VI
It was a strange piece of news that Hanka heard the next morning; one that made her start up in bed. But Yagustynka luckily caught hold of her in time, and pressed her down on the pillow.
“Hold ye still! Is the cabin afire?”
“But he says such things!—He must be mad!”
“Nay,” Bylitsa replied, stooping to sneeze after an abundant pinch of snuff; “nay, I am in my right mind, and what I say I know. Since yesterday, Mr. Yacek is my lodger!”
“Hear ye? He has quite lost his wits! … Pray look whether they are not coming home yet: it must be starved, my newborn!”
The old woman went on tidying and sanding the room.
Hanka’s father sneezed so violently that he was thrown back on to a bench.
“Ye’re loud as the trumpet that tells the time in the marketplace.”
“Ah, because it is strong snuff: Mr. Yacek gave me a whole packet!”
It was early. The sun, bright and warm, looked into the cabin; the orchard trees waved; through the half-open door appeared the straight necks of geese, with coral beaks at the end; and a whole family of muddied and noisy goslings tried to scramble over the high threshold. Thereupon a dog growled: the geese screamed, and brooding hens in the passage cackled in alarm, and began to flutter out of their nests.
“Please drive them to the orchard; they will have grass to pluck, at any rate.”
“I will, Hanka, I will, and see that no hawk come nigh them.”
“What are the farm-lads about?” she asked, after some time.
“Oh, Pete is ploughing the potato-fields close to the hillock, and Vitek harrowing our field of flax.”
“Is that land still wet!”
“It is: clogs stick fast; but it will dry speedily, when harrowed.”
“I may perchance leave my bed, ere the land can be sown.”
“Oh, have a care for yourself just now. Do not fear lest anyone steal your work!”
“Have the kine been milked?”
“By me! Yagna had set the pails outside the byre, and gone away.”
“She runs about Lipka continually, like a dog: a useless woman on whom there is no counting.—Tell Kobusova I will let her have the cabbage-patches. Pete will take her manure, and plough it in; but she must work four days a week for every field. Half to be done when we plant the potatoes, and the other half in harvest-time.”
“Kozlova would gladly take the flax-fields on the same terms.”
“She would not do: too lazy.—Let her seek elsewhere: last year she wagged her tongue against Father all through the village, saying he had treated her unfairly.”
“Please yourself: yours is the land, do as ye will with it.—Ah! Filipka came for potatoes yesterday, while you were lying in.”
“To be paid for in cash?”
“No, in work. In that hut there is no money: they are starving.”
“Let her have a bushel now. If she wants more, she must wait till we have done planting them. I cannot say how much we shall have to spare. Yuzka will go and measure out a bushel for her.—Though Filipka is but a poor worker.”
“Whence should she get the strength? Too little food, too little sleep, and every year a baby!”
“Hard times! Harvest over the hills and far away, and dearth at our thresholds!”
“Thresholds, say ye? Nay, within doors, and choking the life out of us!”
“Have you let the sow loose?”
“She is lying by the wall.—A splendid farrow, and each one as round as a roll.”
Here Bylitsa appeared in the doorway.
“I have left the geese among the gooseberry-bushes,” he said.—“Well, who should come to me at Easter but Mr. Yacek, saying: ‘I will live with you, Bylitsa, be your lodger, and pay you well’? I thought he was flouting me, as the gentry are wont to flout the peasant folk; so I replied: ‘Oh, I don’t mind getting a little money, and I have a room to spare.’—He laughed, gave me a packet of snuff (prime Petersburg quality), looked round my place and said: ‘If you can abide here, so can I; and I’ll fix up your hut so that it will soon look like one of our houses’!”
“Well, I declare!” said the old woman in amazement. “Such a great man—own brother to the Squire!”
“So he made himself a bed of straw beside mine—and there you are! When I went out, he was on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette, and throwing some corn to sparrows.”
“But what will he have to eat?”
“He has some pots with him, and is continually making and drinking tea.”
“There must be something underneath all this. One so high-placed would not do this without some reason.”
“The reason is that he has lost his reason! All men seek and strive to better themselves: why should one such as he strive to be worse off? Only because his wits are gone,” said Hanka, raising her head, for voices were heard within the enclosure.
They were coming back from the christening. Yuzka opened the march, with the baby, swaddled in a pillow, and covered with a shawl; then came Dominikova escorting it, then the Voyt and Ploshkova, the godfather and godmother; and, last of all, Ambrose limping along after them.
But before entering, Dominikova took up the child, and, crossing herself, carried it all round the cabin, stopping at each corner according to some old prehistoric rite, and saying:
“From the East cometh Wind.
“From the North cometh Cold.
“From the West cometh Night.
“From the South cometh Heat.
“And on every side, O human soul, beware of evil, and put thy trust in God alone.”
“H’m!” laughed the Voyt; “that Dominikova seems such a pious one, but she’s a famous warlock all the same!”
“Truly,” Ploshkova replied, “prayers do good; but all know that a few charms thrown in do no hurt.”
They entered all together. Dominikova undid the child, and put it, stark naked and red as a crayfish, into its mother’s arms.
“O Mother, we bring you a real Christian, who in holy baptism has received the name of Roch. May he live and thrive and be your consolation!”
“And may he beget a dozen young Rochs! A roaring fellow he is! No need was there to pinch him at christening; and how he spat the salt out!”
The little one was wailing and kicking out its legs upon the featherbed. Dominikova wiped its eyes and mouth and forehead with some drops of vodka; and only then did she allow Hanka to take it to her breast. To this it at once turned, clung ravenously, and was hushed.
Hanka then thanked the godfather and godmother very heartily, kissing them and the others present, and excusing herself that the christening was not such as befitted the son of a Boryna.
“Then have another one next year,” said the Voyt, merrily, wiping his moustache, for the vodka glass was coming his way; “and that one will make up for this.”
Here Ambrose blurted out thoughtlessly: “A christening without the father is like a sin without absolution!”
This opened the floodgates of Hanka’s grief, until the women presently drank to comfort her, and gathered her into their arms with great compassion. Presently she was soothed, begged their pardons, and asked them to take something to eat. And, indeed, a great dish of scrambled eggs and minced sausage was spreading its fragrance through the air.
