V
Autumn was growing ever more and more autumnal.
The pale days passed, dragging themselves over the empty soundless fields, and died away beyond the forest, always stiller, always paler, like the Sacred Host in the glimmer of a taper that is going out.
And every dawn the morning came more and more sluggishly, benumbed, as it were, by the cold of the hoarfrosts, and the sorrowful stillness and the life ebbing out of the land. The sun, dim, shorn of its beams, came blossoming forth from the depths; and crows and daws that had started up from somewhere in the East flew circling round its disk: they skimmed over the fields in long low flight, and croaked with dull mournful voices. Following them, the wind swept along, bitter and bleak, ruffling the stirred waters, burning up all that was left of greenery, and tearing away the last dead leaves from the poplars on the roads: these fell slowly, like trickling tears—tears of blood, shed by the summer as it lay dying.
And every dawn, the villages woke up somewhat later, the cattle went to graze with more slothful steps, the barn-doors swung open with less stridulous creaking; men’s voices seemed muffled as they sounded in the deathly void of the fields, and their very life beat now with fainter pulsations. From time to time, they appeared outside their cabins or out in the country, and, suddenly stopping, peered for a long time into the livid murky distance. Or mighty horned heads would be sometimes raised from the grass of the yellow pastures; and as they slowly chewed the cud, their eyes would likewise go staring far, far away, while at intervals a hollow lowing would resound through the desolate waste.
And every dawn, it grew colder, darker; the smoke floated lower above the bare orchard trees, and more birds came swarming into the village to take shelter near the granaries. Crows perched on the ridges of the roofs or on the bare boughs, or flitted along close to the ground, croaking hoarsely—singing, as it were, the dismal song of approaching winter.
Noontide was sunny as a rule: but so silent! The murmuring of the woods was heard afar as a faint whisper, and the rippling of the river sounded like sobs of pain. The stillness of that noontide had something of death in it; and on the unfrequented ways and in the leafless orchards there lurked a profound sadness, mingled with a sense of shrinking from what was to come.
The ploughing was nearly over, and some finished their work, ending the last furrow when it was already dark, and looking back at the fields as they went home, wishing and longing for next spring to arrive soon.
Often, before evening set in, chilly rains would fall; and these, as time went on, continued even till twilight—that long autumn twilight when the cabin windows would shine flaming like golden blossoms, and the pools in the deserted roads glistened as glass—and even till the cold wet wind of the night flung its drops against the panes and moaned among the orchard trees.
One broken-winged stork that had remained perforce, and was often seen stalking about the meadows, now began to draw near to Boryna’s cornstacks, and Vitek took delight in attracting it by giving it food.
Dziads, too, now passed through the village more and more frequently; not only those of the usual kind, who went from house to house with their cavernous wallets and their lengthy prayers, and at whose approach the house-dogs always fell a-baying; but also certain others of a very different sort. These had travelled much and far, to many holy places; they knew Chenstohova, and Ostrobrama, and Kalvarya well, and in the long evenings they would willingly entertain the village folk by tales of what was going on in the world, and the strange things done in foreign parts. And there were even some who told of the Holy Land, and related such marvels about the vast seas they had crossed, and the adventures which had befallen them, that the people listened in pious amazement, and more than one could scarcely believe that such things could be.
Ah, it was autumn, late autumn now!
Neither rollicking songs, nor merry shouts, nor even the chirruping of little birds, could be heard in the village any more: only the blast howling over the thatched roofs, the icy rain pouring glass-like films down the rattling panes, and the quick dull thudding of the flails on the threshing-floors, which grew daily louder and louder.
It was indeed Autumn, the mother of Winter.
One comfort there was. Hitherto the weather had not been really bad, and the roads had not yet softened into bogs; so possibly it might hold until the fair, to which, as to a village fête, all Lipka was presently going.
It was to take place on St. Cordula’s day and, it being the last fair previous to Yuletide, everybody had made preparations.
Many days before, the great question, What ought to be sold? had been debated: whether cattle, or corn, or some livestock of the smaller kind. It would also be needful, since winter was coming on, to make purchases; and those to no small amount. Thence arose not a few bickerings and tiffs and jars in the families: all knew that no one had much money to spare, and cash was harder to get every day.
Besides, it was just then that the taxes had to be paid, and the communal rates too, and various sums to be laid out, borrowed money to be returned in many cases, and not infrequently, the servants’ wages were due. So that more than one owner (even of seventeen acres!) was sometimes in straits to know what he had better do.
And so, some took a cow out of the byre, cleansed her dung-plastered sides with straw, gave her plenty of clover for the night, or a mess of barley boiled with potatoes, and did all they could to fatten her up a little; while others experimented with some blind old jade, completely worthless, endeavouring to make it look at least something like a horse.
And others in order to have their corn ready in time, were busily threshing it all day long.
At Boryna’s, too, all were working amain. Aided by Kuba, the old man threshed out all his wheat, while Yuzka and Hanka employed every leisure moment in fattening the sow, or such of the geese as they had selected for sale. And, as rain was expected at any moment, Antek went time and again to the wood with Vitek, to get dry boughs and brushwood for fuel and litter: of this, some went to the cow-house, and the rest to make a warm outer coating for the hut.
This forced spell of work was kept up till late the last evening before the fair; and it was not until the wheat, all in sacks upon the cart, had been wheeled into the barn, and everything was quite ready for the morrow, that they all sat down together to supper in Boryna’s cabin.
The fire was leaping merrily up the chimney, and by its light they ate with leisurely decorum and in silence; but when the meal was over, and the womenfolk had cleared away pots and pans, Boryna drew a little closer to the fire and said:
“We shall have to start ere day breaks.”
