“Got your wages today, Kuba?”
“Not likely. Is it New Year’s Day?”
“Have a little rum?”
“No. I don’t care.” He counted his money, and sorrowfully glanced at the rum-bottle.
“But I’ll trust you; don’t I know Kuba?”
“I dare not.—‘Who purchases on trust will soon not have a crust,’ ” he answered, dryly.
Nevertheless, Yankel left the rum-bottle close at his elbow. He wanted not to take it, and meant to go out; but the rum had such a scent that he at last gave way, and took a long draught on the impulse of the moment.
“This money, did you earn it in the forest?” Yankel inquired, with patient importunity.
“Caught birds in a net; gave six to his Reverence. He gave me a zloty.”
“A zloty for six, did he? Why, I would have given you five kopeks for each of them.”
“But—but—” cried Kuba, astounded, “are partridges kosher?”
“Never mind about that; only bring me lots of them, and for every one you bring, you will get five kopeks of ready money. And the rum you have drunk will be thrown into the bargain. Is it well?”
“What, Yankel! Five kopeks for each?”
“My word is no idle wind. For those six partridges, Kuba, you would have got, not two-eighths of a litre of vodka, but four! together with rum, and a herring, and a roll, and a packet of tobacco. Do you understand?”
“I do. Half a litre, and a herring, and … I am not a fool, I can make it all out.—Quite true—Half a litre, and rum, and tobacco, and rolls, and one entire herring. …” He was by this time somewhat fuddled by the fumes of the vodka.
“Will you bring the birds to me, Kuba?”
“Half a litre, and a herring, and. … Yes, I will.—You see, had I but a gun,” he continued, his brain now a little clearer; but then he fell to counting again. “A sheepskin, now, will come to five roubles … and boots, too, I need … three roubles. No, I can’t manage it: the smith wants five for a gun—as much from me as from Rafal.—No!” He was thinking out loud.
Yankel make a swift calculation with a bit of chalk, and then whispered low in his ear:
“Could you shoot a doe?”
“With my fists—how? With a gun I could.”
“Can you shoot then—properly?”
“You’re a Jew, Yankel, so you don’t know this: but everybody here knows I went along with the masters in the last insurrection; that’s how I got shot in the leg. Oh, yes, yes, I can shoot!”
“I’ll get you a gun and powder, and whatever you may want. Only, what you shoot you are to bring to me, Kuba! For a doe, you shall have a whole rouble. You hear me? a whole rouble! For the powder, you will pay fifteen kopeks, that I shall deduct for every doe shot. Then, for the wear and tear of the gun, I shall want half a bushel of oats.”
“A rouble for a doe? and fifteen kopeks for the powder? … A whole rouble? How do you make that out?”
Yankel again went over every particular. Kuba only understood one point.
“Take oats out of the horses’ mouths?” he said. “That I’m not going to do.”
“Why should you? Boryna has oats … not only in the mangers.”
“But—but that would be like. …” He stared at Yankel, and tried to make things out.
“They all do that! Did you never wonder where the farmhands got all their money from? How else are they to have their tobacco, and their nip of vodka, and their dance of Sundays?”
“How? what? you scurvy fellow! Am I a thief, say?” he suddenly thundered out, striking on the table with his fist, so that the glasses rang.
“Ah! Kuba, you’ll fly out at me, will you? Then pay your score and go to the devil!”
But he neither paid nor left. He was penniless, and in debt to the Jews besides. So he only drooped heavily over the bar, in an attempt to make out the reckoning. And Yankel, growing kind, poured him out some more rum—pure this time—and said not a word.
More and more people had by now thronged into the tavern, for the twilight had deepened, and the lamps were lit. The music sounded to a quicker measure; the noise waxed loud; the folk formed groups around the bar, or along the walls, or in the centre of the room. They talked, gossiped, grumbled; and some drank one to another. But as a rule this was at rare intervals. For how could they do otherwise? They had not come to carouse, but only—well, so: to meet in a neighbourly way, and confabulate, and learn what there was to be learned. It was Sunday, and there was surely no sin in indulging one’s curiosity a little, and drinking a few glasses here and there with one’s acquaintances: provided always it was done seemingly, without offending God. His Reverence himself did not forbid that. Why, even beasts of burden, for example, were glad and required to rest after labour! So the elderly husbandmen sat at the table, and certain of the women, too, in red petticoats and red kerchiefs, each looking like a hollyhock in bloom. And as all talked at once, the murmur of voices filled the whole place, like the rustling of a great wood; and the trampling of feet was as the strokes of flails beating the wheat upon the threshing-floor: while the fiddle sang out with a merry tune:
“Who will—who will after me?” they cried, and the bass-viols growled the reply:
“All must follow—follow thee!” Meanwhile the cymbal, fluttering about with a sound as of laughter, made a joyful noise with its jingling little bells.
There were not many dancers; but these stamped with such lusty goodwill that the floor creaked, the table rocked, the bottles clinked one against the other now and then, or even a glass would be knocked over.
But it was no grand affair after all: the day was one of no special solemnity,
