“Now you, being a wise woman, must therefore know that, sooner or later, Yagna will surely leave your house for her own, as the Lord hath ordained. Parents breed up their children, not for themselves, but for the public weal.”
“Ah, Mother, ’tis true, ’tis true!
“ ‘You may pet her and guard and caress,
But give her you must none the less;
Aye, and him that shall take her you’ll bless!’ ”
“The world is made so, and there is no changing it.—Now, Mother, shall we drink together?”
“How can I say? I will not force her.—Will you drink, Yagna?”
“I … I don’t know,” she stammered in a thin voice, turning her burning face to the window.
“The lass is docile,” Simon put in, with gravity. “ ‘A docile calf, beyond all doubt, thrives, sucks much milk, and waxes stout.’ ”
“Well, shall I pass it on to you, Mother?”
“Drink ye, by all means; but we do not yet know who it is proposes,” Dominikova remarked, attentive to the rules of etiquette that required her not to seem to know until told by the messenger.
“Who?” he exclaimed. “Why, who but Boryna himself!” and he lifted his glass.
“What, an aged man! A widower!” she objected, as in duty bound.
“Aged? ’Tis a sin to say so! Aged? and but now he was accused.”
“I know: only the child was not his.”
“How could it be? A man of such repute, was he to put up with any but the very best?—Come, here’s to you, Mother!”
“Fain would I drink; but he is a widower.—Old, he may soon be in Abraham’s bosom: and what then? Her stepchildren would thrust her out.”
Here Simon interposed. “Matthias,” he growled, “said there must needs be a settlement.”
“Of course before the wedding.”
The Voyt, having filled another glass, turned with it to Yagna.
“Come, drink, Yagna, drink to us! The swain we propose you is strong as an oak: you’ll be his lady, the keeper of his household, the first of all in the village! See, I drink to you, Yagna: do not be shamefaced!”
She flushed scarlet, and turned away; but finally, throwing her apron over her face, she tasted a little, and threw the rest on to the floor.
The glass then passed round to all. The old dame produced bread and salt, and lastly some dried and smoked sausages as a relish.
Several times in succession did they drink, and in a little their tongues were loosened. But Yagna had fled into the inner chamber, where, she knew not why, her tears burst forth, her sobs becoming audible through the partition. Her mother would have followed, but the Voyt kept her back.
“Even calves, when weaned from their dams, shed tears: ’tis common. She is not to go away, no, not to the next village even: and you will still enjoy each other’s company. It is I, the Voyt, who say it: she shall come to no harm: believe me.”
“Aye, but I always thought to have grandchildren for my consolation.”
“Let not that trouble you. The first of them will be here before the harvest!”
“The future is known to the Lord alone, not to us sinners. We have drunk to her betrothal, and yet my heart is heavy, as if ’twere a burial.”
“Nothing strange. An only daughter, she ought to be duly mourned over. … Yet a little more, to drive your grief away.—Ah, do you know, let us all go to the tavern. There Yagna’s future husband awaits us, boiling over with fierce impatience.”
“Shall we celebrate such an occasion in a tavern?”
“As our fathers of yore. I, the Voyt, have spoken.”
Yagna and Dominikova put on their best dresses, and all started off. But the Voyt remarked how disappointed her brothers were looking. “Are the lads to remain, then?” he said. “It is their sister’s engagement-day: some pleasure is due to them.”
“Can we leave the house to the care of Providence?”
“Then take Agatha from the Klembas; she will see to the place.”
“She has gone begging. We shall get someone on our way. Well, Simon and Andrew, come; but put your capotes on. Would you come in your shabby everyday clothes?—And if either of you gets tipsy … he will never forget it!—The kine have not yet been cared for, and ye must mash potatoes for the swine.—See ye to it.”
“We will, Mother, we will!” they both exclaimed, trembling with fear, though they were both big lads, as high as a small pear-tree, such as are planted along the fields.
And so presently they went to the tavern.
The night was murky and as dark as pitch, as is usual enough during the autumn rains. The wind roared overhead, swaying the treetops till they nearly lashed the neighbouring hedges.
When they arrived, the tavern had a gloomy look. A pane had been broken in the window, and the gusts that entered made the tiny lamp which hung above the bar by a cord swing there to and fro like a golden flower.
Boryna rushed to welcome and embrace and hug them warmly, knowing that Yagna was already as good as his own.
“Our Lord hath said: ‘Thou worm, take unto thee a wife, that thou, poor wretch, shouldst not suffer loneliness!’ ” So Ambrose said, or bleated rather: he had been drinking for more than an hour, and was good for little, either in the talking or the walking line.
The Jew instantly set before them rum, sweetened vodka, and “essence”; also salt herrings, saffron-seasoned cakes, and others (very dainty) made with poppy-seed.
“Eat ye, drink ye, dearly beloved brethren, true Christians!” cried Ambrose, taking upon himself to invite the guests. “I had a wife once—but cannot at all remember now where—In France, I think—no, in Italy! No, not there—but now I am bereft and a widower. … I tell you: our ancients used to cry thus: ‘Attention!’ ”
Here Boryna interrupted him. “Drink deep, friends! … And you, Peter, give the example!” And then he brought Yagna a whole zloty’s worth of caramels, and put them into her hand. “Here you are, Yagna, they are very sweet: here you are!”
She made as if she were disinclined to