“Certainly, not a whit later,” Antek replied, and set to greasing the harness, while Kuba was engaged in whittling a swipple for his flail; and Vitek, occupied in peeling potatoes for next morning’s meal, nevertheless found means to play with Lapa, who lay close by and searched for fleas.
Nothing was heard for some time but the crackling of the logs, the shrill cry of crickets beside the hearth, the splashing of water outside the room, and the clinking of pots and dishes.
“Kuba, do you intend to remain in my service next year?”
He let his knife drop, and gazed so long and steadily into the fire that Boryna asked him whether he had heard the question.
“Heard it? I have: but I was thinking.—Truly, you have not treated me ill in any wise. … Only—” Here he broke off in some confusion.
“Yuzka! Bring vodka and a bit of something.—Are we like Jews, to be dry when we do business?”
Thus he gave his order, and drew a bench closer to the fire. Yuzka presently brought in a bottle and a loaf and a string of sausages, and set them on the bench.
“Drink, Kuba, drink, and say your say.”
“Thanks, master.—Well, I’d like to stay, but … but. …”
“Some increase of wages, perhaps?”
“It were good. For see, my sheepskin coat is all in rags. So are my boots; and I need a capote besides. If I go to church as I am, I must stay in the porch. How can I stand before the altar in such a dress?”
“Yes,” Boryna sternly put in, “the other Sunday you did not care: you pushed and thrust yourself to where the foremost were standing!”
“It is true. … Yes, but …” he stammered, greatly abashed and flushing crimson.
“And his Reverence himself teaches us that the elders ought to be respected.—Now, Kuba, drink to a good understanding between us, and hearken to what I say. You know very well that a farmhand is not a farmer. Everyone has his place, given to him by our Lord. To you also hath the Lord Jesus given yours. Keep it therefore, do not push forward, nor set yourself above other folk, for this were a grievous sin. His Reverence will tell you the very same thing. It must be so, else there would be no order in the world.—Do you follow me?”
“I am not a brute beast, and know what words mean.”
“Well, then, see to it that you do not set yourself above anyone.”
“But my only desire was to be nearer God’s altar!”
“In whatsoever nook you are, God will hear you: fear nothing. Also, why should you thrust yourself amongst the foremost, since all here know you?”
“You are right, very right. If I were a farmer, I should bear the canopy and support his Reverence, and sit on a bench, and sing aloud out of a book. But,” he concluded, with a sigh, “being only a labourer—though a husbandman’s son, mind you!—it behoves me to stand in the vestibule, or outside in the porch, like a dog.”
“So is it ordained throughout the world, and you will not change it by taking thought.”
“Without doubt I shall not.”
“Take another drop, Kuba, and say what increase of wages you would have.”
Kuba took the vodka. Now, as he was already somewhat flustered, he presently felt as in the tavern, with Michael (from the organist’s) or any other boon companion at his side, whom he could talk with freely and joyously, as an equal. So he undid a button or two of his capote, stretched out his legs, struck the bench with his fist, and cried out:
“Four paper roubles more, with a silver one besides, and I’ll stay with you!”
“You’re drunk or mad, I fancy,” was Boryna’s protest; but Kuba, now fairly started in pursuit of what he wished and dreamed for, never heard his master’s words. His imagination was no longer under control, his mind began to take wings, his self-assurance to grow great, and he felt himself as high and mighty as any farmer might feel.
“Yes. Four paper roubles more, and one other as earnest money, and I’ll stay. If not, then, curse it! I’ll go to the fair. There I shall find service, were it only as a coachman at some manor. They know me—know I am honest, and able to do any farm work, afield or in the house; many a farmer might learn a good deal of me, how I tend the cattle.—Or else. … I know how to shoot, and can get birds for his Reverence, or for Yankel. … Or else. …”
“See him!” the old man roared; “behold how grandly this lame one is prancing!”
The insult effectually sobered Kuba, and roused him from his dreamings. He said no more of what he could do; but held doggedly none the less to what he had said. Boryna had to give way by half a rouble or one zloty at a time, and ended by agreeing to give him three roubles more, and a couple of shirts in lieu of earnest money.
“Ho! Ho! what a fellow you are!” he said, as he drank with him to clinch the agreement, though he was angry at having to spend so much. All the same he thought Kuba was worth it, and more. A man as good as two for hard work; scrupulously honest besides, and more heedful of the beasts he tended than of himself; one, moreover, so well acquainted with husbandry that he could be relied on both to do his duty, and to see that the others did theirs.
After settling two or three minor points, Kuba was about to leave. At the door, however, he turned round, and spoke in faltering tones:
“The agreement is made, then: three roubles and a couple of shirts. But … but. … I beseech you, don’t sell the filly. I saw her into the world, and spread my sheepskin over her, lest she should die of cold. … I could never bear to see her ill-used, perhaps by a Jew! … A horse is so docile, a man is nothing beside it. … Please don’t sell her!”
“I never thought of doing such a thing.”
“Folk talked of it in the tavern, and I heard.”
“Meddlesome dogs and busybodies! They always know best what is to be done.”
Kuba was so delighted that, had he dared, he would have embraced his master’s knees. He made the best of his way to bed, for it was late, and there was the fair on the morrow.
Next day, before the cock had crowed twice, every highway and byway towards Tymov was thronged with people wending their way thither.
There had been a heavy rain ere morning. In the East it had cleared up a little, but the sky was threatening, with many a dun-coloured cloud. Over the low-lying fields crept fogs, dripping wet and grey as coarse canvas; and the pathways glistened with many a pool.