It was Yagustynka who served the visitors, for Yuzka was crooning to the newborn child, rocking it to sleep in the large kneading-trough, for the old cradle had lost its rockers.
Long did spoon after spoon go tinkling into the dish, nobody speaking the while.
Children were crowding outside in the passage, and more and more little heads came peeping into the room; so the Voyt flung a handful of caramels out into the yard to them, for which they had many a scramble and fight.
“Why, even Ambrose has lost his tongue,” Yagustynka said, being the first to speak.
“Ah, he is thinking of a farm for our man-child to run … and a girl for him to court!”
“To find the land is the father’s business: to find the girl be ours,” said the godfather.
“Of them there is no lack at all. They are thrown at your heads, with a dowry besides for the one ye may choose!”
“I fancy the Voyt’s wife is thinking of another child: I saw her the other day airing her dead babe’s clothes on the hedgerow.”
“Belike the Voyt has promised her a christening in autumn.”
“And, being such an able official, has surely not forgotten the needful for its fulfilment.”
“Oh, yes,” he answered gravely; “to be cheerful, a cabin must have a racket of children!”
“They do indeed give much trouble, but are pledges of hope and comfort.”
“Very fine!” growled Yagustynka.—“But even gold may be bought too dear!”
“True, some children are evil, and set their parents at naught. But ’tis a hard law: ‘As the dam is, so the lamb is’; and ‘one reaps what one has sown,’ ” Dominikova replied.
Yagustynka, feeling the application of the words to herself, was infuriated.
“Ye may well jeer at others, having such gentle boys, who spin and milk and wash the pots as well as the best-trained wench.”
“Because they have been bred up in the right way—the way of obedience.”
“And they are as like their father as any picture—even to offering their cheeks to the smiter! Aye, ‘as the dam is, so the lamb is’: ye have spoken truly. And I remember your deeds with the lads in your young days: small wonder, then, that Yagna goes your way, and imitates you so well. If,” she hissed in her ear, “a wooden post—topped with a man’s hat, set on it jauntily—should ask her, she were too good-natured to say No!” Dominikova turned deadly pale and bowed her head down as the words were spat forth.
Just then Yagna was going through the passage. Hanka called her in to take a drink. She complied, but, without even glancing at anyone, went out and into her own rooms.
The Voyt awaited her return, but in vain, and was visibly disappointed.
He had little more to say to the others; and when she came out again and went into the courtyard, his eyes wandered stealthily after her.
The talk began to flag. The two older ones sat glowering and glaring at each other, while Ploshkova whispered something in Hanka’s ear. Ambrose alone was faithful to the bottle, and though no one took any notice of him, talked on and told of things incredible.
The Voyt shortly took his leave, making as if to go home; but he whipped round through the orchard into the yard, where Yagna was sitting on the byre-step, giving a mottled calf her finger to suck.
He peered cautiously round, and putting some caramels into her bosom:
“Take these, Yagna,” he said; “and come to the private bar this evening; you shall have something still better.”
And without awaiting her reply he hurried back to the cabin.
“Aha!” he cried; “ye have there a goodly bull-calf, I see: ’twill fetch a high price.”
“No, we keep it for breeding: it comes of good Manor stock.”
“And a splendid profit ye’ll have of it: the miller’s bull is good for nothing now. How pleased Antek will be to see the money flow in!”
“Ah me! when will he see that? when?”
“In no long time. It is I who tell you so: trust me.”
“We all are waiting wearily from day to day!”
“And any day they may be back—all of them; and I know something of these matters, I fancy.”
“But the fields will not wait: that is the worst of it.”
“And ah! when I look forward to autumn. …”
A cart rattled by. Yuzka peeped out and announced that it was the priest, along with Roch, bound for somewhere.
“To purchase wine for the Mass,” Ambrose explained.
“And why,” Yagustynka asked with a sneer, “has he rather chosen Roch to try it with him than Dominikova?”
The latter had no time to retort: just then, in came the smith, and the Voyt raised his glass.
“Michael, you are late; come and make up for lost time!”
“I shall soon catch you up: here they come to take you from us!”
Even as he spoke, the Soltys rushed in breathless.
“Away, Peter; the scrivener and the gendarmes need you.”
“Mother of a dog! what, not an instant of rest? … Well, duty first!”
“Get rid of them quick and rejoin us.”
“Can it be done? There’s the Podlesie fire business, and they come, too, about the hole dug here.”
He went out with the Soltys. Then Hanka, fixing her eyes on the smith:
“They will come,” she said, “to take informations. Tell them all, Michael.”
He scratched his moustache, and eyed the child with much apparent attention.
“What can I say? Just as much as Yuzka could.”
“I shall not send the girl to an official: ’twould be unseemly. But say to them, you, that, so far as we can tell, naught has been stolen from the storeroom. Whether this be so or not, no one knows but God … and. …”—She broke off, stroking the featherbed with a nervous cough, disguising the mockery she felt visible on her face. He replied only with a shrug, and went out.
“Oh, the dishonest knave!” she said to herself, smiling softly.
“Because the christening was a poor one, they have broken it up quite,” Ambrose grumbled, taking up his cap to go.
“Yuzka, cut a piece of sausage: he can celebrate the christening at home.”
“Am I a man to eat dry sausage?”
“Then moisten your inwards with vodka now, and stop grumbling.”
“They were wise who said: ‘Count the grains of barley put in the pot, but look not at your fingers when they work, nor count the glasses drunk at any festival’!”
They continued talking and drinking for a time, till the Soltys came round to all the cabins, ordering the people to meet the scrivener and gendarmes at the Voyt’s.
This put Ploshkova in a passion. Setting her arms akimbo, she began to storm.
“Not one jot do I care for the Voyt’s commands! Is it any business of ours? Have we invited them to come? Have we time for gendarme-parties, say? We do not come to heel to the first that whistles: no dogs are we! If they want to know aught, let them come and inquire. … ’Tis the only thing to do. … No, we do not go!” And with that she ran out into the road, shouting to a group of terrified women who had come together by the millpond:
“To your work, neighbours; to the fields! whoso has to do with any goodwife should know where to seek her!—Let us not wait upon them, as if we were going to give all up at their command, and sit like dogs at their doors! The rascals!”—So she screamed, being mightily ruffled in spirit.
