“They have turned me out! They have driven me forth! Like a dog! Out into the world, the wide, wide world! Whither shall I go now—bereft of all—oh, whither?”
“You swine, you swine, scream not thus at me!” cried a voice from the open entrance-passage; “or I’ll take a stick, and make you hold your peace pretty quickly. Begone this instant, and betake you to your Franek, you jade!—Ah, how are you, Hanka? … My dear, this business you see was to be expected since autumn. And I pleaded with that wench, I talked to her, implored, watched over her; but who can guard a wanton? When we all were sleeping, out she would go a-walking … and has walked so well that now she has a bastard for her pains!—How often did I say: ‘Magda, take care; consider: the man will never marry you’ … and she would declare to my face that she had naught to do with him! And when I saw the creature changing form and swelling like leavened dough, I said to her: ‘Go to some other hamlet, hide yourself, ere people see your shame.’ Did she listen? No.—And today, while milking in the byre, she was taken with great pangs and upset the milking-pail; and my girl Franka ran to me in a fright, crying out that something had befallen Magda. Good Lord! such a disgrace, and in my house!—Take yourself off now, or I’ll have you cast out on to the road!” she cried again, coming out in front of the house.
Magda left the cabin wall and, with many a sob and moan, set to making all her things into a bundle.
“Do come in now; it is cold.—But you! leave no trace behind you!” shouted the dame, as she went in.
She led Hanka in through a long passage.
There was a very large low room, lit by a big fire that burned bright on an open hearth. Red as boiled crayfish, the organist, in his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows, sat baking altar-breads at the fire. Every now and then he dipped a ladle into a dish of thin half-liquid paste, and poured the contents into a cast-iron mould, which he then closed, squeezing it till the hot paste hissed.23 He then placed it on the fire, supporting it on an upright brick set there, and, opening and turning it round, took out the newly baked bread, which he cast upon a low bench just by. Here sat a little boy, trimming the edges of each of the oblong loaves with scissors.
Hanka greeted them all, and kissed the hand of the organist’s wife.
“Sit down and warm yourself.—And now, what news?”
Unable to find at once the words she wanted, and feeling ashamed, she gave a timid side-glance into the other room, where, opposite the door, and on a long table, stood a white pile of altar-breads, pressed down with a board. A couple of girls were making them into packets, each tied with a paper wrapper for distribution. From the unseen portion of the room came the monotonous tinklings of a harpsichord twangling under some unknown performer’s fingers—and suddenly breaking off with a jarring discord that gave Hanka gooseflesh and made the organist exclaim:
“There, there—quite wrong: you’ve ‘eaten a fox!’—Repeat from ‘Laudamus pueri.’ ”
“Are you making these for Christmas already?” she asked, feeling it would be discourteous to sit silent.
“We are. The parish is big and straggling; and, as all the altar-breads have to be taken round before Christmas, we must begin betimes.”
“Are they of pure wheat?”
“Pray taste them.”
She gave her one that was still hot from the mould.
“I scarcely dare to eat of it.” She took it with a corner of her apron, holding it up to the light with awed and respectful scrutiny.
“Why, what curious designs are stamped upon it!”
“On that first circle, to the right, you see our Blessed Lady, St. John, and our Lord. On the other there is the manger, the rack, the cattle, the Child on its couch of hay, St. Joseph, and again our Lady; and here are the Three Wise Men, kneeling.” Such were the explanations of the organist’s wife.
“Yes, yes; I see.—Oh, how wonderfully these designs are made!”
She wrapped the altar-bread in a kerchief and put it in her bosom.—A peasant had entered and told the organist something; at which he cried:
“Michael! They have come for a christening: take the key and go to the church. His Reverence knows and will come, but Ambrose must stay to serve the company.”
The harpsichord became mute, and a tall pale lad passed out of the room.
“My brother’s orphan boy. Practises to learn playing with my husband, who teaches him gratis. We must make a sacrifice, and do something for our own flesh and blood.”
Little by little, Hanka became more communicative, and at last brought out the story of her sufferings and troubles, though piecemeal and with much hesitation. It was the first time she had been able to speak openly of all that had passed.
They listened and talked to her with sympathy; and though they took good care not to mention Boryna’s name, they showed her so much sincere compassion that it made her weep very copiously. Now the organist’s wife, being a clever intelligent woman, understood what Hanka wanted, and came out the first with a proposal.
“Listen: you may perhaps have a little spare time.—Would you spin some wool for me? I thought I would get it done by Pakulina, but ’tis better you should do it.”
“May God reward you! I was indeed in want of work, but durst not ask for it.”
“Well, well, no thanks: folk ought to help their neighbours. The wool is carded, and weighs about a hundred pounds.”
“Yes, I shall spin it, and am well able. Why, when with my parents, I not only spun thread but wove cloth and
