“Here, Kuba, is something for you, that ye may eat and enjoy yourself.”
“God bless you!—Sausage it is, I fancy;—a delightful smell!”
“I fried it for you, that you might find it more savoury.” She put the dish into his hands, for the stable was dark. “But drink of the vodka first.”
He drained the glass to the last drop.
“Will you sit with me a little? I feel lonely here.”
He broke the food, bit and chewed it—but could swallow nothing.
“Are they in good spirits over there?”
“Oh, yes! and so many people! I never saw more company in all my life.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, proudly; “is it not Boryna’s wedding?”
“Yes; and Father is so pleased … and always going after Yagna!”
“Indeed, for she is so beautiful—as fair to see as a Manor-house lady any day.”
“Do you know, Simon, Dominikova’s son, is taken with Nastka!”
“His mother will forbid him. There are only three acres of land at Nastka’s, and ten mouths to feed.”
“That’s why she keeps strict watch and drives them apart when she finds them together.”
“Is the Voyt here?”
“He is.—Talking a great deal, and—together with Ambrose—making the company laugh.”
“And why not, being at so great a wedding, and with so great a man?—Do you know anything of Antek’s doings?”
“Ah, I ran over to him at dusk, with cake and meat and bread for the little ones. But he turned me out, and threw the things after me. He is very resolute; and fierce. Oh, so fierce! And there is wailing and misery in their hovel. Hanka is always quarrelling with her sister, and they have well-nigh come to blows.”
He made no reply, but breathed somewhat harder.
“Yuzka,” he said after a while, “the mare!—I hear her moaning. Since evening she has been lying down: she must be near foaling-time, and ought to be looked after. Prepare a mash for her.—Hark how she moans! And I cannot help at all, so weak I feel—quite helpless!”
He was worn out, and said no more for a while, seeming to be asleep.
Yuzka rose and went out in a hurry.
“Ces, Ces, Ces!” he called to the mare, as he woke suddenly.
The mare uttered a low whinny, and tugged at her halter till the chain clanked again.
“So then, once in my life at least, I shall eat and be filled! Aye, and you too, good dog, shall get your share: no need to whine.”
He attempted once more to swallow some sausage, but quite in vain: it stuck in his throat.
“Lord, Lord, such heaps of food … and I cannot so much as eat one mouthful!”
Yes, it was utterly useless: he could not. His hand fell powerless, and, still grasping the meat, he put it underneath the straw of his bed.
“So much! Never so much yet! And all for nothing!”—He felt rather sore.
“But let me rest a little now; and later, when I can eat, the feast shall begin.”
He was just as unable afterwards, and slipped off into a coma, still holding the sausage, and unaware that Lapa was stealthily gnawing at it.
Suddenly his senses returned.—The supper was over, and such a blast of music burst on his ears from over the yard, that the stable-walls vibrated, and the frightened fowls fell a-cackling on their roosts.
The dance was in full and boisterous swing—and the laughter and the frolic and the fun. Again and again the trampling of feet resounded, and the shrill cries of the lasses pierced the night.
At first, Kuba gave ear; but presently he became oblivious of all things. A drowsiness seized upon him, and carried him off into, as it were, a clangorous darkness, as though beneath swift swirling murmurous waters. But when the dance grew noisier, and the tumult and hubbub of the stamping heels seemed about to beat all to shivers, he stirred slightly: his soul peered up out of the dungeon where it lay; roused from oblivion, coming back from infinite distances, it listened.
At such times, Kuba would endeavour to eat a little, or whispered low, but from the heart:
“Ceska, Ces, Ces!”
And now at last his soul was slowly withdrawing—winging its way through the universal frame of things. A new-fledged bird divine, it fluttered around uncertainly at first, unable to soar, and at times with a revival of attachment to that sacred earth, its body, where it fain would rest from the weariness of flight, and craved to soothe the pangs of bereavement in the haunts of men. Back it went on earth amongst his own, its loved ones, calling sorrowfully to its brethren, and imploring their aid: but after a time, strengthened by the Divine power and mercy, it was enabled to soar on high, even unto those mysterious fields of endless spring, those infinite unbounded fallows which God has made beautiful with everlasting sunbeams and eternal joy.
And higher yet it flew, and higher, yet higher, higher—yea, till it set its feet—
Where man can hear no longer the voice of lamentation, nor the mournful discords of all things that breathe—
Where only fragrant lilies exhale balmy odours, where fields of flowers in bloom waft honey-sweet scents athwart the air; where starry rivers roll over beds of a million hues; where night comes never at all—
Where silent prayers go up forever, like smoke of incense, in odoriferous clouds; and the bells tinkle, and the organ plays softly; and the ransomed people—Angels and Saints together—sing the Lord’s praises in the Holy Church, the divine and lasting City!
Yes, worn out and longing to be at rest, thither did the soul of Kuba fly away!
But in the house they all were dancing—enjoying themselves with the heartiest mirth and the best goodwill. Better still than the evening before, the good cheer being dealt out more generously, and the hosts more pressing. And so they danced till they could dance no more.
The place was in commotion, like a cauldron set upon a great fire. Did the enjoyment show any signs of flagging, at once the band set to with renewed zeal; and the guests, like a field
