“Be seated,” she replied, in some confusion. “Vitek, put more logs on the fire.”
The stranger sat down on the hearth, warmed himself, and lit a pipe.
“Is this the dwelling of Boryna—Matthias Boryna?” he asked, consulting a paper.
“It is,” she answered, fearing she might have to do with someone of the police.
“Is your father at home?”
“My husband is gone to the village.”
“Allow me to wait here a little, warming myself by the fire: I am quite frozen.”
“You are welcome: neither bench nor fire will lose thereby.”
He took off his sheepskin coat, but had evidently been chilled to the marrow, for he shivered all over, rubbed his hands, and drew nearer and nearer still to the fire.
“This year,” he remarked, “we have a bitterly hard winter.”
“Of a truth, it is not mild.—May I heat a little milk for you?”
“No, thanks; but I should like some tea.”
“We had some not long since, in autumn, when my goodman had pains inside, and I got some from town for him; but it is all run out, and I cannot say where I could obtain any here.”
“Why,” Vitek put in, “his Reverence is drinking tea all day long.”
“Would you run to him and borrow some?”
“No need. I have some by me—if you would give me some water. …”
“I shall boil some at once.”
She placed a pot on the fire, and returned to her spinning, but spun no more; while she seemed to be twirling the spindle, she was scanning him with great curiosity.—Who could he be? what did he want? Was he a man of the police, making out some list? the paper he was always consulting seemed to point to that.—His apparel, too, was not of her class: grey and green, like the hunting-dress of a manor-house footman. … But again, he was wearing a peasant’s sheepskin and cap!—He might possibly be an eccentric fellow, or perhaps a world-ranger.
Thus she pondered, exchanging glances with Vitek, who, apparently gazing into the fire, scrutinized the stranger, and was much surprised to hear him try and make friends with Lapa.
“Pray beware: that dog bites!” he could not help exclaiming.
“Fear naught!” he said, and, with a singular smile, he patted the dog’s head, come to rest on his knees.
Presently Yuzka came in and, soon after, Vavrek’s wife, and several other neighbours; for already the news had been spread abroad that a stranger had come to Boryna’s hut.
But he continued warming himself, paying no attention to the people or their whispers and remarks. When the water in the pot boiled, he took some tea out of a piece of paper, poured the tea in, took a white mug down from the shelf, and drank the tea thus made, nibbling at a lump of sugar the while, and walking about the room, examining the pieces of furniture, or standing in the midst and eyeing the people with such sharp glances that they felt confused.
“Who made these?” he asked, pointing to the wafer “globes” that dangled from the ceiling.
“I did!” Yuzka sang out, turning very red.
He resumed his walk, Lapa following him step by step.
“And who did these paintings?” he inquired, stopping before a few of the cutout figures that were on the picture-frames and the walls.
“They are not painted, but cut out of paper.”
“You don’t say so!” he exclaimed.
“I do, for I cut them out myself.”
“And did you invent them?”
“Of course, but every child here can do as much.”
He said nothing further, poured out some more tea, sat down by the fire again, and a pretty long silence ensued. The folk slunk away; night was coming on, and the storm had abated. At times an angry gust would still rush by, but at rarer intervals and with less fury, like a bird that a long flight has worn out.
At length, Yagna put her distaff aside, and began to prepare supper.
“Was one James Soha ever in your service?”
“Is it Kuba you mean?—Aye, he was, but he died last autumn, poor man!”
“Your parish priest has told me so.—Lord God! I have been seeking him for ever so long in all the villages around, and find him dead!”
“Have you sought for our Kuba?” cried Vitek, greatly touched. “Then ye are surely brother to the Squire of Vola.”
“How do you know that?”
“People have often told me his brother was back from a far-off land, and seeking a certain Kuba in all the countryside: but no one could tell who that Kuba was.”
“Soha was his other name; I learned only today that he was dead, and had been in your service.”
“Yes,” Vitek sobbed; “he was shot, and died—died of loss of blood!”
“Was he long with you?”
“Ever since I can remember.”
“An honest fellow, I suppose?” he asked hesitatingly.
“Oh, the whole village will tell you how honest he was: all wept at his funeral, all, even his Reverence, who would take no money for the burying.—He taught me my prayers, and how to use a gun, and was like a father to me. … Sometimes, too, he would give me a five-kopek bit.—Religious he was, and a quiet man, a hard worker, and one that his Reverence has praised many a time.”
“Is he buried in your churchyard?”
“Where else should he be?” Vitek returned. “I know the place; Ambrose set up a cross there, and Roch wrote about him on it. Even were it covered with snow, I could find it for you.”
“Then let’s start at once, to get there ere nightfall.”
The stranger put his sheepskin on, and stood there in a brown study for a time. A man of many years, somewhat stooping, grey-haired and withered. His rugged face had a clayey tint, with a deep scar in one cheek from a bullet, and another, long and fiery, on his brow. His nose was long, his beard tufted and scanty, his eyes dark, deep-sunk and glowing; a pipe was always in his mouth, and he was always refilling it.—Waking up at last from his reverie, he bethought himself of offering money to Yagna, who put
