“No, she herself has left ten zloty for her burial.”
“She shall be buried, as grandly as any village dame!—Ah! by the way, tell the Confraternity Brethren that I will sell them my unbleached wax; the bleached wax they may want they must buy elsewhere. Tomorrow Michael will see to the church; you must go round and tell the reapers to hurry. The weatherglass stands at ‘Variable,’ and we may have a storm.—When are they starting for Chenstohova?”
“They have asked for a votive Mass on Thursday.”
This talk getting on Yanek’s nerves, he walked farther away to a low latticework fence that separated the orchard from the apiary, where he paced to and fro along a narrow path overhung by trees, the apple-laden boughs coming in frequent contact with his head.
It was a stifling evening, redolent of honey close by, and of the rye cut down a little farther; the sultry air was saturated with heat. The whitewashed trunks glimmered in the shadows, like shirts hung out to dry. From the Klembas’, the dismal moaning of the dirges was heard.
Weary of thinking over his trouble, Yanek was going home, when his ear caught the muffled sound of persons whispering eagerly together in the apiary.
He could see no one, but stopped and listened, holding his breath.
… “Get along. … Let me alone, or I shall scream.”
“… foolish … why struggle? … I am doing nothing wrong … nothing wrong.”
… “Someone may hear. … Loose me, for God’s sake. … You’re breaking my ribs!”
Yanek knew the voices: Pete from Boryna’s and Maryna the priest’s maidservant were there! He walked away, somewhat amused at their courtship, but, after a few paces, returned and listened with absorbing interest. It was impossible to see anything for the thick bushes and the dark night, but he was soon able to make out their broken words, that were now more distinct, more ardent, like spurts of flame; at times, too, there was the sound of a tussle and of deep-drawn breaths.
“… as nice as any of Yagna’s … you shall see, Maryna … only. …”
“Trust you indeed? … Am I such a one? … For God’s sake, let me breathe!”
There was a heavy fall upon the ground; the bushes cracked and snapped; then they seemed to pick themselves up, and whispers and chuckles and kisses went on as before.
“Sleep has quite fled from me now … all for thinking of you, Maryna … of you, O dearest!”
“To every girl you say that! … I waited till midnight … courting someone else. …”
Yanek trembled like an aspen leaf.—The wind sprung up, making the trees to rustle faintly, as if talking in their sleep; the heavy scent of honey from the apiary oppressed him so, he could scarcely breathe; his eyes watered, a hot thrill went through him, an obscurely pleasurable sensation pervaded his whole being.
“… as far from me as any star!—’Tis to Yanek she has an eye at present! …”
Mastering his emotion, Yanek bent over the fence and gave ear, in spite of his growing excitement.
“True, she goes out to him every night. … Kozlova surprised them in the wood together. …”
Here everything began to turn round, his eyes saw nothing and he almost fell swooning. Meanwhile, the sound of kisses and low laughter and whispering continued.
“If you. … I’ll scald your head with boiling water! … Pete! … Pete!”
He had heard enough. He rushed away, swift as the wind, tearing his soutane on the way, and reached home as red as a beetroot, perspiring profusely, and in a fever of excitement. Luckily, no one paid attention to him. His mother, sitting by the fireplace, was singing under her breath the evening hymn,
“All our actions of this day,
At Thy feet, O Lord, we lay,”
and spinning the while; his sisters and Michael, who was polishing the church candlesticks, joined in. His father was in bed.
He went to his room and began to say his hours. But, strive as he would to attend to the Latin words, his mind was always harking back to the whispers and kisses he had overheard. At last, dropping his head on the book, he unconsciously gave way to the thoughts which came over him like a burning blast.
“So? … Are things so?” he mused, with growing horror, and a thrill that was nevertheless not unpleasant. “Are things so!” he suddenly repeated aloud; and to get rid of the abominable fancies that beset him, he put his breviary under his arm, and went to his mother, telling her, in a low subdued voice, that he was going to pray by Agata’s body.
“Yes, go, dearest; I will come for you later!” she returned, with a glance very full of love.
Klemba’s cabin was almost empty. Only Ambrose was there, mumbling out of a book, beside the deceased who lay covered with a sheet. At the head of the bed, the death-taper burned, stuck in a small jug. Fruit-laden apple-boughs peered in at the open window; and now and then a belated passerby peered in too. In the passage, the dogs growled low.
Yanek knelt down close to the light, and fell to his prayers with such intense fervour that he never knew when Ambrose got up and hobbled home. The Klembas had lain down to rest in the orchard.—The first cock had crowed before his mother, remembering, came to fetch him home.
But no slumber came to his eyelids there. Each time he fell into a doze, Yagna’s form appeared to him with such lifelike reality that he started up in bed, rubbed his eyes, and looked around in horror—only to see that all the place was quiet, and to hear his father snoring sonorously.
“Ah! … Perhaps … perhaps that was what she desired?” he thought, as the memory of her scorching kisses and flaming eyes and husky voice came back to him. “And I—I thought it but. …” He shook himself, overwhelmed with anger and shame. He leaped out of bed, opened the window wide, and, seated on the sill, pondered till daybreak with profound sorrow over his involuntary offences and temptations.
At Mass the next morning, he
