they were, all so beautifully dressed and so fair to see. And she—she stood in their midst, like a rose, the most fearless of them all; with headdress of plumes and ribbons and silver and gold lace, she was like one of those images they carry in church processions; and they all stood mute before her.
Ah! since the Mazur was first danced, no one was ever more splendid!
Then did the bridesmen lift up their voices, growling from the depths of their throats:
Resound, O violin, resound!
(Yagna, now ask pardon of your mother!)
Resound, O flageolet, resound!
(Yagna, now ask pardon of each brother!)
Boryna came forward and took her hand. They both knelt, and Dominikova made the sign of the cross over them with an image, and then sprinkled them both with holy water. Yagna, bursting into tears, fell at her mother’s knees, embracing them, and the other women’s too, as she begged pardon and took leave of them all. The women gathered her into their arms, passing her from one to another, and all wept much: Yuzka the most, thinking of her dead mother.
They all formed up before the house and marched off on foot, for the church was but one field away.
Then the bridesmen took possession of Yagna. She walked on with delight, smiling through the tears which still trembled in her lashes. She now was gay to see as a spring-blossoming bush, and riveted every eye. Her hair, braided over her forehead, bore above it a rich pile of gold spangles, and peacock’s eyes, and sprigs of rosemary. Therefrom, down to her nape and shoulders, fell long ribbons of every hue; her white skirt was gathered at the waist in abundant folds; her corsage, of sky-blue velvet, was laced with silver; she wore great puffed sleeves to her chemise. Round her throat there was an abundant frill, embroidered with designs in dark-blue thread, and necklaces of coral and amber, row upon row, hung covering half her bosom.
Matthias was being led by the bridesmaids.
As the stalwart oak may be seen rising behind the graceful pine in the woods, so did he appear after Yagna’s figure. There was in his gait a certain jaunty swing, and he shot glances on either side of the road: he fancied he had beheld Antek in the ruck.
Following him came Dominikova, with the “proposers,” the smith and his family, Yuzka, the miller’s and the organist’s people, and all the persons of any note.
And following these came the whole village.
The sun was now hanging above the woods, red, enormous, flooding all the road, and the pond, and the huts, with its bloodred glow.
In the midst of this crimson conflagration they walked on slowly. It made the eyes blink to see them as they went—with ribbons and peacock plumes and flowers; gay in red trousers, petticoats of orange tints, rainbow kerchiefs, snowy capotes: just as if a whole field full of flowers in bloom had arisen and moved forward, swaying in the wind!
Aye, and singing too! For again and again the high treble of the bridesmaids’ voices would strike up the ditty:
On the clattering wagons go,
And my heart is full of woe,
Alas!
Round you while our songs rise glad,
You, O Yagna, you are sad,
Alas!
All the way, Dominikova was in tears, her eyes fixed upon Yagna alone.
Ambrose was already lighting the tapers in church when they came.
They formed in ranks—two and two—and proceeded toward the high altar, just as the priest was coming out of the sacristy.
The wedding was soon over: his Reverence had to visit a sick man in haste. When they left the church, the organist played them out with Mazurs, Obertases, and Kuyavy dances, till their feet beat time of themselves; and more than one was on the point of singing aloud, but luckily remembered where he was.
They returned pell-mell, and very noisily, for bridesmen and bridesmaids were singing together.
Dominikova got to her home first and, when the company arrived, was there to welcome the newly married couple on her threshold, and offer them the hallowed bread and salt; then she had to receive the whole company a second time, embrace them all, and ask them in once more!
In the passage, the music was striking up. So, on passing the threshold, everyone made a partner of the first woman he met, to perform the stately polonaise that was being played. At once, like a many-coloured serpent, a chain of couples, following each other about the room, waved and twined, twisted and turned back decorously, struck the floor with dignity, swayed to and fro in graceful undulation, placed, swam, wheeled about, one after another in serried ranks, Boryna with Yagna leading off!
The lights placed on the chimney penthouse flickered, and the very walls seemed like to fall asunder with the forceful gravity of this solemn dance, performed with such dignified grace.
This was the introduction, and lasted but some minutes. Then began the first dance, in honour of the bride, and according to the usages and customs of old days. All present squeezed themselves into corners, or huddled against the walls; and the young men made a wide circle, within which she danced. As she stepped out, she felt the blood tingling in her veins; her dark-blue eyes shone; her white teeth gleamed; her face was flushed; she danced persistently, and for a long time, for she was obliged to give each partner at least one turn round the room, and dance with all.
