'I will do whatever you tell me, Soltys,' said Maciek, embracing his knees, 'even if you should send me to my death.'

'It is no use tracking near here,' said the Soltys, 'we know all about that, but it would be useful to know where the other track leads to. Follow that as far as you can, and if you find any clue let me know at once. You ought to be back here by to-morrow.'

'And shall we find the horses?'

'We shall find them even if we had to drag them out of the thieves' bowels,' said the Soltys, looking fierce.

It was about two o'clock when Maciek was ready to start. The Soltys hinted that the child had better be left behind, but his wife was so angry at the suggestion that he desisted. So Maciek tied her up again in the old bits of clothing and went his way.

He easily found Kasztan's tracks on the highroad and followed them for an hour, when he thought that he must be nearing the thieves' quarters, for the tracks had been covered up, and finally led into the ravines. The frost was pinching harder and harder, but the breathless man scarcely noticed the cold. From time to time clouds flew over the sky and snow drifted along the ground in gusts; Maciek searched all the more eagerly, so as not to miss the track before it should be covered with fresh drifts. On and on he walked, never even noticing that darkness was coming on and the snow was falling faster.

Now and then he would sit down for a moment, too tired to go on, but he jumped up again, for he fancied he heard Kasztan neighing. Probably it was his aching head that produced these sounds, but at last they became so loud that he left the track and cut right across the hill in the direction from which they seemed to proceed. With his last remaining strength he struggled with the bushes, fell, scrambled to his feet, and continued. Then the neighing ceased and he found that he was in the ravines, knee-deep in snow, and night-was falling.

With difficulty he dragged himself on to a knoll to see where he was. He could see nothing but snow—snow to the right and to the left, here and there intercepted by bushes, the last streak of light had faded from the sky.

He tried to descend; in one place the slope was too steep, in another there were too many bushes; at last he decided on an easier place and put his stick forward; it gave way, and he fell after it for several yards. It was fortunate that the snow lay waist-deep in this spot.

The frightened child began its low sobbing, it had always been too weak to cry heartily. Fear was knocking at Maciek's heart.

'Surely, I can't have lost my way?' he thought, 'these are our ravines that I know so well, yet I don't see my way out of them.'

He started walking again, alternately in low and deep snow, until he came upon a place that had been trodden down recently. He knelt down and felt the tracks with his hands. They were his own footprints.

'Dear me! I've been going round in a circle,' he muttered, and tried another corridor of ravines which presently led him to the place where he had slid down the hill. He fancied he heard murmurings overhead and looked up, but it was only the rustling of the bushes. The wind had sprung up on the hillside and was driving before it clouds of fine snow which stung his face and hands like gnats.

'Can it be that my hour has come?' he thought; 'No, no,' he whispered, 'not till I have found the horses, else they will take me for a thief.' He wrapped the child more closely in the coverings; she had fallen asleep in spite of shaking and discomfort; he walked about aimlessly, so as to keep moving.

'I won't be a fool and sit down,' he muttered, 'if I sit down I shall be frozen, and the thieves will keep the horses.'

The hard snow fell faster and faster, whitening Maciek from head to foot; the wind swept along the top of the hills, and as he listened to it, the man was glad that he had not been caught in the open.

'It's quite warm here,' he said, 'but all the same I'm not going to sit down, I must keep on walking till the morning.'

But it was not yet midnight and Maciek's legs began to refuse obedience, he could no longer push away the snow with his feet; he stopped and stamped, but that was even more tiring; he leant against the sides of the little cavity. The spot was excellent; it was raised above the ravine, and the little hollow was just large enough to hold a man; bushes sheltered it against the snow on all sides. But the crowning advantage was a jutting piece of rock, about the size of a stool.

'No, I won't sit down,' he determined, 'I know I should get frozen.... It's true,' he added after a while, 'it would not do to go to sleep, but it can't hurt to sit down for a bit.'

He boldly sat down, drew his cap over his ears and the clothes round the sleeping child, and decided that he would alternately rest and stamp, and so await the morning.

'So long as I don't go to sleep,' he kept on reminding himself. He fancied the air was getting a little warmer and his feet were thawing. Instead of the cold he felt ants creeping under the soles of his feet. They crept in among his toes, swarmed over his injured leg, then over the other, and reached his knees. In a mysterious way one had suddenly settled on his nose; he wanted to flick it off, but a whole swarm was sitting on his arms. He decided not to drive them away, for in the first place they were keeping him awake, and then he rather liked them. He smiled, as one reached his waist, and did not ask how they came to be there. It was not surprising that there should be ant-hills in the ravines, and he forgot that it was winter.

'So long as I don't go to sleep...so long as I don't go to sleep....' But at last he asked himself 'Why am I not to go to sleep? It's night and I am in the stable? The thieves might be coming, that's it!'

He grasped his stick more firmly; whispers seemed to be stirring all round.

'Oho! they are opening the stable door, there is the snow, this time I will give it to them....'

The thieves must have found out that he was on the watch this time and made off. Maciek laughed; now he could go to sleep. He straightened his back, pressed the little girl close.

'Just a moment's sleep,' he reminded himself, 'I've something to do, but what is it? Ploughing? no, that's done. Water the horses.. the horses....'

After midnight the moon dispersed the clouds and the new moon peeped out and looked straight into the sleeper's face: but the man did not move. Fresh clouds came up and hid the moon, yet he did not move. He sat in the hollow of the hill, his head leaning against its side, the child clasped to his breast.

At last the sun rose, but even then he did not move. He seemed to be gazing in astonishment at the railway line, not more than twenty steps away from his resting place.

The sun was high when a signalman came along the permanent way. He caught sight of the sleeper and shouted, but there was no answer, and the man approached.

'Heh, father! have you been drinking?' he called out, as he went round the hollow at a distance. At last, hardly believing his eyes, he went up to the silent sitter and touched his hand.

Maciek's and the child's faces were hard, as if they had been cast in wax, hoarfrost lay on his lashes, and frozen moisture stood on the child's lips. The signalman's arms dropped in astonishment; he wanted to call for help, but remembered that no one would hear him. He turned and ran at full speed to the Soltys' office.

In the course of an hour or two a sledge with some men arrived to remove the bodies. But Maciek's was frozen so hard that it was impossible to open his arms or straighten his legs, so they put him in the sledge as he was. He went for his last drive with the child on his knees, his head resting against the rail, and his face turned upwards, as though he had done with human reckoning and was recounting his wrongs to his Creator.

When the mournful procession stopped, a small crowd of peasants, women, and Jews gathered in front of the Wojt's office. The Wojt, his clerk, and Grochowski were standing together. A shudder of remorse seized the latter, he guessed who the man and child were that had been found, frozen to death. He explained to the crowd what Maciek had told him.

When he had finished, the men turned away, the women groaned, the Jews spat on the ground; only Jasiek, the son of the rich peasant Gryb, lighted an expensive cigar and smiled. He put his hands in the pockets of his sheepskin coat, stuck out first one foot, then the other, to display his elegant top-boots that reached above his knees, sucked his cigar, and continued to smile. The men looked at him with aversion, but the women, although shocked, did not think him repulsive. Was he not a tall, broadshouldered, graceful lad, with a complexion like milk and blood, and eyes the colour of a bluebottle, and did he not trim his moustaches and beard like a nobleman? It was a pity he was not a foreman with plenty of opportunities of ordering the girls about! The men, however, were whispering among themselves that he was a scoundrel who would come to a bad end.

'Certainly it was wrong of Slimak to send the poor wretch away in such weather,' said the Wojt.

'It was a shame,' murmured the women.

'It's only natural he should be angry when his horses had been stolen,' said one of the men.

'Driving him away did not bring the horses back, and he will have the two poor souls on his conscience till he dies,' cried an old woman.

Grochowski was seized with shuddering again.

'It was not so much that Slimak drove him away, but that he himself was anxious to go,' he said quickly, 'he wanted to track the thieves;' here he gave a quick glance at Jasiek, who returned it insolently, and observed that horse-thieves were sharp, and more people might meet their death in tracking them.

'They may find that there is a limit to it,' said Grochowski.

The policeman now proceeded to examine the corpses, and the Wojt was standing by with a wry face, as if he had bitten on a peppercorn.

'We must drive them to the district police-court,' he said; 'Stojka,' turning to the owner of the sledge, 'drive on, we will overtake you presently. This is the first time that any one in this parish has ever been frozen to death.'

