“Gone perhaps to look for her: a little too late! … A mare twenty years old! She was foaled soon after I came here, and deserves to be fed for mercy’s sake. … As much attached as any man can be. … Good Heavens! if any harm should have befallen the poor beast!”
“What on earth can happen?” Antek growled, in a surly mood. He had come to his Reverence to complain and get counsel; and he had been, not only reprimanded, but asked to seek the lost mare besides! No doubt the mare, so old and blind, deserved pity; but ought not a fellow-man to come first?
“As to you, you are to master yourself; do you hear? And curse him not! he is your father!”
“Oh, that,” said Antek very bitterly, “that I know well.”
“It were a grievous sin and offence against God. And no blessing will there be for him that in anger raises his hand against his father, to break the commandment!”
“I want justice: no more.”
“No, ’tis revenge you seek. … Am I wrong?”
Antek was at a loss for an answer.
“Now I will tell you one thing more: ‘A docile calf, beyond all doubt, thrives, sucks much milk, and waxes stout.’ ”
“ ‘Docile!’ The word sticks in my throat, I have so much of it. Shall I allow a man to do me every wrong in the world, simply because he is my father? Are children forbidden to seek justice for the wrong done?—Good God! if that’s the order of things, I had as lief bid it farewell, and go anywhere to get away from it.”
“Go, then; what is it prevents you?” cried the priest, taking fire on a sudden.
“Well may I go: what—what is there left to me here now?” he muttered, almost in tears.
“You are simply talking nonsense. Others have not one bit of land: yet they stay on, and work, and thank God that they have work to do. You had far better settle down to do something, and not complain like a woman. You are strong and able, and have something to lay your hands to besides. …”
“Yes, indeed; three whole acres!” was the ironical reply.
“And a wife and child, who belong to you too: do not forget it.”
They were now in front of the tavern; the windows were all aglow, and from the road where they stood they could hear voices inside.
“What! another drunken bout?”
“ ’Tis the recruits who were chosen during the summer, drinking to keep their spirits up. Next Sunday the Russians will take them away to somewhere at the back of the world: so they are seeking comfort.”
The priest had taken his stand near the poplars, from where he could look through the window, and see how thronged the place was. “Why, the tavern is well-nigh full!” he exclaimed.
“They were to have a meeting and advise together today, about the forest clearing which the Squire has sold to the Jews.”
“But he has sold only the half.”
“Till we have agreed to the sale, not one bush shall be sold!”
“What do you say?” the priest inquired, in a tone of anxiety.
“We don’t give leave: that’s flat. Father would go to law; but Klemba and the others with him won’t have it. They forbid a single tree to be cut down; and if the whole village has to rise, rise they will—aye, and ax in hand, too. What is theirs, they never will give up.”
“Merciful heavens! Pray God there may be no violence!”
“No, no! only a few of the manor-folks’ heads split in two: that will be but justice!”
“Antek! has anger made you mad? My good fellow, this is senseless talk!”
He would not listen, but turned on his heels and vanished in the gathering dusk; while the priest, who heard the rumble of wheels and a mare’s whinny, hastened back to his dwelling.
Antek passed by the mill on the other side, wanting to avoid going near Yagna’s hut.
She was fast in his bosom: a festering wound of which he could not rid himself.
Afar, the light shone bright from within her cabin. In there it was joyful. He stopped to look once more, were it but to curse her in his rage. And suddenly something fell on him like a hurricane, and tore him away.
“She is my father’s now!—My father’s!”
He went round to his brother-in-law, the smith, though expecting no advice from the man, and only wanting to remain a short time away from his father’s dwelling, and in somebody’s company.—Ah! the priest would preach work to him, would he? Preaching to others was an easy thing for those who have nothing to trouble them!—“Remember your wife and child!”—Was he likely to forget them? Her! … whom he loathed so, with her wailing and her meekness and wistfully glancing eyes! Were it not for her … were he but single!—O Lord! He groaned deeply; a wild fit of anger swept over him, and he would have liked to take someone by the throat—strangle him—tear him to pieces! …
But whom? He knew not. His fury passed away as suddenly as it had come. He looked blankly out into the night and hearkened to the whistling blasts. Then he walked on, trudging heavily, scarce able to drag himself; for now he felt weighed down by a mountain of sorrow, lassitude, and such a sense of prostration that he no longer knew whither he was going, nor for what purpose.
“Yagna is my father’s—my father’s!” he repeated again and again, each time in a lower key.
In the smith’s shop, a boy was working the bellows with might and main, and the draught that poured on to the flaring roaring embers made them burst into bloodred flames. The smith stood at the anvil, grimy-faced, girt with a leather apron, his arms bare, his cap on the back of his head, beating a red-hot iron bar till the anvil resounded, while showers of sparks flew from beneath the hammer, and fell hissing into the moist ground of the forge.
“Well?” he asked, after waiting a moment.
“Well, what?” Antek mumbled, leaning against a