They had set out from Lipka at early dawn.
All along the poplar-planted road beyond the church and as far as the forest stretched a chain of slowly-rolling wagons, one close after another; and either side of the highway was variegated by a line of red petticoats and white capotes.
The multitude was so great that all the village seemed to be there.
The poorer husbandmen went on foot; so did the women and the farmhands and the lasses. So, too, did some common labourers and inferior workers, this being the fair at which service was taken or changed.
Some went to buy, and some to sell, and some just to enjoy the fair.
One man led a cow or a big calf by a rope; one drove a flock of shorn sheep in front of him; another walked behind a sow with her little ones, or a lot of white geese, with their wings tied; another trotted by, riding a sorry nag; while from under many an apron the red comb of a cock peered forth.—The wagons and carts, too, were well laden. Often, from the basketwork and straw within one of them, a hog’s snout would appear, squealing clamorously, till the geese gaggled in consternation, and the dogs that ran to market by their masters’ sides, barked in chorus.
But Boryna only left his cabin when the day had fully risen, and the sky had quite cleared. Hanka and Yuzka had started before him at the very break of day, with the sow and the fatted pig; and Antek had taken ten sacks of wheat and fifty pounds of red clover-seed in the cart. Kuba alone had remained at home, with Vitek, and old Yagustynka, hired to cook the dinner and milk the cows.
Vitek, who wanted to go to the fair, was blubbering noisily outside the cow-house.
“What is the matter with the fool?” Boryna grunted; and making the sign of the Cross, he started off on foot, expecting that someone would give him a lift by the way. Which also came to pass; for just beyond the tavern the organist, who was driving in a britzka with a couple of lusty horses, caught up with him.
“What, Matthias, are you on foot?”
“Aye, stretching my legs.—Praised be Jesus Christ!”
“Forever!” the organist’s wife answered. “Jump up; there is room for you.”
“Many thanks. I should have walked, but, as the saying is: ‘They that ride in a cart are ay joyful at heart’ ”—and he sat down on the front seat, with his back to the horses.
“And so young Yanek is not at school now? How’s that?” he inquired of a lad who was driving, and sitting in front with a farmhand.
“Oh, I’m only just here for the fair!” he sang out in reply. He was the organist’s son. His father said, tapping a box which he held out to Boryna: “French snuff: take a pinch.” They both did so, and both sneezed solemnly.
“Well, how goes it with you? Selling anything today?”
“Nothing much. Wheat sent earlier, and a pig, taken by the girls.”
“Not bad, not bad at all!” the organist’s wife exclaimed. “Yanek, put this comforter on: it is chilly.”
“Oh, I am all right,” he answered; but she insisted on his putting it on.
“But,” Boryna pointed out, “think of my expenses; I can scarce pay my way.”
“Matthias, do not complain; you have no reason to. Thank God that you have enough.”
Boryna, not liking to be thus reproved in the presence of a hired man, leaned forward hastily, and whispered:
“Is Yanek to remain at school much longer?”
“Only till Easter.”
“And after? Is he to stay at home, or become an official?”
“My good man, what should he be doing at home? We have lots of children, and only fifteen acres. And times are hard—hard as stones!—There are christenings in plenty indeed; but what do we get from them?”
“On the other hand,” Boryna satirically remarked, “there is no lack of funerals.”
“And what do funerals bring us? Nobody dies but poor people. A farmer’s burial, really worth something to us, comes only once or twice a year.”
“And votive masses,” she added, “are ever more seldom, and people bargain for them like Jews!”
“That,” Boryna explained, “is on account of present hard times, and poverty.”
“Also because men now think less of their salvation, and of the duty to help poor souls in purgatory!”
The organist here added: “And we get less from the manors as well. Formerly, when on our rounds at harvest-time, or offering wafers, or at Yuletide, or with our lists of parishioners newly made up, we used to go straight to the manor, where they grudged us neither corn, nor money, nor flour for pastry. And now, good heavens! all have grown so stingy that, if one offers us a little sheaf of rye, it must have been gnawed by mice; and if a bushel of oats, it will be chaff for the greater part. Had we not a bit of land, we should have to beg our bread,” he concluded, holding out his snuffbox to Boryna.
“True, true,” the latter replied, though under no delusion. He well knew the organist had money, some in the bank, some out at interest, and profitably lent to farmhands. So he only smiled to hear his lamentations, and once more asked about Yanek.
“Are you going to make a Government clerk of him?”
“Of him? My Yanek—a Government official? I have not denied myself bread for him that the poor boy should have to finish his classes. No, no; he shall be a priest.”
“What, a priest?”
“Aye, why not? Shall he lose aught thereby? Whom does it hurt to become a priest?”
“No one. No one, certainly,” he answered with deliberation, looking respectfully over his shoulder at the young fellow. “It is an honour. And also, as the saying is: ‘A priest’s kith and kin will never grow thin.’ ”
“They said that Staho, the miller’s son, was to enter the seminary; but I hear he is now at a college, studying medicine.”
“Ah! such an evil-liver, a priest! Why, my servant Magda is six months with child—and by him!”
“By the miller’s man, they say.”
“No. His mother says so, but it is only to screen him. Oh, such a profligate! … God forbid! … As a physician, he’ll do very well.”
Boryna said: “Yes, yes, a priest’s vocation is by far the best,” and continued to humour her, tactfully listening to her gossip, while the organist would many a time lift his cap, answering “Forever!” to the greetings of those he passed by. They went at a good trot; Yanek drove splendidly, threading his way among the wagons and people and livestock upon the road, till they got to the forest, where the crush was not so great, and the road wider.
