“But now,” he went on, “to what purpose is all this prating? You are right, Hanka; we must needs wait till Antek comes back.—And I have presently to go in haste and meet the Squire: I am stayed for.” And he rose.
But, having caught sight of his father-in-law’s sheepskin, hanging in the corner, he offered to pull it down.
“This would be just the thing for me.”
“Touch it not: it is hanging there to dry,” Hanka said.
“Well, then, let me have those boots. Only the uppers are in good condition, and they too are patched,” he pleaded, trying to get them down.
“Not one thing is to be touched. Should you take aught, they will say that half of the household goods have been carried off. Let an inventory be made first, and officially. Till then, I will not allow one stake to come out of a hedge.”
“Ha!” said Magda; “but Father’s bedding is gone, and will not be down in the inventory.”
“I have told you what came to pass. Directly after his death, I spread it on the hedge to air; and one came by night and stole it. … I could not see to everything, all alone.”
“Strange that a thief should have been so ready at hand!”
“Do you mean by that I am lying now, and stole it then?”
“Be quiet, Magda, no quarreling. … He that stole it, let him have his winding-sheet cut out of it!”
“Why, the feathers alone weighed thirty pounds!”
“Hold your tongue, I say!” the blacksmith shouted at his wife, and asked Hanka to come out with him into the farmyard: he wished, he said, to look at the swine.
She went with him, but well on her guard.
“I would fain give you good advice.”
She listened attentive, wondering what it could be.
“Ye must, one of these evenings, and ere the inventory is made, drive two of the kine to my byre. We can entrust the sow to our cousin, and stow away all we can at our acquaintances’.—I will let you know with whom.—Ye will declare in the inventory that the corn has all been sold to Yankel: give him a couple of bushels, and he will bear witness to anything. The miller will take one colt, and it may feed in his paddock. Of the vessels and implements, some may be hidden among the potatoes, some in the rye-fields. … ’Tis friendly advice I am giving you! … They all do the same—all that are not fools. … You have been working to death: ’tis just ye should get a larger share. … To me you need only give a few crumbs. And fear nothing: I will help you through the whole business; aye, and make it my affair, too, that ye shall get all the land for your own! … Only hearken to me: none can give better advice than I.—Why, even the Squire takes mine gladly.—Well, what say you?”
She answered in slow tones, looking at the man steadfastly and with scorn:
“Thus much: even as I will give up naught that’s mine, so too am I not covetous of aught else!”
He staggered as if from a stunning blow—then glared at her in fury and hissed:
“Besides, I would not breathe a word to anyone of how ye despoiled the old man!”
“Breathe what ye choose to whom ye choose!—But I will tell Antek of your advice, and he shall speak to you on the matter!”
He scarcely could swallow down an imprecation. But he only spat on the ground, and walked off hurriedly, calling to his wife through the open window:
“Magda, have an eye to all things, lest there be yet more thefts here!”
But as he passed, with what disdain Hanka eyed him!
Maddened by her scorn, he made off, but meeting the Voyt’s wife, who just entered the enclosure, stopped to confer with her for some time, angrily and with clenched fists.
She came bringing an official document with her.
“ ’Tis for you, Hanka: the policeman has brought it in from the bureau.”
“About Antek, perchance!” she thought in great trepidation, taking the paper in her apron-covered hand.
“I think it concerns Gregory. My goodman is out—gone to the District office—and the policeman only said there was something about Gregory being dead, or. …”
“Jesu Maria!” Yuzka shrieked, and Magda started to her feet in horror.
Helplessly, seized with overwhelming fear, they turned the ominous paper about.
“You perhaps, Yagna, could understand it,” Hanka said beseechingly.
They stood round her, choking with suspense and dread; but Yagna, after a long try at spelling it out, gave up the attempt.
“I cannot read it: ’tis not written in our language.”
“Nor penned in her presence either!” the Voyt’s wife sneered. “Other things there are, however, in which she is more learned!”
“Go ye your ways,” Dominikova snarled, “and let quiet folks be.”
But the Voyt’s wife would not miss the opportunity to strike a blow at her.
“Ye are good at rebuking your neighbours. But ye had better have kept your daughter from lying in wait for other women’s husbands!”
“Peace, peace, good woman,” Hanka interfered, foreseeing what was coming; but the Voyt’s wife only grew more enraged.
“Oh, I will say my say now, if never again!—Her, who has poisoned my life so, I never will forgive till my dying day!”
“Well, then, say your say! A cur will bark louder than you can!” Dominikova growled. She took it coolly, but Yagna flushed red as a beetroot. Yet, though overwhelmed with shame, she nevertheless took refuge in reckless stubbornness; and as if to spite the other, she held her head up, and fastened her eyes upon her enemy with a taunting expression and a malicious smile.
The look, the smile, infuriated the other, and she denounced her lubricity in a torrent of invectives.
“Your words are frenzy, you are drunk with hate!” the old dame said, to draw her anger away; “your husband will answer grievously before God for my daughter’s misfortune.”
“Misfortune!—Aye, ’tis an innocent young maiden he has seduced! … Ha, such a maiden that with everyone and under every green bush. …”
“Hold your wicked tongue, or—blind as I am—my hands
