The Peasants

come to life again. In her inmost heart she felt bitter against him. Her present wretched position, the hard life she was leading now, her blighted reputation⁠—all were due to him; and, moreover, she realized the fact that he was not that which she had adored, and she knew the fierce pangs of disenchantment and disillusion. He had formerly seemed to her quite another being⁠—one whose fondness lifted her up to heaven, whose kindness overmastered her⁠—the sweetest, dearest being in all the world. And now she saw he was just the same as any other peasant. Worse, indeed; for she was more afraid of him than even of her husband. He frightened her by his dark moods, by his fits of desolation, and, above all, by his reckless violence. He made her tremble, for he was, in her eyes, wild and fierce as a forest outlaw. Why, the priest himself had rebuked him publicly in church; the whole village had shrank away from him, and now pointed him out as the worst amongst them; and there proceeded out of him such an exhalation of mortal sin that the mere sound of his voice often made her faint with dread: it seemed to her as though Satan dwelt in him, and as if around him there hovered all the host of hell. At those moments she had such impressions as when his Reverence told the people about the awful torments of the lost!

Not for one instant did it come home to her that she had part in his guilt: not in the least! When she thought of him, it was but to mourn that he had so greatly changed, and her feelings on that score became so strong that she cared for him ever less and less. At times, when embraced by him, she would stiffen suddenly, as if struck dead by a thunderbolt. She let him kiss her⁠—for how could she resist such a dragon of a man? Moreover, she felt young, full-blooded, of lively temperament⁠ ⁠… and his kisses were so violent, they well-nigh choked her. So, in spite of all, she would still give him her love with the mighty elemental craving of the earth that thirsts eternally for warm rain and sunshine; but yet her inner self was no more at his feet, driven by that former uncontrollable impulse; she was no more given up to that blind rapture which once upon a time had made her feel nigh death; she was nevermore again to be so frantically lovesick. At such times, her thoughts would fly to the hut, to her work, to some new invention to spite her husband; and at times she even thought: “When will this man leave me and go away?”

These thoughts about him were in her mind as she was working to keep the water out of the potato-pits. Her work was only for the eye, and as in duty bound. Pete toiled with a will, battling noisily with the mud and the frozen earth; she worked that Boryna might see her. No sooner had he left the place than she put her apron over her head, and went cautiously round to the stile, close to Ploshka’s barn.

There stood Antek.

“I have been waiting an hour for you,” he said reproachfully.

“No need to wait at all, if they want you anywhere,” she rapped out, in no pleasant humour.

He caught her in a powerful grasp, and gave her a kiss. She turned from him in disgust.

“Ye reek of vodka like a barrel of the same.”

“Are ye so dainty that my lips offend you now?”

“ ’Twas but the vodka that I had in mind,” she answered in a gentler tone.

“I was here yestereve. Wherefore did ye not come?”

“It was cold; and besides, I am over head and ears in work.”

“And you have to fondle the old man,” Antek growled, “and tuck him up in bed!”

“Why not?” she replied testily. “He is my husband.”

“Yagna, do not provoke me!”

“If my words vex you, why come at all? Think not that I shall weep for you!”

“Ah, that means you do not care to come any more.”

“Not if I am to be treated as a dog, and always chid.”

“Yagna, I have so many troubles of my own that ’tis no great wonder if a harsh word drops from me now and then; but I mean no offence,” he said humbly, gathering her in his arms. She, however, remained frigid and sulky, and only unwillingly returned his kisses. At every word she spoke, she looked around, seeking to go home.

This he was not slow to note, and a nettle thrust into his bosom would not have stung him more. He whispered, in a tone of timid reproach:

“You were not always in such a hurry!”

“I am afraid. All the people are at home: perhaps they will come out to look for me.”

“Aye, aye! But there was a time when you did not fear to stay out all night. Oh, how you have changed!”

“Nonsense! What should have changed me?”

They were silent, each embracing the other, and sometimes with a closer hug of sudden fondness which the memory of past times called up; and they sought each other’s lips with strong desire of love. But it would not do. Their souls were drifting farther and farther apart; each harboured bitter grudges against the other, and their wounds rankled so that their arms instinctively fell to their sides. They stood close, but like pillars of ice together; while words of tenderness and passion rose to their lips (but went no farther and died unuttered), their hearts were throbbing with sharp pain.

“Yagna,” he said, very low, “do you love me?”

“Why, I have already told you I cannot always come when you call,” she answered evasively; and yet she pressed closer to him⁠—feeling sorry, regretful, almost ready to ask his pardon with tears for not being able to love him any more. He read her meaning; and her words chilled him to the marrow, and he quivered with