“But,” Hanka went on to say, “Father has ready money by him, has he not?”
“That he has!”
“Why, he brought Yuzka a coral necklace worth as much as a cow; and he is always sending money to Gregory through the Voyt.”
Antek assented, but his mind was wandering elsewhere.
“It is wronging us all!—And the clothes your mother left! he has them locked up, nor so much as lets them see the light: skirts and kerchiefs, caps and beads. …” She went on thus a long time, telling of all these things, and of wrongs done, and grievances, and hopes: but Antek remained obstinately silent. At last, out of patience, she shook him by the shoulder:
“Are you awake?”
“Aye, and listening. Talk away, it will do you good. And when you have done, say so.”
Hanka, who was naturally inclined to weep, and had many a cause for sadness besides, here burst into tears; he spoke to her, she cried, as to a girl he scorned: he cared neither for her nor for her child.
At this, Antek rose to his feet, and replied contemptuously:
“Lift up your voice: these”—with a toss of his head towards some crows flying past them—“these will hear and take pity on you!” and, settling his cap on his head, he made for the village with great strides.
“Antek! Antek!” she called after him, in sorrow; but he did not even turn his head.
With a very heavy heart, she wrapped up the baby, and made for home.—So he would not let her talk to him about things, or complain of anything. Oh, he was very friendly, Antek, he was indeed! It was always, Work, work, work; and, See to this, and to that, and to the other thing; and, Stay at home! Nothing else! No consideration, no compassion, no fellowship at all!—Other women enjoyed themselves in the tavern, or went to a wedding.—But Antek! She knew not what to make of him. Sometimes he was so gentle, that gentler could not be; but again, and for weeks together, he would scarce utter a word to her, or give her a glance: it was think, think, think—all the time. True, he had cause enough. … Why should not his father make over the land to him now? … It was high time for the old man to retire and let them keep him. … If he did, she would take as much care of him as she would of her own father. …
She would willingly have talked to Kuba; but he leaned back against the cornstack, pretending to sleep, though the sun was shining straight into his eyes. And no sooner had she disappeared round the corner of the barn than he got up, brushed the straw from his clothes, and slowly took his way by the orchards to the tavern.
The tavern stood at the farther end of the village, beyond the priest’s house, at the beginning of the poplar road.
There were not many people there yet. The music was heard at intervals, but no one had begun to dance. The lads and lasses preferred to romp in the orchard, or to stand about the house, or close to the walls, where plenty of women and girls were sitting on piles of deal logs, still fresh and yellow from the forest. The biggest room, with its dingy smoke-tinged rafters, was all but empty; the tiny windowpanes, grey with dust, let so little pass of the red glow of the approaching sundown, that scarcely any got through to fall on the worn uneven floor; and in the nooks and corners the dusk was very deep.
Only Ambrose was there, with a member of the village Confraternity; they stood, bottle in hand, chatting together close to the window, and frequently drinking to each other’s health.
Yagustynka was at the tavern, too, making herself unpleasant to everyone, and uncompromisingly angry with the whole world, because her children had treated her ill, and she had in her old age to seek work away from them. No one, however, answered her invectives; so she made for the small dark chamber, where the smith was sitting together with Antek and several other younger men.
A lamp swung from the murky beams, shedding a dim yellowish light on heads shaggy with luxuriant blond hair. The men sat in a circle, with their elbows on the table. All eyes were fixed on the blacksmith, who, flushed and bending forward, now stretched out his arms, now banged the table with his fists; but he spoke, nevertheless, in subdued tones.
Outside, the bass-viols were grumbling, like the humming flight of a bumblebee that has got into a room. The violin would suddenly shed forth strong loud notes, as of a bird calling its mate; or the cymbal set up a drumming quavering din: and then all would again be quiet.
Kuba had made straight for the bar, behind which Yankel, the Jewish tavern-keeper, was sitting, in his skullcap and shirtsleeves (for the weather was warm), stroking his grey beard, swaying to and fro, and reading out of a book he held close to his eyes.
Kuba, taking thought, came forward step by step, counted his money over, scratched his head, and then stood still, till Yankel noticed him, and without interruption in his prayers and swaying motions, jingled the glasses once or twice.
“One-eighth of a litre—but no water in it!” was his order at last.
Yankel silently held his left hand out for the money, and throwing the verdigris-eaten coins into a tray, inquired:
“In a glass?”
“Not in a boot, I suppose!” Kuba returned. Withdrawing to the very end of the bar, he drank off the first glass, spat on the ground, and looked round the room; the second dispatched, he held the flask up to the light, saw it empty, and pounded on the bar with it.
“Another!—And a packet of tobacco!” he ordered; more boldly
