“Father, you will light the fire, and take care of the babes.—Should Antek come back, there is cabbage for him in the saucepan on the hob.”
“Yes, yes, Hanka, I shall see to everything.—The cabbage is on the hob; yes, I shall see, I shall see to it.”
“Ah!—About the rope-money, I have taken it. You do not want it, surely? You have food to eat; you have clothing. … What more do you need?”
“Yes, Hanka, yes; I have everything—everything,” he replied in a low voice, turning quickly round to the children, lest she should see his tears fall.
As she went out, the cold gripped her. A bluish darkness was spreading on every side, dry and peculiarly transparent. The sky was clear as crystal, with unclouded horizon, and a few stars already twinkling on high.
On her way, Hanka mused. She thought she would try to find some sort of work that Antek could do, and not let him go away.—But now his last utterance came back to her, and made her faint with alarm. For never in her life could she leave her village to live elsewhere; no, never could she abide among strange folk!
She gazed on the road, the houses scattered along it, the orchards scarce seen above the snow, and the immense fields all around, now growing grey in the twilight. The silent ice-cold evening fell faster and faster: star after star came out, as if someone up there was sowing them by handfuls; and upon the glimmering earth, glimmering in snowy-white expanses, the cabin lights began to shine, smoke shed its scent through the air, men went slowly about the ways, and voices seemed skimming very low along the ground.
“All this has grown into me, is part of me; and I will not stray about the world like a wandering wind. Oh, no!” she said with energy to herself, walking now somewhat slower; for from time to time she met with caked snow that broke and let her in up to the knees.
“This is the world which our Lord has given me—mine! Here will I live and here will I die.—If we can but hold out till the spring! … Say that Antek refuses to do any work. Well, I shall not be forced to beg. I will take up spinning—or weaving—or anything I can turn my hand to, and not let misery conquer me. Veronka, I know, earns enough by her weaving to put money by.”
Such were her thoughts as she entered the tavern, where Yankel was as usual nodding over a book. He paid no attention to her till she set the money before him; then he smiled in friendly wise, helped her to reckon the sum right, and even offered her some vodka. But he said no word to her either of Antek’s debt to him or of the man himself, until she was about to depart; when he asked her what her husband was doing.
She replied that he was seeking work.
“He would be useful in the village. They are putting up a sawmill here, and I need someone experienced in carting timber.”
“My husband would never go into tavern service.”
“Is he such a great man as that? Then let him slumber and sleep!—But ye have some geese: if ye will, fatten them a little, and I will purchase them when yuletide comes.”
“I cannot sell any; I have but enough for breeding.”
“Then buy some goslings for the spring; as soon as they are well fed up, I’ll take them. And if you care, you may have all on credit here, and you will pay me in geese.—A running account. …”
“No, I shall not sell any geese.”
“Oh, but you will, when the money from your cow is gone … and sell them cheap, too!”
“Scurvy one! you’ll not live to see the day!” was her mental comment as she went out.
The air was so frosty now, it made the nostrils tingle. The heavens were scintillating, and a bleak piercing blast blew from the woods. Nevertheless, she kept her course right in the middle of the road, gazing with interest at all the cabins. Vahnik’s, next the church, had all the candles lit; from Ploshka’s enclosure came a hum of voices and the squealing of swine; at the priest’s, the windows shone bright, and several horses pawed the ground impatiently in front of his veranda; at the Klembas’, too, opposite the priest’s, lights were gleaming, and you could tell, by the crackling of the crunched snow, that someone was going to the byre. Further, in front of the church, where the village forked out and seemed stretching forth two arms that clasped the pond in their embrace, but little met the eye beyond a few lights on a dusky white background, in which dogs were heard to bark.
Heaving a sigh as she glanced over at her father-in-law’s cabin, she turned off from before the church to pass between two long fences that separated Klemba’s orchard from the priest’s garden, and together formed a road leading to the organist’s. This was little trodden and so much overshadowed with underwood on either side, that ever and anon showers of snow fell on her from the trees she brushed against.
The dwelling was situated in the background of the priest’s courtyard, and had no other separate cartway.
Hanka was presently aware of an outcry and the sound of sobbing, and beheld outside the entrance a black box and various
