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On that same day, when work was over and the evening well on towards night, they began to drop in at Klemba’s for the grand spinning-party.
Dame Klemba had invited elderly women, for the most part, kinswomen or good friends of hers, and they had all come in proper time, as careful not to be late as not to disregard the invitation.
First of all, according to her custom, came Vachnikova, plentifully supplied with wool, and carrying several spindles under her arm. Then Golab, Matthew’s mother, with a vinegar-face, always bound up, who always complained of everything; after her, Valentova the talkative—a huffy woman who cackled like a hen; and Sikora’s wife, a terrible gossip, thin as a broomstick, and much interested in all her neighbours’ quarrels. And then rolled in Ploshka’s wife, tubby, red-faced, plethoric, always overdressed, high and mighty to everybody, and gifted with rare powers of speech, which made her generally disliked. Afterwards there quietly slipped in Balcerkova, skinny, undersized, withered, and sly; an ill-tempered woman, and such a lawsuit-maker that she was on fighting terms with half the village, and went to the law-courts every month. And now boldly stepped in (uninvited, indeed) the woman Kobus, Voytek’s wife, so malicious a gossip and so rank a shrew that folk shunned her friendship as they would fire. Also came, breathing heavily and in a hurry, Gregory’s wry-mouthed wife, a drunkard, a cheat, and given to practical jokes—especially such as did harm to her neighbours. Then old Sohova (Klemba’s son-in-law’s mother), a very quiet woman, most religious, and (Dominikova excepted) the one who spent most time in church. There were others also, too hard to describe, being as like one another as geese in a flock, and indiscernible, save by their attire. All these came—an assembly of matrons, each bringing with her something or other: wool or flax to spin, or hurds; some with linen to sew, or feathers to make up for bedding—not willing to be seen empty-handed, as if they had only come to talk.
They formed a large circle in the centre of the room, under a lamp that hung from the ceiling; and they looked like a clump of bushes, well-grown, mature, and blighted by late autumn; for all were elderly, and all about the same age.
Klembova welcomed them all with the same friendly greeting, but spoke low; she was short of breath, her lungs being in a bad state. Klemba, as a good sensible man, who loved to be on pleasant friendly terms with everybody, said some kind words to each, and set the tables and benches for them himself.
Yagna arrived somewhat later, with Yuzka and Nastka, and a few other girls, together with a sprinkling of young men who dropped in subsequently.
It was a big gathering. The winter was a hard one, and the days irksome to pass. People cared little to go to bed as fowls to roost; that would give them overmuch time to lie in bed till daybreak, and make their sides ache with weariness.
They seated themselves, some on benches, others on chests. Klemba’s sons, too, brought in tree-stumps from the yard for the boys to sit down upon, and there was room enough for all. The hut, though of no height, was very large, built in the old style, most likely by Klemba’s great-great-grandfather, and a hundred and fifty years old or more. It was already tottering with age, leaning slantwise like a stooping old man; in places, the thatched eaves almost touched the hedge beneath, and had to be propped up.
After a time, the talk grew louder and more general, while the spindles twirled and whirled and hummed on the floor, and a spinning-wheel buzzed here and there.
Klemba’s sons were four: tall slender striplings, with budding moustaches. They sat close to the door, engaged in twisting ropes of straw. The other young fellows were sitting in corners, smoking cigarettes, grinning and joking with the lasses, and making them giggle till the room rang again.
At last Roch, whom they had long expected, came in, followed by Matthew.
“Is it windy still?” someone asked.
“No wind at all; the weather will change.”
“It surely is going to thaw,” Klemba added; “we hear the forest moaning.”
Roch, who now taught a class at the Klembas’, and lodged and boarded there, sat down to eat at a separate table. Matthew greeted some of the company, but did not so much as glance at Yagna, whom he made out he had not seen, although she was straight in front of him. At that she smiled faintly, with her eyes fixed on the entrance door.
“Well, it has been blowing all day long, Heaven preserve us!” Sohova said. “Some women have crept back from the forest, half dead; and they say Hanka and her father, who were among them, are missing.”
“Ah, yes,” Kobusova grunted. “ ‘Wherever the poor man goes, the wind against him blows.’ ”
“Alas! Hanka has come down indeed. …” Ploshkova was beginning to say, but stopped and talked of something else on seeing how red Yagna had turned.
“Has not Yagustynka been here?” Roch inquired.
“She is not wanted: our company takes no pleasure in slandering and backbiting.”