The musicians worked hard—worked till they felt worn out: but Yagna seemed to have but just begun. The flush on her face deepened, she turned and whirled more impetuously than ever; her ribbons fluttered and rustled as she went by, lashing those near her on the cheek; and her skirt, expanding to the streaming air, spread out and bellied wide around her.
The young men, delighted, beat time on the tables, and shouted in eager excitement.
It was only after all the others that she chose her bridegroom. Boryna, who had been waiting so long, now leaped forward, pouncing on her like a forest lynx, seized her waist, whirled her round like a hurricane, and cried to the players:
“Now, boys, the Mazur—and with a will!”
All the instruments sounded with might and main; the whole room was in a fever.
Holding Yagna in a strong grip, Boryna lifted the skirts of his capote over each arm, settled his hat upon his head, clicked his heels together, and set off, swift as the wind!
Ah! but how he danced! Now turning round and round, now with a backward step, now bringing his foot down as if he would stamp the floor to shivers—then sidling with Yagna, and sweeping her on, and whisking her hither and thither, and whirling her so that they twain formed but one indistinct mass, looking for all the world like a spindle full of yarn, spinning about a room; and from each of them there came forth a full blast of power and force.
Furiously, unceasingly, the players went on playing the Mazur dance!
The crowds in the corners and at the door looked on in silent wonder: Boryna was so indefatigably active, and ever at higher and higher pressure, that he instilled not a few with riotous boisterousness, even to beating the measure with their feet; and some of the hottest heads, no longer restrained by decorum, seized a girl and danced about with her.
Yagna, though brawny and well-knit, soon had to give in; he felt her weakening in his arms, and immediately ceased from dancing, and led her to the inner room.
“What a splendid fellow you are!” the miller cried out. “Henceforth you are my brother!—Ask me to be godfather at the first christening, I pray you!” And he put his arm round Boryna’s neck. Soon they were on very familiar terms, for the music had stopped and refreshments were handed round.
Dominikova and her sons, with the smith and Yagustynka, now glided swiftly about, bearing bottles and clusters of glasses, and drank with each one. Yuzka and the friends of the old dame carried pieces of bread and cake about in sieves to the guests.
And the tumult grew and increased.
On a bench near the window sat the miller, with Boryna, the Voyt, the organist—all the notables in the place besides; and there a bottle of rum—not of the worst—was circulating among them.
Many were also standing about the room in groups, talking loudly to anyone they met, as they felt inclined; and the vodka glasses were in requisition.
The inner room was lit by the organist’s great lamp, lent for the occasion. The housewives, with the organist’s wife and the miller’s at their head, had gathered there, and sat on chests and benches strewn with pieces of woven wool. They held their heads up with great dignity, sipped their mead by tiny droplets, crumbled the sweet cake with dainty fingers, and very rarely threw in a word or two, but listened attentively while the miller’s wife told them all about her children.
The very passages were quite full. Some tried to invade the other side; but Eva drove them out. They proved too greedy for the dishes, the appetizing scent of which had filled the house, and was making many a mouth water.
The young people then dispersed all about the premises, in the yard and the orchard. The night was chilly, but serene and starlit. Here they strolled, disporting themselves in merry guise; and all the place echoed with laughter, shouts, and running to and fro, one chasing another among the trees. So the elders cried a warning to them from the window:
“Are ye seeking flowers by night, girls?—Beware lest ye lose what is more than any flower!”
But who paid heed to them?
Yagna and Nastusia were now walking about the big room, their arms round each other’s waists, whispering together, and ever and anon bursting into laughter. Simon, Dominikova’s eldest son, was watching them, with eyes glued to Nastusia, and frequently going to her with vodka and attempting conversation.
The blacksmith had dressed up most grandly, having on a black capote, and trousers over which the boots were drawn. He slipped about with great activity, was everywhere, drank with everybody, walked to and fro and talked; and his red head and freckled face were never long on the same spot.
The young people danced several times, but not long, nor with much animation. They were looking forward to the supper.
The old men, on their side, were deep in debate, the Voyt raising his voice higher and higher, striking the table with his fist, and laying down the law:
“I, the Voyt, have said it: you may take it from me. I, a man in office, have received a paper commanding me to call a meeting, and order half a kopek per acre to be voted by every landowner for educational purposes.”
“You, Peter, may vote even five kopeks an acre if you like: we won’t!”