Now as she was, after Borynova, the foremost goodwife in Lipka, the women obeyed her, and dispersed in all directions like frightened hens; and as the most part had already been in the fields since dawn, the village now seemed empty, except for the little ones playing about the pond, and the old people basking in the sun.
Of course the scrivener was furious, and loaded the Soltys with a profusion of insults; but he had to go to the fields all the same. There he plodded to and fro for a long time, asking each whether they knew anything about the fire in Podlesie. They told him just as much as he himself already knew; for what he wants to keep to himself, who would let a gendarme know?
The whole time till noon was lost in floundering about most villainous roads, and at times getting dirtied up to the waist with mire; for the fields were still very muddy here and there.
Their exasperation was therefore at its height when the scrivener arrived at Boryna’s hut to draw up a statement of facts concerning the pit dug there. He was swearing like a trooper; and, chancing to meet Bylitsa in the porch, he rushed at him, shaking his fists and shrieking:
“You hound’s face, you! Wherefore do you not watch, when robbers dig under your hut, eh?” And he proceeded to mention Bylitsa’s mother, with the foulest outrage.
“Mind the business you have to do: I am no servant of yours! D’ye hear!” the old man, grievously offended, broke in.
At this the scrivener roared: “Hold your tongue when you speak to an official, or I’ll jail you for contempt!” But the old man’s blood was boiling. He drew himself up, and cried in a hoarse voice, and with blazing eyes:
“And who are you? A servant of the public, paid by the public! Then do what the Voyt commands you, and let us free peasants alone!—Look at him! That scribbling fellow there! He has grown fat on our bread, and now would fain ride roughshod over folk!—But you have your superiors to account to, and they can punish you!”
Here the Voyt and Soltys came forward to pacify him, for he had worked himself up so, that his fingers were twitching for some weapon at hand.
“You! set down a fine for me: I’ll pay it, and toss you a coin for vodka besides, if I am so minded,” he called out.
But the clerk paid no more heed to him, and was taking notes of everything, and inquiring into every detail of the occurrence: while the old man rambled about the place, muttering, peeping into corners, and quite unable to come to himself. He even gave a kick to the dog!
When all was over, they would willingly have taken a morsel; but Hanka sent them word that she was just then short of bread and milk: only a few potatoes remained from breakfast.
They accordingly repaired to the tavern, loading Lipka with all imaginable maledictions.
“Ye did well, Hanka,” the old man said; “and they can do nothing to you.—Why, the old Squire, though I was his serf then, and he had the right, would never, never have insulted me so!”
In the early afternoon, news came that they were still in the tavern, and the Soltys had given orders to bring Kozlova to him.
“He may as well run after the wind in the plain!” Yagustynka said, scornfully.
“No doubt she is in the forest, seeking dry firewood.”
“No; she has been in Warsaw since yesterday. She went to get children from the hospital, and is to bring over a couple. Foundlings, I suppose.”
“Yes, and let them die of starvation, as she did those she had two years ago,” said Hanka.
“Poor things! Perhaps it is better so; they will not have to drag out a long life of misery.”
“Aye, but even a bastard is of human blood, and ’tis no light thing to answer for their lives to God, as she must.”
“But,” Yagustynka pleaded, “she does not starve them of set purpose: oft she has not enough for herself; whence can she get food for them?”
“She has not taken them out of charity; she has been paid for their keep!” replied Hanka, sternly.
“Fifty zloty a head per year is no great sum.”
“It is nothing. She drinks it all at once, and the little ones starve!”
“Not all of them.—Your Vitek, for instance, and another lad now in a hut in Modlitsa.”
“Oh, but Father took Vitek from her when he could hardly toddle; and the other was in like case.”
“Am I defending Kozlova? Nay, but only telling you things as I see them. Something the poor creature must earn, since she has naught to eat.”
“Surely: her goodman is away, and so can steal naught for her.”
“And then she made but a sorry business with Agata. That old thing, instead of dropping off—what does she do but get quite well again and leave her? And now she grumbles all over the village that every day Kozlova upbraided her for living on, to her loss!”
“She will no doubt return to the Klembas: where else should she take shelter?”
“She is offended with them. Klembova would have kept her because of her bedding and ready money. But she would not stay, had her locker taken over to the Soltys’, and is now looking for a hut to die in peacefully.”
“She’ll not die yet. There’s work for her everywhere, if only geese to tend.—Now, where in the world has Yagna gone?”
“She’s at the organist’s, belike, embroidering a frill for the daughter.”
“As if there was too little to do here!”
“Ever since Easter,” said Yuzka in a tone of complaint, “she has been there continually.”
“I’ll give her a lesson she will remember.—Let me look at baby.”
She took it to bed with her, and as soon as dinner was done, sent everyone off to work. Soon she was alone in the room, listening to the children playing outside under Bylitsa’s eye, and thinking how old Boryna lay gazing at the sunbeams that streaked the counterpane, trying to catch at them with his fingers, and babbling vague incoherent words, like an infant.
The village was deserted, for—the weather being first-rate—all who could had gone out to work.
Since Easter, it had been warmer and brighter every day.
And the days were lengthening out: misty at dawn, hot though cloudy at noon, and gorgeous with burning sunsets: true spring days.
Some, cool, bright, clear, passed by in quiet beauty, with a sprinkling of yellow dandelions, white daisies, and green buds coming out all over the willows.
And some were downright hot—burning hot; moist, soaked in sunlight, smelling of all fresh scents, and pregnant with such mighty power that when at evening the birds were still and the villagers asleep, one almost felt the upward thrust of life in the roots and growing corn, the hushed rustling of the opening buds, and the motions of all the creatures now coming forth into God’s world.
But there were other days, too, totally unlike these.
Sunless, foggy, of a livid grey, with bellying clouds low down in an air so dense that it turned the head like strong drink; and the trees tossed and rocked, and all things swelled with indistinct cravings towards they knew not what: men only longed to shout, to yawn, to roll about the wet meadows of lush grass, like the silly dogs around them!
Then there were days of rain, that commenced with dawn, with a hempen funeral pall over everything, making the roads invisible, as were the cabins too, buried in their drenched orchards. And steadily it fell, in regular tremulous grey threads that seemed unwound from an unseen spindle between sky and earth; while everything bent patiently beneath the streaming downpour, and hearkened to the many-voiced bubbling of the rills, white with foam, that ran down the dark-hued fields.