Stojka demurred and scratched his head, but he took up the reins and lashed the horses; after all, it was only a few versts, and one need not look much at the passengers. He walked by the side of the sledge and Grochowski and a man who was to make closer acquaintance with the police-court, for spoiling his neighbour's bucket, went with him.

It so happened that, just as the Wojt was dispatching the bodies to the police-court, the police officer was sending 'Silly Zoska' back to her native village. A few months after leaving her child in Maciek's care she had been arrested; the reason was unknown to her. As a matter of fact she had been accused of begging, vagrancy, and attempted arson. After the discovery of each new crime, they had taken her from police- station to prison, from prison to infirmary, from infirmary to another prison, and so on for a whole year.

During her peregrinations Zoska had behaved with complete indifference; when she was taken to a new place she would worry at first whether she would find work. After that she became apathetic and slept the greater part of the time, on her plank bed, or waiting in corridors and prison-yards. It was all the same to her. At times she began to long for freedom and her child, and then she fell into accesses of fury. Now they were sending her back under escort of two peasants; one carried the papers relating to her case, and the other had come to keep him company. She had a boot on one foot and a sandal on the other, a sukmana in holes, and a handkerchief like a sieve on her head. She walked quickly in front of the men, as if she were in a hurry to get back, yet neither the familiar neighbourhood nor the hard frost seemed to make any impression on her. When the men called out: 'Heh! not so fast!' she stood as still as a post, and waited till they told her to go on.

'She's quite daft!' said one.

'She's always been like that,' said the other, who had known her a long time, 'yet she's not bad at rough work.'

A few versts from the village, where the chimneys peeped out from beyond the snowy hills, they came upon the little cortge. The attendants, noticing something unusual in the look of it, stopped and talked to the Soltys.

'Look, Zoska,' said the latter to the woman who was standing by indifferently, 'that is your little girl.'

She approached without seeming to understand; slowly, however, her face acquired a human expression.

'What's fallen upon them?'

'They have been frozen.'

'Why have they been frozen?'

'Slimak drove them out of the house.'

'Slimak drove them out of the house?' she repeated, fingering the bodies, 'yes, that's my little girl, she's grown a bit; whoever heard of a child being frozen to death?... she was meant to come to a bad end. As God loves me, yes, that's my girl, my little girl—they've murdered her; look at her!' she suddenly became animated.

'Drive on,' said the Soltys, 'we must be getting on.'

The horses started, Zoska tried to get into the sledge.

'What are you doing?' cried her attendants, pulling her back.

'That's my little girl!' cried Zoska, holding on.

'What if she is yours?' said the Soltys, 'there's one road for you and another for her.'

'She's my little girl, mine!' With both hands the woman held on to the sledge, but the peasant whipped up the horses and she fell to the ground; she grasped the runners and was dragged along for several yards.

'Don't behave like a lunatic,' cried the men, detaching her with difficulty from the fast-moving sledge; she would have run after it, but one of them knelt on her feet and the other held her by the shoulders.

'She's my little girl; Slimak has let her freeze to death.... God punish him, may he freeze to death himself!' she screamed.

Gradually, as the sledge moved away, she calmed down, her livid face assumed its copper colour, and her eyes became dull. She fell back into her old apathy.

'She's forgotten all about it,' said one of her companions.

'These lunatics are often happier than other people,' answered the friend. Then they walked on in silence. Nothing was heard but the creaking snow under their feet.



CHAPTER X

The loss of his horses had almost driven Slimak crazy. Beating Maciek and kicking him out had not exhausted his anger. He felt the room oppressive, walked out into the yard and ran up and down with clenched fists and bloodshot eyes, waiting for a chance to vent his temper.

He remembered that he ought to feed the cows and went into the stable, where he pushed the animals about, and when one clumsily trod on his foot, he seized a fork and beat her mercilessly. He kicked Burek's body behind the barn. 'You damned dog, if you had not taken bread from strangers, I should still have my horses!'

He returned to the room and threw himself on the bench with such violence that he upset the block for wood-chopping. Jendrek laughed, but his father unbuckled his belt and did not stop beating him till the boy crept, bleeding, under the bench. With the belt in his hand Slimak waited for his wife to make a remark. But she remained silent, only holding on to the chimney-piece for support.

'What makes you stagger? Haven't you got over yesterday's vodka?'

'Something's wrong with me,' she answered low.

He decided to strap on his belt. 'What's wrong?'

'I can't see, and there's a noise in my ears. Is any one whistling?'

'Don't drink vodka and you'll hear no noises,' he said, spitting, and went out. It surprised him that she had made no remark after the thrashing he had given Jendrek, and having no one to beat, he seized an axe and chopped wood until nightfall, eating nothing all day. Logs and splinters fell round him, he felt as if he were revenging himself on his enemies, and when he left off, stiff and tired, his shirt soaked with perspiration, his anger had gone from him.

He was surprised to find no one in the room and peeped into the alcove; Slimakowa was lying on the bed.

'What's the matter'

'I'm not well, but it's nothing.'

'The fire has gone out.'

'Out?' she asked vaguely, raising herself. She got up and lighted the fire with difficulty, her husband watching her.

'You see,' he said presently, 'you got hot yesterday and then you would drink water out of the Jew's pewter pot and unbutton your jacket. You have caught cold.'

'It's nothing,' she said ill-humouredly, pulled herself together and warmed up the supper. Jendrek crept out and took a spoon, but cried instead of eating.

During the night, at about the hour when the unhappy Maciek was drawing his last breath in the ravines, Slimakowa was seized with violent fits of shivering. Slimak covered her with his sheepskin and it passed off. She got up in the morning, and although she complained of pains, she went about her work. Slimak was depressed.

Towards evening a sledge stopped at the gate and the innkeeper Josel entered with a strange expression on his face. Slimak's conscience pricked him.

'The Lord be praised,' said Josel.

'In Eternity.'

A silence ensued.

'You have nothing to ask?' said the Jew.

'What should I have to ask?' Slimak looked into his eyes and involuntarily grew pale.

'To-morrow,' Josel said slowly, 'to-morrow Jendrek's trial is coming on for violence to Hermann.'

'They'll do nothing to him.'

'I expect he will have to sit in jail for a bit.'

'Then let him sit, it will cure him of fighting.'

Again silence fell. The Jew shook his head; Slimak's alarm grew.

He screwed up his courage at last and asked: 'What else?'

'What's the use of making many words?' said the Jew, holding up his hands, 'Maciek and the child have been frozen to death.'

Slimak sprang to his feet and looked for something to throw at the Jew, but staggered and held on to the wall. A hot wave rushed over him, his legs shook. Then he wondered why he should have been seized with fear like this.

'Where...when?'

'In the ravines close to the railway line.'

'But when?'

'You know quite well that it was yesterday when you drove them out.' Slimak's anger was rising.

'As I live! the Jew is a liar! Frozen to death? What did he go to the ravines for? are there no cottages in the world?'

The innkeeper shrugged his shoulders and got up.

'You can believe it or not, it's all the same to me, but I myself saw them being driven to the police-station.'

'Ah well! What harm can they do to me, because Maciek has been frozen?'

'Perhaps men can't do you harm, but, man, before God! or don't you believe in God?' the Jew asked from the other side of the door, his burning eyes fixed on Slimak.

The peasant stood still and listened to his heavy tread down to the gate and to the sound of his departing sledge. He shook himself, turned round and met Jendrek's eyes looking fixedly at him from the far corner.

'Why should I be to blame?' he muttered. Suddenly an annual sermon, preached by an old priest, flashed through his mind; he seemed to hear the peculiar cadence of his voice as he said: 'I was an hungered and ye gave me no meat.... I was a stranger and ye took me not in.'

'By God, the Jew is lying,' he exclaimed. These words seemed to break the spell; he felt sure Maciek and the child were alive, and he almost went out to call them in to supper.

'A low Jew, that Josel,' he said to his wife, while he covered her again with the sheepskin, when her shivering-fits returned. Nothing should induce him to believe that story.

Next day the village Soltys drove up with the summons for Jendrek.

'His trial does not come on till to-morrow,' he said, 'but as I was driving that way, I thought he might as well come with me.'

Jendrek grew pale and silently put on his new sukmana and sheepskin.

'What will they do to him?' his father asked peevishly.

'Eh! I dare say he'll get a few days, perhaps a week.'

Slimak slowly pulled a rouble out of a little packet.

'And...Soltys, have you heard what the accursed Jew has been saying about Maciek and the child being frozen to death?'

'How shouldn't I have heard?' said the Soltys, reluctantly; 'it's true.'