“No, that we will not!” one of the men roared.
“But I am making you a statement as an official!”
“We do not care for such schools as those,” Boryna remarked; and the others assented in chorus.
“In Vola,” said one, “there is a school which my children attended for three winters running. What is the result? They cannot even read in a prayerbook.—Devil take such teaching!”
“Let the mothers teach prayers at home; prayers have naught to do with studies. I, the Voyt, tell you this!”
“Then what are schools for?” grumbled the man from Vola, rising.
“I will tell you, I the Voyt: but listen. …”
Here he was interrupted by Simon, who cried aloud to them all that the trees of the clearing sold to the Jews had already been branded by them, and that they would have them cut down as soon as the sledges could run.
“Brand the trees they may: to fell them will be harder!” Boryna put in.
“We shall complain to the commissary.”
“Who is hand in glove with the Squire?—No: let us go in a body and drive the woodmen off.”
“They shall not hew down one single sapling!”
“Matthias, drink to me! Now is no time for holding councils. A tipsy man will even defy God!” So cried the miller, filling Boryna’s glass. The talk was as little to his taste as the threats were; for he had an agreement drawn up with the Jews, and the trees were to go to his sawmill.
They drank and left their places; the tables were now to be laid for supper, and all the needful things were being brought in.
The farmers, however, still stuck to their forest grievance, which was a great wrong done to them. They formed a group, and with lowered voices (so that the miller might not overhear them) determined to thresh the matter out at Boryna’s.
At this juncture, Ambrose came in, and went straight to them. He had come late, having had to go with his Reverence to a sick person three villages away, in Krosnova. So now he set to drink energetically, to make up for lost time. Vainly: for at that very moment a chorus of elderly women struck up the song:
Bridesmen, about, about! With you it rests
Round the spread tables now to bring the guests!
To which they replied, having given the signal by striking on the benches:
Lo, we have called them: they are ready here
Your spread to taste, if it be but good cheer.
The guests, now straggling in to table, took their seats on the benches.
The newly married couple had the first places, and all the others sat about them in order of precedence, as they were higher in standing, in possessions, or more advanced in age—from the elders to the girls and children. Tables had been set up along three of the walls, and yet there was scarce room for them all. The bridesmen and the musicians remained standing, the former to serve the guests.
There was a hush. The organist stood up and said a prayer aloud; after which, a glass went round, with the sentiment: Health and enjoyment!
The cooks and bridesmen then bore in a huge and deep dish of smoking food, singing the while:
Friends, we bring you dainty food:
Fowls in rice-soup boiled and stewed!
And, carrying in the second dish:
Tripe with pepper, spiced and hot:
He’s a fool that likes it not!
The musicians, stationed near the fireplace, played various tunes very softly, to give more savour to the food.
All the company ate with becoming refinement, and deliberation; few spoke at all, and for some time the room resounded only with the sound of munching and the clatter of spoons. When they had to some extent slaked their appetites, the smith set another bottle in circulation; and now they began conversing (though in low tones) to one another across the table.
Yagna ate scarcely anything at all. In vain did Boryna urge and coax her, entreating her as one entreats a child to eat. She could not even swallow the meat before her; she was so hot, so tired!
“Yagna, are you content, sweet? Most beautiful Yagna, you will be as happy with me as ever you were with your mother. … Yagna, you will be a lady—a lady! I’ll hire a girl, that you may not be overworked.”—He spoke in hushed tones, and looking with love into her eyes, caring not for what folk might say; and they began to make fun of him openly.
“He looks like a cat after bacon!”
“How the old fellow flaunts his wantonness! Beside him, a cock is nothing at all.”
“Oh, he is enjoying himself, Grandfather Boryna is!”
“As a dog does out in the frost,” old Simon here muttered spitefully.
All held their sides with laughter, and the miller laid his face down on the table and beat it with his fists for sheer joy!
Once more the cooks entered, proclaiming:
Here is a dish of Turkish wheat,
Cooked with plenty of lard, for lean folk to eat!
“Yagna, just bend over to me, I’ll tell you a thing,” the Voyt said, plucking at her dress behind her bridegroom, whose next neighbour he was.
“I would be your child’s godfather,” he cried, laughing, and gloating over her with greedy eyes.
At this, she grew very red; and the women, seeing this, fell a-laughing and jesting yet more facetiously, some setting to explain to her how she ought to behave to her husband.