There they came up with Dominikova, who was going with Yagna and Simon, and a cow tied by the horns to the cart, from which, hissing like so many adders, the white necks of some ganders protruded.
They greeted each other, and Boryna went so far, when the wagons were abreast, as to lean forwards, and say: “You will be late!”
“Oh, we’ve time in plenty!” Yagna laughed in reply.
When they had been passed, the organist’s son looked round at her several times, and asked at last:
“Is that Dominikova’s Yagna?”
“The same, yes,” Boryna returned, with his eyes upon her, a good way behind already.
“I was not sure: it is a good couple of years since I last saw her.”
“Ah, she was then tending kine. She’s very young still; but she has grown as stout as a clover-fed heifer.”
“Aye, aye; comely she is; so well-favoured that every week messengers are sent to her with vodka—and a proposal.”
“But she’ll none of them. The old woman thinks,” the organist’s wife whispered spitefully, “that a steward may come for her, and drive all the peasants away.”
“Well, she would do, even for the wife of a thirty-five acres’ farmer.”
“O Matthias, if you think so much of the lass, send proposers to her yourself,” she said with a laugh. Thenceforward Boryna spoke not one word.
“You town-bred riffraff, here become a big personage—who look under the tail of every peasant’s hen to see if there are eggs for you—who seek for money in every peasant’s fist—will you make a mock of me, a husbandman born! You leave Yagna alone!” So he thought, and looked straight in front of him, in a very ill humour indeed, at Dominikova’s cart, bright with the gleams of aprons thrown over kerchiefs, and now rapidly dropping astern; for Yanek was flogging the horses vigorously, and their hoofs made great holes in the mud.
The good woman went on talking, but to no purpose. Boryna only nodded, or mumbled indistinctly, and stubbornly refrained from any utterance whatever.
And no sooner had they reached the unspeakable pavement of the little town, than he got down, with thanks for the lift.
“We shall be returning about nightfall,” she said, and asked whether he would care to go back with them.
“Very much obliged to you,” he replied, “but I have horses of my own. People would jest—say I was applying for the post of organ-blower or assistant; and I can’t sing a note or learn how to use an extinguisher!”
They went down a by-street, and he walked with swift steps up a main one, till he got to the marketplace. It was a first-class fair, and the streets were already pretty well crowded. All the thoroughfares, squares, lanes and courtyards were full of people and vehicles and all sorts of country produce, like a flood into which human rivers were constantly flowing, with dense waves rolling through the narrow alleys and seeming about to bring the houses down, until it poured into the great square near the monastery. On the way townwards, there had been relatively little mud; but here, trodden and trampled by thousands of feet, it was ankle-deep, splashing in every direction from under the wheels of the carts.
Every instant, the din grew louder. Nothing could be heard distinctly save a cow bellowing now and then, a barrel-organ accompanying the merry-go-round, the obstreperous wailing of dziads, or the earsplitting whistles of basket-makers.
Truly, it was a very big fair, so crowded that one could scarce make one’s way forwards; and by the time that Boryna had reached the main square, he had to push and elbow a passage by main force amongst the stalls.
And the things that were there! They could not be told or even conceived. How, then, is it possible to describe them?
And, first, those lofty canvas booths, which stood in front of the convent in two rows, all of them devoted to articles for women’s use: pieces of linen cloth, and kerchiefs, suspended from poles, and all of them as scarlet as scarlet poppies, making the eyes ache; and then, close by, another booth hung with the same wares, but all of the purest yellow; and another, again, of the deep crimson of the beetroot. … But who could remember all these things?
Lasses and women stood there in such serried crowds that there was not room, as they say, to thrust a stick in amongst them—some bargaining and choosing; and some only looking on, gloating over those things of beauty!
Farther, there were stalls that positively blazed with beads, looking-glasses, tinsel ornaments, and ribbons and flowers—green and golden and many-coloured—and caps too … and the Lord knows what besides!
Elsewhere, the sellers of holy images had set them forth in glazed and gilded frames, so gloriously brilliant that (although they only stood ranged along the walls, or even lay along the ground) more than one peasant would take his hat off and make the sign of the Holy Cross.
Boryna bought Yuzka the kerchief he had promised her in spring, and withdrew, pushing his way onwards to the swine-market beyond the monastery. He made but slow progress, owing both to the terrible crush and to the many interesting objects which he saw.
The capmakers, for instance, had put up wide ladders in front of their shops, and embellished these with caps from top to bottom.
The bootmakers had formed a real lane with trestles and horses, from which endless rows of boots dangled, suspended by the lugs: some of the common sort—tawny and only requiring to be greased lest the water should get in; some, lustrous with blacking like varnish; some, women’s boots, high-heeled, red-laced, and beautifully polished.
Farther were the saddlers’ stalls, superb with horse-collars and harnesses hanging in festoon from many a peg.
Then came the booths of the rope-makers, of them that sold nets, and of the itinerant sieve-venders; of those whose trade was to go from fair to fair with groats for sale; and of the wheelwrights and of the tanners.
Elsewhere, tailors and furriers had set forth their respective goods, the latter pungent in the nostrils with the spices used to preserve them; and they, since winter was coming on, had customers not a few.
After these came rows of tables sheltered under canvas roofs, displaying enormous coils of russet-hued sausages, as thick as a ship’s mooring-rope; and piles of yellow fat and grease, brown flitches of smoked bacon, whole sides of fat salt pork, and hams by scores, rose in multitudinous tiers: while at other stalls, entire carcasses of hogs were hooked up, wide-opened, gaping, and so dripping with blood that the dogs gathered round, and had to be driven away.
