And so things went with him day by day. He would rise at grey dawn, and go home late in the evening, and many was the day when he exchanged no word with any living soul. Teresa or someone else now brought him his meals; for Nastka was working at the priest’s potato-field.
People came to see how he worked; but at a distance, for he disliked talking. His unwearied activity made them wonder.
“There’s plenty of grit in the fellow: who’d have thought it?” Klemba grunted.
“And is he not of the seed of Dominikova?” someone replied with a laugh. But Gregory, who had watched him all along closely, observed:
“True it is, he works like an ox; but we, we ought to make things easier for the man.”
“We ought,” they assented; “and we must, for he deserves help.” But no one put himself forward, everyone waiting for him to ask them first.
That Simon would not do, nor had even thought of doing. And so he was one morning in much amazement, seeing a cart come his way.
It was driven by Andrew, who called out merrily:
“Aye, it is I. Tell me where I am to plough!”
It was some time before Simon could believe his eyes.
“You, to have dared so greatly!—But you’ll get beaten, poor fellow!—You’ll see!”
“I care not. And if she beats me, I will come over to you for good.”
“Did you get this thought all by yourself?”
“All by myself! For a long time I had been fain, but they watched me at first.—Yagna too advised me not to come.”
He told him the whole affair in detail, while preparing to work; then they ploughed all day together; and, on going, he promised to return the next day.
So he did, with the rising sun. Simon noticed some slight discoloration on his brother’s cheeks, but only questioned him after the day’s work was done.
“Did she hurt you very much?”
“Oh, she’s purblind, and cannot catch me easily; and then I do not put myself in the way of her claws,” he answered, somewhat ruefully.
“And Yagna … she did not give you away?”
“Indeed no; she is not that sort.”
“Ah, can anyone make out what a woman may take it into her head to do?” He sighed deeply, and told him not to come again.
“I can manage alone now. Later, at sowing-time, you will help me.”
So he was alone again, working out his days one after another, like a horse turning a threshing-machine, and heedless both of the dreary solitude and the heat. For now it was growing hotter than it had ever been—a glow like hell, a conflagration. Scarcely anyone could work in the fields: the skies poured down living fire. They were one sheet of scorching incandescence: no breeze blew, no birds sang, no human voice resounded, while the sun went steadily on from east to west, raining down heat and drought.
Yet Simon worked every day just as at the beginning; even sleeping afield of nights to lose no time in coming over. Matthew endeavoured to restrain him, but to no purpose. He replied, curtly:
“I shall rest on Sunday.”
On Saturday evening he went home, but was so tired out that he fell asleep over his meal; and he slept almost the whole of the next day. He did not rise from his straw bed till the afternoon, when, dressing very finely, he sat down to a dinner of plentifully heaped-up dishes, with all the women in attendance about him, as about some grand personage, attentive to his least sign, and ever supplying him with more and more to eat; then he, having filled himself to the utmost, loosened his girdle, stretched his limbs in lordly fashion, and cried merrily: “Many thanks, good Mother!—And now, let us go and enjoy ourselves in some measure!”
So he started for the tavern with Nastka; and Matthew went too, along with Teresa.
Before him, the Jew bowed down to his waist, set vodka on the table without being asked, and called him “Master!” which puffed Simon up not a little. He drank as much as behoved him to drink, thrust himself amongst the foremost men there, and gave his opinion about everything.
The tavern was full, and the band playing to increase the enjoyment; but dancing had not as yet begun. They only drank one to another, and complained of the drought, of the hard times, and so on, as usual.
Even the Borynas and the smith and his wife came; but these engaged the private bar, where they must have enjoyed themselves pretty well; for the Jew was again and again taking vodka and beer in to regale them.
“Antek is staring at his wife today like a dog at a marrowbone: he’s not the same man any more!” Ambrose grunted sullenly, glancing towards the parlour bar, from whence there arose a pleasant sound of joyful voices.
Yagustynka’s reply came pat: “Because he prefers his own clog to a boot that goes on all men’s feet!”
“Aye,” someone returned; “but such boots do not pinch!” And the whole tavern was in a roar; they all knew well who was meant.
Simon had not heard and did not laugh. Somewhat the worse for liquor, he was putting his arms round Andrew’s neck, and saying to him:
“And you must now remember what I am, and be obedient to me!”
“I … I know well,” the other stammered, with maudlin tears. “But then, Mother commands … commands. …”
“Mother counts no longer! I am a landholder: hearken unto me!”
But now the band had struck up a dancing-tune; and as heels began to stamp and boards to resound and couples to spin, Simon seized Nastka by the waist, threw his capote open, set his cap at an angle, and, bawling “Da dana!” with the best of them, and stamping the loudest of all, he launched into the dance, whirling giddily and rolling along, blithe, noisy, clamorous—like a torrent in spate!
But, after a dance of two, he let the women take him home,
