The old man put no more questions, but remained suspicious.
Yagna, tired of the moody silence, and abashed by his fixed prying stare, related to him every detail of Mr. Yacek’s visit.
He was greatly amazed; and, at a loss to conceive what it meant, he took no small pains to find out, pondering every word. He finally decided that the Squire had sent Mr. Yacek to make sure what the Lipka folk thought about the matter of the clearing.
“But he never so much as asked one word about the forest!”
“When such a one begins, he leads you on and on, as with a rope, and you know neither when nor how, but you tell him all. Well do I know that brood of manor-folk!”
“He asked only about Kuba and the figures stuck upon the wall.”
“ ‘To find the road, he walks along a side-path.’ Yes, in all this there is some trick or other of the manor-folk. What? the brother of the Squire troubling about Kuba? ’Tis true, this Yacek is, they say, not quite sound of mind—always wandering about the villages, playing his violin where holy figures stand, and talking senseless talk.—Did he say he would come again?”
“He did, and asked about you.”
“Well, well, this is beyond me.”
“And had you a talk with the Squire?” she asked him pleasantly, wishing to turn his mind away from what had just occurred.
He winced, as though stung in some most tender part.
“No. I was at Simon’s.” And he said no more.
So they sat together in gloomy silence until suppertime, when Roch came in. He sat down by the fire, according to custom, but would not eat. When they had done, he said, in a low tone:
“I have not come here for myself. They tell me, the Squire is deeply offended with the Lipka folk and will not employ one peasant of the village to hew down his trees. I have come to ask if this is the truth.”
“In God’s name, my man, how should I know? It is news to me!”
“But a council was held at the miller’s today; the news has come thence.”
“The Voyt, the miller, and the smith were there: not I.”
“How so? They tell me that the Squire was here today to see you, and you went out with him.”
“I have not seen him, and I speak the truth: believe me or not, as you choose.”
But how this truth had stung him, and the fact that he had been slighted had stung him, he did not say.
The very thought exasperated him; he held his tongue nevertheless, ruminating over the bitter grievance, and controlling himself with a great effort, lest Roch should guess at what he felt.
How now? He had been waiting, he! and they had held their council, and left him out of it! That he would not pass over.—A nobody in their eyes, he would show he was somebody in the village. … It was the miller’s doing: he had made a fortune by wronging the people, and was now above everyone. That cheat! of whom he knew enough to send the fellow to prison! … And the Voyt, forsooth! one fit rather to feed cattle than command his betters—a vile drunkard, whose office, if they only elected him, Ambrose might take, and fill it as well as he! … The blacksmith too, his pestilential son-in-law! Let the brute but come again to Boryna’s cabin! … And then the Squire—that wolf, always prowling and sniffing round to snatch what he could from the people! A noble, dwelling on the peasants’ lands, selling the peasants’ forests, living but by the peasants’ sufferance; and he durst come there to plot against them! Could not the wretch understand that a flail would strike as hard on a noble’s back as on anyone else’s?—However, he let none of these thoughts escape him in words. They pained him exceedingly, they tortured him; but that was his business and no one else’s. And, remembering presently that such silent brooding in the presence of a guest was unseemly, he rose and said:
“Ye bring strange news; but if the Squire be resolved and will not change his mind, I see no means of forcing him.”
“True; yet if some honourable man were to set before him the harm the people would suffer thereby, he might decide otherwise.”
“I,” Boryna exclaimed tartly, “will by no means intercede!”
“But consider: there are a score of komorniki here, all eager for work to do. Ye know them, and know how severe this winter is. Some have their stock of potatoes frozen, and are out of work. Ere spring comes, the misery among them will be frightful. Even now, many families have only once a day warm food to eat. They all reckoned that, when the Squire had his trees in Vilche Doly felled, there would be work enough for everyone. And now it is said that he has vowed he would not take one man from Lipka, being angered because they brought a complaint against him to the commissioner.”
“That I signed myself; and I will stand by it. He shall not fell one sapling without our consent.”
“If so, then he will perchance not fell any trees.”
“None, at least, on our land.”
“But,” Roch faltered, “what will become of those poor men?”
“I cannot help their fate, nor give up our rights that they may work for him. I may stand up to defend others from wrong; but when I am wronged, who will be on my side? My dog, perhaps?”
“Then I see ye are not a friend of the manor.”
“A friend of myself—and of justice. Of naught besides. And I have other matters to think upon. If Voytek or Bartek has no food to eat—that is the priest’s affair, not mine! With the best will, I cannot alone provide for all.”
“But help to provide … and help not a little,” Roch replied, sadly.
“Try carrying water in a sieve: how much will ye bring in? ’Tis even so with poverty.—And to
