II
The next day was Palm Sunday.
Bright and early, Hanka rose, putting on only her petticoat, and throwing a shawl on her shoulders, for the cold.
Round she looked everywhere, even to the boundaries of the enclosure and over on to the road. It was quite empty and void of life: only the dry light of dawn clad the leafless treetops along its line.
Returning to the porch, and kneeling down with difficulty (for she expected to be confined in a week or so), she began her morning prayer, with drowsy eyes wandering over the landscape.
The day, laden with white fire, was coming apace, and the ruddy glow of dawn melting away into a golden expanse in the East, like the rich silk canopy over the Monstrance, when the Monstrance is not yet in sight.
There had been a slight frost overnight; hedges, roofs, cottages shone with white radiance, and the trees had the air of so many fleecy clouds.
The village was still sleeping in the haze that crept along the ground; but a few cabins nearer the road now began to show their snowy walls. The mill went on uninterruptedly; the river babbled and bubbled low, audible but unseen.
Cocks were noisy and many birds chirped in the orchards, as if saying their morning prayers together, when Hanka went out again to look over all the place and wake the sleepers.
She first opened the half-door to the sty. A large porker struggled to get up, but was so fat, it rolled back upon its substantial hind quarters, and only turned its snout towards her, grunting, as she inspected the trough and put in some fresh food.
“Its hams are so clad with fat, it can hardly rise. Truly, the fat is at least four inches thick!” And she felt its sides with delight.
Entering the poultry-house, she then, to attract the fowls, threw some of the pig’s food she had brought with her. Down they came in a hurry from their roosting-place, with the cocks crowing lustily.
She drove away the ganders, which attacked them, and carefully examined the eggs, one by one, holding them up to the light.
“They will be hatched out in an hour!” she said, for she could just make out a faint pecking sound within.
Just then Lapa, indifferent to the ganders hissing round him, came out of his kennel, drowsily and yawning audibly.
At her sight, with a bark and a wag of his tail, he came to her through the crowd of hens; the feathers flew about. He leaped up at her, put his paws on her breast, and licked her hands, she patting his head the while.
“Ah, this dumb creature has more feeling than many a man! … Now, Pete! Time to rise!” she cried, beating on the stable-door, until she heard a grumbling and the sound of a bolt shot back; thereupon she opened the cow-byre door, where the kine were lying in a row before their mangers.
“What, Vitek! Sleeping so hard, and so late? Up, young imp!”
The boy awoke, rose from his straw bed, and began to draw his breeches on, though murmuring; for he was afraid of her.
“Give the kine some hay to eat, before I milk them; and then come at once and peel potatoes. But not a handful to Lysula, look you!” she added sternly: Lysula was Yagna’s property. “Let her mistress feed her!”
“Oh, she does; and so well that the poor beast is bellowing for food, and eats the straw that’s under her!”
“She may starve, for aught I care: ’tis no loss of mine!” she said, with fierce animosity.
Vitek muttered some words and, when she had gone, fell back on his pallet, to doze for a few seconds more.
In the barn, upon the straw-strewn threshing-floor, lay the potatoes chosen for planting. She looked in there, and also into the shed close by, where all their farming-implements were stored. Then, having seen, as she did regularly each day, that nothing was missing or had been damaged during the night, she went out into the wheat-fields, where she continued her interrupted morning prayers.
Now that the sun had risen, there was as a blast of flame rushing through the orchard. The dews were dropping from the trees, the wind rustled softly in the boughs, the larks trilled forth their carols louder and louder. Folk began to move about, the waters of the millpond beat upon the banks, gates opened with a rusty creak, geese screamed, dogs yelped, and now and then a human voice was heard.
Folk were rising later than their wont. It was Sunday, and they were glad to rest their tired limbs a little longer.
Hanka prayed only with her lips: her thoughts were elsewhere. …
She gazed over those broad lands, bounded afar by the thick veil of the forest, which the flames of the eastern sky were flooding, making the young fir-trees stand out like amber amidst the bluish underwood; over those other fields, shimmering tremulously in the quivering yellow glare, and growing their moist greenish fleece of sprouting corn; over the thin watery streaks—threads of silver—that ran here and there in the deep furrows along the damp cornlands, under the cool wafts of the breezes, and in the sacred hush in which all life manifests itself on earth.
And yet she noted none of all these things.
They rose up before her, those past days of hunger and want and injustice, with the memory of Antek’s faithlessness, and of her manifold sorrows and afflictions—so great that she wondered how she could ever have found strength to bear them, and to await this happier lot now granted her by our Lord.
For behold, there she was, once more upon the farmlands of Boryna!
And who would now have the power to oust her thence?
During the past six months, she had undergone more than many go through in all their lives: now she could suffer what the Lord should choose her to suffer, until Antek returned to himself, and the land was theirs forever.
She recalled now how and when the young men had started for the forest expedition.
She had been forced to stay behind; to join them would, in her state, have been a difficult and dangerous attempt.