'Frozen...frozen?'

'Yes, of course. But,' he added, 'every one understands that it's not your fault. He didn't look after the horses and you discharged him. No one told him to go down into the ravines.

He must have been drunk. The poor wretch died through his own stupidity.'

Jendrek was ready to start, and embraced his parents' knees. Slimak gave him the rouble, tears came into his eyes; his mother, however, showed no sign of interest.

'Jagna,' Slimak said with concern, 'Jendrek is going to his trial.'

'What of that?' she answered with a delirious look.

'Are you very ill?'

'No, I'm only weak.'

She went into the alcove and Slimak remained alone. The longer he sat pondering the lower his head dropped on to his chest. Half dozing, he fancied he was sitting on a wide, grey plain, no bushes, no grass, not even stones were to be seen; there was nothing in front of him; but at his side there was something he dared not look at. It was Maciek with the child looking steadily at him.

No, he would not look, he need not look! He need see nothing of him, except a little bit of his sukmana...perhaps not even that!

The thought of Maciek was becoming an obsession. He got up and began to busy himself with the dishes.

'What am I coming to? It doesn't do to give way!'

He pulled himself together, fed the cattle, ran to the river for water. It was so long since he had done these things that he felt rejuvenated, and but for the thought of Maciek he would have been almost cheerful.

His gloom returned with the dusk. It was the silence that tormented him most. Nothing stirred but the mice behind the boards. The voice was haunting him again: 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in.'

'It's all the fault of those scoundrel Swabians that everything is going wrong with me,' he muttered, and began to count his losses on the window-pane: 'Stasiek, that's one, the cow two, the horses four, because the thieves did that out of spite for the hog, Burek five, Jendrek six, Maciek and the child eight, and Magda had to leave, and my wife is ill with worry, that makes ten. Lord Christ...!'

Trembling seized him and he gripped his hair; he had never in his life felt fear like this, though he had looked death in the face more than once. He had suddenly caught a glimpse of the power the Germans were exercising, and it scared him. They had destroyed all his life's work, and yet you could not bring it home to them. They had lived like others, ploughed, prayed, taught their children; you could not say they were doing any wrong, and yet they had made his home desolate simply by being there. They had blasted what was near them as smoke from a kiln withers all green things.

Not until this moment had the thought ever come to him: 'I am too close to them! The gospodarstwos farther off do not suffer like this. What good is the land, if the people on it die?'

This new aspect was so horrible to him that he felt he must escape from it; he glanced at his wife, she was asleep. The cadence of the priest's voice began to haunt him again.

Steps were approaching through the yard. The peasant straightened himself. Could it be Jendrek? The door creaked. No, it was a strange hand that groped along the wall in the darkness. He drew back, and his head swam when the door opened and Zoska stood on the threshold.

For a moment both stood silent, then Zoska said:

'Be praised.'

She began rubbing her hands over the fire.

The idea of Maciek and the child and Zoska had become confused in Slimak's mind; he looked at her as if she were an apparition from the other world. 'Where do you come from?' His voice was choked.

'They sent me back to the parish and told me to look out for work. They said they wouldn't keep loafers.'

Seeing the food in the saucepan, she began to lick her lips like a dog.

'Pour out a basin of soup for yourself.'

She did as she was told.

'Don't you want a servant?' she asked presently.

'I don't know; my wife is ill.'

'There you are! It's quiet here. Where's Magda?'

'Left.'

'Jendrek?'

'Sent up for trial.'

'There you are! Stasiek?'

'Drowned last summer,' he whispered, fearful lest Maciek's and the little girl's turn should come next.

But she ate greedily like a wild animal, and asked nothing further.

'Does she know?' he thought.

Zoska had finished and struck her hand cheerfully on her knee. He took courage.

'Can I stop the night?'

Uneasiness seized him; any other guest would have been a blessing in his solitude, but Zoska.... If she did not know the truth, what ill wind had blown her here? And if she knew?...'

He reflected. In the intense silence suddenly the priest's voice started again: 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in.'

'All right, stop here, but you must sleep in this room.'

'Or in the barn?'

'No, here.'

He hardly knew what it was that he feared; there was a vague sense of misfortune in the air which was tormenting him.

The fire died down. Zoska lay down on the bench in her rags and Slimak went into the alcove. He sat on the bed, determined to be on the watch. He did not know that this strange state of mind is called 'nerves'. Yet a kind of relief had come in with Zoska; she had driven away the spectre of Maciek and the child. But an iron ring was beginning to press on his head. This was sleep, heavy sleep, the companion of great anguish. He dreamt that he was split in two; one part of him was sitting by his sick wife, the other was Maciek, standing outside the window, where sunflowers bloomed in the summer. This new Maciek was unlike the old one, he was gloomy and vindictive.

'Don't believe,' said the strange guest, 'that I shall forgive you. It's not so much that I got frozen, that might happen to anyone the worse for drink, but you drove me away for no fault of mine after I had served you so long. And what harm had the child done to you? Don't turn away! Pass judgment on yourself for what you have done. God will not let these wrongs be done and keep silent.'

'What shall I say?' thought Slimak, bathed in perspiration. 'He is telling the truth, I am a scoundrel. He shall fix the punishment, perhaps he will get it over quickly.'

His wife moved and he opened his eyes, but closed them again. A rosy brightness filled the room, the frost glittered in flowers on the window panes. 'Daylight?' he thought.

No, it was not daylight, the rosy brightness trembled. A smell of burning was heavy in the room.

'Fire?'

He looked into the room; Zoska had disappeared.

'I knew it!' he exclaimed, and ran out into the yard.

His house was indeed on fire; the roof towards the highroad was alight, but owing to the thick layers of snow the flames spread but slowly; he could still have saved the house, but he did not even think of this.

'Get up, Jagna,' he cried, running back into the alcove, 'the house is on fire!'

'Leave me alone,' said the delirious woman, covering her head with the sheepskin. He seized her and, stumbling over the threshold, carried her into the shed, fetched her clothes and bedding, broke open the chest and took out his money; finally he threw everything he could lay hands on out of the window. Here was at least something tangible to fight. The whole roof was now ablaze; smoke and flames were coming into the room from the boarded ceiling. He was dragging the bench through the brightly illuminated yard when he happened to look at the barn; he stood petrified. Flames were licking at it, and there stood Zoska shaking her clenched fist at him and shouting: 'That's my thanks to you, Slimak, for taking care of my child, now you shall die as she did!'

She flew out of the yard and up the hill; he could see her by the light of the fire, dancing and clapping her hands.

'Fire, fire!' she shouted.

Slimak reeled like a wild animal after the first shot. Then he slowly went towards the barn and sat down, not thinking of seeking help. This was the beginning of the divine punishment for the wrong he had done.

'We shall all die!' he murmured.

Both buildings were burning like pillars of fire, and in spite of the frost Slimak felt hot in the shed. Suddenly shouts and clattering came from the settlement; the Germans were coming to his assistance. Soon the yard was swarming with them, men, women and children with hand- fire-engines and buckets. They formed into groups, and at Fritz Hamer's command began to pull down the burning masses and to put out the fire. Laughing and emulating each other in daring, they went into the fire as into a dance; some of the most venturesome climbed up the walls of the burning buildings. Zoska approached once more from the side of the ravines.

'Never mind the Germans helping you, you will die all the same,' she cried.

'Who is that?' shouted the settlers, 'catch her!'

But Zoska was too quick for them.

'I suppose it was she who set fire to your house?' asked Fritz.

'No one else but she.'

Fritz was silent for a moment.

'It would be better for you to sell us the land.'

The peasant hung his head....

The barn could not be saved, but the walls of the cottage were still standing; some of the people were busy putting out the fire, others surrounded the sick woman.

'What are you going to do?' Fritz began again.

'We will live in the stable.'

The women whispered that they had better be taken to the settlement, but the men shook their heads, saying the woman might be infectious. Fritz inclined to this opinion and ordered her to be well wrapped up and taken into the stable.

'We will send you what you need,' he said.

'God reward you,' said Slimak, embracing his knees.

Fritz took Hermann aside.

'Drive full speed to Wolka,' he said, 'and fetch miller Knap; we may be able to settle this affair to-night.'

'It's high time we did,' replied the other, audibly, 'we shan't hold out till the spring unless we do.'

Fritz swore.

Nevertheless, he took leave benevolently. Bending over the sick woman he said: 'She is quite unconscious.'

But in a strangely decided voice she ejaculated: 'Ah! unconscious!'

