“Pray take it: nothing in the world is given for nothing.”
“In the world, that may be the fashion,” she retorted, with wounded pride. “Am I a Jewess or a trader, to take money for a little fire and water?”
“Well, God reward your hospitality! Tell your husband that Yacek from Vola has been here: he will remember me. I shall be here again some day, but am now in haste, for night is near. God be with you!”
“And with you also!”
She would have kissed his hand, but he snatched it away, and hurried out of the cabin.
The darkness was coming down slowly over the land. The great gale had gone down, but from the hillocks of drifted snow that lay across the road, there blew a dry powdery dust, like flour shaken out of a cloth. Above, all was now tranquil: huts and gardens came clear and distinct out of the livid blur of the uprising dusk.
The village, lethargic during the blizzard, had started up; the ways were full of passersby, the gardens of voices; here and there they were clearing away snow from before the huts, or cutting holes in the ice and carrying water from the pond; gates were opening and a few sledges ploughing their way through the snow. Crows—an infallible sign that the weather was about to change—appeared, hopping about the huts.
Mr. Yacek gazed round him with interest, asking at times about the people they met or the huts they passed by, and walked so fast that Vitek could scarcely keep pace with him. Lapa ran on in front, barking gaily.
In front of the church, the snow was piled up in such great masses that it went over the fence completely, and was as high as the boughs of the trees. They were accordingly compelled to go round the priest’s dwelling-house, outside of which a troop of urchins were running to and fro, shouting and snowballing each other. Lapa barked at them; one boy caught it by the neck and threw it into a feathery steamy drift. Vitek rushed to the rescue, but they pelted him so hard, he could scarcely get away; and, having retaliated as best he could, he ran to rejoin Mr. Yacek, who had not waited for him.
With difficulty they plodded through as far as the burying-ground. Here, too, the snow was often as high as a man, and the black arms of the crosses were only just above the surface of the white mounds that covered the graves. The place was somewhat exposed and there was some wind here. Now and then, wafting the powdery snow hither and thither, it hid all things from sight, except the naked trees waving their shattered branches and looming with dark trunks through the cloudy veil. All the fields around were one plain of pure white; and just beyond the churchyard, hard upon a score of people could be seen going along the deeply covered road, bending forward under very heavy burdens that they bore. When the wreaths that hid them now and then were swept away, and the wind fell, women’s red petticoats were seen clear and distinct, straggling units on the plain.
“Who are these? Are they returning from some fair?”
“No, they are komorniki,28 and have been to the forest to get firewood.”
“What, are they carrying it on their backs?”
“Surely. As they have no horses, their shoulders must bear the load.”
“Many such in the village?”
“Not a few. Only the gospodarze have land; the others live in lodgings, and go out to work, or take service on farms.”
“Do they often go out to fetch firing?”
“The manor allows them to come twice a week with billhooks and take as much dry wood as they can break off and carry in their bundles. The gospodarze alone have the right to go to the forest with a cart, and use an ax on the trees. … We have often and often, Kuba and I, gone there together, and come back with a splendid tree in the cart! Kuba knew well how to fell a hornbeam, and conceal it so amongst the firewood faggots that even the keeper never caught him,” he said, not without pride.
“Was he long in pain? Tell me all.”
This Vitek did, nothing loath, Mr. Yacek putting some questions to him from time to time, now stopping short, gesticulating and exclaiming aloud. The lad thought his manner strange, could not make out what he meant, and was beginning to feel terror besides: it was getting so dark; the whole churchyard looked as though clad in a huge shroud, and murmuring with eerie voices. So he ran on in front and, with eyes starting from their sockets, looked about for the cross that marked Kuba’s grave. At last he found it, close to the fence, and near the scattered tombs of those slain in the insurrection—“the War”—where he had prayed on All Souls’ Day.
“Here it is, and the name, written on the cross: James Soha.”—He spelt it out, following every one of the great white letters with his finger. “Yes, Roch wrote that, and Ambrose made the cross.”
Mr. Yacek gave him a couple of zloty, and bade him run home. So he did, and scampered away, but stopped once to whistle for Lapa, and glance back to see what the stranger was about.
“Lord! The brother to the Squire, kneeling at Kuba’s grave!” he ejaculated, stupefied. But night was coming on fast, and the trees, bending down over him, shook their heads in a weird way; so he went back to the village at a run, and by a shortcut; only stopping near the church to take breath and look at the money he had safe in his closed fist. The dog caught up with him, and they went back at leisure to the cabin.
Close to the pond he met Antek, returning from his work. The dog rushed to fawn on him, whined with