Antek, she had been told, was not with the others; and this made her uneasy. It was, she thought, no doubt out of spite against the old man his father … or possibly to spend the time with Yagna!
The thought had gnawed at her heart: but as to going and spying after him—never!
And then, just before noon, the Gulbas boy had run in, crying: “Victory! the Manor-folk are beaten!” and went past.
She arranged to go with Klembova and meet the men as they were coming home.
And then Paches had come, shouting from afar: “Boryna is slain, Antek slain, and Matthew, and many more!” and, clapping his hands, dropped down with an unintelligible mutter; and his teeth were set so fast (for he was quite senseless) that they must needs prize them open with a knife to give him water.
Happily, others came pouring in along the road from the forest, ere the lad was brought to. These related all that had taken place; and, a little after, Antek arrived, alive and walking by his father’s cart; but covered with blood, livid as a corpse, and beside himself.
Deep as was her sorrow, and near as she felt to weeping, she mastered herself nevertheless; and old Bylitsa, her father, took her on one side, and said:
“Look to it: Boryna will presently be no more, Antek is out of his wits, and there is none to see after Boryna’s cabin. The smith will establish himself therein, and who will drive him out then?”
Instantly she had hurried back to her hut and, taking quickly with her her children and all she could lay hands on, returned to her former lodgings on the side of the cabin opposite to where Boryna lived.
So while Ambrose was still bandaging the old man’s head, and the folk were out of doors, and the whole village seething with the excitement of victory, and resounding with the groans of the wounded—Hanka slipped quietly into the cabin, and settled there, not to be turned out again.
She watched and guarded the place with great vigilance; for the land was Antek’s, and his father was near his last gasp, and might expire at any moment. She knew well how important it was to be first in possession; for he that first fell upon a heritage and took possession of it could scarcely be driven away, and was sure to have the law on his side.
The smith, furious that she had stolen a march on him, now threatened and abused her dreadfully; but she did not mind.
Was she to ask his leave … or anyone’s? She had taken over all the property, and was guarding it with the fidelity of a dog: who else had the right? She knew that the old man must soon die, and that (as Roch had warned her) Antek would be put in prison.
To whose protection, then, should she fly? Let her help herself, and Heaven might help her.
When Antek was arrested, she took it quietly enough: she had nothing else to do.
And, moreover, with all the house and farm-work upon her shoulders, when could she find time for lamentation?
She neither shirked labour nor (though alone and single-handed) quailed before her enemies: Yagna, and the smith and his wife, all bitterly hostile; the Voyt, whose inclination for Yagna made him favour her strongly; and even his Reverence, whom Dominikova had set against her.
But they all were powerless; she yielded not one jot. Day by day, her grip upon the homestead grew firmer, and ere a fortnight had gone by, the whole farm was under her control and obeyed her commands.
True, she had to grudge herself food and sleep and rest of any kind, toiling incessantly from early dawn till late into the night.
For one so timid by nature, continually in the past snubbed and browbeaten by Antek, and accustomed neither to such work nor to such responsibilities, this position was at times especially hard and intolerable: but the dread of being turned out of the place, together with her hatred for Yagna, gave her the strength to pull through.
Whencesoever her energy had come, she remained steadfast at her post; and shortly everyone began to regard her with wonder and respect.
“Dear, dear!” would the best housewives of Lipka say to one another; “once we thought she could not say ‘Boo!’ to a goose; and lo, she is as good as an able husbandman!” Ploshkova and others even went the length of asking her advice at times, and willingly gave her their own counsel and help.
This she accepted with gratitude, but did not seek society at all, remembering too well how she had been dealt with so short a time ago.
Besides, she cared little for gossip, and had no liking for neighbourly chats and bits of scandal bandied round over the fences.
No. She had enough with her own troubles, and her neighbours’ shortcomings did not interest her.
At this stage of her thoughts, Yagna recurred forcibly to her mind—Yagna, with whom she was waging silent but desperate and stubborn warfare. The thought was like a stab in her breast; it made her start up and hurriedly end her prayer, crossing herself and beating her breast.
Returning in no pleasant mood, she was all the more vexed to find everybody asleep in the cottage, and in the outhouses as well.
She rated Vitek soundly, routed Pete out of his litter of straw, and scolded Yuzka too, for “lying abed when the sun was a span high!”
“If I but take my eyes off them to pray for a moment, I find them all snoozing, each in his corner!” she grumbled, as she lit the fire.
Afterwards, taking the children outside, and cutting some bread for each of them, she called Lapa to play with them, while she went in to see after Boryna.
On that side of the cottage, all was as still as death; and she slammed the door angrily. Yet she did not wake Yagna; and the old man still lay as she had left him the night before, his ashen face, overgrown with a stubbly beard, showing above the red-striped coverlet; worn, gaunt, impassive as the wood-carven image of a saint. His eyes, wide open and motionless, stared right before him; his head was wrapped up in cloths, and his arms hung limp and lifeless, like broken boughs of a tree.