But this was a customary thing, to which no one paid heed, all going forth to work at peep of day, and coming home late in the dusk, having had scarce time enough to swallow a morsel and breathe awhile.
For whole days, then, Lipka stood abandoned, with only a few old people to guard it. Sometimes a dziad would drag his aged limbs along the way, or a cart jog on to the mill; then all was deserted once more, and Lipka stood plunged in the ever-thickening greenery of its orchards.
So the days crawled by, full of hard toil, not always warm, sometimes even snowy. Small wonder if there was no noise or quarrelling in the place: they had no time for that, and every neck was bent beneath the heavy yoke of labour.
As soon, then, as morning opened its heavy eyes, and the first lark piped up, the whole village sprang to its feet with noise and din and cries of children and screams of driven geese; horses were brought out and harnessed to the plough, potatoes carted away to the fields in sacks—and lo! all was silent anew! Even Holy Mass had but a scanty attendance, and often the organ, played in an empty church, was heard only by those in the neighbouring fields, and men knelt down there to say their morning prayers when the tinkling bell announced the beginning of the service.
All worked hard: yet the land seemed as untouched as when they were not there. Only a close observer could have descried here and there a plough, with horses straining forwards along the furrows—a cart moving on the field-paths—or women, like red caterpillars, digging away in the vast plain under the bright vault of sky.
Around them, in all the hamlets visible above the orchard-tops—white walls on a blue-grey background—the air vibrated with roars and shouts and songs of toilers. To the very hills at the skyline, the eye could see hosts of peasants, sowing or guiding the plough, and folk busy planting potatoes, and pillars of dust rising up on sandy soil wherever the harrow passed.
The Lipka lands alone, smitten as it were with the scourge of barrenness, made a mournful exception. There they lay, alas! all but fallow; for ten women, were they to strive and sweat from daybreak till night, could not do so much as one single man.
By themselves, for what were they fit? Only for delving or hoeing, to plant potatoes or flax. Over the rest of the lands the partridges piped undisturbed, ever bolder and bolder; or a hare would be seen running, but so deliberately that you could count the white flashes of its scut; or flocks of crows would fly flapping over slope and hummock.
What though the days were marvellously fine, rising like golden monstrances dipped in silver light? What though, luxuriant in verdure, they brimmed over with warm fragrance, and were made melodious by the voices of many birds, where every ditch was all full of the gold of the dandelions; where every field-path was transformed into a green ribbon embroidered with daisies, and the vast plain sprinkled all over as with a rosy dust of flowers? What though each tree was oozing and dripping with the most lovely verdure, and the whole world simmered, bubbling over with the great seething of the spring!
For round Lipka the lands lay untilled, unsown, unmanured, like lusty young swains basking lazy in the sunshine: and on their rich fruitful surface, instead of corn, wild marjorams began to peep forth, thistles grew apace, rusty sorrel plants rose up; the charlock spread amongst the autumn-ploughed fields, and mulleins and burdocks swarmed in the stubble. All those parasites of the farmers’ crops, taking courage, were now creeping on far and wide, and where they had hitherto skulked about in fear and trembling, they came up boldly and grew fast, invading and conquering the ground, furrow by furrow.
It was depressing to look upon, that waste and lonely land!
It seemed as though the forests, bending down from the hills they crowned; and the brooklets that wound timidly through those deserted plots and patches; and the blackthorn thickets already swelling with their white flower-buds; and the wild pear-trees, scattered along the field-paths; and the birds of passage; and the solitary wanderer from foreign parts; and even the crosses and statues of saints that watched by the roadsides—as though they were all looking on astounded, and inquiring of the sunny days and the plots running to waste:
“Whither have the peasants gone? Those songs, those bursts of merriment, where are they? What has come over Lipka?”
The women’s wailing alone told them all.
So things went on, with no change for the better, rather for the worse; because the women, unable to get even with the homework, came more rarely to the fields.
At Boryna’s, indeed, things went on as usual, though more slowly than before and not so well, since Pete had never been accustomed to that sort of work; but they went on somehow, and there were hands enough to labour.
From her bed, Hanka directed all, and with such shrewdness and energy that even Yagna was obliged to bear a hand along with the others. And Hanka took thought for everything—for the live stock—for the sick man—for the time to plough, for the seeds and where to sow them—and for the little ones, whom Bylitsa, having fallen ill, had not been able to care for since the christening. She lay alone all day long, seeing no one but her people at dinnertime and in the evening, and Dominikova who looked in once a day. None of the neighbours, not even Magda, gave sign of life, and Roch was no longer heard of: since his departure with the priest, he had not come back. She was utterly weary of lying in bed; and, in order to recover more quickly, she no longer grudged herself fat victuals, eggs, and meat. She even had a fowl killed to make broth! True, it was far too old to lay eggs: but would have brought a couple of zloty in the market, all the same.
In consequence, she got well so speedily that she was on her legs by Low Sunday, and resolved (in spite of all dissuasions) to have her “churching.” So she went to church with Ploshkova at once after High Mass.
She was still very shaky on her legs, though, and had to lean on her companion’s arm.
“It smells of spring so, my head is whirling.”
“That will pass off in a day or two.”
“Why, a month’s change has come about in a week!”
“Spring rides a swift horse; there is no overtaking it.”
“How green all round is, O Lord! how green!”
Yes: over every orchard there floated a cloud of verdure, and nothing was seen of the huts except the white tops of the chimneys. Deep in the thickets, the birds were twittering with all their might; and genial breezes came up from the fields beneath, made the weeds in the hedges wave, and the millpond ripple and eddy.
“The buds are big on the cherry-trees: soon we shall see the blossoms.”
“We shall have plenty of fruit, unless a sharp frost nips them.”
“There is an old saying: ‘When the harvest is rare, there’ll be fruit and to spare.’ ”
“I fear it looks like that for Lipka,” she sighed; and the tears dimmed her eyes as she glanced at the unsown fields.
The “churching” was soon over; for the baby roared amain, and Hanka was presently so tired that she had to lie down at once on her return. But she had not lain a breathing-space, when Vitek rushed in, crying:
“Mistress, the Tsiganes! the Tsiganes are coming!”