“You’ll have to warm a featherbed for him every evening before the fire, or he’ll be cold as ice.”
“And especially see he has much fat to eat: it will keep him in good condition.”
“And pet him well, with your arms round his neck.”
“And drive him with a gentle hand, that he may not know he is driven at all!”
So they babbled on, each sentence freer than the last, as happens when women have taken too much, and let their tongues run away with them.
All in the room were shaking with merriment, and things at last went so far that the miller’s wife set to lecturing them on their duties towards the girls and little ones present; and the organist pointed out how grievous a sin it was to cause others to offend by evil example.
“What? is this bellows-blower forbidding people every pleasure in life?”
“Being close to the priest, he thinks himself a saint!”
“Let him stop his ears, an it like him not.” And more unpleasant cries began to be heard, for he was disliked in the village.
“We have a wedding today, and therefore, my good people, I, your Voyt, assure you it is no sin to enjoy yourselves, laugh at things laughable, and make merry.”
“And our Lord Himself used to go to weddings and drink wine,” Ambrose added seriously; but no one made out what he said, as he was now tipsy, and sitting by the door besides. Then all fell to talking, joking, clinking glasses, and eating more and more slowly, in order to get more compactly filled up; some even, to make room for the most food possible, undid their girdles, and sat straight and stiff.
Again the cooks entered, with the following couplet:
It grunting, squealing, rooting once about the garden ran:
But now, for all the harm it did, ’twill pay the husbandman!
“Well, they have done the thing grandly!” the people declared.
“Truly, this wedding must come at least to a thousand zloty!”
“Oh, she can well afford it: has she not got six acres of land thereby?”
“Just look at Yagna! Is she not gloomy as night?”
“As a set-off, Boryna’s eyes are shining like a wildcat’s.”
“Say, like tinder, my friend—rotten tinder!”
“Aye, the man will weep over this day yet.”
“No. He is not of the weeping sort. Of the cudgelling, rather.”
“Just what I said to the Voyt’s wife, when she told me the marriage had been settled.”
“Ah, I wonder why she is not here tonight.”
“Out of the question. Her child may be due any day.”
“But I’d lay my head that in no long time—say, before the Carnival begins—Yagna will be again running after the lads.”
“Matthew is only waiting for that.”
“I know. Vavrek’s wife overheard him say so in the tavern.”
“Because he was not asked to the wedding.”
“Yes. The old fellow would have had him, but Dominikova was against it.—All the folk know why, do they not?”
“Well, all say so; but what has anybody seen?”
“Bartek Koziol saw them in the wood last spring.”
“He is a liar and a thief: Dominikova accused him of stealing a pig, and what he says may be mere spite.”
“But others too—there be others that have eyes.”
“All this will end ill … you will see. ’Tis no affair of mine, but to my mind, Antek and his family have been unjustly dealt with.”
“Of Antek, too, people talk—say they have been seen together here and there.”—The voices dropped lower as the spiteful talk went on, leaving no shred of reputation on any of the family, and the more unmerciful for their hostess as they had more pity for her two sons.
“Is’t not a sin?—Simon, a man wearing mustachios—thirty, if a day—and she will not let him marry, nor leave the house: and for the slight fault she raises a tempest!”
“It is indeed a shame: such strapping lads, and doing all the woman’s work!”
“So that Yagna, forsooth, may not soil her hands!”
“Each of them has five acres of his own, and might marry at his ease!”
“With so many unmarried girls around them!”
“Yes, yes; your own poor Martianna, waiting for ages, and the land quite close by Paches’!”
“You let her alone! See rather to your girl Franka, lest she come to grief with Adam!”
“Those great oafs!—Afraid to leave their mother’s apron-strings!”
“They are beginning: Simon has been all the evening staring at Nastka.”
“Their father was of the like mould: I remember well.—Aye, and the old woman was in her time no better than Yagna.”
“As the root is, so the boughs; as the mother, so the daughter.”
The music ceased, and, supper being over, the musicians went to refresh themselves in the kitchen. But after a time the noise waxed even louder than before, and the whole place seethed with uproar: all talking, ranting, shouting away one to the other across the tables, and no one able to make out what was said.
At the close of the meal, the most select guests were offered a drink compounded of mead and spices, while the others got strong vodka and beer in abundance.
