So many had gathered together that there was not room for all, and quite a crowd had to be satisfied with the logs that lay outside the tavern; but as the weather was now fine, with a grand display of gold in the sky, they sat down there in numbers, and called for drink.
The tavern itself was brimful of young people, and they at once set to dancing the oberek, making walls and floors groan with their impact and tread as they whirled along. And who led the dance with Nastka?—who but Simon, son of Dominikova? In vain did his brother Andrew dissuade him, plucking him by the sleeve; he was in a gay unruly mood, and drank vodka, and pressed it on Nastka and his boon companions, and flung five-kopek pieces to the band, that they might play with more spirit. And he took Nastka round the waist, vociferating with might and main: “Come, boys, be lively! Stamp and tramp as Poles do!”
And he galloped about the room like a runaway colt, shouting and striking the floor with great violence.
“He has no straw in his boots, that young blade!” Ambrose muttered, his throat twitching greedily, as he looked on at the drinkers. “As a flail, so wields he his limbs! … I hope they may not come off!” he added louder, and coming near.
“Take care lest one of yours come off!” Matthew retorted grimly, alluding to the other’s wooden leg.
“Oh, I wish so much to drink friendship with you!” he answered, with a propitiatory smile.
“Here, drunkard! and have a care to leave the glass unswallowed!” Matthew replied, pouring out a full glass, and turning his back. Gregory, the Voyt’s brother, was holding forth to his group in low tones; they listened, crowded up against the bar, and with such attention that they neither noted the dancers around nor the vodka that stood before them. They were six, all of the best families in the place, and very keen on the matter under discussion; but as the noise and the crowd increased, they presently passed into the Jew’s private parlours, which he occupied along with his guests.
It was a small place indeed, so crammed with the beds of the Jewish brats that it was hard to find room at the table. A single tallow candle, stuck in a brass chandelier that hung from the rafters, burned with a smoky flame.
Gregory passed the bottle twice, and they drank, but no one referred to the talk they had broken off, till Matthew cried tartly:
“Now, Gregory, let’s hear you: we all sit here like crows expecting rain!”
But before the latter could begin, the blacksmith entered, greeted them, and looked around for a seat.
“Pah! Here comes Sooty-Face, always springing up where he has not been sown!” Matthew blurted out; but, stifling his annoyance, he at once added: “Michael, here’s to you!”
The smith tossed the liquor off and, trying to put a good face on the matter, remarked as if in jest: “I care not to learn the secrets of other folk, and perhaps I am not wanted here?”
“As you say!” Ploshka returned. “Being so friendly with the Germans—eating bacon on Friday and drinking coffee with them—would you not rather be still with them on a holiday like this?”
“You speak as one of the drunkards speaks!”
“I say but what all men know: you are ever in converse with them.”
“I work for them that give me work: I do not pick and choose.”
“Work!” hinted Vahnik; “there’s more than work between them and you!”
“Of such work,” Prychek added significantly, “as you did with the Squire and our forest.”
“Oho! It seems I have met my judges here!—Much ye all know of the affair!”
“Let him be,” said Gregory, staring sternly into the smith’s shifty eyes. “He is free to do his business by himself … as we too to do ours by ourselves.”
“Should a gendarme look through the window here,” said the smith with a poor attempt at mockery, while his lips were twitching with rage, “he would take you for conspirators.”
“And perchance we are, but not against you, Michael: you’re not worth it.”
At that he pulled his cap on, and made his exit, slamming the door.
“He scented something in the wind, and came here to find out all about it.”
“He might even play the eavesdropper outside.”
“Let him: he will hear something about himself that he will not like!”
“Now hark to me, boys!” Gregory said, gravely. “As I told you, the Germans have not purchased Podlesie yet, but the deed of sale may be signed any day. They talk of next Thursday.”
“That we know: the question is, what’s to be done!” Matthew cried impatiently.
“Advise us, Gregory, you who can, who are book-learned and read the papers.”
“You see, if the Germans buy it and settle next to us, it will be like Gorka over again: we shall not have room to breathe in Lipka.”
“Our fathers sigh, and scratch their heads, and cannot make out what to do.”
“Yet they will not give up their farms to us!” several voices exclaimed at once.
“The Germans, what are they?” cried another. “Some settled in Lishka, and our peasants bought them out to the last acre.—True, in Gorka it was the other way round, but by our own fault: we drank, we went to law continually, and we all went a-begging in the end.”
“Why, then, we too may buy Podlesie later!” said Yendrek Boryna, Antek’s cousin.
“ ’Tis easy to talk. At present, we cannot manage to pay so much as sixty roubles an acre: how shall we ever pay a hundred and fifty?”
“If our fathers would but give each man his proper portion, we should mend matters more easily.”
“That’s sure. I should know what to do directly.”
Here Gregory interfered. “O ye fools, ye fools! With all their land entire, our elders can scarce make both ends meet; and ye think to lay by from a part thereof?”
They were struck dumb—stunned by the evidence of the truth he uttered.
“No,” he