He drew back in confusion. 'She is delirious,' he said.

At daybreak the Germans brought the promised help, but Slimak paced backwards and forwards among the ruins of his homestead, from which the smell of smouldering embers rose pungently. He looked at his household goods, tumbled into the yard. How many times had he sat on that bench and cut notches and crosses into it when a boy. That heap of smouldering ruins represented his storehouse and the year's crop. How small the cottage looked now that it was reduced to walls, and how large the chimney! He took out his money, hid it under a heap of dry manure in the stable and strolled about again. Up the hill he went, with a feeling that they were talking about him in the village and would come to his help. But there was no one to be seen on the boundless covering of snow; here and there smoke rose from the cottages.

His imagination, keener than usual, conjured up old pictures. He fancied he was harrowing on the hill with the two chestnuts who were whisking their tails under his nose; the sparrows were twittering, Stasiek gazing into the river; by the bridge his wife was beating the linen, he could hear the resounding smacks, while the squire's brother-in-law was wildly galloping up and down the valley. Jendrek and Magda were answering each other in snatches of songs....

Suddenly he was awakened from his dreams by the stench of his burnt cottage; he looked up, and everything he saw became abominable to him. The frozen river, into which his child would never gaze again; the empty, hideous homestead; he longed to escape from it all and go far away and forget Stasiek and Maciek and the whole accursed gospodarstwo. He could buy land more cheaply elsewhere with the money he would get from the Germans. What was the good of the land if it was ruining the people on it?

He went into the stable and lay down near his wife, who was moaning deliriously, and soon fell asleep.

At noon old Hamer appeared, accompanied by a German woman who carried two bowls of hot soup. He stood over Slimak and poked him with his stick.

'Hey, get up!'

Slimak roused himself and looked about heavily; seeing the hot food he ate greedily. Hamer sat down in the doorway, smoking his pipe and watching Slimak; he nodded contentedly to himself.

'I've been down to the village to ask Gryb and the other gospodarze to come and help you, for that is a Christian duty....'

He waited for the peasant's thanks, but Slimak went on eating and did not look at him.

'I told them they ought to take you in; but they said, God was punishing you for the death of the labourer and the child and they didn't wish to interfere. They are no Christians.'

Slimak had finished eating, but he remained silent.

'Well, what are you going to do?'

Slimak wiped his mouth and said: 'I shall sell.' Hamer poked his pipe with deliberation.

'To whom?'

'To you.'

Hamer again busied himself with his pipe.

'All right! I am willing to buy, as you have fallen upon bad times. But I can only give you seventy roubles.'

'You were giving a hundred not long ago.'

'Why didn't you take it?'

'That's true, why didn't I take it? Everyone profits as he can.'

'Have you never tried to profit?'

'I have.'

'Then will you take it?'

'Why shouldn't I take it?'

'We will settle the matter at my house to-night.'

'The sooner the better.'

'Well, since it is so,' Hamer added after a while, 'I will give you seventy-five roubles, and you shan't be left to die here. You and your wife can come to the school; you can spend the winter with us and I will give you the same pay as my own farm-labourers.'

Slimak winced at the word 'farm-labourer', but he said nothing.

'And your gospodarze,' concluded Hamer, 'are brutes. They will do nothing for you.'

Before sunset a sledge conveyed the unconscious woman to the settlement. Slimak remained, recovered his money from under the manure, collected a few possessions and milked the cows.

The dumb animals looked reproachfully at him and seemed to ask: 'Are you sure you have done the best you could, gospodarz?'

'What am I to do?' he returned, 'the place is unlucky, it is bewitched. Perhaps the Germans can take the spell away, I can't.'

He felt as if his feet were being held to the ground, but he spat at it. 'Much I have to be thankful to you for! Barren land, far from everybody so that thieves may profit!' He would not look back.

On the way he met two German farm-labourers, who had come to spend the night in the stable; as he passed them, they laughed.

'Catch me spending the winter with you scoundrels! I'm off directly the wife is well and the boy out of jail.'

A black shadow detached itself from the gate when he reached the settlement, 'Is that you, schoolmaster?'

'Yes. So you have consented after all to sell your land?'

Slimak was silent.

'Perhaps it's the best thing you can do. If you can't make much of it yourself, at least you can save others.' He looked round and lowered his voice. 'But mind you bargain well, for you are doing them a good turn. Miller Knap will pay cash down as soon as the contract has been signed and give his daughter to Wilhelm. Otherwise Hirschgold will turn the Hamers out at midsummer and sell the land to Gryb. They have a heavy contract with the Jew.'

'What? Gryb would buy the settlement?'

'Indeed he would. He is anxious to settle his son too, and Josel has been sniffing round for a month past. So there's your chance, bargain well.'

'Why, damn it,' said Slimak, 'I would rather have a hundred Germans than that old Judas.'

A door creaked and the schoolmaster changed the conversation. 'Come this way, your wife is in the schoolroom.'

'Is that Slimak?' Fritz called out.

'It is I.'

'Don't stay long with your wife, she is being looked after, and we want you at daybreak; you must sleep in the kitchen.'

The noise of loud conversation and clinking of glasses came from the back of the house, but the large schoolroom was empty, and only lighted by a small lamp. His wife was lying on a plank bed; a pungent smell of vinegar pervaded the room. That smell took the heart out of Slimak; surely his wife must be very ill! He stood over her; her eye-lashes twitched and she looked steadily at him.

'Is it you, Josef?'

'Who else should it be?'

Her hands moved about restlessly on the sheepskin; she said distinctly: 'What are you doing, Josef, what are you doing?'

'You see I am standing here.'

'Ah yes, you are standing there...but what are you doing? I know everything, never fear!'

'Go away, gospodarz,' hurriedly cried the old woman, pushing him towards the door, 'she is getting excited, it isn't good for her.'

'Josef!' cried Slimakowa, 'come back! Josef, I must speak to you!' The peasant hesitated.

'You are doing no good,' whispered the schoolmaster, 'she is rambling, she may go to sleep when you are out of sight.'

He drew Slimak into the passage, and Fritz Hamer at once took him to the further room.

Miller Knap and old Hamer were sitting at a brightly lighted table behind their beer mugs, blowing clouds of smoke from their pipes. The miller had the appearance of a huge sack of flour as he sat there in his shirtsleeves, holding a full pot of beer in his hand and wiping the perspiration off his forehead. Gold studs glittered in his shirt.

'Well, you are going to let us have your land at last?' he shouted.

'I don't know,' said the peasant in a low voice, 'maybe I shall sell it.' The miller roared with laughter.

'Wilhelm,' he bellowed, as if Wilhelm, who was officiating at the beer-barrel on the bench, were half a mile off, 'pour out some beer for this man. Drink to my health and I'll drink to yours, although you never used to bring me your corn to grind. But why didn't you sell us your land before?'

'I don't know,' said the peasant, taking a long pull.

'Fill up his glass,' shouted the miller, 'I will tell you why; it's because you don't know your own mind. Determination is what you want. I've said to myself: I will have a mill at Wolka, and a mill at Wolka I have, although the Jews twice set fire to it. I said: My son shall be a doctor, and a doctor he will be. And now I've said: Hamer, your son must have a windmill, so he must have a windmill. Pour out another glass, Wilhelm, good beer...eh? my son-in-law brews it. What? no more beer? Then we'll go to bed.'

Fritz pushed Slimak into the kitchen, where one of the farm-hands was asleep already. He felt stupefied; whether it was with the beer or with Knap's noisy conversation, he could not tell. He sat down on his plank bed and felt cheerful. The noise of conversation in German reached him from the adjoining room; then the Hamers left the house. Miller Knap stamped about the room for a while; presently his thick voice repeated the Lord's prayer while he was pulling off his boots and throwing them into a corner: 'Amen amen,' he concluded, and flung himself heavily upon the bed; a few moments later noises as if he were being throttled and murdered proclaimed that he was asleep.

The moon was throwing a feeble light through the small squares of the window.

Between waking and sleeping Slimak continued to meditate: 'Why shouldn't I sell? It's better to buy fifteen acres of land elsewhere, than to stay and have Jasiek Gryb as a neighbour. The sooner I sell, the better.' He got up as if he wished to settle the matter at once, laughed quietly to himself and felt more and more intoxicated.

Then he saw a human shadow outlined against the window pane; someone was trying to look into the room. The peasant approached the window and became sober. He ran into the passage and pulled the door open with trembling hands. Frosty air fanned his face. His wife was standing outside, still trying to look through the window.