She set his bed in order, shook up the covering about his legs (for the room was close), and gave him some fresh water, which he drank slowly, but made no other motion, lying as still as a felled trunk. Only in his eyes there was a faint glimmer, as that of a river which, between night and dawn, is shadowed forth feebly for the twinkling of an eye.
She heaved a mournful sigh over him, and then, darting a glance of hate at the sleeping Yagna, struck a pail with her foot.
The noise did not wake the latter. She lay, her face turned towards the room, the coverlet thrown back from her bosom on account of the heat, so that her shoulders and throat were bare. Her parted lips, cherry-red, showed a row of shining teeth, like beads of the purest white; her dishevelled hair, fair as the finest sun-dried flax, was streaming over her coverlet and down to the floor.
“Oh! I could dig my nails into that pretty face of yours so deep that it would never be pretty any more!” she hissed with fierce aversion, a sharp pang stabbing at her heart. She mechanically smoothed her hair and looked into the glass that hung by the window, but shrank back on beholding her own faded discoloured features and red-fringed eyelids.
“She! … she has naught to try her; feeds abundantly, sleeps in a warm bed, brings forth no children: what should mar her beauty?”
And she slammed the door violently as she went out.
This noise woke Yagna; but old Boryna lay as he had lain, staring straight before him.
He had been thus ever since they had brought him home from the fight. At times only did he seem to rouse himself and, taking Yagna’s hand, strive to speak; but he always relapsed into insensibility, and could never utter a word.
Roch had brought a doctor from the town, who had examined the man, written a recipe on a scrap of paper, and taken ten roubles. The medicine, too, was costly, and did no more nor less good than Dominikova’s incantations, recited gratis.
It soon was clear to all that he would never mend, and so they let him be.
All they now did was to change the wet bandages on his head, and give him a little water or milk to drink; solid food he could not take.
Folk said, and Ambrose, who had experience in such matters, said too, that should Boryna not come to his senses again, he would die shortly, though of course without pain. This end, then, they were daily expecting, but it did not come, and the delay was irksome.
It was Yagna’s right and duty to take care of the patient and stay by him; but how could she—she who was unable to remain there an hour? She had more than enough of him as it was; and she was, moreover, weary of the continual struggle with Hanka, who had usurped her place and set her completely aside. She therefore kept out of doors by preference, rejoicing to bask in the warm morning light, and to go out free into the village. She abandoned the care of her husband to Yuzka, and used to wander about, no one knew where, often returning only in the evening.
Yuzka then looked after him; but this was only when others were by, she being as yet but a little girl, silly and a gadabout, so that Hanka was obliged to watch over the dying man alone. The smith and his wife, indeed, were popping in to look round any number of times a day; but it was she that they came to watch, and to see whether she had taken nothing out of the cottage, eagerly anticipating the possibility of Boryna’s recovering his senses enough to bequeath his property.
They snarled round him like dogs quarrelling round a dying sheep, each impatient to get his fangs first into the poor beast’s entrails, and carry off the best piece of the carcass. Meanwhile, the blacksmith clutched at everything he could see and lay his hands on; it had to be snatched from him by force and the strictest watch kept; and no day passed by without brawling and furious invectives.
The proverb says that “God gives to everyone who rises with the sun.” Yes, but the blacksmith would rise even before, even at midnight, and go galloping ten villages away, if he were but sure of making a good profit.
And now Yagna had scarcely risen and donned her petticoat, when the door creaked, and in he walked with stealthy steps, straight to the bed where old Boryna lay, and peered into his eyes.
“Not a word yet?”
“As he was, so he is!” Yagna said bluntly, putting her hair up under her kerchief.
She was barefoot and scantily attired, still rather drowsy, and overflowing with the strange charm that came forth from her like rays of heat; he could not help eyeing her through his half-closed lids with a greedy stare.
“Do you know,” he said, coming close to her, “the old fellow must have a goodly lot of money here? The organist told me that, even before last Yuletide, Boryna was ready to lend a cool hundred roubles to a man in Debitsa, and the loan only failed because he wanted too high a rate of interest. He must have it somewhere here, hidden away in the cabin.—So keep an eye on Hanka! … And ye might take a quiet look round at your leisure. …”
“Why not?” she said, throwing her apron over her bare arms, for she felt his glances upon her.
He walked about the room, peeping absently behind the pictures that hung on the walls.
“Have you the key of the storeroom?” he asked, with a sly look at the small closed door just by.
“It hangs by the cross near the window.”
“About a month since, I lent him a chisel which I want now, but can find it nowhere about. I think it is in there, thrown somewhere amongst odds and ends.”
“Look for it yourself. I am not going to seek it for you.”
Suddenly, hearing Hanka’s voice in the passage, he drew back from the larder-door and hung the key up again.
“Then I shall look in tomorrow,” he said, taking his cap. “Has Roch been here?”
“How should I know? Ask Hanka.”
He lingered on a little, scratching his fell of red hair, while his eyes darted to and fro with a furtive expression; then, smiling to himself, he walked out.
Yagna, throwing off her apron, then set about making the bed, now and then glancing at her husband, but taking good care never to meet his open ever-staring eyes.