By this time, but few were well aware of what they were drinking, being too far gone and in a blissful state. They made themselves comfortable, and unbuttoned their capotes to be cooler; beat the tables with their fists till the dishes jingled, embraced each other, either round the neck or clutching at the shirt-collar; and they talked freely, unbosoming themselves and telling all their sorrows as if they had been brothers.
“ ’Tis ill living here on earth! Things are out of gear with mankind, and we have naught but grief!”
“Aye, men are like dogs, snapping at one another for a bone.”
“No consolation, save when neighbour meets neighbour over a glass, and they take counsel, and make complaint; and if any has wronged or been wronged, he is forgiven and forgives!”
“As even now, at this wedding-feast: but, ah! for one day only!”
“Ah! Tomorrow will come, though we call him not! You’ll not shun him, save in God’s hallowed Acre. … Yea, he will come and seize you, and lay on you his yoke, and smite you with the whip of poverty; and you, O man! must pull … even till the yoke be bloodstained.”
“What is’t aggravates our misery, setting men one against the other, like dogs quarrelling for a fleshless bone?”
“Not poverty alone, but an Evil Power; and they then are blinded by him, discerning not good from evil.”
“Truly so; and he bloweth upon our souls as one bloweth on half-quenched embers; and he causeth greed, malice, and all wickedness to burst out into flame!”
“Yes; for he that is deaf to the commandments hath a quick ear for the music played in hell.”
“It was otherwise of old days.—Then was there obedience, and respect for old men, and concord.”
“And each man had land, as much as he could till; and pastures, and meadows, and the forest.”
“Who in those days ever heard of taxes?”
“Or was there anyone that purchased timber? He had but to drive to the wood and take all he needed, though it were the best pine or oak. The property of the Squire was the peasants’ property too.”
“And now it belongs to neither, but to the Jews, or to men still worse.”
“The foul carrion! (I have drunk to you: drink you to me! …) They are now established as on land of their own! (Your health, Brother!) … To drink vodka is not a sin, if only at the proper season and with brothers: this is a wholesome thing, it cleanses the blood and drives away distempers.”
“Who drinks at all, should drink one quart complete—likewise, who makes merry, should do it all Sunday long.—But have you work to do? Man, do it with all your might, grudge not your force, but put forth all your strength. And if ill things come to pass—if your wife be taken, if your cattle die, or your home burn down—why, ’tis the will of God. Do not rebel: what will it avail you to lament, poor creature as you are? Be patient, therefore; trust in God’s mercy. Aye, and if the worst should hap, and should grim Crossbones stare you in the face and clutch your throat, attempt not to escape, which is more than you can do; all is in the hand of God!”
“Verily, who is to know the day when the Lord shall declare: ‘Thus far, O man, is thine: what is beyond is mine?’ ”
“It is so of a truth. As lightning flashes, so are the decrees of God: and none, be he a priest, be he a sage, can know them till they fall, as ripe corn falls out of the ear.”
“Man, you have to know but one thing—to do your duty, live as God commands you, and not look too far ahead.—Surely our Lord prepares the wages of His servants, and pays most strictly what is due to each.”
“By these laws did the Polish people stand of old, and they are forever and ever, Amen.”
“Aye, and by patience shall we prevail against the gates of hell.”
Thus they discoursed together, with not infrequent libations, everything pouring out all he felt in his heart, all that had long stuck in his throat and stifled him. Ambrose talked the most of all and the loudest.
At the very end, Eva and Yagustynka came in with great ceremony, bearing in front of them a large ladle, tricked out and beribboned. A musician who followed accompanied them on his fiddle, while they sang:
Ere you quit us, here come we;
’Fore you both your cooks you see:
Pray forget us not, good men:
For each dish give stivers three;
For our seasoning stivers ten!
The company had eaten plentifully, and drunk yet more; their hearts were warmed by good cheer, and many a man tossed even silver coins into the ladle as it passed.
They then slowly rose from table, and went out, some to breathe the fresh air, some to resume their conversation in the passages or in the great room; some gave way to enthusiastic demonstrations of friendship; and more than one reeled about, running his head against the walls or some other man, butting like rams.
Only the Voyt remained at the board with the miller, both quarrelling with intense fury, and about to fly at each other like two hawks, when Ambrose came to reconcile them, offering more vodka.
“Back to your church porch, old beggar,” the Voyt snarled at him, “and hold yourself aloof from your betters.”
So Ambrose walked off in dudgeon, hugging the bottle to his breast, stumping noisily and seeking someone to drink and talk with as a friend.