'Jagna, for God's sake, what are you doing here? Who dressed you?'

'I dressed myself, but I couldn't manage my boots, they are quite crooked. Come home,' she said, drawing him by the hand.

'Where, home? Are you so ill that you don't know our home is burnt down? Where will you go on a bitter night like this?'

Hamer's mastiffs were beginning to growl. Slimakowa hung on her husband's arm. 'Come home, come home,' she urged stubbornly, 'I will not die in a strange house, I am a gospodyni, I will not stay here with the Swabians. The priests would not even sprinkle holy water on my coffin.'

She pulled him and he went; the dogs went after them for a while snapping at their clothes; they made straight for the frozen river, so as to reach their own nest the sooner. On the riverbank they stopped for a moment, the tired woman was out of breath.

'You have let yourself be tempted by the Germans to sell them your land! You think I don't know. Perhaps you will say it is not true?' she cried, looking wildly into his eyes. He hung his head.

'You traitor, you son of a dog!' she burst out. 'Sell your land! You would sell the Lord Jesus to the Jews! Tired of being a gospodarz, are you? What is Jendrek to do? And is a gospodyni to die in a stranger's house?'

She drew him into the middle of the frozen river. 'Stand here, Judas,' she cried, seizing him by the hands. 'Will you sell your land? Listen! Sell it, and God will curse you and the boy. This ice shall break if you don't give up that devil's thought! I won't give you peace after death, you shall never sleep! When you close your eyes I will come and open them again...listen!' she cried in a paroxysm of rage, 'if you sell the land, you shall not swallow the holy sacrament, it shall turn to blood in your mouth.'

'Jesus!' whispered the man.

'...Where you tread, the grass shall be blasted! You shall throw a spell on everyone you look at, and misfortune shall befall them.'

'Jesus...Jesus!' he groaned, tearing himself from her and stopping his ears.

'Will you sell the land?' she cried, with her face close to his. He shook his head. 'Not if you have to draw your last breath lying on filthy litter?'

'Not though I had to draw...so help me God!'

The woman was staggering; her husband carried her to the other bank and reached the stable, where the two farm labourers were installed.

'Open the door!' He hammered until one of them appeared.

'Clear out! I am going to put my wife in here.'

They demurred and he kicked them both out. They went off, cursing and threatening him.

Slimak laid his wife down on the warm litter and strolled about the yard, thinking that he must presently fetch help for her and a doctor. Now and then he looked into the stable; she seemed to be sleeping quietly. Her great peacefulness began to strike him, his head was swimming, he heard noises in his ears; he knelt down and pulled her by the hand; she was dead, even cold.

'Now I don't care if I go to the devil,' he said, raked some straw into a corner and was asleep within a few minutes.

It was afternoon when he was at last awakened by old Sobieska.

'Get up, Slimak! your wife is dead! God's faith! dead as a stone.'

'How can I help it?' said the peasant, turning over and drawing his sheepskin over his head.

'But you must buy a coffin and notify the parish.'

'Let anyone who cares do that.'

'Who will do it? In the village they say it's God's punishment on you. And won't the Germans take it out of you! That fat man has quarrelled with them. Josel says you are now reaping the benefit of selling your fowls: he threatened me if I came here to see you. Get up now!'

'Let me be or I'll kick you!'

'You godless man, is your wife to lie there without Christian burial?' He advanced his boot so vehemently that the old woman ran screaming out along the highroad.

Slimak pushed to the door and lay down again. A hard peasant-stubbornness had seized him. He was certain that he was past salvation. He neither accused himself nor regretted anything; he only wanted to be left to sleep eternally. Divine pity could have saved him, but he no longer believed in divine pity, and no human hand would do so much as give him a cup of water.

While the sound of the evening-bells floated through the air, and the women in the cottages whispered the Angelus, a bent figure approached the gospodarstwo, a sack on his back, a stick in his hand; the glory of the setting sun surrounded him. Such as these are the 'angels' which the Lord sends to people in the extremity of their sorrow.

It was Jonah Niedoperz, the oldest and poorest Jew in the neighbourhood; he traded in everything and never had any money to keep his large family, with whom he lived in a half-ruined cottage with broken windowpanes. Jonah was on his way to the village and was meditating deeply. Would he get a job there? would he live to have a dinner of pike on the Sabbath? would his little grandchildren ever have two shirts to their backs?

'Aj waj!' he muttered, 'and they even took the three roubles from me!' He had never forgotten that robbery in the autumn, for it was the largest sum he had ever possessed.

His glance fell on the burnt homestead. Good God! if such a thing should ever befall the cottage where his wife and daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren lived! His emotion grew when he heard the cows lowing miserably. He approached the stable.

'Slimak! My good lady gospodyni!' he cried, tapping at the door. He was afraid to open it lest he should be suspected of prying into other people's business.

'Who is that?' asked Slimak.

'It's only I, old Jonah,' he said, and peeped in, 'but what's wrong with your honours?' he asked in astonishment.

'My wife is dead.' 'Dead? how dead? what do you mean by such a joke? Ajwaj! really-dead?' He looked attentively at her.

'Such a good gospodyni...what a misfortune, God defend us! And you are lying there and don't see about the funeral?'

'There may as well be two,' murmured the peasant.

'How two? are you ill?'

'No.'

The Jew shook his head and spat. 'It can't be like this; if you won't move I will go and give notice; tell me what to do.'

Slimak did not answer. The cows began to low again.

'What is the matter with the cows?' the Jew asked interestedly.

'I suppose they want water.'

'Then why don't you water them?'

No answer came. The Jew looked at Slimak and waited, then he tapped his forehead. 'Where is the pail, gospodarz?'

'Leave me alone.'

But Jonah did not give in. He found the pail, ran to the ice-hole and watered the cows; he had sympathy for cows, because he dreamt of possessing one himself one day, or at least a goat. Then he put the pail close to Slimak. He was exhausted with this unusually hard work.

'Well, gospodarz, what is to happen now?'

His pity touched Slimak, but failed to rouse him. He raised his head. 'If you should see Grochowski, tell him not to sell the land before Jendrek is of age.'

'But what am I to do now, when I get to the village?'

Slimak had relapsed into silence.

The Jew rested his chin in his hand and pondered for a while; at last he took his bundle and stick and went off. The miserable old man's pity was so strong that he forgot his own needs and only thought of saving the other. Indeed, he was unable to distinguish between himself and his fellow-creature, and he felt as if he himself were lying on the straw beside his dead wife and must rouse himself at all costs.

He went as fast as his old legs would carry him straight to Grochowski; by the time he arrived it was dark. He knocked, but received no answer, waited for a quarter of an hour and then walked round the house. Despairing at last of making himself heard, he was just going to depart, when Grochowski suddenly confronted him, as if the ground had produced him.

'What do you want, Jew?' asked the huge man, concealing some long object behind his back.

'What do I want?' quavered the frightened Jew, 'I have come straight from Slimak's. Do you know that his house is burnt down, his wife is dead, and he is lying beside her, out of his wits? He talks as if he had a filthy idea in his head, and he hasn't even watered the cows.'

'Listen, Jew,' said Grochowski fiercely, 'who told you to come here and lie to me? is it those horse-stealers?'

'What horse-stealers? I've come straight from Slimak....'

'Lies! You won't draw me away from here, whatever you do.'

The Jew now perceived that it was a gun which Grochowski was hiding behind his back, and the sight so unnerved him that he nearly fell down. He fled at full speed along the highroad. Even now, however, he did not forget Slimak, but walked on towards the village to find the priest.

The priest had been in the parish for several years. He was middle-aged and extremely good-looking, and possessed the education and manners of a nobleman. He read more than any of his neighbours, hunted, was sociable, and kept bees. Everybody spoke well of him, the nobility because he was clever and fond of society, the Jews because he would not allow them to be oppressed, the settlers because he entertained their Pastors, the peasants because he renovated the church, conducted the services with much pomp, preached beautiful sermons, and gave to the poor. But in spite of this there was no intimate touch between him and his simple parishioners. When they thought of him, they felt that God was a great nobleman, benevolent and merciful, but not friends with the first comer. The priest felt this and regretted it. No peasant had ever invited him to a wedding or christening. At first he had tried to break through their shyness, and had entered into conversations with them; but these ended in embarrassment on both sides and he left it off. 'I cannot act the democrat,' he thought irritably.

Sometimes when he had been left to himself for several days owing to bad roads, he had pricks of conscience.

'I am a Pharisee,' he thought; 'I did not become a priest only to associate with the nobility, but to serve the humble.'