She loathed and feared and hated him indeed for all the ill he had done to her, and when he called her and stretched out his clammy hands to hers, she felt an agony of repugnance and dread: such a waft of death and the grave emanated from the man! And yet, in spite of all, it was perhaps she who most sincerely wished him to live on.
For she only now realized what she had to lose by his death. With him she had felt herself the mistress; all obeyed her; and the other women, willing or not, had to give her the first place. Why? Only because she was Boryna’s wife. And Matthias, though choleric and hard upon her at home, paid her every attention in the presence of others, and made them all respect her.
This she had never seen clearly until Hanka had swooped down on the hut and got the upper hand there; then, at last, she felt herself helpless and ill-treated.
For the land she cared not one whit: what was the land to her? Nothing at all. And though she had been used to give orders, and plume herself on her importance and pride herself on her riches, still she was well enough off at home not to grieve much over their loss. What stung her to the quick was that she must give way to Hanka—to Antek’s wife; that it was which she felt intolerable, and which roused all her malice and antagonism.
Her mother, too, together with the blacksmith, was continually egging her on. Else perhaps she might soon have given up the fight; for all those petty bickerings wearied her so, that she would gladly have thrown up everything and gone back to her mother.
But Dominikova had replied sternly: “Never, while he is alive! You must see after your husband; your place is there!”
So she had stayed on, though with dissatisfaction inexpressible: no one to speak to, to smile at, or to call upon!
At home she had that ghastly man by her; and Hanka ever ready for strife; and war—war—war beyond all bearing!
She would sometimes take her distaff the round of the cabins—but that too was an unbearable ordeal. There were only women in the village, dull, heavy, lachrymose, or stormy and boisterous like a day in March: nothing but complaints everywhere, and not one farm-lad in sight!
And now her thoughts began to go back to Antek.
True, she had, in the last days preceding the catastrophe, felt greatly estranged towards him, had never met him but with pain and terror, and been in the end so treated that the very memory was gall and wormwood. But then, she had always had him waiting behind the hayrick in the evening, if she cared to see anyone. … In spite, then, of the fear of discovery and his frequent reproaches for her delay, she had gone willingly, forgetful of all the world, when he would seize her in his arms—no permission asked—the fiery monster that he was!
And now she was alone: quite, quite alone! The patient follower, the persistent watcher, the masterful lover, was there no more. The Voyt indeed caressed her, dallied with her among the hedgerows, or went with her for drinks to the tavern, and would fain have taken Antek’s place. But she only allowed him such liberties because they flattered her senses, and there was no one else at hand: who could compare him with Antek?
Besides, she had another motive in this: to flout the village—and Antek not less!
Ah! in the last three days after the fight, how shamefully he had slighted her! Had he not sat all day, all night, at the old man’s bedside, nay, even slept upon her own bed, scarce ever leaving the hut; and yet seemed not to see her, though she was always by his side, looking like a dog with wistful eyes for any sign of love?
Never had he once looked upon her: he had eyes only for his father, for Hanka, for the children—and for the dog!
It was that, possibly, which had quenched all her love for him. And so, when he was taken away in irons, he had appeared to her as someone else—as a stranger. She could not find it in her heart to grieve for him; and she eyed with grim pleasure Hanka, tearing her hair, beating her head against the wall, and howling like a dog when her puppies are drowned.
She spitefully enjoyed her agonies, while turning away in disgust from the dreadful madness in Antek’s face.
The man he was now she could not so much as remember distinctly, any more than the face of some person she had seen but once: so great was the estrangement between them!
But she recollected all the more clearly the Antek of old—of those loving days—days of trysts and embraces, of kisses and raptures—him for whom her whole being yearned again and again when she woke at night, and her heart, bursting with passionate grief, cried out aloud to him, wildly moaning and longing.
To him of those past days of bliss did her soul cry out; though, indeed, was he anywhere now in the wide world?
Just then he was present—living in her mind—a most sweet vision, when suddenly Hanka’s shrill voice drove him from her.
“That woman makes a din like a dog flayed alive!” was her mental comment as the vision faded.
The sun’s rays were peeping in obliquely, reddening the murky room; birds warbled; and as the warmth increased, the night’s white frost fell in crystal drops from the roof, while she could hear the geese screaming and splashing in the pond.
She set the room in order, for it was Sunday, and she would presently have to get ready for church, and prepare the palm-boughs for the ceremony. She had the red osier shoots, cut the day before, and covered with silvery buds, standing there in a water-jug; and she was about to bind and adorn them carefully, when Vitek shouted through the door:
“Mistress says your cow is lowing for want of food, and you are to feed her.”
“Tell her my cow is no business of hers!” she returned, at the top of her voice, and listened to what the other would scream in reply.
“Oh,” she thought, “you may yell till you’re hoarse: ye will not put me out of humour today!”
And thereupon she began to choose at leisure the dress she was to wear to church. But a sudden dreary thought came to cloud her bright sky and make the whole world sombre for her.—Why should she attire herself at all?—for whom?