The young people had dispersed about the orchard, or were walking arm-in-arm along the road, with much horseplay, and chasing of one another, and shouting. The night was serene; the moon hung over the pond, which glittered so bright that the feeblest circles tremulous on its surface were distinctly visible, moving like snake-coils in silence, responsive (as it seemed) to the light that struck on them from above. The frost was pretty hard, the road-ruts were crisp underfoot, the roofs rime-crusted and hoary. It was in the small hours, for the first cockcrow had already been heard.
Meanwhile they set the great room in order for dancing again.
Rested and refreshed, the players now again, in subdued strains, called the guests together.
Yagna had been taken to the private room by the matrons, Boryna sat with Dominikova close to the door, the elders took seats on benches and in corners, where they discussed various matters, and only the girls stood about the room besides, giggling together: a pastime which soon tired them, and they decided on starting some games, “to stir the boys up a little.”
First there was the game, “Fox goes out to make his round; both his hands and feet are bound.”
Yasyek, nicknamed Topsy-turvy, was dressed up as Fox, in his sheepskin turned inside out. He was a silly fellow, a simpleton, and the laughingstock of them all. Though a full-grown man, he played with children, and was in love with all the girls and foolish beyond measure: but, being an only child with ten acres of his own, he was invited everywhere. Yuzka Boryna was his quarry, the Hare. And they laughed; Lord, how they laughed!
At every step, Yasyek stumbled and fell down, sprawling, with a thud like a log. The others, too, put out their feet to make him fall; and Yuzka got out of his way with perfect ease: she sat up quite as a hare does, and imitated to perfection the way its lips move.
Then came “Quails.”
Nastka was leader, and so nimble that no one could catch her till she let them (in order to dance a measure with someone).
Finally, Tomek Vahnik was made up for a Stork, having a sheet over his head and a long stick which he held under it for beak; and he clack-clack-clacked like a real stork, so well that Yuzka, Vitek, and all the youngsters ran after him, calling (as they do to the live bird):
Klek, Klek, Klell!
Thy mother’s in hell!
What does she there?
Cook children’s fare!
What was her sin?
That her little ones’ bellies had nothing in!
And the hullabaloo was great; for he ran after them, and pecked with his beak, and flapped his wings violently.
These games lasted but an hour, when they had to make way for other observances.
Now the married women brought Yagna out of the private room, covered all over in a white wrapper, and seated her in the centre, on a kneading-trough on which a featherbed had been put. The bridesmaids thereupon rushed forward as though to snatch her away, but the men kept them off: and at last they formed a group opposite, intoning a sad and plaintive chant:
Where is your wreath, oh, where
Your bridal wreath so fair?
Henceforth, to man’s will bowed,
A cap, your locks to shroud,
You on your head must bear!
The matrons then uncovered her.
She was seen wearing the cap of the married women over the thick plaits of her tresses; yet in this disguise she appeared still more fascinating than before.
To the slow strains of the band, the whole assembly, young and old, struck up the “Hop-Song” in one grand unison of gladness. This ended, she was taken over by the matrons alone, to dance with them. … Yagustynka, by this time much heated, set her arms akimbo, and flung this impromptu verse at her:
Oh! had I known this day would see
My Yagna wed a widower,
A wreath I would have woven thee
Of naught but prickly juniper!
After which came others, yet more biting than the first.
But little note was taken of them; for the musicians had struck up for the greatest performance of all; and forward now came the dancers, and the trampling of many feet was heard. They crowded thickly, couple close to couple, cheek by jowl, moving ever more swiftly as the dance went on. Capotes flew open and flapped wide, heels stamped, hats waved—now and then a snatch of song burst forth—the girls hummed the burden, “da dana,” and tore on more quickly still, and swayed in measure in the mighty, swirling, headlong rush! No one could any longer distinguish his neighbour in the throng; and when the violins burst forth in quick sharp volleys of clean-cut separate notes, a hundred feet echoed on the floor at once, a hundred mouths gave tongue, a hundred dancers, seized as by a cyclone, whirled round and round; and the rustling of capotes, skirts, kerchiefs waving about the room, was like the flight of a flock of many-coloured birds. On they went, on continually—dancing without the slightest pause for breath, the floor clattering like a drum, the walls vibrating, the room a seething cauldron. And the rapture of the dance waxed greater, greater yet.
Then came the moment to perform rites which are always gone through when the bride puts aside her crown of rosemary.
First, Yagna had to pay toll, on entering the matrons’ set!
