“I remember perfectly. … When they all went out for the insurrection, they took me with them too. … I fought for a whole year: killed more than one Russian grey dog … more than two, even. … Then the Squire’s son was shot in the belly. His bowels gushed out. He was my master, and a good man; so I took him on my shoulders and carried him away. … Later, he got off somewhere to a warm country, but first gave me a letter to take to his father. Well, I went. I was weary of all, dog-tired … got shot in the leg on my way, and it would not heal; for I was always out of doors, sleeping under the stars. … Then came snow, and a terrible frost:—I remember well! … So I got there … at night … and looked about for the place.—Oh, what a thunderstroke!—No more manor—no more barns—no more hedges, even. All had been burned down to the ground. … And the old Squire … and his lady … and my mother too … and also the girl Yosefka, who was chambermaid there … all lay in the garden, slaughtered!—O Jesus! Jesus!—Aye, I remember.—O holy Mary!” These last words he uttered very low; great tears that he did not care to hide ran down his cheeks in floods, and he heaved deep sighs, as that night rose again before him.
The darkness grew more and more intense; the blast caught more and more fiercely at the trees; the long tresses of the birch-boughs thrashed the graves about them, and their trunks, white as sheeted ghosts, loomed dimly through the gloom. The folk were leaving the place, the lamps going out, the hymns of the dziads dying away. A solemn silence, disturbed only by weird rustlings and thrilling whispers, now reigned among the tombs. The graveyard seemed filled with shadowy forms, the bushes bore questionable shapes; there were melodies of lulled soft moans, oceans of eerie tremors, movements of shapeless things in the dark, bursts of dread hushed sobs, mysterious and horror-breathing alarms which made the heart sink. Throughout the village, the very dogs were howling with long despairing howls.
On this holiday alone, Lipka was hushed. The roads were deserted, the inn-doors closed. Through the tiny mist-blurred windowpanes of a few huts, lights were seen to shine, and holy hymns heard to quaver timidly forth, with loud supplications to God for the souls of the faithful departed.
Outside the cabins, the folk glided about in fear; in fear did they listen to the quiet sighs of the trees; in fear did they look towards the window, lest there should appear to them one of those who, on this day, wander by God’s decree and their own yearning—lest they should be heard lamenting where four roads meet—or be seen looking sorrowfully in through the window.
Outside certain huts, the husbandmen—following ancient customs—set the remains of the evening meal for the hungry ghosts to partake of and, crossing themselves, breathed some such invitation: “O Christian soul that still abidest in the place of cleansing, lo! here is refreshment for thee!”
And thus, in stillness and sadness, amidst memories and fears, did the evening of All Souls’ Day come to an end.
On Antek’s side of his father’s cabin sat Roch, the pilgrim to our Lord’s sepulchre, reading and telling many a pious and holy legend.
People were there not a few: for both Ambrose and Yagustynka and Klemba had come, Kuba and Vitek, Yuzka and Nastusia: the only one absent was old Boryna, who remained at Yagna’s till late in the night.
Save for the crickets that cried and the pine-knots that crackled on the hearth or in the fire, the cabin was still as death.
They all were sitting on benches round the fire; Antek alone sat looking out of the window. Roch now and then drew the red embers together with his staff, while he spoke thus, in a soft hushed voice:
“It is not terrible to die.—Oh, no!
“As birds in winter fly to a warmer land, so do our weary little souls long to fly to Jesus.
“Though the trees stand bare in winter, yet are they clothed in spring by the Lord with green leaves and scented blossoms: thus, O thou soul of man, dost thou go to Jesus to find with Him joy, and spring, and gladness, and vesture eternal!
“As the sun caresses our weary earth, fatigued with fruit-bearing, so doth our Lord caress each soul, and make it forget the past winter of anguish and death.
“Ah me! for in this world there is naught but trouble, and wailing, and woe!
“And evil increases and multiplies, as doth the thistle in the woodlands!
“All things are vain and to no purpose … like tinder-wood, and like the bubbles which the wind maketh on the water and driveth away.
“And there is no faith, nor hope, save in God alone!”
X
“I speak of this, both from the pulpit, and to every man in particular. …”—The wind put an end to the rest of the sentence by blowing violently down the priest’s throat, making him fall into a fit of coughing. Antek was silent.
The gale was growing fiercer, sweeping down the road, lashing the poplars, storming through them, and causing them to bend and moan and shriek aloud with rage.
“Man, I have told you,” the priest went on to say, “that I myself took the mare down to the pond. … Blind as she is, she may go astray in some coppice, and perhaps break a leg.”—The very thought made him turn pale, and he continued looking under every tree, and seeking in every field.
“Well, but she always went about freely.”
“She knows well her way to the pond. Anyone might find a pail for her to drink from, and then turn her round: she would have come back by herself. … Valek!” he suddenly cried, thinking he saw someone among the poplars.
“I saw Valek on our side of the pond; but that was before twilight