For those hateful women, whose eyes would count the cost of every ribbon, whose tongues would cover her with foul aspersions?
This painful reflection made her turn away from her dresses, and she set about combing her abundant locks, as she gazed mournfully out of the window at the village, bathed in sunshine and agleam with dew; at the white cabins, visible behind their orchards, with plumes of blue smoke crowning their roofs; at the red wavy shadows of many a woman’s petticoat, glancing through the green of the trees on the shore, both reflected in the waters; at the geese, which seemed to swim in long lines athwart the azure image of the sky and form dark semicircles, uncoiling themselves like snakes; and at the white-bellied gleaming swallows, sweeping down and up again along and above its surface.
Then she looked away from all these, and up to the dark-blue sky, wherein the clouds moved like a flock of woolly sheep on a pasture-ground; and, far above, birds were flying unseen, so high that only their long plaintive thrilling cry was to be heard—a sound that filled her heart with such sadness that her eyes grew dim, as she cast them down and gazed on the world around her, on the rolling water and the waving trees. Only she now saw nothing in them but the echo of her own dejection, that caused the tears to start on her pale cheeks, dropping down one after another, like the beads of a broken rosary, that fell out of the innermost core of her heart!
What was it that now came over her?—She had no idea herself.
Something, she felt, was seizing her, lifting her up, carrying her away—an invincible longing; and whithersoever it should take her, thither she would go without fail. So she wept on involuntarily and almost painlessly: thus a tree, laden with blossoms, warmed by the sun and waving in the breezes of a springtide morning, drips with abundant dew, draws life-giving sap from the soil, and lifts its boughs and blossoming sprays.
“Vitek!” the shrill voice of Hanka was crying again. “Ask the lady there if she will kindly come round to breakfast.”
Yagna woke up from her trance, wiped her tears, finished combing her hair, and hastened in.
They were all sitting at breakfast in Hanka’s room. The potatoes smoked in a huge dish, over which Yuzka had just poured a quantity of cream, fried and seasoned with onions; they had set to lustily, and all the spoons were hard at work.
Hanka had taken the first place, in the middle; Pete sat at one end, Vitek squatting on the floor beside him; and Yuzka took her meal standing and seeing to the service. The children were enjoying a well-filled platter by the fire, and at the same time using their spoons to keep off Lapa, that wanted to eat from their dish.
Yagna’s place was near the door, opposite to Pete.
The meal was a dull one, taken with downcast eyes most of the time.
Yuzka tried in vain to rattle away after her fashion; Pete came in now and then with a word, and even Hanka, touched by the wistful look in Yagna’s eyes, strove to make conversation. But her guest said not one single word.
“Who gave you that bruise, Vitek?” Hanka inquired.
“Oh, I struck my head against the manger!” But he turned as red as a crayfish and rubbed the place, with a meaning glance towards Yuzka.
“Have you brought any palm-boughs yet?”
“As soon as I have done breakfast, I shall go for them,” he replied, eating at a great rate.
Here Yagna put down her spoon and went out.
“What has come to her?” Yuzka whispered to Pete, as she helped him to some more barszcz.
“Some folk have not your gift of continual babbling.—Has she milked her cow?”
“I saw her take a pail to the byre.”
“By the by, Yuzka, we must get some oil-cake for the ‘Grey One.’ ”
“Yes, I saw this morning that her milk was turned to beestings.”
“If so, she will calve in a day or two.”
“Will you come to church for the palm-bough blessing?” Yuzka asked her.
“Go along with Vitek. And Pete may go likewise, when the horses have been seen to. I must stay and take care of Father. And perhaps Roch may be coming in, with news of Antek.”
“Shall I tell Yagustynka to come tomorrow for the potato-planting?”
“Surely: we alone should be too few for the work, and the choice has to be quickly made.”
“And about the dung?”
“Pete will have done carting it to the field by tomorrow at noon, and will set about spreading it along with Vitek after dinner; you too must help them as soon as you have time.”
A loud cackling of geese outside—and in burst Vitek, gasping for breath.
“What! can you not even let the geese be?”
“They wanted to bite me: I was only keeping them off!”
And he threw down a large bundle of osier rods, sprinkled all over with catkins, and still wet with dew; which Yuzka instantly made into smaller bundles, tied them with red woollen thread, and asked him in a whisper:
“Was it the stork that gave you such a blow on the forehead?”
“It was; but tell no one.” He cast a look at his mistress, busy taking the Sunday clothes out of the chest. “I’ll tell you all. … I had noticed that it used to spend the night in the porch; so I slipped in there, when everyone was asleep. … Though it pecked at me, I had it fast, and was about to wrap it in my spencer and carry it off … but the dogs got scent of me, and I had to run for it. … One of my trouser-legs is torn.—But I’ll have the bird still.”
“What if the priest gets to know that you have his stork?”
“His? it is mine! … And who will tell him?”
“Where can you put it, that it may not be found?”
