“Good. I will tell him today, and stay on here one of these evenings to see it ground.”
Hanka left him, and he remained, smoking cigarettes in silence. They were just then talking of the Squire of Vola, and of his brother.
“His name is Yacek: I knew him well!” Bartek exclaimed, coming into the room.
“Then of course you know he has returned from foreign parts.”
“No, indeed. I thought he had died long ago.”
“He is here; arrived a fortnight back.”
“Yes, he has come, but—so folk say—not quite in his right mind. He refuses to live at the Manor, and has gone to dwell in the pine-forest, where he does everything for himself—cooking, sewing, and all. Everyone wonders at him. In the evening he plays on his violin: they often and often meet him on the roads near certain graves, where he sits and plays tunes.”
“I was told he goes from hamlet to hamlet, asking people for news of one Kuba.”
“Kuba?—Many a dog is named Tray!”
“He gives no surname, but seeks the man Kuba, who carried him off a battlefield, it seems, and saved his life once.”
“There was a Kuba at our farm who went out with the nobles in the last insurrection; but he’s dead,” Antek observed, rising to his feet; for Matthew was already shouting outside:
“Come out, you: are ye to make dinner last till teatime?”
Antek, much ruffled, rushed out, and cried:
“Do not spend breath in vain, we all can hear you!”
“He is too full of meat, and eases his belly with shouting!” was Bartek’s remark; and someone added:
“The noise he makes is but to curry favour with the miller.”
Matthew went on grumbling: “They must dine and enjoy long chats at their ease—must they not?—these grand fellows, these big farmers, who haven’t one whole pair of breeches!”
“Take that, Antek; that’s for you!”
“Hold your peace, and let not your tongue clack so, or I’ll cut it out for you!” Antek had raised his voice, ready now for anything. “And never a word more about farmers!”
Matthew darted a murderous look at him, but replied nothing. For the whole day, he mutely watched Antek’s work with the most rigid scrutiny, but without finding anything against him. He worked so admirably well that the miller himself, who came round several times a day to look over the work done, could not find any fault with it, and at the first weekly payment raised his wages to three zloty.
At this Matthew, in a towering passion, had words with the miller, who answered: “I am satisfied both with him and with you, and with every man who works well.”
“You have raised his wages merely to spite me!”
“I have done so as in justice bound, and want all men to know I am just. Why, he is worth as much as Bartek, if not more.”
“Then,” Matthew threatened, “I throw the whole damned business up. You may do the work yourself!”
“Do so, if you choose. If my black bread is not to your taste, go seek rolls elsewhere. Young Boryna will take your place, and that at four zloty daily,” the miller said, with a laugh.
Matthew cooled down immediately, seeing that bullying was out of the question. He gave up his persecutions, put his dislike for Antek deep into his pocket (though there it burned like a live coal), and also became less exacting, less of a taskmaster for the men. This they were not slow to perceive, and Bartek presently remarked to the others:
“He’s like the dog that snapped at a man’s boot, got kicked on the muzzle, and fawned on him. Aye, he thought he was the favourite, and knows now he will have to go as soon as a better man is found.”
Both to the rise in wages, and to Matthew’s knuckling down, Antek was indifferent; he cared for all that as much as for the year gone by. It was not for the money’s sake, but to please Hanka, and for his own satisfaction, that he was working. Had he made up his mind to lie on his back all day long, he would have done so, no matter what came of it.
Thus day after day, week after week slipped by, till Yuletide, in hard incessant labour. Little by little, his mind grew calmer—frozen up, as it were: so far was he from resembling the man he had been. Folk marvelled at this, and judged him diversely. But the change in him was only external and for the eyes of men: within he remained as he was before. He worked now, and toiled hard, gave his wife every groschen he earned, stayed at home of evenings, was kinder than ever, silent, peaceful; played with his children, helped his wife at home, nor ever said a cross word to anyone. But all this did not avail to hoodwink Hanka. His transformation pleased her, indeed, and she fervently thanked God for it, watching over him, attentive to the looks in his eyes to find out what he desired—the most attached and thoughtful of servants. But she would often note a mournful gleam in his eye, and overhear a low sigh that escaped him. Then her arms dropped to her sides, and her heart died within her as she sought in her mind, thinking whence the evil that was to come would proceed. Well did she know that something terrible was fermenting within him—something that he repressed only by putting forth his whole strength—something that crouched secretly, sucking, sucking the lifeblood of his soul!
But whatever he felt, good or evil, he said nothing. After his work he returned straight home, choosing the longer way by the other side of the pond, that he might not pass near his father’s home, not meet with … someone.
Someone!
Therefore, too, he stayed at home on Sundays, although Hanka besought him to come to church with her. He feared a meeting with Yagna; he felt that he should not stand it, that he never could resist.
Besides, he had heard from Bartek,