He would then lock himself in, pray for the apostolic spirit, vow to give away his spaniel and empty his cellar of wine.

But as a rule, just as the spirit of humility and renunciation was beginning to be awakened, Satan would send him a visitor.

'God have mercy! fate is against me,' he would mutter, get up from his knees, give orders for the kitchen and cellar, and sing jolly songs and drink like an Uhlan a quarter of an hour afterwards.

To-night, at the time when Jonah was drawing near to the Parsonage, he was getting ready for a party at a neighbouring landowner's to meet an engineer from Warsaw who would have the latest news and be entertained exceptionally well, for he was courting the landowner's daughter. The priest was longing feverishly for the moment of departure, for lie had been left to himself for several days. He could hardly bear the look of his snow-covered courtyard any more, having no diversion except watching a man chop wood, and hearing the cawing of rooks. He paced to and fro, thinking that another quarter of an hour must have gone, and was surprised to find it was only a few minutes since he had last looked at his watch. He ordered the samovar and lit his pipe. Then there was a knock at the door. Jonah came in, bowing to the ground.

'I am glad to see you,' said the priest, 'there are several things in my wardrobe that want mending.'

'God be praised for that, I haven't had work for a week past. And your honour's lady housekeeper tells me that the clock is broken as well.'

'What? you mend clocks too?'

'Why yes, I've even got the tools to do it with. I'm also an umbrella-mender and harness-maker, and I can glaze stewing-pans.'

'If that is so you might spend the winter here. When can you begin?'

'I'll sit down now and work through the night.'

'As you like. Ask them to give you some tea in the kitchen.'

'Begging your Reverence's pardon, may I ask that the sugar might be served separately?'

'Don't you like your tea sweet?'

'On the contrary, I like it very sweet. But I save the sugar for my grandchildren.'

The priest laughed at the Jew's astuteness. 'All right! have your tea with sugar and some for your grandchildren as well. Walenty!' he called out, 'bring me my fur coat.'

The Jew began bowing afresh. 'With an entreaty for your Reverence's pardon, I come from Slimak's.'

'The man whose house was burnt down?'

'Not that he asked me to come, your Reverence, he would not presume to do such a thing, but his wife is dead, they are both lying in the stable, and I am sure he has a bad thought in his head, for no one does so much as give him a cup of water.' The priest started.

'No one has visited him?'

'Begging your Reverence's pardon,' bowed the Jew, 'but they say in the village, God's anger has fallen on him, so he must die without help.' He looked into the priest's eyes as if Slimak's salvation depended on him. His Reverence knocked his pipe on the floor till it broke.

'Then I'll go into the kitchen,' said the Jew, and took up his bundle. The sledge-bells tinkled at the door, the valet stood ready with the fur coat.

'I shall be wanted for the betrothal,' reflected the priest, 'that man will last till to-morrow, and I can't bring the dead woman back to life. It's eight o'clock, if I go to the man first there will be nothing to go for afterwards. Give me my fur coat, Walenty.' He went into his bedroom: 'Are the horses ready? Is it a bright night?' 'Quite bright, your Reverence.'

'I cannot be the slave of all the people who are burnt down and all the women who die,' he agitatedly resumed his thoughts, 'it will be time enough to-morrow, and anyhow the man can't be worth much if no one will help him.'...His eyes fell on the crucifix. 'Divine wounds! Here I am hesitating between my amusement and comforting the stricken, and I am a priest and a citizen!

Get a basket,' he said in a changed voice to the astonished servant, 'put the rest of the dinner into it. I had better take the sacrament too,' he thought, after the surprised man had left the room, 'perhaps he is dying. God is giving me another spell of grace instead of condemning me eternally.'

He struck his breast and forgot that God does not count the number of amusements preferred and bottles emptied, but the greatness of the struggle in each human heart.



CHAPTER XI

Within half an hour the priest's round ponies stood at Slimak's gate. The priest walked towards the stable with a lantern in one hand and a basket in the other, pushed open the door with his foot, and saw Slimakowa's body. Further away, on the litter, sat the peasant, shading his eyes from the light.

'Who is that?' he asked.

'It is I, your priest.'

Slimak sprang to his feet, with deep astonishment on his face. He advanced with unsteady steps to the threshold, and gazed at the priest with open mouth.

'What have you come for, your Reverence?'

'I have come to bring you the divine blessing. Put on your sheepskin, it is cold here. Have something to eat.' He unpacked the basket.

Slimak stared, touched the priest's sleeve, and suddenly fell sobbing at his feet.

'I am wretched, your Reverence...I am wretched...wretched!'

'Benedicat te omnipotens Deus!' Instead of making the sign of the cross, the priest put his arm round the peasant and drew him on to the threshold.

'Calm yourself, brother, all will be well. God does not forsake His children.'

He kissed him and wiped his tears. With almost a howl the peasant threw himself at his feet.

'Now I don't mind if I die, or if I go to hell for my sins! I've had this consolation that your Reverence has taken pity on me. If I were to go to the Holy City on my knees, it would not be enough to repay you for your kindness.'

He touched the ground at the priest's feet as though it were the altar. The priest had to use much persuasion before he put on his sheepskin and consented to touch food.

'Take a good pull,' he said, pouring out the mead.

'I dare not, your Reverence.'

'Well, then I will drink to you.' He touched the glass with his lips.

The peasant took the glass with trembling hands and drank kneeling, swallowing with difficulty.

'Don't you like it?'

'Like it? vodka is nothing compared to this!' Slimak's voice sounded natural again. 'Isn't it just full of spice!' he added, and revived rapidly.

'Now tell me all about it,' began the priest: 'I remember you as a prosperous gospodarz.'

'It would be a long story to tell your Reverence. One of my sons was drowned, the other is in jail; my wife is dead, my horses were stolen, my house burnt down. It all began with the squire's selling the village, and with the railway and the Germans coming here. Then Josel set everyone against me, because I had been selling fowls and other things to the surveyors; even now he is doing his best to...'

'But why does everyone go to Josel for advice?' interrupted the priest.

'To whom is one to go, begging your Reverence's pardon? We peasants are ignorant people. The Jews know about everything, and sometimes they give good advice.'

The priest winced. The peasant continued excitedly:

'There were no wages coming in from the manor, and the Germans took the two acres I had rented from the squire.'

'But let me see,' said the priest, 'wasn't it you to whom the squire offered those two acres at a great deal less than they were worth?'

'Certainly it was me!'

'Why didn't you take the offer? I suppose you did not trust him?'

'How can one trust them when one does not know what they are talking among themselves; they jabber like Jews, and when they talked to me they were poking fun at me. Besides, there was some talk of free distribution of land.'

'And you believed that?'

'Why should I not believe it? A man likes to believe what is to his advantage. The Jews knew it wasn't true, but they won't tell.'

'Why didn't you apply for work at the railway?'

'I did, but the Germans kept me out.'

'Why couldn't you have come to me? the chief engineer was living at my house all the time,' said the priest, getting angry.

'I beg your Reverence's pardon; I couldn't have known that, and I shouldn't have dared to apply to your Reverence.'

'Hm! And the Germans annoyed you?'

'Oh dear, oh dear! haven't they been pestering me to sell them my land all along, and when the fire came I gave way....'

'And you sold them the land?'

'God and my dead wife saved me from doing that. She got up from her deathbed and laid a curse upon me if I should sell the land. I would rather die than sell it, but all the same,' he hung his head, 'the Germans will pay me out.'

'I don't think they can do you much harm.'

'If the Germans leave,' continued the peasant, 'I shall be up against old Gryb, and he will do me as much harm as the Germans, or more.'

'I am a good shepherd!' the priest reflected bitterly. 'My sheep are fighting each other like wolves, go to the Jews for advice, are persecuted by the Germans, and I am going to entertainments!'

He got up. 'Stay here, my brother,' he said, 'I will go to the village.'

Slimak kissed his feet and accompanied him to the sledge.

'Drive across to the village,' he directed his coachman.

'To the village?' The coachman's face, which was so chubby that it looked as if it had been stung by bees, was comic in its astonishment:

'I thought we were going...'

'Drive where I tell you!'

Slimak leant on the fence, as in happier days.

'How could he have known about me?' he reflected. 'Is a priest like God who knows everything? They would not have brought him word from the village. It must have been good old Jonah. But now they will not dare to look askance at me, because his Reverence himself has come to see me. If he could only take the sin of my sending Maciek and the child to their death from me, I shouldn't be afraid of anything.'