“I know of a hiding-place, safe from the gendarmes themselves. After a time I shall take it back to the cabin, and let them believe I have caught and tamed another stork. Who will find out that it is the same one?—Only say naught, and I’ll get you some birds—or a leveret.”
“Am I a boy, to play with birds? You silly thing!—Off and dress: we shall go to church together.”
“Yuzka, let me carry the palm-boughs, will ye?”
“A pretty saying! Ye know that only women may take them to be blessed.”
“I mean, through the village: ye shall have them back before we are in the church.”
He begged her so earnestly that she consented, and turned to Nastka, who had just come in, clad in her best, and with a palm-bough in her hand.
“Any news of Matthew?” Hanka asked her at once.
“Only what the Voyt said yesterday: he’s better.”
“The Voyt knows naught, and makes up tales to please us.”
“But he told his Reverence just the same.”
“Then why said he nothing about Antek?”
“No doubt because Matthew is with the others, and Antek in a separate cell.”
“He’s but a babbler that wants to talk.”
“Did he say aught to you?”
“He comes daily, but only to see Yagna. With her he has some private business, so they meet and speak of it. Apart. In the enclosure.”
She had lowered her tone, and laid stress on every word, looking out of the window the while. Just then, Yagna appeared outside the porch, very well apparelled, a palm-bough in one hand, a prayerbook in the other. Hanka’s eyes followed her out.
“The folk are on their way to church.”
“Why, the bells have not sounded yet!”
But, just as she spoke, they rang out with a clash and a roar, booming and thundering their call to church.
In a few minutes, all the people had gone.
Hanka, left alone, put the pots on the fire to boil, and then took the children out of doors to comb them thoroughly—a thing she had never time to do properly on workdays.
She then went with them to the straw with which the potato-pits were strewn, and left them there to play. After which, having gone into the hut, and looked into every pot and pan, she said her rosary; for she had too much difficulty with her prayerbook.
It was now hard upon noontide, and Lipka was plunged deep in Sunday rest, with no sounds but the chirping of sparrows, or the twittering of the nest-building swallows under the eaves, in the warm early spring weather. Over everything hung the strangely resplendent canopy of a bright blue sky; and the fruit-trees stretched out their branches, covered with big buds, and the alders fringing the pond waved their yellow catkins silently, and the rust-coloured poplar shoots swelled with viscid aromatic sprouts opening to the light, like the gaping beaks of nestlings that want food.
On the warm cabin walls, flies had already begun to cluster, and from time to time a bee hummed about the daisies, or over the bushes, bursting out into little tongues of green flame.
Only a damp wind still continued to blow from the outlying fields and woodlands.
It was about the middle of Mass; for the sounds of far-off chants mingled with the notes of the organ, and at times with the faint tinkling of tiny bells, which could just be heard in the quiet spring air.
Time went by slowly, till—when the sun was highest—all was most silent, and only a stork clattered along, skimming the ground in its low flight, or crows on the watch to steal away a gosling would fly over the pond, arousing the ganders’ angry screams.
Hanka went on with her prayers, watching meantime over the little ones, or going in to see her father-in-law, who lay motionless and staring glassily as ever; little by little ripening for death, like an ear of corn in the sun, awaiting the reaper’s sickle. … He could recognize no one. Even when calling for Yagna and taking her hand, his eyes were looking far away. But Hanka fancied that the sound of her own voice made him move his lips, while his eyes expressed the wish to say something.
It was a pitiful sight indeed, she thought, when she came thus to visit him.
“Lord! who would have expected it? Such an able farmer, so clever, so wealthy a man! and now lying here like a tree smitten by a thunderbolt, with branches still leafy, but already inevitably given over to death!—not dead, yet no longer living.
“And indeed, though the God of mercy is the Almighty One, still the doom of man is hard, and not to be escaped. …”
But it was now past noon, and the cows had to be milked; so she heaved a sigh, and ended her prayers. Sighs were but sighs: work was duty, and must come first.
On her return with brimming pails, she found everybody back home again. Yuzka told her about the sermon, and the folk that were at church; and presently the room became very noisy; for she had brought with her several girls of her own age, who set about swallowing the buds from the consecrated palm-boughs, which were believed to be a preservative against sore throats. They laughed a good deal, more than one of them finding the downy catkins impossible to get down (they made them cough so) unless with the aid of drinks of water, or thumps upon the back: which latter remedy Vitek was very willing to administer.
Yagna did not come in for dinner; she had been seen walking out with her mother and the blacksmith.—They had scarce got through the meal, when Roch come in. All welcomed him warmly, feeling that closer ties than those of blood united him to them. He had for each a kind word, and a kiss on the crown of the head; but he would take no food. He was exceedingly tired, and glanced uneasily about the room, Hanka following his glances, but not venturing to ask questions.
Without looking at her, he said in a whisper: “I have seen Antek.”
She started up from the chest she was sitting on, and the strong emotion which gripped her heart prevented her from saying a word.
“He’s quite well, and in good spirits. A warder was present; but I had speech with him for at least an hour.”
“Is he—is he in irons?” she asked, in a strangled voice.