Immediately afterwards, another ceremony was gone through. The men had a long rope, woven of the straw of unthreshed wheat, of which they made a large ring, carefully held and guarded by the bridesmaids, Yagna standing up in the middle. Whoever wished to dance with her was obliged to creep under it, tear her away by force, and tread a measure, though they scourged him all the time with cords, wherever they could. Finally, the miller’s wife and Vachnikova made a collection, for “The Cap.” The Voyt came first; he tossed a gold piece into the plate; after that, silver roubles tinkled like hail; lastly, paper ones, as leaves in autumn.
More than three hundred roubles were thus collected!
Dominikova, quite overcome to see so large a sum offered for Yagna’s sake, told her sons to bring more vodka, with which she herself pledged her hosts, kissing her friends and weeping at their great kindness.
“Drink, my good neighbours, drink, dear friends, beloved brothers of mine. … I feel spring back in my heart again … ! Yagna’s health … drink once more … once more. …” And when she gave over, the smith drank with others, and her sons too, each separately; for the throng was very thick. Yagna too, thanking them heartily for their kindness, embraced the knees of the elders present.
The room was humming, the glasses circulating freely from hand to hand; everyone exhaled ardour and joy. Faces were crimson, eyes resplendent; hearts went out to hearts. They stood in knots about the room, drinking and talking blithely, each saying his say very loud, unheard by any, but not caring for that!—All felt at one; one joy united and penetrated them all! “Ye that have troubles, leave them for the morrow; take your fling tonight: enjoy friendly company, solace your soul! Our hallowed land, its summer spell of fruit-bearing over, is given rest by the Lord: even so is it meet that men should rest in autumn, when their fieldwork is done. Man, that have your cornstacks piled and your granaries full of grain worth heaps of precious gold—rest you now from summer labour and toil gone by!”
So spake some, while others again revolved in their minds their troubles and their griefs.
To neither of these classes did Boryna belong. His eyes saw only Yagna, his heart swelling and throbbing with the pride of her beauty. Again and again would he throw zloty to the musicians, that they might not spare catgut: for the sounds were growing weak, as their zeal was flagging.
On a sudden, then, they thundered out an Obertas that made one quiver to the backbone. Boryna leaped to Yagna’s side, caught her in a mighty grasp, and at once started such a dance as shook the planks beneath them. He wafted her down the room—back again—clanged on the floor with his horseshoe heels—knelt suddenly to her, and sprung up again in a flash—bore her about from wall to wall—roared out a solo which the instruments took up and accompanied, and still led the dance, while other couples imitated him, leaping, singing, stamping, and all with ever-increasing rapidity: as if as many spindles full of parti-coloured wools were together on the floor, turning, twisting, twirling, faster than the eyes could make out their hues; so that no one could discern lad from lass in the swift rush—only rainbow masses, flying about, driven as by a goal, with ever-changing tints, turning always with greater and more impetuous speed! At times the rush of air even blew out the candles: the music went on in the dark, and the dance as well, lit by the faint white beams of the moon shining in through the window. Then, athwart the seething dimness, were seen quick shadows, flying fast, chasing one another in the mingled darkness and silvery mist; foaming waves of pale glimmering and melodious din surged up out of the black night, in dusky harmonies of colour and sound—as in a vision or a dream—fading back into impenetrable murk, to loom once more distinct against the pallid wall, from which the glazed images of the saints reflected the moonbeams with crinkled flickers: and again they plunged and vanished into the shadows, and only the sounds of heavy breathing, and quick steps and cries, made their presence vaguely known in the entangled confusion of the unlit room!
One dance followed another in rapid succession, and with no interval between them. As each new dance was struck up, new dancers directly sprang forward, erect as a forest, swift of advance as a gale of wind; and loudly the stamping feet thundered afar, and shouts of merriment echoed through the house, while the onset went on, wild, mad, stormy, and earnest as a struggle for life and death!
Ah! how they danced!
Those Cracoviennes, with their frolicsome hop-skip-and-jump measures, and the quick lilt of their clean-cut, tinkling, metallic tunes; and the terse ditties, full of fun and freedom, with which, like the spangled girdles of the peasantry who made them, they are so brightly studded—those tunes welling with joyous dashing melody, redolent of the strong, abounding, audacious savour of youth in sportful pursuit of the sweet thrilling emotions that tell of the heyday in the blood!