“Evil news, in truth! Have we not enough to plague us?—Call Pete; let him lock all the doors, lest they make off with anything.” And she went out in great alarm.
In a short time, the whole gang was all over the place: black-avised, in rags and tatters, with infants carried on their backs, these beggars, importunate beyond all measure, were running about everywhere, offering to tell fortunes, and even trying to make their way into the huts by force. There were but ten of them, but they made as much noise as a whole village.
“Yuzka! drive the geese and hens into the yard, and take the children within doors; they might be stolen!”
Down she sat in the porch to watch; and, perceiving a Tsigane woman trying to enter the enclosure, set the dog on her.
Lapa attacked her with savage pertinacity, and would not be driven off, though the hag lifted her staff at him and muttered sundry words and curses of magic might.
“Your curses, they are less than naught to me, you thief!”
“There would be no spells cast on us at all if ye let her come in,” said Yagna, who looked annoyed.
“No, but our things would be stolen! There is no safety against such a creature, even should your eyes follow her hands all the time!—and if ye want your fortune told, why, go ye after her.”
She had shrewdly guessed at the unspoken desire of Yagna, who ran out into the village, and followed the Tsiganes about all the afternoon. Unable either to free herself of a vague dread, or to overcome her curiosity to know the future, she returned to the cabin many a time, and went out again as often; and it was only when twilight fell, and the Tsiganes were going off to the forest, that she saw one of them enter the tavern, followed her in, and, in extreme terror, crossing herself again and again, had her fortune told, heedless of the bystanders.
At Boryna’s cabin in the evening, Pete told them about the Tsiganes: how they had a king, who went about covered with silver bosses, and was so perfectly obeyed that, should he even in jest command one of them to hang himself, he would do so at once!
“A king of thieves!” whispered Vitek; “a mighty man whom they set the dogs at!”
“Accursed heathens!” the old woman chimed in; and, drawing nearer, related how the Tsiganes were wont to kidnap children all about the villages.
“And, to make them black, they put them in a bath of alder-bark, so that their own mother would not know them; and then they take a brick and rub away the flesh—even to the bone—where the holy oil of baptism had been set: they simply make little fiends of them.”
“And ’tis said,” a girl’s voice piped shrilly, “that they know charms and incantations awful even to name!”
“Aye, indeed; one would have but to breathe on you, and moustache would sprout out to a cubit’s length at once!”
“We are told that a man of the parish of Slupia once set his dog on a Tsigane hag: she only waved a mirror before his eyes, and he was struck stone-blind!”
“Belike, they can change a man into anything they may choose—into a beast even!”
“Ha! whosoever drinks overmuch does truly change himself into a swine!”
“But what of that farmer in Modlitsa, who barked and ran on all fours?”
“He was possessed of an evil spirit that his Reverence cast out of him.”
“Gracious Lord! can such things be? It makes my flesh creep to think of them.”
“Yea, for the Wicked One prowleth on every side as a wolf round the fold!”
Terror clutched at their hearts; they gathered closer together, while Vitek, all of a flutter with dread, faltered out:
“But this place too is haunted!”
Yagustynka was down upon him at once: “Don’t be a fool; don’t talk nonsense.”
“I do not. For I know that Something walks the stable at night, and shakes out the provender, while the horses neigh. … And then it passes out beyond the haystack; for Lapa follows it, first growling, then fawning and wagging its tail: and yet there is no one to be seen. … It must be Kuba’s ghost,” he added in a low voice, looking round him with dread.
“Kuba’s ghost!” echoed Yuzka, and crossed herself several times.
All were greatly impressed, and cold to the very backbone. The door opened, creaking: they all started and cried out. It was only Hanka standing on the threshold.
“Pete, where do the Tsiganes lie tonight?”
“They said in the forest, beyond Boryna’s cross.”
“This night ye must watch, lest they make off with aught of our things.”
“So near their camp, they would scarcely steal from us.”
“That’s as it may be. Two years since, they lay in that very place, and went off with a sow of Soha’s,” said Hanka, as a warning. At bedtime, she saw to it that the byre and stable were well locked; and, returning, she looked in at her father-in-law’s door.
“Yuzka! run and fetch Yagna: tell her to come at once: this night I’ll not leave the door unlocked for her!”
Yuzka was soon back. No lights were in Dominikova’s window, and almost all Lipka was asleep.
“The gadabout!—Well, I’ll not let her in. She may spend the night out of doors,” Hanka said, as she shot the bolts.
It must have been very late when, awaked by someone pushing at the door, and going to open it, she shrank back with disgust: it was Yagna, positively reeking of vodka. Her state was clear by her fumbling at the door-latch; and then she was heard stumbling over the furniture and falling like a log on to her bed.
“Had it been a fair-day, she could not have quaffed deeper!—Ah, well!”
The night was fated to bring trouble. Just before daybreak, such a lamentable cry thrilled through Lipka that all those who still were sleeping donned their clothes and ran out, thinking the village was on fire.
Balcerkova and her daughters were running about, with shrieks and screams. They had just found their horse stolen!
The whole population was instantly outside her cabin, where, in the utmost disorder of attire, and with many a sob and wailing ejaculation, they were telling how Mary had gone out before dawn to put provender in the rack … to find the door open and the stable empty!
“O Lord, have mercy!—Good people, help me, do something!” the old woman shrieked, clutching at her own hair, and dashing herself against the fence.
The Soltys came and sent for the Voyt, who arrived directly, but so drunk that he scarcely could stand. Utterly incapable, he only stammered unintelligibly, and ordered the people away, till at last the Soltys was obliged to remove him.
The calamity, however, was so grievous that few paid any attention to his state. Everyone was in consternation, going from the road to the stable and back again, talking one to another, hesitating as to what course to pursue, and completely dismayed. But suddenly someone shouted:
“This is the Tsiganes’ work!”
“So it is: they are still in the forest, and came round to us but yesterday.”
“Let us,” cried Gulbasova, “go to them quickly, take the horse back, and thrash them soundly!”
When the wild uproar that arose at her words broke out, it was just sunrise. They set to pulling stakes out of fences, and running about with clenched fists to excite each other, and were ready to set out, when a fresh development took place.
Up came the Soltys’ wife, all in tears, crying that their cart had been stolen from them!