Presently the priest returned.

'Are you there, Slimak?' he called out. 'Gryb will come to you to-morrow. Make it up with him and don't quarrel any more. I have sent to town for a coffin and am arranging for the funeral.'

'Oh Redeemer!' sighed Slimak.

'Now, Pawel! drive on as fast as the horses will go,' cried the priest. He pulled out his repeater watch: it was a quarter to ten.

'I shall be late,' he murmured, 'but not too late for everything; there will be time for some fun yet.'

As soon as the sledge had melted into the darkness, and silence again brooded over his home, an irresistible desire for sleep seized Slimak. He dragged himself to the stable, but he hesitated. He did not wish to lie down once more by the side of his dead wife, and went into the cowshed. Uneasy dreams pursued him; he dreamt that his dead wife was trying to force herself into the cowshed. He got up and looked into the stable. Slimakowa was lying there peacefully; two faint beams of light were reflected from the eyes which had not yet been closed.

A sledge stopped at the gate and Gryb came into the yard; his grey head shook and his yellowish eyes moved uneasily. He was followed by his man, who was carrying a large basket.

'I am to blame,' he cried, striking his chest, 'are you still angry with me?'

'God give you all that you desire,' said Slimak, bowing low, 'you are coming to me in my time of trouble.'

This humility pleased the old peasant; he grasped Slimak's hand and said in a more natural voice: 'I tell you, I am to blame, for his Reverence told me to say that. Therefore I am the first to make it up with you, although I am the elder. But I must say, neighbour, you did annoy me very much. However, I will not reproach you.'

'Forgive me the wrong I have done,' said Slimak, bending towards his shoulder, 'but to tell you the truth, I cannot remember ever having wronged you personally.'

'I won't mince matters, Slimak. You dealt with those railway people without consulting me.'

'Look at what I have earned by my trading,' said Slimak, pointing to his burnt homestead.

'Well, God has punished you heavily, and that is why I say: I am to blame. But when you came to church and your wife—God rest her eternally—bought herself a silk kerchief, you ought to have treated me to at least a pint of vodka, instead of speaking impertinently to me.'

'It's true, I boasted too early.'

'And then you made friends with the Germans and prayed with them.'

'I only took off my cap. Their God is the same as ours.'

Gryb shook his clenched fist in his face.

'What! their God is the same as ours? I tell you, he must be a different God, or why should they jabber to him in German? But never mind,' he changed his tone, 'all that's past and gone. You deserve well of us, because you did not let the Germans have your land. Hamer has already offered me his farm for midsummer.'

'Is that so?'

'Of course it is so. The scoundrels threatened to drive us all away, and they have smashed themselves against a small gospodarz of ten acres. You deserve God's blessing and our friendship for that. God rest your dead wife eternally! Many a time has she set you against me! I'll bear her no grudge on that account, however. And here, you see, all of us in the village are sending you some victuals.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Grochowski.

'I wouldn't believe Jonah, when he came to tell me all this,' he said, 'and you here, Gryb, too? Where is the defunct?'

They approached to the stable and knelt down in the snow. Only the murmuring of their prayers and Slimak's sobs were audible for a while. Then the men got up and praised the dead woman's virtues.

'I am bringing you a bird,' then said Grochowski, turning to Gryb; 'he is slightly wounded.'

'What do you mean?'

'It's your Jasiek. He attempted to steal my horses last night, and I treated him to a little lead.'

'Where is he?'

'In the sledge outside.'

Gryb ran off at a heavy trot. Blows and cries were heard, then the old man reappeared, dragging his son by the hair. The strong young fellow was crying like a child. He looked dishevelled and his clothes were torn; a bloodstained cloth was tied round his hand.

'Did you steal the Soltys' horses?' shouted his father.

'How should I not have stolen them? I did steal them!'

'Not quite,' said Grochowski, 'but he did steal Slimak's.'

'What?' cried Gryb, and began to lay on to his son again.

'I did, father. Leave off!' wailed Jasiek.

'My God, how did this come about?' asked the old man.

'That's simple enough,' sneered Grochowski, 'he found others as bad as himself, and they robbed the whole neighbourhood, till I winged him.'

'What do you propose to do now?' asked old Gryb between his blows.

'I'll mend my ways.'...'I'll marry Orzchewski's daughter,' wailed Jasiek.

'Perhaps this is not quite the moment for that,' said Grochowski, 'first you will go to prison.'

'You don't mean to charge him?' asked his father.

'I should prefer not to charge him, but the whole neighbourhood is indignant about the robberies. However, as he did not do me personally any harm, I am not bound to charge him.'

'What will you take?'

'Not a kopek less than a hundred and fifty roubles.'

'In that case, let him go to prison.'

'A hundred and fifty to me, and eighty to Slimak for the horses.'

Gryb took to his fists again.

'Who put you up to this?'

'Leave off!' cried Jasiek; 'it was Josel.'

'And why did you do as he told you?'

'Because I owe him a hundred roubles.'

'Oh Lord!' groaned Gryb, tearing his hair.

'Well, that's nothing to tear your hair about,' said Grochowski. 'Come; three hundred and thirty roubles between Slimak, Josel, and me; what is that to you?'

'I won't pay it.'

'All right! In that case he will go to prison. Come along.' He took the youth by the arm.

'Dad, have pity, I am your only son!'

The old man looked helplessly at the peasants in turn.

'Are you going to ruin my life for a paltry sum?'

'Wait...wait,' cried Gryb, seeing that the Soltys was in earnest. He took Slimak aside.

'Neighbour, if there is to be peace between us,' he said, 'I'll tell you what you will have to do.'

'What?'

'You'll have to marry my sister. You are a widower, she is a widow. You have ten acres, she has fifteen. I shall take her land, because it is close to mine, and give you fifteen acres of Hamer's land. You will have a gospodarstwo of twenty-five acres all in one piece.'

Slimak reflected for a while.

'I think,' he said at last,' Gawdrina's land is better than Hamer's.'

'All right! You shall have a bit more.'

Slimak scratched his head. 'Well, I don't know,' he said.

'It's agreed, then,' said Gryb, 'and now I'll tell you what you will have to do in return. You will pay a hundred and fifty roubles to Grochowski and a hundred to Josel.'

Slimak demurred.

'I haven't buried my wife yet.'

The old man's temper was rising.

'Rubbish! don't be a fool! How can a gospodarz get along without a wife? Yours is dead and gone, and if she could speak, she would say:

"Marry, Josef, and don't turn up your nose at a benefactor like Gryb."'

'What are you quarrelling about?' cried Grochowski.

'Look here, I am offering him my sister and fifteen acres of land, four cows and a pair of horses, to say nothing of the household property, and he can't make up his mind,' said Gryb, with awry face.

'Why, that's certainly worth while,' said Grochowski, 'and not a bad wife!'

'Aye, a good, hefty woman,' cried Gryb.

'You'll be quite a gentleman, Slimak,' added Grochowski.

Slimak sighed. 'I'm sorry,' he said, 'that Jagna did not live to see this.'

The agreement was carried out, and before Holy Week both Slimak and Gryb's son were married. By the autumn Slimak's new gospodarstwo was finished, and an addition to his family expected. His second wife not unfrequently reminded him that he had been a beggar and owed all his good fortune to her. At such times he would slip out of the house, lie under the lonely pine and meditate, recalling the strange struggle, when the Germans had lost their land and he his nearest and dearest.

When everybody else had forgotten Slimakowa, Stasiek, Maciek, and the child, he often remembered them, and also the dog Burek and the cow doomed to the butcher's knife for want of fodder.

Silly Zoska died in prison, old Sobieska at the inn. The others with whom my story is concerned, not excepting old Jonah, are alive and well.



A PINCH OF SALT

BY

ADAM SZYMNSKI

It was in the fourth year of my exile to the metropolis of the Siberian frosts, a few days before Christmas, when one of our comrades and fellow-sufferers, a former student at the university of Kiev, who hailed from Little-Russia, called in to give us some interesting news. One of his intimate friends—also an ex-student and fellow- sufferer—was to pass through our town on his way back from a far-distant Yakut al,[1] where he had lived for three years; he was due to arrive on Christmas Eve.

[Footnote 1: Al: a hamlet.]

We had repeatedly met people who knew the life in the nearer Yakut settlements; now and then we had seen temporary or permanent inhabitants of the so-called Yakut 'towns' of Vjerchojansk, Vihijsk, and Kalymsk. But the nearer als and towns were populous centres of human life in comparison to those far-off deserted and desolate places; they gave one no conception of what the latter might be like. Certainly the fact that the worst criminals, when they were sent to those regions, preferred to return to hard labour rather than live in liberty there, gave us an illustration of the charms of that life, yet it told us nothing definite.

