“The wretches! But they shall get nothing out of me, nothing!” he would say bitterly, all the more stubborn in his hate because he kept more aloof from everyone.
“I need no one; I am on such terms with myself that I can scarcely bear my own companionship,” he would reply to Klemba, when the latter reproached him for never coming to see them.
This was true, most true; he could hardly bear to live on thus, continually holding himself down with all his might, breaking his soul in as with an iron curb, and keeping it under the strictest control. But he felt himself giving way with sheer weariness of the struggle; ever more and more frequently there came over him the longing to throw everything up and yield to his fate—happy or miserable, it mattered little to him. He was disgusted with life, and devoured with sadness—infinite sadness, which, like a bird of prey, had sunk its talons deep into his mangled heart.
To bear the yoke thus was irksome beyond words: he choked and strained in bonds, as a horse tethered in a paddock, or as a chained-up dog might do.
He thought of himself as a fruit-tree, broken by the gales, condemned to die, withering slowly in the midst of a blossoming orchard full of lusty life.
And Lipka—Lipka went on as usual. There were christenings, as at the Vahniks’; betrothals, as at the Klembas’ (though now they had no music, they took as much enjoyment as was allowed in Advent); then in some families there was a death, as at that other Bartek’s, whom his son-in-law had beaten so fearfully that he pined away and lay moaning until at last refreshed in Abraham’s bosom. And Yagustynka had once again brought another action against her children for breach of contract. Many another thing was going on besides, something new in nearly every hut, and folk had plenty of matter for gossip, and for laughter and for sorrow. And throughout the long winter evenings, the women gathered together and spun in many a cabin. And, Lord! how they all did laugh and chatter and wrangle, till the noise of their jollity was heard far out on the road! Everywhere there was no end of squabbling, of striking up friendships, of wooings, of trysts outside the homesteads; of turmoils and fightings and sweet converse: as in an anthill or in a beehive, so the folk swarmed and buzzed within their cabins.
Yes, everyone lived as he pleased, as seemed best to him and was fitter both to himself and his neighbours, and according to the commandments of God.
And he, Antek, stood alone, outside of them all, cut off from humanity; like a strange bird, hungry, yet afraid, that will perhaps flap its wings outside the lighted windows, and long to draw nearer to the corn-filled stacks—and yet does not: only wheels around, listens, feeds on its hunger, gulps down its thirst, and never will draw nigh!
Unless—unless God should deign to work in him a change that might last forever, and make him a new creature!
Alas! of such a change he dreaded as yet even to think.
One morning, only a few days before Christmas, he met the blacksmith; who, though Antek would have passed him by, blocked the way and, stretching out his hand, said to him kindly and in a slightly sad tone:
“And I expected you’d come to me as to a brother. I could have talked with you and aided you, little as we have at home.”
“Why did you not come first?”
“What? intrude and be driven away like Yuzka?”
“You were right. ‘He that suffereth naught will for nothing take thought.’ ”
“ ‘Suffereth naught!’ Is not my grievance the very same as yours?”
“How dare you tell me such a barefaced lie? Am I a witling in your eyes?”
“As I love the Lord God, I have spoken naught but the truth.”
“ ‘The fox, it is a cunning beast:
’Twill run and sniff and turn and twist,
And with its tail
It sweeps its trail,
That none may nose the scent of it,’ ”
said Antek, with contempt.
“Your grievance is, I know, that I went to the wedding. It is true that I did not refuse. But how could I? The priest himself urged and pressed me not to offend God, making division between the children and their father.”
“Ah, ye went at the priest’s bidding, did ye? Tell that to him that will believe you, not to me.—Oh, but ye wring out of the old man all ye can wring, as the price of your friendship: he does not send you away empty-handed!”
“ ‘Who takes not what is offered him’s an ass,’ ” the blacksmith quoted. “But I’ll not argue that with you. All Lipka will tell you—why, you may ask Yagustynka, who is always with the old man—that I press him to make it up with you. It will come about … he will calm down … and we shall arrange matters.”
“Try to reconcile dogs, not him and me: do you hear? I never thought of quarrelling with you; but now, let me alone, you and your reconciliations!—Look at him! A fine friend indeed! Never would you reconcile us, unless to get the last coat off my back!—Once for all, I tell you: let me alone, and do not come in my way; for if I ever fall into a passion, I’ll tear your red hair off your scalp, and play the devil with your ribs: aye, and your good friends, the gendarmes, will not prevent me. Just remember that.”
He turned on his heel and went off, not even looking round at the smith,