The news was like a thunderbolt, and for a time they stood breathless, staring at each other with panic-stricken looks.
A horse and cart stolen together! such a thing had never been heard of.
“There’s a curse upon Lipka!”
“And it is heavier every week!”
“Of old, fewer mishaps took place in a year than now in one month.”
“What, oh, what will be the end of it all!” they whispered, stricken with awe.
They all immediately hastened to Balcerkova’s orchard, wherein the footprints of a horse were distinctly seen on the dewy grass and the damp earth; these they followed to the Soltys’ granary. It was there that the horse had been harnessed and driven round about the path near the miller’s, into the road that ran towards Vola.
Half the village followed the traces in that direction; but these at last disappeared near the burnt cornstacks in Podlesie so completely that no further clue could be found.
This robbery had dispirited them all so that, in spite of the magnificent weather, few were in a state to work. They went about dejectedly, wringing their hands, condoling with Balcerkova, and each of them most anxious for the safety of her own property.
As to the old dame, she stood beside the stable-door as by a catafalque, weeping bitterly, and pouring out by fits and starts words interspersed with sighs:
“O my chestnut horse, my only one, my beloved, you the best of all my servants!—Ah me! he was but in his tenth year; I had bred him from his foaling! Even as one of my own children he was. … Foaled the very year my Staho was born!—What shall we do without you now, alas!”
Her complaints were all the more sincere and hearty, because just then, no men being on her farm, it was as bad to lose both her hands (she said) as lose her horse.
Of course her neighbours surrounded her with quaint attempts at consolation, and general praises of her horse’s good points.
“A first-rate beast, still in its prime, and gentle as a child!”
“It kicked my boy, neighbour; but all the same, ’twas a splendid animal.”
“And though it had a spavin on one leg, it was worth forty roubles any day.”
“As playful as a kitten, it was! How it used to pull down the bedding from the fences!”
“We shall not look upon its like soon,” they all agreed, speaking as of a dead Christian!—And whenever Balcerkova cast a glance at the manger, her sorrow welled forth afresh, and the empty stable, like a freshly-dug grave, evoked the remembrance of her loss, and the cruel injury done to her; and she was only soothed a little when she learned that the Soltys had taken Pete from Boryna’s, Valek from the priest’s, and, together with the miller’s man, had started off after the Tsiganes.
“Ye may as well pursue the wind in the plain. ‘They that steal, can conceal,’ ” said one.
And indeed they returned very late, announcing that every trace of them had disappeared like a stone in the water.
The Voyt showed himself at last, and, dark though it was, took the Soltys with him to report to the police; while Balcerkova and Mary went to explore the neighbouring hamlets.
They came back with no news, save that thefts had been numerous in other villages as well. So thus there now came another weighty affliction to torment the people: anxiety for the safety of their possessions. The Voyt therefore organized a “Vigilance Band”; and, for lack of young men, told out two girls nightly to make the round of the village and watch, together with all the bigger boys: besides which, the lasses were to sleep in the byres and stables.
All this was of no avail. The very first night, certain thieves went to Filipka’s hut (over the water), and made off with her sow, just about to farrow!
The woman’s grief could not have been more violent if her own child had been stolen. For this was all she depended on to pull through till harvest-time; and her howls of despair, as she banged her head against the walls, were frightful to hear. She went with her tale of woe to his Reverence, who gave her a rouble, kindly promising her a young pig of the farrow he himself expected at harvest-time.
They were at their wit’s end how to put a stop to these robberies: everyone was filled with dreary forebodings, and went about in fear of what the coming night might bring forth.
Luckily Roch appeared in the evening with news simply too good for belief. On Thursday—the day after next—a whole troop of neighbours was coming round to help Lipka in tilling the lands!
No, they could not believe it; but when his Reverence came to confirm the news solemnly, at last their joy burst forth. The same day, when it had ceased from raining, and the steaming pools glowed scarlet in the sundown, all the roads swarmed with people. The huts seethed with the excitement of it; neighbours ran out to talk the news over with neighbours, and wonder; the robberies were quite forgotten, and the unexpected assistance rejoiced them so much that but few troubled to watch that night.
Early the next day, preparations were made to receive their visitors: the huts were cleaned, loaves baked, carts made ready, potatoes cut up for planting; and the manure that lay in heaps on the fields was scattered about over them. In every cabin, too, much trouble was taken to get food and drink for these unforeseen guests; for it was well understood that they must be treated well, and as behoved farmers. Many a fowl and goose which they had meant to sell was now put in the pot; many a loan, too, was taken from the innkeeper and the miller. In short, Lipka was, as it were, on the eve of some great festival.
No one was more enraptured and transported than Roch himself. The whole day he trudged about, hastening the preparations where needful, and so bright and chatty that, when he came round to the Borynas’, Hanka, who was unwell and had taken to bed again, could not help remarking:
“Your eyes gleam as if ye were sick with a fever!”
“ ’Tis with joy they gleam! for I never yet felt so happy. Oh, think of it: so many peasants coming over to Lipka for two whole days to do all the most urgent work! How can I help rejoicing?”
“But I cannot make out how this aid is to be—gratis, paid only with a ‘God reward you!’ ”
“Aye, for those three words they will come to our help, like true Poles and true Christians. Aye, this has never yet been seen, and therefore has evil flourished in the country. … Things will grow better still: ye shall see!—Our folk will gain understanding, and know that we should look only to ourselves; that none will assist us, unless we ourselves do so, each helping the other in time of need.—Ye shall see: the time will come!” he cried, radiant, stretching forth his arms as though to embrace the whole people and unite it in the strong bonds of love.
But when they asked him who had worked the miracle, he slipped away and wandered amongst the huts, where the girls were getting ready the morrow’s dresses—almost holiday attire—in the hope that some unmarried man might be coming over.
The first rays of morning had but just shone upon the roofs, when the whole place was in readiness: chimneys sent up their smoke, girls darted from hut to hut, and little boys climbed up to the ridgepole to look out along the roads. All was in solemn silence. The day was not sunny; sombre rather; but warm, with a touch of melancholy in the air. Birds chirruped loud in the orchards, but the people’s voices were subdued and in keeping with the mild dank weather.
They waited a good while, and it was only just before Mass that the dull beat of the hoofs on the highways was heard, and a procession of carts appeared coming out of the distant bluish haze.
