“What a splendid fellow you are!” the miller cried out. “Henceforth you are my brother!—Ask me to be godfather at the first christening, I pray you!” And he put his arm round Boryna’s neck. Soon they were on very familiar terms, for the music had stopped and refreshments were handed round.
Dominikova and her sons, with the smith and Yagustynka, now glided swiftly about, bearing bottles and clusters of glasses, and drank with each one. Yuzka and the friends of the old dame carried pieces of bread and cake about in sieves to the guests.
And the tumult grew and increased.
On a bench near the window sat the miller, with Boryna, the Voyt, the organist—all the notables in the place besides; and there a bottle of rum—not of the worst—was circulating among them.
Many were also standing about the room in groups, talking loudly to anyone they met, as they felt inclined; and the vodka glasses were in requisition.
The inner room was lit by the organist’s great lamp, lent for the occasion. The housewives, with the organist’s wife and the miller’s at their head, had gathered there, and sat on chests and benches strewn with pieces of woven wool. They held their heads up with great dignity, sipped their mead by tiny droplets, crumbled the sweet cake with dainty fingers, and very rarely threw in a word or two, but listened attentively while the miller’s wife told them all about her children.
The very passages were quite full. Some tried to invade the other side; but Eva drove them out. They proved too greedy for the dishes, the appetizing scent of which had filled the house, and was making many a mouth water.
The young people then dispersed all about the premises, in the yard and the orchard. The night was chilly, but serene and starlit. Here they strolled, disporting themselves in merry guise; and all the place echoed with laughter, shouts, and running to and fro, one chasing another among the trees. So the elders cried a warning to them from the window:
“Are ye seeking flowers by night, girls?—Beware lest ye lose what is more than any flower!”
But who paid heed to them?
Yagna and Nastusia were now walking about the big room, their arms round each other’s waists, whispering together, and ever and anon bursting into laughter. Simon, Dominikova’s eldest son, was watching them, with eyes glued to Nastusia, and frequently going to her with vodka and attempting conversation.
The blacksmith had dressed up most grandly, having on a black capote, and trousers over which the boots were drawn. He slipped about with great activity, was everywhere, drank with everybody, walked to and fro and talked; and his red head and freckled face were never long on the same spot.
The young people danced several times, but not long, nor with much animation. They were looking forward to the supper.
The old men, on their side, were deep in debate, the Voyt raising his voice higher and higher, striking the table with his fist, and laying down the law:
“I, the Voyt, have said it: you may take it from me. I, a man in office, have received a paper commanding me to call a meeting, and order half a kopek per acre to be voted by every landowner for educational purposes.”
“You, Peter, may vote even five kopeks an acre if you like: we won’t!”
“No, that we will not!” one of the men roared.
“But I am making you a statement as an official!”
“We do not care for such schools as those,” Boryna remarked; and the others assented in chorus.19
“In Vola,” said one, “there is a school which my children attended for three winters running. What is the result? They cannot even read in a prayerbook.—Devil take such teaching!”
“Let the mothers teach prayers at home; prayers have naught to do with studies. I, the Voyt, tell you this!”
“Then what are schools for?” grumbled the man from Vola, rising.
“I will tell you, I the Voyt: but listen. …”
Here he was interrupted by Simon, who cried aloud to them all that the trees of the clearing sold to the Jews had already been branded by them, and that they would have them cut down as soon as the sledges could run.
“Brand the trees they may: to fell them will be harder!” Boryna put in.
“We shall complain to the commissary.”
“Who is hand in glove with the Squire?—No: let us go in a body and drive the woodmen off.”
“They shall not hew down one single sapling!”
“Matthias, drink to me! Now is no time for holding councils. A tipsy man will even defy God!” So cried the miller, filling Boryna’s glass. The talk was as little to his taste as the threats were; for he had an agreement drawn up with the Jews, and the trees were to go to his sawmill.
They drank and left their places; the tables were now to be laid for supper, and all the needful things were being brought in.
The farmers, however, still stuck to their forest grievance, which was a great wrong done to them. They formed a group, and with lowered voices (so that the miller might not overhear them) determined to thresh the matter out at Boryna’s.
At this juncture, Ambrose came in, and went straight to them. He had come late, having had to go with his Reverence to a sick person three villages away, in Krosnova. So now he set to drink energetically, to make up for lost time. Vainly: for at that very moment a chorus of elderly women struck up the song:
Bridesmen, about, about! With you it rests
Round the spread tables now to bring the guests!
To which they replied, having given the signal by striking on the benches:
Lo, we have called them: they are ready here
Your spread to taste, if it be but good cheer.
The guests, now straggling in to table, took their seats on