“The idea! No more than the others. … He is not ill-used; do not frighten yourself.”
“But Koziol says they are flogged there, and chained to the walls.”
“It may be so in other cases; but Antek told me no one had touched him.”
She clasped her hands with joy, and her face lit up.
“On my departure, he said that ye had without fail to kill the pig before Easter: he too would like to taste the Hallow-fare.”
“Alas! the poor man is starving there, no doubt,” she remarked, plaintively.
“But,” Yuzka ventured to put in, “Father told us that, when fat, it was to be sold.”
“He did; only,” Hanka said inflexibly, “now that Antek orders it to be killed, his will takes the place of his father’s.”
“He also sends you word,” Roch continued, “that you are to do the needful as concerns all the fieldwork.—I had told him what a good beginning ye had made.”
“And what did he say to that?” asked Hanka, radiant.
“He said that ye were able to do whatever ye chose to do.”
“Yes, I shall be able—I shall!” she cried, her eyes bright with intense resolve.
“But will they set him free soon?” she inquired anxiously.
“Directly after Easter, it may be, but perhaps somewhat later. At any rate, as soon as the inquiry is over. It drags on so,” he added, with partial truth, avoiding her eyes, “because the accused are so numerous—the whole village, in fact.”
“Did he ask about the house … or the children … or me?”
She longed also to add: “or Yagna?” But she durst not put the question so openly; nor had she the art of drawing him on to tell her what she wanted. Moreover, it was now too late: the news of Roch’s coming had spread throughout the village, and the bells had not yet tolled for Evensong, when the women came crowding in to hear the news about their absent ones.
Sitting down near the entrance outside the cabin, he told them all he knew about each one in particular. He had nothing distressing to relate; but the women who heard him began presently to whimper, and even to weep aloud.
He afterwards went out into the village, entering pretty nearly every hut. With his saintlike figure and his long white beard, and the words of consolation which he uttered, he filled every cabin with light and comfort and hope. Yet their tears flowed still more abundantly, and their feelings of sorrow revived, and they were depressed by the memory of past sufferings.
The day before, Klembova had told Agata that Lipka now resembled an open grave. She had spoken the truth. The place looked as in the days of old, when the plague had passed over it, and most of the inhabitants had gone to their graves, or as when the lands had been devastated by war: so that the cottages were desolate and filled only with women’s laments, the wailing of children, complaints, mourning, and that sharp torture which is the reminiscence of agonies gone by.
What they were suffering now baffles description.
Three weeks had passed; and Lipka, instead of calming down, felt the injury and wrong done increasing every day, nay, every morning and noon and nightfall: whether within the huts or without, cries of indignation resounded, and a craving for revenge, like a hellish weed sown by Satan, sprang up and flourished in every heart. And many a fist was clenched, many a reckless word said, and many an imprecation thundered forth.
So that Roch’s words to soothe them—just as a stick thoughtlessly thrust into a heap of dying embers may make them burst into flame again—had only the effect of rousing the smouldering bitterness and the memory of injustice committed.—That afternoon, but few went to Vespers. They gathered in groups filling the enclosures, or out upon the roads, and even in the tavern, full of grief and uttering fierce curses.
Hanka alone felt a little comforted. Her husband’s praises had filled her with strength and glad expectation, and she was eager to work and show him that she was equal to the emergency—eager beyond all expression.
The other women had left the place; the smith’s wife had gone to sit at Boryna’s bedside; and Hanka went to the sty with Yuzka. They let the pig out: it was so fat that it fell wallowing in the dirt, and refused to stir any more.
“Give it nothing else to eat today, so that its bowels may be cleansed.”
“ ’Twas well, then, that I forgot to feed it this afternoon.”
“Good: if so, we shall kill it tomorrow. Have you told Yagustynka to come?”
“I have. She says she will be here in the evening.”
“Dress yourself and run to Ambrose. He must come here tomorrow after Mass at the latest, and bring with him all things needful.”
“But will he be able?—His Reverence has said two priests will come hither tomorrow to hear confessions.”
“He knows well I’ll give him vodka in plenty: he’ll find time, be sure.—No one can kill a pig, and cut it up, and season it in such good style as he. … And Yagustynka likewise will be of use.”
“Then may I go to town early in the morning for the salt and other seasonings?”
“Say for an airing, you little gadabout.—No, we can get all we want at Yankel’s: I shall go there directly.—And, Yuzka!” she called after her; “where are Pete and Vitek?”
“Out in the meadows, I dare say. I saw Pete take his violin with him.”
“If you find them, send them hither. They must bring round the trough that stands in the outhouse, and place it here in front of the cabin: in the morning, we shall scald and scour it.”
Glad to get out of doors, Yuzka ran straight to Nastka, with whom she went to seek old Ambrose.
Hanka, however, did not go to the tavern then, her father having crawled round to see her.
She gave him something to eat, and had the pleasure of telling him what Roch had said about Antek.—Suddenly Magda burst in, crying:
“Something is the matter with Father: come this instant!”