Close by the butchers were their brethren of the baking-oven; and on thick layers of straw, on wagons, upon tables and in baskets, and wheresoever they could be placed, lay monstrous piles of loaves, each as large as a small cartwheel. Cakes, too, were there, glazed over with yellow egg-yolks; and little rolls, and great ones as well.
Nor were stalls for playthings wanting. Some were made of gingerbread, in the shape of many a kind of beast, of soldiers, and hearts—and strange forms, whose meaning no one could make out. At other stalls you could have seen almanacs, prayer-books, tales about robbers and fierce Magielons; at others, cheap whistles, mouth-organs, singing-birds of baked clay, and similar musical instruments were to be bought, on which those “Jew rascals” who sold them made such a row as was hardly to be borne; for the birds chirped, the trumpets blew, the whistles squeaked with long-drawn shrillness, and the little kettledrums at times joined in, beating a tattoo: and the uproar was enough to split any man’s head.
But in the centre of the marketplace, under the trees, coopers, tinmen and earthenware dealers had made up a group apart. There were so many pots, pans, pipkins and porringers that it was no easy thing to get past. Beyond these were stationed the joiners, with a show of painted bedsteads and chests, wardrobes, and tiers of shelves, and tables.
Now, in every place—upon the carts, along the walls, in the gutters, and, in short, wherever they found room—saleswomen were sitting: with onions in strings, or in baskets; with cloth fabrics and petticoats of their own making; with eggs, cheeses, mushrooms, pats of butter of oblong shape and wrapped in a linen cloth. Some had potatoes to sell, some a couple of geese, or a fowl already plucked and drawn; others, flax fibres finely combed out, or skeins of spun flaxen thread. Each of them sat by her wares and chatted pleasantly with her neighbour, as folk are wont to do at the fair. And when a purchaser appeared, they dealt with him quietly, gravely, leisurely, as decent peasant people: not like those Jews, who quarrel and scream and push one another, as though they were out of their minds.
Amid carts and booths, smoke was seen here and there curling up from sheet-iron stoves. Here they sold hot tea. At others, there were eatables: fried sausages, cabbage, barszcz and boiled potatoes.
Everywhere, dziads were about in vast swarms: the blind, the halt, the dumb; cripples with never an arm, cripples with never a leg: just as at a local village fête. They played hymn tunes on tiny kits they held, or sang godly songs, clinking money in their wooden bowls. From the house-walls, from among the wagons, from the mud-deluged street, they all came to beg timidly, and implore a trifle in money or in kind.
On all this did Boryna gaze, not infrequently with admiration, as he exchanged a few words with acquaintances whom he met. At last he got to the swine-market, which was beyond the monastery: a very large space of sandy ground, with a few houses sprinkled here and there. Close to the monastery garden wall, and shaded by many a huge oak-tree that stretched out its branches over the wall, still covered with withered leaves, were grouped a good many people and carts, together with a large number of swine brought to the fair for sale.
He soon saw Hanka and Yuzka, who stood at the outside of the group.
“Have you sold, hey?”
“Oh, the butchers have been here already to bargain for the sow; but they offer too little.”
“Are swine dear?”
“Dear? Not at all. So many have come, and the buyers are too few.”
“Anybody from Lipka?”
“The Klembas have brought some small pigs; and Simon, Dominikova’s son, has one too.”
“Well, be as quick as you can, that you may enjoy the fair.”
“We have enough of waiting already.”
“How much will they give for the sow?”
“Thirty paper roubles. They say she is not well fed; big bones, but no fat on them.”
“That’s the biggest of lies! She has four fingers’ thickness of fat!” he cried, feeling the sow’s back and sides. “The young pig is not fat on the sides, but then its hams are well clad,” he added, driving it out of the wet sand where it was wallowing and half buried.
“Sell at thirty-five. I shall just see Antek, and come back to you directly.—Haven’t you a mind to eat?”
“Our bread is eaten already.”
“I’ll buy you a bit of sausage besides. Only get a good price for the pigs.”
“Father, won’t you think of buying me the kerchief you promised last spring?”
Boryna put his hand to his bosom, but stopped, as though struck with some idea, took out his hand again, and waved it, saying merely:
“You shall have it, Yuzka.”
Instantly he moved off, for he had descried Yagna’s face amongst the wagons; but before he got to her, she had disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen. So he went in search of Antek: no easy task, for the street from the swine-market to the great square was so thronged with carts, one after another and several abreast, that one could drive past only with the greatest care and difficulty.
However, he happened upon him at once, sitting on the sacks of wheat, and flicking with his whip at the Jews’ poultry, which came running about near the bags out of which the horses were eating, while he made surly replies to the bargainers.
“I said seven, and seven it shall be.”
“I give six and a half: the wheat is damaged.”
“You scurvy dog! let me but fetch a blow at your ugly face, and it will be damaged enough: but my wheat is as good as good can be.”
“Perhaps; but it’s damp. … I’ll take it by measure, and at six roubles five zloty.”
“No. By weight, and at seven.—I have said.”
“But, my good farmer, why so angry? Buying or not buying, one may always try to bargain.”
“Then bargain away, if it amuses you.” And he paid no more heed to the Jews, who came opening the sacks one after another, to examine the wheat.
“Antek, I am just going to the scrivener’s. I shall be back in the twinkling of an eye.”
“What? With your complaint against the manor-folk?”