“A wicked hag she is! This very day she set the Voyt and the Soltys’ wives so by the ears that they fell to railing and would have fought, had not the company prevented them.”
“That’s because they let her talk as she pleases.”
“And there’s no one to pay her out for her spiteful words and mischief-making.”
“Yet all know what she is: why listen to her snarls?”
“True: we never know when she is lying and when not.”
“They let her, because they all enjoy hearing her talk against someone else,” Ploshka’s wife concluded.
Teresa, a soldier’s wife, here called out: “Let her say one word against me! She would pay it dear!”
Whereupon Balcerek’s wife said to her, sarcastically:
“Why, is she not telling tales against you in the village all day long?”
“Repeat—repeat them, whatsoever ye have heard!” she shouted, flushing crimson: it was a matter of general knowledge that she was on exceedingly intimate terms with Matthew.
“I will, and to your face, when your goodman is back from the army.”
“Beware what ye say of me! What, will ye babble and gabble here?”
“Wherefore scream, when none accuses you!” Ploshka’s wife cried out in rebuke; but Teresa was not soon appeased, and she muttered to herself for a good while.
“Have they been here, with the ‘bear?’ ” Roch asked, to change the subject.
“They are at the organist’s now, and will be here at once.”
“Who are the performers?”
“Why, the sons of Gulbas and Filipka; who but they, the rogues!”
“Here they come!” the lasses cried. In front of the cabin, a long-drawn roar resounded; then various animals’ cries: cocks crowing, sheep bleating, horses whinnying: all this to the accompaniment of a fife. Finally, the door opened, and a young fellow came in, clad in a sheepskin coat, turned inside out, and a tall fur cap, with his face so blackened, he looked like a gipsy. He came pulling the “bear” in question after him by a rope, covered all over with shaggy brown pea-straw, save for a head of fur with paper ears that he could shake at will, and a tongue that hung out for more than a foot. To his arms were fastened staves with pea-straw twisted round them, so that he seemed to go on all fours. After him went the other bear-leader, wielding a straw lash in one hand, and in the other a club that bristled all over with sharp pegs, to which bits of fat bacon, loaves and bulky packets were stuck. In the rear walked Michael, the organist’s boy, playing the fife, and a number of youngsters with sticks, tapping on the floor and shouting vociferously.
The bear-leader “praised God,” crowed, bleated, neighed like a rampant stallion, and, lifting up his voice, spoke thus:
“We, bear-leaders, come from a foreign clime, beyond the ocean and the endless forests, where men walk upside down, use sausages for palings, and fire to cool themselves; where pots are set to boil in the sun, and where the sky rains vodka: thence have we brought this savage bear! It has been told us that there are in this village wealthy husbandmen, good-natured housewives—and fair maidens too. And therefore from that foreign clime have we come, beyond the Danube, to obtain kind treatment, have our needs supplied, and something given us for our pains!—Amen.”
“Show, then, what ye can do,” said Klemba; “peradventure there may be something for you in the larder.”
“Instantly.—Ho, play the fife there; and you, bear, dance!” the bear-leader cried. Then the fife poured forth one of its sweetest tunes, and the lads tapped the floor with their sticks, and shouted loudly in cadence, while the leader mimicked the voices of many a beast, and the “bear” jumped about as on all fours, twitching his ears, putting his tongue out and in again, and running after the girls. The bear-leader seemed to be pulling him back, and struck with his lash at everyone within his reach, crying:
“Have found no husband yet, lass?—A rope’s end you shall get, lass!”
The noise in the room, with the racket and scampering and squealing, waxed louder and louder; and the merriment grew to its height, when the bear began to frolic wildly, rolling on the floor, roaring, leaping for fun, and catching at the girls with his long wooden arms, making them dance to the tunes played on Michael’s fife: the two bear-leaders, meanwhile, and the lads who accompanied them, making such an uproar that the old cabin might well have fallen to pieces with the horseplay and the din and fun of it.
Then, Klemba’s wife having treated them very bountifully, they left the place; but far along the road came the sound of shouting men and barking dogs.
“Who played the bear?” Sohova asked, when they had quieted down.
“Could ye not find out? Why, Yasyek Topsy-turvy.”
“How could I know him, with that shaggy head of fur?”
“My dear,” Kobusova observed, “for such games as that, the doodle has quite enough sense.”
“Yasyek is not such a fool as ye make him out to be!” said Nastka, taking his part. No one contradicted her; but sly significant smiles flickered on many faces. They again sat down and began chattering merrily. The girls, headed by Yuzka, who was the least shy of them all, crowded round the fireplace where Roch sat, coaxing and teasing him to tell them some such story as he had told at Boryna’s in the autumn.