“Here they come, from Vola!—From Rzepki!—From Debitsa!—From Przylek!”
With these shouts, they ran towards the church, in front of which the first carts had stopped. Presently the whole space was thronged with horses in harness, and with men. Gaily dressed peasants leaped out of the carts, saluting the women who came crowding in on every side: while the little ones, as usual, bawled a noisy welcome to the strangers.
The service was beginning; so in they went to hear Mass first of all.
As soon as it was over, the villagers grouped themselves round about the belfry, the goodwives foremost, and the girls on either side of them, a little behind; while the komorniki stood apart in a heap, unwilling to appear too bold in the presence of his Reverence, who soon appeared, gave all a hearty greeting, and, in concert with Roch, settled who should work on each farm, taking care that the wealthiest peasants should work on the best farms.
Half an hour had not elapsed before all were distributed; there only remained in front of the church a few komorniki in tears, who had vainly hoped that some worker might fall to their share. And now every homestead was in motion, benches set out in front of the huts, and breakfast laid on the tables; while nips of vodka were tossed off “to their better acquaintance.” The lasses served with alacrity, for most of the visitors were unmarried men, and clad almost as though they had come rather to a betrothal than to a long spell of toil.
There was no time for conversation. Nor did they linger much over breakfast; for, as they politely remarked, “they had not yet deserved hospitality.”
So they speedily made for the fields, under the goodwives’ guidance.
And now arose a day of high solemnity along that countryside. Waste and, as it were, palsied erewhile, it took up a new life now. Wagons rolled out of every farmyard, ploughs moved forth on every road; all the field-paths were alive with people, hailing each other with merry cries across orchards and enclosures; horses neighed, dogs gave tongue, running wildly after the colts; a strong lusty joy of life, filling all hearts, went brimming over into the very fields! And on potato-patch and barley-plot, free space and weedy fallow, there arose a din full of gladness and excitement and racket, as in a ballroom just before the dance.
And then came silence, broken by swishing whips, and tinkling harnesses; the horses pulled amain; the ploughs, still rusty, cut deep into the soil, turning up their first black glossy furrows. And the people, drawing a long breath, crossed themselves, cast their eyes over the fields, and stooped down with a will to labour and to toil.
It was like a huge church in which the service had just begun. With what piety did they bend over the glebe! with what profound devotion and trust in Mother Earth did they cast forth the sacred seed, that was to bring forth much fruit on the morrow!
Like a swarm of bees, they beset the odoriferous soil—a multitudinous, laborious, silent crowd: while the lark sang overhead, poised upon unseen wings, and the wind, blowing by, rocked the trees, tumbled the women’s garments, stroked down the rye-blades, and then fled away with a laugh to the forest.
For many long hours they worked on at a stretch, only from time to time straightening their bent shoulders just for a breathing-spell. Even at noonday, they did not quit the scene, but sat down in the field-paths to rest awhile and eat the food brought in pots from the cabins. But no sooner had the horses done their meal than the men returned to the ploughs again without a moment’s lingering. Only the falling twilight at last put an end to their labour.
And now the village shone bright, and every cabin blazed through open door or window: within they were all busy getting supper ready. Louder grew the noise and uproar: children clamoured, horses whinnied, gates swung rasping rustily, calves bleated, geese gaggled, driven home from their pastures: all Lipka effervesced with commotion and uproar.
With the evening meal there came a hush. The visitors were invited to table, and offered the first places, as honoured guests: they were pressed to eat of all that was best: meat was plentiful, and vodka flowed freely.
Through the open doors and windows, the circle of heads round the tables could be seen, spoons were heard scraping the platters, and far into the roads came the savoury scent of fried bacon.
Roch passed from hut to hut, sowing the seed of good words, as a thrifty farmer, full of care for his lands—yet at the same time not less happy, perhaps happier, than anyone else in the village.
At Hanka’s, too, the day of joy was felt. Though they needed no assistance, yet they had, in order to be of service, invited to supper two men from Rzepki, who had been working at Veronka’s and at Golab’s.
These she had chosen because the Rzepki community claimed to be of noble blood.
In Lipka, indeed, people laughed that claim to scorn; but no sooner had they come in than Hanka was aware of a subtle distinction that stamped all they did.
They were undersized, thin, wore black well-fitting capotes like townsmen; their moustaches, of the colour of hemp, stood out stiffly; their looks were dignified, their manners courteous, and they spoke after the fashion of gentlemen. Very well-behaved folk they were, praising all they saw with courteous grace, and so pleasing of speech that the women felt mightily flattered.
Hanka paid such attention and had such an eye to all their needs that, during the plentiful supper she had had prepared and laid out over a clean white cloth on the table, her folk were continually dancing attendance on them. As to Yagna, who had made a first-class toilet for the occasion, she was in the seventh heaven, her eyes simply glued on the younger of the two men.
But when Yagustynka whispered: “He has only his own ladies to think of; a barefoot lass is of no account to him!” she turned very red, and hurried out to her own room.
It was then that Roch came in to take a look at the table.
“How amazed our men will be,” he said, “to learn that the Rzepki folk have come to help them!”
“If we fought you in the wood, it was no private concern of ours: therefore do we bear no grudge,” the elder of the two replied.
“Whenever two men come to blows, a third is sure to gain thereby!”
“Roch, ye say true. And if these twain make friends, may not that third have to smart for it?”
“He may. Sir, you speak most wisely.”
“What Lipka must bear today, may be Rzepki’s burden tomorrow.”
“Every village must be a prey to the foe, my good sir, if they wrangle amongst themselves, instead of uniting. Wise friendly neighbours are as sure a defence as walls and palings: no swine can pass to root in their fields.”
“We, Roch, know that; but our young men do not as yet, and there’s the pity of it.”
“Ah, but the time is coming, honoured sir: they become wiser!”
And thereupon they went out into the porch, where Pete was playing on his fiddle for the girls who had gathered to hear him.
The night was quiet, with but little wind; white mists were hovering over the lands, the lapwing piped in the morass, and the cluttering of the mill-wheels went on as ever. But Lipka was noisy for a long while, with laughter and merry whispers, and walks and talks by the millpond, men and girls together; while their elders, sitting in front of their cabins, chatted with the older guests, and enjoyed the rest and the cool air.