“Think you I’ll not resent the wrong done me?”
“Just get hold of the keeper, fasten him to a pine-trunk, and cudgel him till his ribs clatter: then you’ll have justice done!”
“Aye, and serve him right too; but the manor-folk must come in for their share,” he answered in a hard voice.
“Hand me over a zloty.”
“What for?”
“To drink a drop and eat a bit.”
“Always looking into your father’s purse! Have you no money of your own?”
Antek, furious, turned his back on his father, whistling derisively; and the old man, though very unwillingly, pulled out a zloty and gave it to him.
“Yes; coin your blood to money, and give it away to all!” he thought, as he pushed his way towards a large tavern at the corner, where many guests had come to eat. The scrivener lived in a tiny room in the courtyard. Clad only in his shirt, unwashed, unkempt, but with a cigar in his mouth, he was then sitting at a table near the window.—On a mattress in the corner a woman lay, with a greatcoat over her.
“Sit down, my good man!” He tossed some garments on to the floor off a chair which he offered to Boryna, who presently explained the whole business to him in detail.
“As sure as a Pater ends with Amen, you’ll get a verdict in your favour! What! A cow dead, and the boy frightened into an illness! We are bound to win!” He rubbed his hands, and looked about the table for some paper.
“But the boy is quite well.”
“All the same, he might have fallen ill: the keeper gave him a beating.”
“Not him, but a neighbour’s cowherd.”
“A pity; that would have been still better. But we shall word it so that it may seem both that the cow died, and that the boy had an illness. Let the manor-folk pay!”
“Surely. I want nothing but justice.”
“I’ll draw up your complaint instantly.—Franka, you sluggard!” he cried, kicking the woman on the mattress so hard that she lifted up her tousled head. “Fetch us vodka and something to eat!”
“I have not one kopek, Gutek; and they’ll give us nothing on trust, you know,” she grumbled, and, rising from her disorderly couch, yawned and stretched herself. She was a big woman, with a drunkard’s face, bruised and bloated, but the thin reedy voice of a baby.
The scrivener set to work, with noisy pen scratching the paper. He puffed at his cigar, blowing the smoke into Boryna’s face, as the latter was looking on. Now and then he paused to rub his freckled hands and turn his haggard pimply face towards Franka. He wore a great black moustache; his front teeth were broken, his lips livid.
The complaint was soon made out. It cost a rouble, and another for the stamp; and he agreed to present it at the court for three more.
Boryna willingly allowed the expenses incurred, feeling sure that the manor would have to pay them, with heavy damages besides.
“There must be justice in the world!” he cried, on departing.
“If we don’t win in the Communal Court, we shall try the Assembly; if not there, why then, the District Court, and then the Judgment Chamber: I won’t give in.”
“Why should I abandon what is mine?” he said, with fierce obstinacy. “And to whom? To those manor-folk, owners of forests and of fields without end? No!”
Such thoughts were filling his mind, as he went forth into the marketplace: but just as he passed the capmakers’ stalls, he met with Yagna.
There she stood, with one dark-blue cap on her head, cheapening another.
“See here, Matthias! this ‘yellow one’ would have me believe this is a good cap: but no doubt he is lying.”
“A very nice cap. Is’t for Andrew?”
“It is: Simon’s is already bought.”
“Will it not be too small for him?”
“His head is just the size of mine.”
“What a well-favoured stable-boy you would make!”
“Ah! shouldn’t I?” she exclaimed, with a jaunty air, and cocking her cap on one side.
“I’d take you to my service directly!”
“Only my terms might prove much too high.” She laughed.
“For some, perhaps; not for me.”
“But I’d do no work in the fields.”
“Oh, I would do the work for you, Yagna!” he whispered, and the look he darted at her was so passionate that she shrank back in confusion, and paid for the cap without bargaining.
“Have you sold your cow?” he asked her, after a time, when he had become more master of himself, and overcome the sensation which had so suddenly gone to his head, like strong vodka.
“Yes, they bought her for the priest in Yerzov. Mother has gone with the organist, who wants to engage a farm-labourer.”
“Well then, let’s just go and take a drop of sweetened vodka together.”
“What’s that you say?”
“You are cold, Yagna; it will warm you somewhat.”
“Go with you for a drink? … Where could I go?”
“Then, Yagna, I’ll bring some, and we’ll drink it here together.”
“God reward your kindness, but I must look for Mother.”
“Yagna, I’ll help you to find her,” he whispered very low, and going foremost, elbowed a way for her so powerfully that she was easily able to get through the crowd. But when they stood before the booths of linen goods, the girl walked more slowly, and presently stopped, her eyes beaming with joy at the various objects before her.
“Oh, what splendid things! Lord, dear Lord!” she murmured, stopping in front of the ribbons which, hanging above her, waved in the air, like a mobile and flaming rainbow.
“Choose the one you like best, Yagna!”
“Why, that yellow one embroidered with flowers must cost a rouble, or perhaps even ten zloty!”
“Let not that trouble you, but take it.”
Yagna, however—regretfully indeed and with a great effort—let the ribbon go, and passed on to the next booth: Boryna remaining a little behind for a few instants.
Now her gaze again fell on kerchiefs, and stuffs for bodices, and jackets.
“O Lord, O Lord! what beautiful things!” she murmured low, rapt with the glamour of it all; and more than once she would plunge her quivering hands into those folds of green or red satin, till her eyes grew dim and her heart went pit-a-pat with delight.