“Well, Yuzka, do you remember the tale I told you then?”
“Certainly: ’twas about the Lord Jesus and His dog Burek.”
“If ye care, I will tell this evening about our kings of old.”
They placed a stool for him beneath the lamp, made a circle round him, and he sat in their midst like an old hoary oak in a clearing, compassed about with a clump of many bushes. He spoke deliberately and in a quiet voice.
A hush fell upon them all; only the spindles hummed on, and the logs crackled now and again upon the hearth. And Roch told them many a marvellous tale: of the kings and the bloody wars of old; of the mountains amidst which there now sleeps an army of enchanted warriors, awaiting but the sound of the trumpet to start up and fall on the foe and purge the land of evil; of the great castles, in whose golden chambers white-clad enchanted princesses, expecting their deliverer, mourn in the moonlit nights; and of those where music is heard nightly in the empty rooms, and multitudes assemble there to dance, who at cockcrow vanish and go back to their tombs. They listened; the spindles no longer twisted under their fingers; their minds went forth into that world of marvels, and their eyes flashed, and tears of ineffable rapture welled up, their hearts well-nigh bursting their bosoms with longing and amazement.
Roch wound up by telling them of a king nicknamed by his nobles the “Peasant King,” because he was humane, just and good to all folk alike; of his terrible wars, and of his wanderings in the disguise of a peasant, when he went about the land and lived with his people as a brother, so that he knew of the evil things done, and could redress the wrongs; and how, after that, that he might be yet more at one with the peasants, he married a husbandman’s daughter, Sophia by name, who dwelt nigh Krakow; and, taking her to the castle in that city, he reigned there for many years, the father of his people, and the best husbandman in the country.
To all this they listened with rapt attention, not missing one word, and even holding their breath for fear of interrupting the stream of wonders told them. As to Yagna, she was now quite unable to spin any more; her hands had fallen to her sides, and with head bowed and one cheek pressed on the top of her distaff, she fixed her turquoise-blue eyes on Roch’s face. He seemed to her like a saint, come out of a picture-frame; so holy he looked, with his grey hair, his long white beard, and those pale eyes of his that seemed to be gazing at something far away. She listened with all her might—the might of an exceedingly impressionable heart—so earnestly taking in all he said, that emotion hardly suffered her to breathe. His words brought everything plainly before her mind’s eye; and where he led, she too followed in spirit.—What struck her most of all was his tale about the king and his peasant queen; oh, how beautiful she thought it!
“And did the king himself live so—together with the peasants?” Klemba asked, after a long silence.
“He did.”
“Lord!” whispered Nastka; “if a king spoke to me, I should die of fear!”
“And I would follow him all over the world to get one word from him … one word!” Yagna cried, passionately.
They then put many a question to Roch. Where could those castles be found? and that army? and those great riches and beautiful things? and those kings, so mighty?—where?
He answered, somewhat sadly, but with wisdom, pointing out to them so many a deep truth and holy maxim that they all sighed, and fell to reflecting on the ways of God’s providence in this world.
“Yes,” said Klemba, “today is ours; tomorrow belongs to the Lord!”
But Roch was tired, and needed some rest. As all were highly interested in the wonderful tales told, each began, at first in whispers, and then aloud, to tell of such things as they too had heard.
One told one tale, another a second, and this reminded a third of something else, each bringing in a fresh point of interest. So the tales glided on like spun threads, and softly as the moonbeams that light up the dead dark waters in the secret woodlands.—They told how a drowned woman came back to suckle her hungry babe, whose cries had drawn her; and how an aspen stake must be thrust through the heart of a vampire in its coffin, that it may not come out to suck human blood any more; how there are noonday phantoms that lurk in lanes between fields, to strangle children. They spoke of talking trees, of horrible midnight spectres, of hanged men, of witches, of bound souls, doing penance upon earth—and of many another weird and awful thing that made the hair to stand on end, the heart to faint with horror, and all that heard to shudder, frozen with dread. Then they sat mute, looking apprehensively one at the other, and lending an ear: they fancied someone was walking about the loft over the ceiling, or lurked hid outside the windows; that glaring eyes glowed upon them through the panes, or dim shadowy forms skulked in nooks and corners; and more than one made the sign of the cross, and said prayers with chattering teeth. But this mood was swift to pass away, like a cloud, when it has glided over the sun and one has forgotten that it ever was there. And they then set once more to chatter and spin long, long yarns, which Roch heard attentively, till at last he joined their talk, and related a certain fable about a horse.