Boryna was sitting up, his legs out of bed, and looking round the room. Hanka ran to prevent him from falling. He eyed her well, and then looked fixedly on the blacksmith, who had just run in unexpectedly.
“Hanka!”
He spoke aloud, distinctly, in a voice that startled her.
“Here I am,” she answered, trembling.
“How is it out of doors?”
It was a strange voice—strange and broken.
“Spring is here, and the weather warm,” she faltered.
“Are they not up yet? Afield, they should be!”
Bewildered, they sought words in vain: Magda burst out crying.
“Defend what’s yours, boys! No giving way!”
His voice had risen to a shout. Suddenly he stopped, and rocked to and fro so violently in Hanka’s arms that the smith and his wife tried to take her place. But though her arms and back were aching, she held him nevertheless. All three gazed on him, awaiting his next words.
“The barley must be sown first.—To the rescue, boys! Rally round me!” he shrieked all at once in an awful voice, and fell stiffly back, while his eyes closed, and something gurgled in his throat.
“O Lord! he is dying—dying!” Hanka screamed, and shook him with all her might, unconscious of what she did.
Magda put a consecrated taper in his hand, and lit it.
“Michael! The priest!—At once!”
But ere her husband could go out, Boryna opened his eyes; and the taper fell from his hand and broke.
“It has passed. … Look, he seeks something,” Michael whispered, bending over him. But the old man, now quite himself again, pushed him aside unhesitatingly, and called:
“Hanka! Send these folk away!”
Magda, in tears, fell down before him; but he seemed not to know her.
“None of that. … No use. … Send them out,” he repeated obstinately.
“Do pray go—into the passage at least; do not vex him,” she said imploringly.
“Magda, you go: I will not budge hence,” the blacksmith hissed, guessing that Boryna had something to tell Hanka.
But the old man heard and, raising himself up in bed, gave him so terrible a glance as he pointed to the door, that Michael shrank back with a curse and rejoined Magda, who was weeping outside. But, quickly recovering his self-possession, he slipped round as close as he could to the window that was just by the head of Boryna’s bed, and did all he could to make out what was said within.
After the smith had gone, “Sit down here, by my side,” Boryna commanded Hanka. Greatly moved, she obeyed him.
“You will find some money in the larder: hide it, lest it be snatched from you.”
“Where is it?” she asked, trembling with excitement.
“In amongst the corn.”
He spoke distinctly, stopping at every word. Mastering her fear, she looked into his eyes, which glistened strangely.
“Defend Antek … rather sell half the property. … He must not be forsaken. …”
He said no more, but fell back on to the pillow, trying to stammer a word or two and lift himself up, but uselessly; and now his eyes were quenched and dim.
Hanka, terrified, cried out; and both the others rushed in, ministering to the sick man, and gave him some water to drink. But he did not come to himself, and lay, as he had lain, stiff and motionless, with staring eyes that seemed to note nothing around him.
They sat long with him, both women silent, but in tears. Dusk fell, the room grew dark, and they went out. Only so much remained of day as empurpled the millpond from the last glow in the West.
Turning round upon Hanka, the smith asked her: “What has he told you?”
“What ye both have heard.”
“But what said he when alone with you?”
“Nothing else.”
“Do not enrage me, Hanka, or you’ll rue it!”
“What do I care for threats of yours?”
“The old man put something in your hand,” the smith added, throwing out a feeler.
“Ye may go seek it in the dunghill, then.”
He rushed at her and might have done her some injury, but that Yagustynka, who came up just then, said after her sour fashion:
“Oho! you both get on so lovingly that the whole village is talking about you two!”
With an imprecation, he went his way.
The night had come—starless, with a wind that rustled soft and sad through the trees, presaging a change of weather.
There was light and noise in Hanka’s room, supper preparing at the crackling fire, elderly women holding forth with Yagustynka upon various matters, and Yuzka sitting outside with Nastka and with Yasyek Topsy-turvy; while Pete was drawing out of his violin such wailing notes as made their hearts feel sorrowful. Hanka alone was unable to stay seated, and, continually pondering over Boryna’s words, looked again and again round into the room where he lay.
“Pete, have done!” she cried. “Why, it will presently be Holy Monday, and still you fiddle and fiddle!—’Tis a sin!”
She scolded the man, simply because she was so upset, and fell nigh weeping. He gave over, and they all went into the big room.
Several times that evening she heard the dogs barking loud within the enclosure, and set them on:
“At him, Lapa!—At him, Burek!—At him!”
But each time the dogs ceased suddenly, and came back, wagging their tails with satisfaction.
This took place so often that a fearful suspicion arose in her mind.
“Pete, take heed to lock and bolt everything well. Someone is prowling nigh, and no stranger either; for the dogs know him!”
At last all went to bed and to sleep—all but Hanka. She made sure that all the doors were locked; then she stood lending an attentive ear for a long time.
“Among the corn!—In one of the barrels, I dare say. … Ah, what if someone has forestalled me?”
The very thought made her heart throb, and brought a cold sweat to her brow. That night she hardly slept at all.