And those Mazurs, long-drawn-out as the paths which streak the endless plains, wind-clamorous and vast as the endless plains they streak: lowly, yet heaven-kissing; melancholy and bold, magnificent and sombre, stately and fierce: genial, warlike, full of discordances, like that peasants’ nature, set in battle array, united as a forest and rushing to dance with such joyful clamours and wonderful strength as could attack and overcome ten times their number, nay, conquer, sweep away, trample down, the whole of a hostile world, nor reck though they themselves be doomed, and fall, but still carry on the dance after death, still stamping as in the Mazur—still crying out aloud: “Oy dana dana!”
And oh, those Obertases!—short of rhythm, vertiginous, wild and frantic, warlike and amorous, full of excitement mingled with dreamy languor and notes of sorrow; throbbing with hot blood, brimming over with geniality and kindliness, in a sudden hailstorm: affectionate voices, dark-blue glances, springtime breezes, and fragrant wafts from blossoming orchards, like the song of fields in the young year; making tears and laughter to burst forth at the same time, and the heart to utter its lay of joy, and the longing soul to go beyond the vast fields around her, beyond the far-off forests, and soar dreaming into the world of All Things, and sing ecstatically the burden, “Oy dana dana!”
And all these dances, beyond the power of words to describe, thus followed one after the other, that our peasantry might make merry in season!
And thus did they take their pleasures at the wedding of Boryna and Yagna.
The hours slipped away in clamour and din and uproar; in noisy merrymaking and dances fast and furious: they did not note that the dawn was spreading in the East, that the daybreak’s streams were slowly pouring their pallor into the night’s black gloom. The stars grew wan, the moon sank; a wind that sprang up beyond the woods passed by, chasing the dark that waxed thinner and thinner: the gnarled tufted trees looked in at the windows, bowing yet lower their slumberous frost-crowned heads, but the folk within were singing and dancing still!
The doors had been thrown wide open; so had the windows; the house, brimming and boiling over with lights and tumult, trembled, creaked and groaned, while the dance went on, now in utterly uncontrollable and rapturous excitement. It seemed to those within—such was their state!—that trees and people, earth and stars, and the hedges and the time-honoured cabin itself, were all wrestling and writhing together, united in one inextricably whirling cluster, blind, intoxicated, raving, and in utter oblivion of all; reeling and rolling from room to room, from wall to wall, from passage to passage, and out into the road and the enormous world, caught in a round that filled the universe—fading away in the long unbroken chain of crimson lights now glowing in the East!
And the music led them on—the tunes played and the songs.
How they kept time in their growling, the gruff bass-viols, uttering their broken humming sounds, like huge humblebees! And how the flutes led the band, merrily whistling and twittering, as in mockery of the drum’s joyful thuds and strokes, swelled by the jingling of its bells that shook with laughter, and floated lightly like a Jew’s beard in the wind! And then how the fiddles took the lead and came to the front, like girls leading the ballet, and sang out loud and shrill at first as though to try their voices—then played with wide, sorrowful, heartrending sweeps of the bow—the lamentations of orphans driven from their homes—and then again, with an instantaneous change, fell into a lilting tune—short, trilling, sharp, like the tripping of a hundred dancers’ heels, at which a hundred full-throated lads shouted themselves out of breath, and quivered all over, and set once more to turn and sing and dance mincingly, laughing and rejoicing, heat rising anew to the head and desire to the heart, lie strong vodka … when they fell again into the slow long notes of sorrow and weeping—as dew upon the plains!—uttering the notes of our own beloved tune, most near to the heart, instinct with mighty yearning tenderness, and making all dance deliriously to the strains of our Mazovian air!
The candles were growing dim, so near was the day; a dingy ashen twilight pervaded the room where they danced. But they still took their enjoyment as heartily as ever. If any found the liquor now flowing too scantily, he sent to the tavern for more vodka, sought out companions, and drank with them to his liking.
Some had withdrawn; some were tired and resting awhile; some, overtaken by drink, were sleeping off its fumes in the passage or by the door: others, still more intoxicated, were stretched under the hedges. All the rest danced on, danced ever.
At last, some of the more sober made up a group by the porch and, beating the floor in measure, sang thus:
O wedding-guests, come home!
Already sings the lark;
The wood is deep and dark,
And ye have far to roam:
Come home!
O wedding-guests, come home!
There’s danger in delay:
Athwart our weary way
The loud floods roll and foam:
Come home!
But no one cared to listen to them and their song!