“Once upon a time, a poor five-acre husbandman possessed a horse, whose nature was slothful and evil beyond words. He was good to it, but that was of no use; he fed it well, but it never was pleased. And it would do no work at all, but pulled its harness to pieces, and lashed out so viciously that no one could go near it. … At last its master, seeing that kindness was of no avail, grew mightily angry and, harnessing the horse to a plough, set it to till a field that had long lain fallow, thinking to wear it out thereby, and weary it into obedience. It refused to draw; then he gave it so sound a flogging as made it submit and work. But it thought it had been grievously ill-used, and the memory rankled, with craving to be revenged at a convenient season. And when the husbandman one day had stooped down to set its hind legs free, crash! the horse’s hoofs struck out and killed him on the spot; and it set off to roam the world at liberty.
“Throughout the summer, things went fairly well with him. He lay in the shade, or ate the corn on strangers’ lands. But winter came round, the snow fell, there was little to eat, and he was pinched with cold. Therefore he went farther and farther away to get food. He had to run day and night, the wolves following him close and often biting his flanks very deep.
“Away he ran, and ran, and ran, even to the confines of the winter—to a meadow where the weather was warm, the grass knee-deep and over, and streamlets sparkled in the sun, with cool shadows moving to and fro upon their banks, and a pleasant breeze blowing over them. He went to eat that grass, for he was famishing: but, whenever he thought to get a mouthful, it was only a mouthful of hard stones he got: the grass had disappeared. Then he would fain taste some water: it was there no more, but only stinking mire in its stead! He sought the shade to lie down: it floated away, and he was burned and baked by the sun.—Then he would have returned to the forests: they too had vanished! The poor horse neighed in distress, and other horses answered him; and, following the sound, he at last got beyond the meadow and came to a great farmhouse. All of silver it seemed to be, its panes as of precious jewels, its thatch like the star-studded sky; and several folk were there, going to and fro. He crawled after them, for now he was willing to labour, no matter how hard, rather than die miserably of hunger. But he lingered on all day in the heat, and no one came to put a halter on him. At evening, however, someone came out: it was the farmer. Now He was the Lord Jesus, the Great Husbandman, the Holiest! and He said:
“ ‘You lazy one, you that have slain a man, you have naught to do here. Not till they that curse you now shall bless you, will I admit you into My stable.’
“ ‘I did but strike him back, because he beat me.’
“ ‘For that beating he has answered to Me; but I hold all justice in My hands.’
“ ‘I am so starved!’ the horse whinnied, ‘so thirsty! so tormented with pain!’
“ ‘I have spoken. Away! and I will command the wolves to harry and pursue you.’
“So back went the horse to the land of winter, and dragged himself along in hunger and cold and exceeding great fear; for the wolves—the hounds of the Lord, as it were—hunted him on continually, and scared him with their howls. At last, one spring night, he stood before the gate of his master’s dwelling-house, where he neighed, expecting to be received.
“But at that sound the widow and her children rushed out, and, snatching up sticks, staves and cudgels, they beat him cursing him the while for his evil deed, whereby they had come to great misery and destitution.
“Then went he back to the woods, knowing not what else to do. The wild beasts came up against him, and he did not defend himself, for he now thought death as good as life. Howbeit, they only touched his sides, and the chief amongst them said:
“ ‘Lo, you are too thin—naught but skin on your bones! Eat you we will not, nor wear out our teeth to no purpose: but we shall take pity on you, and help you.’
“They took him with them, and the next morning led him to his master’s fields, and put him to the plough that was standing there.
“ ‘They will plough with you, and make you wax stout; and in the autumn we shall come and unharness you!’ So they spake.
“The widow came to the field later; but though she cried, ‘A miracle!’ seeing him back and about to plough, the bitter memory of what he had done soon made her revile him and beat him as hard as she could. And this she did the next day, and after, continually punishing him for his crime. All the summer he toiled hard and in patience, knowing that he suffered justly. Only after several years, when the widow had taken another husband, and also purchased some more land from a neighbour, did she relent towards the horse, saying unto him:
“ ‘You did us a grievous wrong; but since by your means the Lord has blessed us with good harvests, and I have got an able husband, and have bought some fields, I fully and freely forgive you.’
“And behold, in that same night, while they were celebrating a christening-feast, the wolves, messengers of our Lord, came, took that horse out of the stable, and led him to the fields of Paradise.”
