He spent much time exhorting and trying to convince her; but she made no reply. Disappointed, he said no more, but went to bed and lay silent. Hanka went on spinning and pondering his words.
From time to time she rose to see whether Antek was coming. Nothing was to be heard.
She worked, but did not get on well. The thread would break, or the spindle slip from her hand, because she was turning Boryna’s words over in her mind.
Peradventure it might prove true: the hour might strike when he would call her back again!
And by slow, slow degrees there grew up in her mind the desire—feeble at first, at last invincible—for peace and reconciliation with Boryna.
“We three are destitute: there will be a fourth presently … and what shall I do then?”
She no longer took Antek into account, but considered herself and children, and felt she must decide for them all—must and would.
If she could but once more get back that position of housewife at Boryna’s and feel ground again, she thought, she would take up her duties so thoroughly and earnestly that nothing should ever prevent their perfect fulfilment, and hope grew within her heart, and waxed so great, and filled her with such strength and energy and courage, that her eyes flashed at the thought, and she felt all on fire.
For a long space she enjoyed this waking dream of hers—perhaps till midnight—and made up her mind to go to Boryna the next day, and take the children along with her, though Antek might forbid, and even beat her. She would not obey him, but take the opportunity offered and go: she was now aware of unconquerable power in herself, and felt ready to fight the whole world, if she must.
Once more she looked out of doors. The wind had quite gone down; in the black night, the snow appeared dark grey. Huge clouds passed in the sky, like rolling waters; and out of the far-off woods, and from the invisible shadows, there came a feeble murmur.
Having put the light out and said her prayers, she began to undress.
Suddenly a distant stifled noise rose out of the silence around her, quivering—grew stronger and stronger, and at the same time a ruddy glow shone athwart the panes.
She ran out in terror.
Somewhere in the midst of the village, a conflagration had broken out: a column of flame rose up, with smoke and a swarm of sparks.
The alarm-bell sounded presently, and the cries rang louder.
“Up! Up! There’s a fire!” she screamed to Staho in the other lodgings, dressed in a hurry, and rushed forth into the road, where she was met by Antek, running from the village.
“Where’s the fire?”
“Can’t tell.—Go in!”
“It may be at Father’s … ’tis somewhere very nigh!” she stammered, mortally afraid.
“Blood of a dog! get in!” he bellowed, thrusting her into the hut by main force.
He was covered with blood, bareheaded; his sheepskin was rent in two, his face blackened and grimy, and his eyes glowed like a madman’s.
X
On that same day, when work was over and the evening well on towards night, they began to drop in at Klemba’s for the grand spinning-party.
Dame Klemba had invited elderly women, for the most part, kinswomen or good friends of hers, and they had all come in proper time, as careful not to be late as not to disregard the invitation.
First of all, according to her custom, came Vachnikova, plentifully supplied with wool, and carrying several spindles under her arm. Then Golab, Matthew’s mother, with a vinegar-face, always bound up, who always complained of everything; after her, Valentova the talkative—a huffy woman who cackled like a hen; and Sikora’s wife, a terrible gossip, thin as a broomstick, and much interested in all her neighbours’ quarrels. And then rolled in Ploshka’s wife, tubby, red-faced, plethoric, always overdressed, high and mighty to everybody, and gifted with rare powers of speech, which made her generally disliked. Afterwards there quietly slipped in Balcerkova, skinny, undersized, withered, and sly; an ill-tempered woman, and such a lawsuit-maker that she was on fighting terms with half the village, and went to the law-courts every month. And now boldly stepped in (uninvited, indeed) the woman Kobus, Voytek’s wife, so malicious a gossip and so rank a shrew that folk shunned her friendship as they would fire. Also came, breathing heavily and in a hurry, Gregory’s wry-mouthed wife, a drunkard, a cheat, and given to practical jokes—especially such as did harm to her neighbours. Then old Sohova (Klemba’s son-in-law’s mother), a very quiet woman, most religious, and (Dominikova excepted) the one who spent most time in church. There were others also, too hard to describe, being as like one another as geese in a flock, and indiscernible, save by their attire. All these came—an assembly of matrons, each bringing with her something or other: wool or flax to spin, or hurds; some with linen to sew, or feathers to make up for bedding—not willing to be seen empty-handed, as if they had only come to talk.
They formed a large circle in the centre of the room, under a lamp that hung from the ceiling; and they looked like a clump of bushes, well-grown, mature, and blighted by late autumn; for all were elderly, and all about the same age.
Klembova welcomed them all with the same friendly greeting, but spoke low; she was short of breath, her lungs being in a bad state. Klemba, as a good sensible man, who loved to be on pleasant friendly terms with everybody, said some kind words to each, and set the tables and benches for them himself.
Yagna arrived somewhat later, with Yuzka and Nastka, and a few other girls, together with a sprinkling of young men who dropped in subsequently.
It was a big gathering. The winter was a
