“But … ye vaunted of something in public,” Antek said, lowering his voice; “surely it was not true?”
“Nay, I spoke out of spite and at random. Nay, how could that be true?”—But, as he made this denial, he held the bottle to the light, looking through, lest Antek should read the truth in his eyes.
They drank once, then once more; then it was Antek’s turn to stand treat, and they emptied their glasses anew. And so they sat, quite as brothers, and on such friendly terms that all in the tavern were amazed. Matthew, who had taken more than a drop too much, yelled to the musicians to play faster, stamped and roared with laughter, and then spoke in Antek’s ear.
“So much is true: I did long for her to be mine; but she scratched me so, I was like one dragged face down through the brambles. Yes, she preferred you, I know it well; and even had she not, she would never have cared for me. ’Tis hard to lead an ox against its will. And I was sorely, how sorely! stung with jealousy. The girl is wonderfully fair—none fairer in the world. But how she ever could marry that old man—and to your hurt—I cannot think!”
“To my hurt? Aye, and for my perdition too!” Antek began, but stopped short. Here his memory kindled within him such a flame that he muttered an inaudible oath, and said no more.
“Peace, lest talebearers hear you!”
“What have I said?”
“Nothing that I could hear; but others might.”
“It is unbearable—my heart is torn asunder!”
“I tell you: while ye can, get the better of it!” he said, cunningly striving to win his confidence little by little.
“Can I do so? Since love, far worse than sickness, burns in the bones, festers in the heart, and fills me with such craving, I can neither eat nor work nor sleep, and would like to dash my brains out to rid me of my life!”
“Oh, I know all about that. Lord, how I once ran after Yagna!—But when love comes, there is one thing to be done: marry, and it will at once pass away and vanish. If one cannot have the wife, why, then, the sweetheart: and immediately desire will be quenched, and love will die. I tell you the truth, and am not without experience,” he added, with pride.
“And what,” Antek asked, sadly, “what if it shall not pass even then?”
“That,” he returned scornfully, “is the lot of none but those that sigh in groves, and lurk round corners, and tremble to hear a petticoat rustle!”
“What you have said is true,” Antek replied, in deep thought.
“Come, man, drink to me: my throat is dry even to the bottom thereof.—The foul fiend take all women! Such a one, so weak you could fell her with a breath, will lead the strongest man as a calf led with a rope, rob him of strength and reason, and make him a laughingstock to all! She-devils they are, every one of them, and the spawn of Satan, I tell you!—Now, drink to me!”
“Here’s to you, brother!”
“God bless you!—I say, a fig for all that devil’s spawn! … But ye know what they are, well enough.”
They went on drinking and talking. Antek was somewhat flustered; and never having had one to whom he could tell his sorrow, he now felt a burning desire to make a clean breast of it. And though he refrained and controlled himself, he dropped a significant word or two here and there; these, though he gave no sign, Matthew noted well.
And now the fun in the tavern was growing to its height. The band worked away with might and main. One dance followed another; drink was quaffed at every table; all raised their voices, often in dispute, so that the public room resounded with the hubbub; and the feet of the dancers drummed on the floor like the beating of flails.
Klemba and his party now adjourned to the private room, and there too the noise was no trifle; but Soha continued dancing furiously with his Margaret, and at times went out with her into the open air, with their arms round each other’s waists.
Bartek of the sawmill and his people, who still stood where they had been before, were now at their second bottle, with Voytek Kobus shouting insults into the ears of the Rzepki Folk.
“Nobles in rags and tags, with naught but bundles and bags!”
“With but a couple of kine, the common property of the whole village!” another screamed.
“Long lousy locks warrant wellborn wights!”
“See them, the Jews’ hirelings!”
“Let them be leashed with the manor hounds! Both scent a good thing from afar!”
“What they scented, they now have got!”
“They come to snatch away the work that is our due!”
“The good-for-nothing vagabonds! They come because the Jews would hire them no more.”
To these shouts some added gestures, shaking their fists and pressing forward in full cry; and they were soon surrounded by a ring of angry peasants in liquor. But they said not a word, and sat close together, with their sticks clenched in their hands, drinking only beer, munching the sausages they had brought with them, and eyeing the peasants with a bold undaunted stare.
A fight would perhaps have taken place, but that Klemba how came upon the scene, soothing, beseeching, explaining matters; and the older men, and Ambrose with them, spoke in the same sense. At last Kobus ceased to taunt them, and the others were taken away to the bar for a drink. The band played a tune, and Ambrose set to telling them the most incredible tales—about the wars, and Napoleon, and Kosciuszko—and funny things that made them almost split their sides with laughter.
And presently Klemba’s party poured out of the private room, coming in a body to join in the dance; which increased the uproar to such an extent that no voice could any more be distinguished