They wondered exceedingly at the narrative, and were greatly exercised, thinking how the Lord always punishes evil and rewards good deeds, and watches carefully over all things, as this tale about the horse clearly showed.
“Not even the worm that bores in this wall is hidden from His eyes.”
“Nor even,” Roch swiftly added, “is any most secret thought concealed from Him, nor any foul desire.”
Yagna started at the words; for Antek had just come in, though noticed by few. Valentova was at the time relating such wonders about an enchanted princess, that the spindles ceased from turning, and all sat motionless, listening in charmed silence.
And thus they spent that bleak February evening.
All their minds were on fire, and blazed like roaring resinous faggots; murmurs of emotional outbursts—fancies, dreams, desires—fluttered about the cabin like butterflies—living, flying flowers.
They wove themselves such a web of marvels—so bright with changing prismatic hues—that for the moment it quite shut out the sad, grey, miserable world they lived in.
They went a-roaming over dark plains, lit up with phantom lights; by silver streams, where eerie songs and mysterious calls and gurgling ripples resounded; through vast woods, full of glamour—of knights, of giants, of castles haunted by spectres, of dragons breathing flames. They stood horror-struck at those crossways where vampires screech with laughter; where they that have hanged themselves utter the sobs of the lost; and where the souls of unchristened children flit and hover on bats’ wings. They wandered through dim burying-places, following the shades of such as do penance for self-murder; they listened to uncanny voices in ruins of castles and churches; saw fearful visions of terror pass by in endless procession; were present at battles fought; and looked beneath the waters, where the swallows sleep together in long festoons, to be waked each springtime at the Blessed Virgin’s call, who gives them to the world again!
Heaven and hell they passed through—through the dark shadows of the wrath of God, and through the radiance of His tender mercy; through ineffable regions and times of raptures, marvels, miracles; through worlds never seen but in hours of ecstasy, or in dreams—when man looks and gazes, is dizzy and spellbound, and knows not whether he is still in this world or in the next!
It was then that, like an ocean before them, there arose an impassable barrier—a barrier of enchantments and bright wonders—between them and the real world, making it fade away, with the cabin, and the thick black night—this world of troubles, miseries, wrongs, tears, unfulfilled desires—and opening their eyes to that other world, far more majestic and beautiful than tongue can tell!
They had entered the world of the Fabulous; the life of the Fabulous surrounded them with its rainbow tints; the fables of Dreamland had become realities for them. They were dying with a rapture in which they yet found a new life—the great new life, abounding and sacred, merged and plunged in the Miraculous: wherein all trees speak, all stones are animated, all woods enchanted, and every sod of ground instinct with unknown force: wherein all things great and invisible and superhuman live their life—the sublime life of the Inconceivable.
With uttermost longing and a yearning of ecstasy did they aspire towards that life, uniting all things with its infrangible chain—fancy and reality, prodigy and wishes—in a bewildering procession of dream-existences, for which, under the miserable conditions of their earthly days, their weary crippled souls were insatiably pining.
And indeed, what was that life of theirs, so dull, so squalid? what was that daily round of deeds, so like the glances of a sick man, veiled in the mists of suffering?—Mere darkness—a sad tedious night, during which, except at the hour of death, no such marvels were ever to be seen with the bodily eyes.
As a beast of burden beneath the yoke, so livest thou, O man! caring only to get through this thy present day, and never thinking of what surrounds thee—what incense-perfumes—and from what most sacred altars—fill the world—nor what hidden prodigies are lurking everywhere!
O man! thou seest no more than doth a rock beneath deep waters! O man! who in darkness ploughest the field of life, thou sowest it but with tears and trouble and sorrow!
And this thy starlike soul, O man! thou lettest it wallow in the marsh and the quagmire! …
The conversation went on, and Roch willingly joined in it, always full of wonder and sorrow and tears, when others wondered and sorrowed and wept. …
From time to time, there would be long pauses, in which you might almost hear the throbbing of hearts ready to burst, and you could see how their moist eyes glistened, shining with dewy tears; while exclamations of wonder and longing arose, and their souls knelt down before the Lord, in this His temple of marvels, and sang the great hymn of thanksgiving. This all their hearts were singing, filled with ecstasy, trembling, in the mystic communion of the Ideal; like the earth, when it thrills in spring beneath the sunbeams; like the waters at evening, when the day is calm and quiet, and vibrations and iridescent tints play all over them; or like the young corn in an afternoon of early May, murmuring continuously and gently waving delicate blades and feathery ears in a prayer of thanks.