Everybody was afoot the next day, almost ere the sky had begun to redden in the East.
The day was clear, and, as the night had been frosty, made the landscape gleam like silver out of the cold shadows of the chilly morning. Birds were screaming, trees murmuring, waters gurgling; and the gale that shook the thickets carried away with it rattling, bawling, roaring sounds, and the songs of the lasses as they went to work.
For some time, the fields lay frosted under the dawn, lost in sound sleep, pregnant with swelling life; but the workers soon pressed in on every side upon those slumberous strips of land, now drowned in sun-soaked dust-clouds, and silently attacked every patch. And now, from the soil, and the trees, and the grey-blue distances; from the glittering reaches of the brooks, and the red-hot disk in the skyey vault—from all these spring was pouring itself forth with such intoxicating might that one held one’s breath for very joy, and a blessed feeling came and made the tears to start, the knees to bend, the bosom to heave, in the presence of that holy miracle of Life, visible in the meanest blade that tossed in the spring breeze.
Therefore did the people gaze around with long looks of awe, and cross themselves, and, having said their morning prayers, set to work in silence, so that the Mass-bell had not yet rung when everyone was at his post.
The mists soon dissolved, and all the fields shone in sunlight. As far as the eye could reach over the village lands, divided by long green strips of autumn-sown corn, they were swarming with red skirts, flashing with ploughs, broken up with harrows (pulled by farm-girls), and hoed by ranks of potato-planting women. Often, too, along the narrow stretches of dark soil there would pass a peasant, with a great piece of canvas round his loins; who, slightly bending forward, would with a reverent motion of his opening hand fling the corn down upon the expectant soil.
All toiled zealously, scarcely noticing his Reverence, who appeared directly after Mass beside his farm-servant, ploughing close to the road; and their amazement was extreme when they saw him coming round to the corn-plots, hailing his parishioners jovially, offering them snuff, and, after some friendly words, patting the children’s heads, joking with the younger women, seizing a bough to drive a flight of sparrows from the barley, blessing the first handful of seed to be sown, or even sowing a handful himself: all the while urging the work on so energetically that no overseer could have done better!
He visited them again, too, immediately after dinner; for though (as he told the women) it was St. Mark’s day, the procession was not to take place till the octave, on the 3rd of May.
“We must not interrupt our work, for our helpers will no longer be here tomorrow.”
He stayed on in the open till the very end, with cassock tucked up, and leaning on a stick, as he was a corpulent man; yet going about unweariedly, and only now and then sitting down to wipe the perspiration from his bald forehead.
They were most pleased to see him; and somehow the work seemed to go on faster and easier under his eye: moreover, the peasants felt vastly pleased at his Reverence’s kindness in coming to superintend the work.
The red sun was rolling forestwards, and they were already finishing the more urgent work in haste, because they were anxious to be home ere dusk.
Several of them would not even stay to sup, but departed after swallowing a mouthful of food; others quickly stowed away the contents of the dishes offered them; for their horses were harnessed and waited in front of the cabins.
The priest went round again with Roch, thanking every man, and especially those of Rzepki, for their friendly assistance.
“What you give to the needy you give to Jesus Himself. Aye, and though ye are not liberal in your offerings for Masses, and forget the wants of the church, and though I have for a whole year pointed out to you that your pastor’s roof lets in the rain—still I shall always remember you in prayers for your generosity towards Lipka.” So he spoke, moved even to tears, and kissing each man’s head as it bent before him.
They were then close to the blacksmith’s, and on their way to the farther end of the village, when they were stopped by a crowd of weeping komorniki, headed by Kozlova.
“Excuse us, your Reverence; we have come to ask whether these people are not going to help us too,” she said boldly, in a loud tone of voice.
“We were waiting for our turn to come.”
The others chimed in here: “Are we poor wretches to remain without any help?”
The priest, much embarrassed, grew exceedingly red in the face.
“What am I to do?” he said; “there were not enough workers for all. … As it is, they have kindly given us their toil for two whole days … and … and. …” he stammered, looking from one to another.
“Yes,” sobbed Filipka, “they have helped—but whom? Why, the landowners … the wealthy men only!”
“For us, pestilent creatures, no one has cared or thought at all!”
“No, not even for a furrow or two, driven through our potato-plots!” they muttered gloomily.
“But, good women, they are leaving now … and … yes, something will be done for you. Truly, I know it is hard … your husbands are in jail with the others. … Yes, I assure you, something shall be done!”
“And for that something,” cried Gulbasova, “how long are we to wait? If we cannot plant our potato-patches, we may as well seek a rope at once!”
“But something shall be done, I tell you! Ye shall have my horses—aye, even for one whole day … but pray do not tire the poor beasts. … And I will be the miller too: and the Borynas may also give help perhaps. …”
“Perhaps!” roared Kozlova. “While the grass grows, the steed starves!—Come away, women!—Everything is for the farm-owners, and we, miserable starvelings, may eat stones and drink our tears!—This shepherd only cares for the sheep he can shear: we have no wool for him!”—But here the priest stopped his ears and took to flight.
They stood huddled together, sore and angry. Roch did all he could to pacify them, promising sincerely he would procure assistance, and succeeded in getting them away from the road, along which the friendly helpers were now going home in their noisy carts, with cries of gratitude from every threshold.
“May our Lord be your reward!”
“Health and happiness!”
“We’ll be quits some day!”
“Remember and see us every Sunday: we’re kinsfolk now!”
“Greet your parents! Bring your wives when you come!”
“Should you ever need aught, count on us!”
“God prosper you, dear ones!”
So they cried, caps and hands waving.
The lasses and all the children escorted them out of the village.
It was evening now, and the afterglow was still red upon the waters here and there; silence came down with the mists of night, but the frogs fell a-croaking in concert.
They went with them as far as the crossways, and parted from them with shouts and laughter, one of the girls striking up a song as they drove off.
“Yasio, will you wed me now?
Father’s wagon comes, I trow,
Rattling on the way—
Da dana!
Rattling on the way!”
To which the lads answered, turning round in the carts:
“Now, ’tis cold and we should freeze;
Whom can frosty kisses please?
Let us wed in May!
Da dana!
Let us wed in May!”
And the fresh young voices echoed over the dewy grass and rolled on and afar.