Meanwhile, every Sunday, the band played loud in the tavern, and there they danced, quarrelled at times, or even came to blows: wherefore the priest chid them sternly from the pulpit, and many troubles came of it. Klemba’s daughter married, and they enjoyed themselves, dancing for three whole days; and—so folk said—Klemba had to borrow fifty roubles of the organist to pay the expenses. The Soltys, too, gave a fairly good banquet at his daughter’s betrothal to Ploshka. Elsewhere there were christenings, but not many now: numbers of women were expecting a child in spring.
It was then that old Prychek died; after but one week’s sickness he died, poor man! at only threescore and four years of age. All the village went to his funeral, for his children had made a grand funeral feast.
In certain huts they came together to spin, and so many girls and farm-lads were there that they enjoyed themselves perfectly, with plenty of laughter and gladness; especially as Matthew, now quite well again, was mostly present, and the life of the party wherever he went.
The village was thus alive and humming with continual gossip and scandal; invectives now and then, and bickering, or only bits of interesting news. And from time to time there would come one of those dziads who had seen and could tell of many a place and thing; and such a one would stay with them for many a week.
Or, again, a letter would sometimes come in from somebody’s boy in the army. Oh, then!—how it was read over, and commented on, and talked about, with lasses’ sighs and mothers’ tears, for whole weeks and more!
What other topics were there? Well, Magda had taken service at the tavern; and Boryna’s dog had bitten Valek’s boy, who had threatened to bring an action; and Andrew’s cow, stuffed too full of potatoes, had choked and swollen so that Ambrose had to slaughter her; and Gregory had borrowed a hundred and fifty roubles of the miller and given a meadow in pledge for the sum; and the smith had bought a couple of horses, a fact that made folk wonder very much; and his Reverence had been ill for a whole week, a priest from Tymov coming to take the services in his place. They talked of thieves besides; old twaddling women babbled of ghosts; much was spoken about the wolves that were said to have killed some of the manor sheep; about household matters besides, and happenings in far-off countries, and I know not what more—beyond telling or remembering. And always there was something new, to make the day and the long evenings full of interest.
So it was, too, at Boryna’s home; only he stayed in the house continually, and neither went out himself nor would let his family go anywhere. Yagna was wretched about it, and Yuzka grumbled angrily all the day long. The cabin life tired her mortally. The only solace she had was that he did not forbid her to go spinning to those huts (but to those only), where no young folk dwelt. Most of the time, therefore, they stayed moping at home.
One evening—it was towards the end of February—several people had come in, and were all sitting together in the other lodgings, where Dominikova was weaving canvas cloth by lamplight, and the rest of the company crowded round the fireplace, because it was very cold. Yagna and Nastka spun till their spindles hummed. Supper was preparing. Yuzka pottered restlessly about the room, and the old man sat by the chimney-corner, pipe in mouth, puffing away, and thinking deeply.
The stillness was irksome to them all. Only the fire crackled, a cricket chirped in a corner, the loom whirred at regular intervals: but no one spoke. It was Nastka who first broke silence.
“Are you going to spin at the Klembas’ tomorrow?”
“Roch has promised to be there, and to read a book about our kings of old.”
“I should like to go, but I cannot tell as yet,” she replied, with a questioning glance at her husband.
“Oh, pray do let me go, Father,” Yuzka begged.
He did not answer. The dog was barking loud outside, and in came Yasyek, nicknamed Topsy-turvy, looking about him apprehensively.
“Shut the door after you, you gaby!” Dominikova shouted at him. “This is not a cow-byre.”
“Do not be so frightened,” Yagna added; “no one will eat you.—Why do you look round so?”
“Because of that stork. … He is somewhere in hiding, belike, ready to peck at me!” he stammered, peering into the corners in alarm.
“No,” Vitek growled in reply, “he will harm you no more: Master has sent Bociek away.”
“And I cannot tell why ye kept the bird at all: he did naught but mischief.”
“Be seated, and give over grumbling,” Nastka said, making room for him by her side.
“Ha!” Vitek exclaimed complainingly, “whom did he ever hurt save fools and strange dogs? He would walk the room, strutting like any Squire. … And he caught mice … and was never in the way. … And now they have sent him from us!”
“Be comforted: you will tame another when spring comes round, since you care so much for storks.”
“Not I! This same one will ever be mine. I have a contrivance to bring him to me, as soon as we shall have warm weather: he cannot choose but come.”
Yasyek was most inquisitive as to Vitek’s contrivance; but the latter told him rudely that what he could not find out by himself he would not be told, and that only a fool could be so greedy of another’s contrivances.
For this he was rebuked by Nastka, who took Yasyek’s part; and indeed he was much in her thoughts. True, he was rather foolish, and the village