Yagna was in heaven. So deeply did she feel and realize all these things that they stood before her in concrete form and shape, and she was able to cut them out in paper without any difficulty. They handed her some sheets, written over by the children whom Roch was teaching; and while she listened to the legends and stories, she snipped out, now spectres, now kings, or vampires, or dragons, or any other wonderful things, so well cut that they were recognized without fail. So many did she cut out that a whole beam might have been pasted over with her handiwork; and she painted them all with raddle that Antek passed to her. So absorbed was she in her work and the legends she was listening to, that she failed to notice him, as he stood there impatient, trying to draw her attention; nor did the others, who were also deeply interested, remark the signs he made.
On a sudden, the dogs outside fell to barking furiously, and howling as if in dread, till one of Klemba’s sons went out to them. He said on his return that he had seen a peasant outside the window, who had run away.
No one either paid heed to what he had said or remarked that later, when the dogs had ceased barking, a face passed swiftly outside the window, and vanished. Only one girl saw it, and screamed out, rolling her eyes in terror.
“Someone has just gone by—there—there—in the yard!”
“Yes, I hear feet scrunching through the snow!”
“And there’s a scraping noise along the wall!”
“ ‘Talk of the wolf … it is sure to appear!’ ”
A panic came over them, and now they sat terror-struck, motionless with dread.
“Ah!” someone said in a terrified whisper, “we were speaking of the Evil One—and perhaps we have called him up—and he may even now be on the watch for one of us!”
“Jesu Maria!” they exclaimed in horror.
“Just take a look outside, boys, will you? ’Tis but the dogs playing about in the snow.”
“Oh, but I saw him too plain through the window—his head as big as a barrel, and eyes like burning coals!”
“Ye saw not well,” said Roch, and, seeing that no one cared to go into the yard, he went himself to calm them.
“I will tell you a tale about the Blessed Virgin,” he said on his return, “and all your fancies will vanish away.” He seated himself in his former place; his coolness somewhat quieted them.
“It was long, long ago, ages ago; so long ago that the tale is found only in very ancient books. In a certain village, hard by Krakow, there dwelt a free peasant, Casimir by name, and surnamed ‘the Hawk.’ His family, a good one, had dwelt there from all time, and he tilled many a thirty-five-acre piece of land. He had a forest of his own, a dwelling like a manor, and water-mill close to the river. Our Lord had blessed him, and all went well with him; his barns were always full of corn as his money-box was of money; his children were blooming, his wife was without reproach, and he himself a wise and kindly man, not proud of heart, and just towards everyone.
“He ruled like a father in the assembly, always for justice, anxious to be upright in all things, and ever the first to help and save his neighbours.
“So he lived, soberly, quietly and happily, as one having the Lord God at his fireside.
“Now one day the King sent to call the nation to war against the Paynim.
“The Hawk was sorely troubled at heart, for he had no wish to leave his home and go out to the wars.
“But then, there was the King’s messenger standing at the door, and calling him to hasten.
“It was a very great war. The Turks, a vile brood! had entered Poland, burning villages, robbing churches, slaying priests, and putting the people to death, or driving them, bound with cords, to their own country of infidels.
“To fight them was a duty. If, to defend his home and kin, men and country, a man shall willingly lay down his life, he is sure of eternal salvation.
“So he called the assembly, selected the stoutest and bravest men he could find; and on the morrow, after Holy Mass, all set out, some on horseback, others in chariots.
“The whole village went with him, with tears and great lamentations, as far as the statue of Our Lady of Chenstohova, which stands by the road, at the crossway.
“He fought for a year, for two years … but at last no news of him came any more.
“And when all the others had been back a long time, the Hawk was still far away. So they thought he must have been either slain or taken captive by the Turks; moreover, the dziads and wanderers who passed by said secretly much that made them think so.
“At length, at the end of the third year, he came back one day in early spring; but all alone, without henchmen or horses or chariots, in great poverty, and bearing a staff like a beggar.
“He knelt down before the statue of the Blessed Virgin, thanking her for his return to his own country; then he made for the village, walking with swift steps.
“But none welcomed him, none knew who he was; and the dogs attacked him, and he drove them off.
“He arrived at his home … rubbed his eyes … crossed himself … and knew not what it meant.
“Jesu Maria!—No granaries, no orchards, no hedges even! and of live stock, not a single head.—Of his cabin, there remained only the scorched and ruined walls.—No children either! All was utterly destroyed. His wife rose at his approach from a pallet of straw where she lay sick and in pain, and she burst into most bitter tears!