And what headdresses those kerchiefs made! Scarlet silk, embroidered all round with green flowers; or all of a golden hue; or a deep blue, like the sky after rain! And those—the finest of them all—of changeful shimmering colours, pure as water shining in the evening sunlight, and no heavier than floating gossamer! … No, she could not help it: she must try that kerchief on her head, and see herself in the looking-glass the Jewess of the booth was holding out to her.
Yes, it suited her to perfection; it was like a glorious aureole over her light flaxen tresses, and made the deep azure of her eyes shine so intensely with the joy of it that they glowed violet amid the splendour of her face. And people turned to gaze at her, so handsome she appeared, surrounded with so bright an emanation of youth and health!
“Is not this the daughter of some Squire, disguising herself?” they whispered among themselves.
For a long time she contemplated the kerchief, and then, with a deep sigh, took it off, and set to bargaining: not meaning to buy it—this was impossible—but only for the pleasure of enjoying its beauty a little longer.
Presently, however, her ardour cooled. The Jewess had put the price at five roubles!—Even Boryna at once dissuaded her.
Again they came to a stop before the stalls of beads. How many strings there were! And how they looked! As if the whole stall were oversprinkled with precious gems: so brilliant, so resplendent! Hard, indeed, it was to take one’s eyes away from them—from those amber globules of pellucid gold, looking for all the world as if made of sweet-scented resin; and the coral drops, like threaded beads of blood; and the white pearls, as big as hazelnuts; and those other drops of silver and of gold!
Yagna tried on more than one, and made her choice of the most beautiful. At last she caught sight of one very lovely string of coral beads, passed it four times round her neck, and, turning to the old man, said:
“Does it suit me? Tell me true.”
“Splendidly, Yagna!—But coral beads are no strange thing to me. In a chest at my home there lies a necklace of eight rows. ’Twas my wife’s. Every bead is as big as the biggest pea.” This he said to her with studied indifference.
“And what’s that to me, if it is not mine?” She flung the beads back and hastened away, moody and repining.
“Yagna, let’s sit down awhile.”
“I must go to mother.”
“No fear of her leaving you behind.”
They sat down together on the shaft of a wagon.
“It’s a big fair,” remarked Boryna, looking round the marketplace.
“It’s not small,” she returned, casting a sorrowful glance at the stalls they had left behind them, and heaving a deep sigh. A pause ensued; then, trying to shake off her sadness, she spoke:
“Ah, well it is for anyone who is a Squire! Once I saw the daughter of the Squire of Vola, with other ladies, buying, as they did at every fair, such quantities of things that they were carried by a manservant!”
“ ‘Who goes oft to the fair shall lose all he has there.’ ” Boryna remarked.
“The proverb is not for them.”
“Not so long as they can borrow from Jews,” he answered, with such bitterness that Yagna stared at him, knowing not what to reply. Looking away from her, he asked, in a low voice:
“They have been to you with a proposal from Michael, Voytek’s son, have they not?”
“They went away as they came. Such a dolt, to send a proposal to me!”
Boryna then rose hurriedly, taking out of his bosom a kerchief, and something else wrapped up in paper.
“Keep this, Yagna; I must go to Antek.”
Her eyes sparkled at the name. “Is he at the fair?”
“Yes; down that lane, selling the corn.—Take this, Yagna, it is for you,” he added, seeing her gaze at the kerchief with bewildered eyes.
“Do you give it me? Me—really? Oh, how pretty it is!” She unwrapped the paper. There lay the very same ribbon that had pleased her so vastly just before. “Can you be in earnest?” she exclaimed. “Why do you give me all this? It is very costly, and the kerchief is of pure silk.”
“Take it, Yagna, take it, it is all bought for you. And when some peasant shall come to drink to you, do not drink back to him. Why hurry?—Now, I must go.”
“Are these things my own? Say you true?”
“And wherefore should I lie to you?”
“I can scarce believe it,” she said, unwrapping the kerchief, and then the ribbon again.
“God be with you, Yagna!”
“How I thank you, Matthias!”
He left her. Yagna once more unwrapped the things, and gloated over them. Then she wrapped them up both together, with a mind to run after him and give them back: for how could she accept such gifts from a stranger? But he was no longer in sight. So she walked along slowly, to seek her mother, secretly and fingering with intense pleasure the parcel hidden in her bosom. She was full of joy; her cheeks glowed red, and her white teeth flashed as she smiled.
“Yagna! Pray give some aid to a poor creature. Your people are good, true Christians! I’ll say a Hail Mary for your departed. … O Yagna!”
Yagna, thus recalled to herself, looked to see who it was that spoke, and saw Agatha, who was sitting close to the monastery wall, upon a bundle of straw: for the mud was there more than ankle-deep.
Coming to a standstill, she fumbled in her dress for some coppers; and Agatha, overjoyed to have met someone of her village, began to ask her what was going on at Lipka.
“Are all the potatoes in?”
“To the very last.”
“Anything new at the Klembas’?”
“What, they have sent you away to beg … and you still care about them?”
“Sent me away? That they did not; I went by myself, for it was needful. And I care about them, because they are my kinsfolk.”
“And what are you doing now?”
“Going from church to church, from hamlet to hamlet, from fair to fair; and, as guerdon for my prayers, the good people give me, here a corner to sleep in, there a morsel to feed me, and at times a copper or two. The people are good; they will not let a poor creature starve, not they!” She broke off, and asked, with some hesitation: “Do you know if all the Klembas are in good health?”
“They are; and how are you?”
“Oh, my health is nothing to boast of. Always a pain in my chest; and when I take cold, I spit hot blood. I shall not last long, no!—If I can but hold out till spring, I will go back to the village to die among my own people. I ask naught else of our Lord. … Naught else.”
