Heated with liquor, they waxed merrier and yet merrier, the young people capering and footing it lustily, while their elders huddled together where they could, hustled and driven back by the dancers, who whirled round in a constantly expanding circle.
The band played enthusiastically now, and the dances went on with a lively swing, though the partners were so many, there was scarce room to turn; they pushed and shoved one another, laughing and shouting gaily, making the floor groan, and the bar with the glasses and bottles jingle to their tread.
In short, it was a splendid festival, in which everyone was taking his fair share.
Winter was now at its height. Those weary arms that had so long delved the ground, were resting now; those forms once bowed, bowed down no longer: all were equal in freedom and repose, and the blithe thought that each enjoyed his own separate and distinct individuality. Even so in the forest, the trees that in summertime present only a confused mass of greenery stand out clearly when the winter snow has fallen and veiled the earth, and each particular tree—be it oak or hornbeam or aspen—is at once recognized.
Just so was it here and now with the village folk.
Antek and Matthew alone remained in their places, sitting side by side, like good friends, and talking in low voices of many a thing. At times one or another of the men would join them, and say a few words. Staho Ploshka came; so did Balcerek, the Voyt’s brother, and all those foremost young men in the place who had been bridesmen at Yagna’s wedding. They felt at first embarrassed, uncertain whether Antek would not receive them with some sarcastic speech. But he shook hands with all, with friendly looks beaming in his eyes; and they presently came round him, listened to all he said, and were again as friendly as they had been of old, when he was foremost among them all. Yet, remembering that only the day before these very men would have slunk from his way if they had seen him at a distance, he could not repress a bitter smile at times.
“We never see you now! The tavern knows you no more,” said Ploshka.
“At work from dawn till night, when can I find time?”
Then they went on to discuss other village topics—their fathers, the lasses, the hard winter weather. Antek spoke little, glancing at the door whenever it opened, in the hope of seeing Yagna coming in. But when Balcerek told them of the meeting held at Klemba’s concerning the forest, he roused himself and inquired what they had decided.
“Ah, what indeed? They whined and complained and lamented … and decided at last that they ought not to allow it to be felled!”
“Men of straw!” cried Ploshka. “What can be expected of them? They meet, drink vodka, groan, sigh … and the outcome of their meeting is as last year’s snow. The Squire may safely cut down every tree in the forest.”
“That,” Matthew put in, curtly, “cannot be allowed.”
“Who is to prevent him?” they all asked.
“Who? Why, you!”
“But,” said Ploshka, “we are not free to act. Once I spoke—father silenced me. The business was not mine, but theirs, the husbandmen’s. I was to let it alone, and blow my own nose. And really, they have the right to speak so. All is in their hands: we have no more say in the matter than the farm-servants.”
“And that’s unjust.”
“The younger generation ought to have a share in the land and the management.”
“And our elders to retire on an allowance.”
“I,” Ploshka exclaimed, “have served in the army, my prime is passing, and yet my father refuses me what is my own!”
“It is time we all had what’s ours.”
“All here are wronged.”
“Antek most of all.”
“Let us set matters to rights in Lipka!” said one, in a hoarse voice. This was Simon, Yagna’s brother, who had but just come, and was standing behind the others. They eyed him with astonishment, as he pushed forward and spoke hotly of the wrongs he had to suffer. But as he met the young fellows’ eyes, he blushed very red, unaccustomed as he was to speak in the presence of many, and also standing as yet somewhat in awe of his mother.
“ ’Tis Nastka has taught him thus much sense,” they laughed. Thereupon Simon said no more, but withdrew to a shady corner; and Gregory Rakoski, the Voyt’s brother, though no great speaker and somewhat given to stammering, began to hold forth.
“Our fathers keep the land to themselves, and their children out of it. This is wrong and iniquitous. But the worst is that they manage things foolishly. If they had come to an agreement with the Squire, the question of the forest would have been settled long ago.”
“How’s that? For every fifteen acres of forest, he offered only two of his land, and we had a right to four.”
“A right? That is a question to be decided by the officials.”
“Who take the Squire’s part.”
“Not so. The commissioner himself advised us not to accept two acres: so the Squire will have to offer more,” Balcerek observed.
“Hush now,” said Matthew; “here comes the smith, and an old man along with him.”
They turned and saw in the doorway the smith, who was arm in arm with an old man. Both had been drinking, and they pushed forward, straight on to the bar, where they, however, remained but a short time, the Jew ushering them into the private room.
“They have been feasting at the Voyt’s.”
“What, was the christening today?” Antek inquired.
“Oh, yes,” Ploshka explained; “all our elders are there. The Soltys was godfather, and the godmother, Balcerek’s wife: Boryna, it seems, was offended and refused.”
“But who,” Balcerek cried, “is the old man here?”
Gregory enlightened him: “He is Mr. Yacek, brother to the Squire of Vola!”
They all stood up to look at him. Mr. Yacek was pressing forward slowly, evidently seeking someone. At last his eyes met Bartek of the sawmill, and he went with