“He stood thunderstruck.
“It had come to pass, while he was fighting and putting to flight the enemies of the Lord, that the plague had entered his cabin, and cut off all his children, and the lightning had struck it and burned it down, and the wolves had eaten his cattle. Then his neighbours seized upon his lands, the corn had perished by drought, the rest of the crops by hailstorms: and naught remained to him.
“Down he dropped on the threshold, ghastly as one dead. But when evening fell, and the bell rang for the Angelus, he started up, and began to curse and blaspheme in an awful voice!
“ ‘Had he shed his blood in God’s service for this? for this defended God’s churches?’
“In vain his wife tried to calm him; in vain she fell at his feet and entreated him: he continued to curse and blaspheme.
“ ‘What! had he suffered wounds, and hunger, and been honest and pious for this? No matter what he had been, the Lord God had forsaken him, and decreed he should lose all!’
“Most foully did he curse the name of God, and cry that now he would give himself to Satan, who alone did not forsake the wretches that call upon him.
“At those words, behold, Satan appeared before him!
“The Hawk, being very wroth, was now reckless, and cried out:
“ ‘O devil, if you can help me, do; for I have been dealt with most grievously!’
“Fool that he was, and unable to understand that this was all but a trial, whereby our Lord would prove him!
“ ‘I will aid you,’ Satan hissed; ‘but will you give up your soul to me?’
“ ‘I will—this instant!’
“So a compact was written, and signed with Casimir’s blood.
“From that day forth, all things began to mend. He himself did but little, only ordering and overseeing things. Michalek (for so the devil chose to be called) worked for him, helped by other devils, disguised as farm-servants or as Germans; and in a short time the farm was in better order, larger and more flourishing than it ever had been.
“Only there came no more children to them. For how, indeed, could they come to a home so unblessed as that?
“This mortified the Hawk exceedingly. Also by night he was wrung at the thought how he should support the everlasting fire of hell.
“But Michalek took upon him to say that all rich folk—lords, kings, men of learning, yea, and even such bishops as were mighty on earth—had sold their souls to him. And yet none of them cared for what might come to them after death, and thought only of making merry and tasting all the pleasures of this life to the full.
“Then was Casimir more at ease, and he became a yet greater foe to God. With his own hands, he hewed down the cross by the forest; he cast the holy images out of his cabin, and would even have removed the statue of Our Lady of Chenstohova, because it was in his way when he ploughed. Hardly could his wife, with many prayers and tears and entreaties, prevail upon him to let it remain.
“The years flew by, like a rapid river. His wealth increased enormously, and his importance along with it; so that the King himself came to see the man, invited him to Court, and gave him the post of chamberlain there.
“Now was he puffed up, and looked down upon all, oppressed the poor, threw honesty to the winds, and cared no whit for anyone in the world.
“He also most foolishly closed his mind against the thought that he must one day pay dearly for all this.
“But at last the hour of reckoning arrived.
“Our Lord’s patience and mercy towards that hardened sinner came to an end at last.
“And his doom and punishment swooped down upon him.
“First, he was assailed by sore diseases, which tortured him unceasingly.
“Then the plague swept away all his castle.
“Next, his farm-buildings were struck by lightning and burned to the ground.
“After which, his corn crops were ruined by hailstorms.
“Then such terrible droughts came that everything was withered up and, being dry, burned to ashes; the very ground was cracked and fissured, and his trees died for lack of water.
“All men abandoned him, and Want sat down at his threshold.
“He was exceeding sick, and his flesh fell from off his bones, which began to rot.
“He called for Michalek and his fellow-demons to help him; but without avail. When the hand of the Lord is lifted up in anger against any man, Satan can do nothing.
“Instead of trying to aid him, the fiends, who were sure that he was already theirs, blew fire into his horrible wounds to make them rankle yet more.
“And now, nothing could save him but God’s mercy.
“Late in the autumn, there came so windy a night that the gale tore off the roof of the cabin, and all the doors and windows; and with it there entered a troop of fiends that fell to dancing as they pressed forwards with pitchforks to the middle of the room, where the Hawk lay dying.
“His wife did what she could to protect him. Thrusting a holy image in front of him, and chalking the sign of the cross on the door and windows, she drove them out; but she was most anxious lest he should die unreconciled to God, and without the last sacraments. So, although he had forbidden her, being hardened even at this last hour, and though Satan sought to turn her back, she found an opportunity, and slipped away to where the parish priest lived.
“But he was just driving out, and did not care to attend so wicked a man.