“Say a prayer for Father’s soul?” Yagna whispered, slipping some coins into her hand.
“That will be for all the holy souls in purgatory; for as it is, I always pray for all those I know, living and dead.—But … Yagna! … Have they sent no one to you with vodka?”
“Yes.”
“And you would drink back to none?”
“To none,” she replied briefly. “God be with you, and come next spring to see us.” And she went to rejoin her mother, whom she perceived at some distance with the organist.
Boryna was returning to Antek, but slowly, both on account of the crowds, and because the thought of Yagna was haunting him. Before he saw his son, however, the blacksmith met him. They greeted one another, and walked on side by side without speaking. At last:
“Are you going to settle with me, or not?” the smith began, in no friendly voice. Boryna was up in arms at once.
“Settle what? Lipka was the place to speak with me.”
“These three years I have been waiting. People advise me to bring an action at law … but. …”
“Do so. I’ll introduce you to a scrivener; yes, and pay him a rouble to draw up a complaint for you!”
“… But I think,” the smith went on, with crafty moderation, “it were best to have a friendly understanding.”
“Right. ‘By a neighbourly course get what’s not got by force!’ ”
“You say wisely.”
“You will get it neither in one way nor in the other.”
“I have always told my wife that you, Father, loved justice.”
“Everyone wants justice … on his side. I am indifferent, for I owe nothing.” At those stern words, the blacksmith saw he would get nothing by his former tactics, so he changed them. As if there had been no dispute, he very quietly uttered the request:
“Will you stand me a drink? I should like one.”
“Certainly, dearest son-in-law: yes, even should you ask for a litre.” The tones were rather sneering; but they entered the corner tavern together. Here they found Ambrose, not drinking, but seated in a corner, sulky and sad.
“I feel my bones ache; we shall have nasty weather,” Ambrose predicted.
They drank once and again, but saying not a word, each angry with the other.
“You take your vodka as they do at a funeral,” Ambrose said; he felt sore at not being invited, for he had scarcely taken anything that morning.
“How can we talk? Father-in-law is selling so much today that he must think to whom he had best lend his cash out at interest.”
“Matthias, Matthias!” cried Ambrose; “I say to you that our Lord. …”
“Matthias I am—for some, not for you, you saucy fellow!—Look at him! ‘Fain would the swine say to the swineherd, Brother!’ ”
The smith had already taken a couple of stiff drams, and felt inclined to argue. He lowered his tone, to say:
“Father-in-law, tell me once for all: will you, or will you not, give what I ask?”
“You have heard my answer. I cannot take my land to the grave with me; but, while I am living, not one acre will I give up. I will not be fed at your expense, and mean to enjoy a year or two in this world still.”
“Then pay me off!”
“I have spoken: have you heard?”
“He is looking out,” Ambrose whispered, “for a third wife. What are his children to him?”
“That’s likely, indeed!”
“Marry I shall, if I choose,” put in Boryna. “Do you object?”
“Object? No; but. …”
“If I choose, I shall send a proposal—yes, and no later than tomorrow!”
“Do so. What have I against it? Only let me have Red-and-White’s calf, and I’ll even help you all I can. You, a reasonable man, must know what is best for you. I have said so many a time to my wife: you want a woman in the house to keep it in order.”
“Michael! You said that?”
“May I die unshriven if I did not! Yes, I did say so. I, who advise the whole village, each man as he requires, should I not know what is good for you?”
“You rogue, you are lying like a gipsy!—But come tomorrow, and you shall have the calf. … What I am asked for, I may give; but claim it as a right, and you’ll get only a broken cudgel—or worse.”
They continued their potations, the smith now treating Boryna, and inviting Ambrose to join them. This he did very willingly, and told many a merry tale and jest, so that they presently roared with laughter.
The two separated on good terms. But neither trusted the other a jot.—Each was transparent to each as a pane of glass, each as easy to know as a horse with a star on the forehead.
Ambrose remained, expecting gossips and acquaintances willing to offer him the least little drop. For “a hungry dog will try even to catch a fly.”
The fair was drawing to its close.
For a moment the sun had shone out at noon, flashing on the world like the glint of a brandished mirror; then it plunged anew behind the clouds. Before evening had come, everything was in profound gloom; heavy masses of vapour rolled down, almost touching the house-roofs, and a fine rain drizzled as though sifted through a sieve. … The folk therefore hastened to drive away, anxious to get home before nightfall and a heavy downpour.
Twilight fell, swift, louring, and dank: the town was once more empty and silent.
Only along a wall here and there, some dziads were moaning, and the voices of revelling and quarrelling were loud in the taverns.
Evening was well advanced when Boryna drove away with his people. They had sold all they brought, purchased various articles, and enjoyed the fair to the full. Antek flogged the horses with all his might, and the cart hurtled athwart the depths of the mud; for he felt cold, and they had all drunk plentifully. The old man, stingy though he was, and ready to make a fuss for a grosz had that day treated them so well with things to eat and drink, and friendly words, that they were all amazed at him.
When they reached the forest, it was black night—so dark that nothing could be seen. The rain was falling, ever in larger drops. Along the road a clatter of wagon-wheels, the brawling howl of a drunken song, or the sucking steps of someone plodding in the mire, were to be heard.
But, in the middle of the poplar-road, whose trees murmured and muttered as though shivering with cold, Ambrose, now quite drunk, staggered along from one side to the other, now stumbling against a tree, now falling into the mud; but he would quickly rise and go on, singing, as was his wont, with noisy vociferation.