“ ‘God has abandoned him: he needs must belong to Satan: I have nothing to do there.’ And off he drove to play cards with the manor-folk.
“Weeping in bitter woe, the woman knelt down before the statue of Our Lady of Chenstohova, and sobbed and besought mercy for him from the bottom of her heart.
“And the Holy Virgin took pity, and spake to her:
“ ‘Woman,’ she said, ‘weep not: thy prayer is granted.’
“And down she came from the altar, just as she was: crowned with gold, clad in her azure star-besprinkled mantle, and with a rosary dangling at her side … she, the Holy Mother, like unto the morning star, all beaming with loving-kindness! The woman fell upon her face before her.
“With her sacred hands she raised her up compassionately, wiped away her tears, and said tenderly:
“ ‘Take me to thy cabin, faithful servant; it may be that I can do something.’
“She looked on the dying sinner, and her merciful heart yearned within her at the sight.
“ ‘Thy husband must not die without a priest: the power to shrive, that priests have received from God, is not mine; for I am but a woman. That priest is an evildoer, and cares not for his flock. For that will he answer to God; but he alone can give absolution. … I will go myself to the manor and fetch this gambler thence.—Here is my rosary: keep the fiends at bay with it till I come back.’
“But how was she to go? The night was dark, windy, rainy, miry. It was far to go, besides; and moreover, the fiends set up obstacles everywhere to prevent her.
“Our Heavenly Lady dreaded none of these things. She only muffled herself in a sheet of coarse drugget against the foul weather, and went out into the darkness.
“Exhausted and quite drenched, she arrived at the manor, knocked at the door, and humbly begged the priest to come to a sick man; but, supposing her to be some poor woman, and knowing how stormy it was out of doors, he sent her word that he would come next day, being too busy just then. So he went on playing, drinking, and enjoying himself with the gentlemen there.
“Our Lord’s Mother sighed deeply at his evil behaviour; but, causing a gilded coach and horses and servants to appear at once, she went into the room, arrayed in the garb of a castellan’s lady.
“Of course the priest set out with her at once and very eagerly.
“They arrived, but only just in time; the man was almost at his last gasp, and the fiends were making efforts to rush in and carry him alive to hell, before the priest arrived with the Sacred Host.
“The Hawk confessed, repented, was shriven, and gave up the ghost. Our Lady herself closed his eyes; then, when she had blessed his widow, she turned to the bewildered priest and said:
“ ‘Follow thou me!’
“He did so, ever more and more amazed; but, looking out of the cabin-door, saw neither coach nor servants—only rain, mire, darkness—and Death dogging each of his steps! Mightily afraid, he followed our Lady to the chapel.
“Then he beheld her, now in her mantle and crown, surrounded with a choir of angels, as she again took her place upon the altar.
“Then he knew her for the queen of Heaven, and was terrified. Falling on his knees, he wept aloud, and begged her to have mercy.
“But the Blessed Virgin eyed him with indignation, and said:
“ ‘Many a century shalt thou kneel here in penance for thy sins, ere thou hast atoned for them!’
“And immediately he turned into stone, and remained in that posture, weeping every night, holding out his hands to her, and awaiting the hour of pardon. Thus has he been kneeling for ages and ages.
“Amen! …
“Even at the present day, that same priest is to be seen in Dombrova. The stone figure stands outside the church, in perpetual memory of the fact, and as a warning to all sinners.”
All listened with attention; all were subdued, filled with wonder, awed and silenced.
For what could they say at such a moment—when the soul, expanding like the iron which glows red-hot in the fire, is so flooded with emotion and splendour that one has but to strike upon it, and it shoots forth a starry shower, becoming, as it were, a rainbow suspended between earth and heaven?
And so they remained, hushed and silent, until the glow that then filled them had dwindled and faded away.
Matthew took out his flute, and the touch of his cunning fingers brought forth the anthem, “To Thy Protection, Holy Mother of God. …” with its touching, measureless, opalescent melody, like gossamer-besprinkled dewdrops; and they all, in low voices, took up the anthem after him.
And then, little by little, one by one, they went back to their everyday mood and talk.
After a time the young people smiled and laughed; for Teresa, the soldier’s wife, was asking them funny riddles. In a while, someone coming in said that Boryna was back from the law-court, and drinking in the tavern with his companions: at which Yagna quickly and quietly slipped out. Antek slipped out too, catching up with her at the outer entrance on the very threshold; he seized her hand fast, and led her on to the outer yard, and through the orchard, beyond the barns and granaries.