Bad—we were told—very bad it was out there, but in what way bad it was impossible to judge, even from the knowledge we had of life in less remote regions. Who would venture to draw conclusions from the little we knew as to the thousand small details which made up that grey, monotonous existence? Who could clearly bring them before the imagination? Only experience could reveal them in their appalling nakedness. Of one thing we were certain, that was that in a measure as the populousness decreases, and you move away in a centrifugal direction from where we were, life becomes harder and more and more distressing for human beings. In the south, on the wild high plateaus of the Aldon; in the east, on the mountain slopes of the Stanovoi-Chebret, where a single Tungus family constitutes the sole population along a river of 300 versts; in the west on the desolate heights of the Viluj, near the great Zeresej Lake; in the north at the mysterious outlets of the Quabrera, the desert places of the Olensk, Indigirika, and Kolyma, life becomes like a Dantesque hell, consisting in nothing but ice, snow and gales, and lighted up by the lurid blood-red rays of the northern light.

But no! those deserts, equal in extent to the half of Europe, are only the purgatory, not yet the real Siberian hell. You still find woods there, poor, thin, dwarfed woods, it is true, but where there is wood there is fire and vitality. The true hell of human torture begins beyond the line of the woods; then there is nothing but ice and snow; ice that does not even melt in the plains in summer—and in the midst of that icy desert, miserable human beings thrown upon this shore by an alien fate.



I shall never forget the impression which any chance bit of information on the characteristic features, the horrible details of that life, used to make upon me. Even clearly defined facts and exact technical terms bear quite a different aspect in the light of such unusual local conditions.

I have a vivid remembrance of a story told me by a former official; he described to me how when he was stationed in V. as Ispravnik, 'a certain gentleman' was sent out to him with orders to take him to the settlement in Zaszyversk.[1]

[Footnote 1: Pronounce: Zashiversk.]

'You see, little brother,' said the ex-Ispravnik, 'the town of Zaszyversk does exist. Even on a small map of Siberia you can easily find it to the right of a large blank space; if you remember your geography lessons you will even know that it is designated as "town out of governmental bounds". An appointment to such a place means for an official that he is expected to send in his resignation; as for the towns, it means that they have been degraded by having ceased to be the seat of certain local government. In this case there was a yet deeper significance in the description, for the town of Zaszyversk does, as I said, exist, but only in the imagination of cartographers and in geography manuals, not in reality. So much so is it non-existent that not a single house, not a yurta,[1] not a hovel marks the place which is pointed out to you on the map. When I read the order I could not believe my eyes, and though I was sober I reeled. I called another official and showed him the curious document.

[Footnote 1: Yurta: hut of the native Yakut.]

'He was an old, experienced hand at the office, but when he saw this order, the paper dropped from his hands. "Where to?" I asked. "To Zaszyversk!" We looked at each other. Nice things that young man must have been up to! There he stood, looked and listened and understood nothing.

'He was a handsome fellow but gloomy and stuck up. I asked him one thing after another, was he in need of anything? and so on, but he answered nothing but "Yes" or "No". Well, my little brother, I thought to myself, you will soon sing a different tune! I ordered three troikas to be brought round; he was put into the first with the Cossack who escorted him, I was in the second with an old Cossack, who remembered where this town of Zaszyversk had once stood, and the third contained provisions; then we started. First we drove straight on for twenty-four hours; during this time we still stopped at stations where we changed horses, and we covered 200 versts. The second and third days we covered 150 versts, but we did not meet a living soul, and we spent the nights in the large barnlike buildings without windows or chimneys and with only a fireplace, which are found on the road; they are called "povarnia".

'Our prisoner was obviously beginning to feel rather bad, so he addressed me from time to time; at last he tried to get information out of me concerning the life in Zaszyversk. "How many inhabitants were there? what was the town like? was there any chance of his finding something to do there, perhaps private lessons?" But now it was my turn to answer him: "Yes" or "No". On the fourth day. towards morning, we entered upon a glacier. We had arrived in the region where the ice does not disappear even in summer. When we had advanced ten versts on the ice, the old Cossack showed me the place where sixty years ago a few yurtas had stood which were called in geographical terms "Zaszyversk, town out of governmental bounds".

"Stop," I cried, "let the young gentleman get out; here we are! This is the town of Zaszyversk...."

'The man did not understand at once, he opened his eyes wide and thought it was a joke, or that I had lost my reason. I had to explain the situation to him.... At last he understood.'

The ex-Ispravnik laughed dryly. 'Will you believe me or not?' he continued. 'Look here, I swear by the cross'—he crossed himself spaciously, bowing to the images of the saints—that fellow's eyes became glassy... his jaws chattered as in a fever. It was a business!

'And I, a tough old official, I put my hands to my forehead. You should have seen how the gentleman's pride disappeared in a moment; he became soft as wax and so humble... pliable as silk he was!

'"I adjure you by the wounds of Christ," he cried, stretching out his hands to me, "let the love of God come into your heart! I have not been condemned to death, there is nothing very serious against me, I have been too overbearing, that is all."

'"Oh," I said, "well, you see, pride is a great sin."

'And whether you will believe me or won't'—he crossed himself again—' the man wept like a child when I told him I would take him to the nearest Yakut yurta, at a distance of thirty versts from the town of Zaszyversk, and I swear to you for the third time it was with joy that he wept... although he was not much better off in that yurta....'



It is easy to imagine how eagerly we received the news of the arrival of a man who had actually been living somewhere at the end of the world under conditions which had completely isolated him for three whole years; yet it was said that he was returning into this world sound in body and mind. We inhabitants of our own special town were not living in the most enviable of circumstances either, but we all knew that they were infinitely happier than they might have been.

A passionate desire seized us to look upon that life out there in its unveiled nakedness, its horrible cruelty. This curiosity meant more than narrow selfishness; it had a special reason.

The fact that a human being had been able to survive in that far-distant world, bore witness to the strength and resistance of the human spirit; the iron will and energy of the one doubled and steeled the strength of all the others.

What we had heard so far of those who were battling with their fate at the end of the world had not been too comforting. Therefore the question whether and how one could live and suffer there, was a vital one for us.

And now the news came unexpectedly that one of our own class, a man closely allied to us by his intellectual development and a number of ways and customs, had actually lived for three years in a yurta not much better situated than the one behind the imaginary town of Zaszyversk. This unknown youth, student of a university not our own, became dear to us. We all—Russians, Poles, and Jews—bound together by our common fate, made up our minds to celebrate his arrival, and as it was timed for Christmas Eve, we were going to prepare a solemn feast in his honour.

As I was the one who had the greatest experience in culinary affairs, I was charged with the arrangement of the dinner, supported by a young student, and by the intense interest of the whole colony. I am sure that neither I nor my dear scullion have ever in our lives before or after worked as hard for two days in the kitchen as we did then.

The student was not only a great collector of everything useful for our daily life, he was also deeply versed in the knowledge of the Yakut in general. While we were cooking and roasting we told one another the most interesting things, and thus stimulated each other to such a degree that the dinner, originally planned on simple lines, began to assume Lucullian dimensions.

We knew only too well how miserable the life in the nearest Yakut yurtas was, that there was a want of the most necessary European food, such as would be found in the poorest peasant's home; above all, the want of bread—simple daily bread—was very pronounced among the poorer populations. It was not surprising that we two, possessed by gloomy pictures which we recalled to our memory, fell into a sort of cooking-fever. Like a mother who remembers the favourite dishes of the child she has not seen for a long time, and whom she expects home on a certain day, we kept on racking our brains for, agreeable surprises for our guest. One or the other would constantly ask:

'What do you think, comrade, wouldn't he like this or that?'

'Well, of course, he would thoroughly enjoy that. Just think, counting the journeys, it must be a good five years since he has eaten food fit for human beings.'

'Shall we add that?'

'All right!'

And one of us ran to the market-place to fetch the necessary ingredients from the shops, another secured kitchen utensils, and soon another course enriched the menu. At last the supply of kitchen utensils gave out, and want of time as well as physical exhaustion put a stop to further exertions. Our enthusiasm had communicated itself to all the participants of the feast, for they were all of a responsive disposition, and declared themselves charmed with our inventiveness and energy. I and my scullion were proud of our work. A huge fish, weighing twenty pounds, which after much trouble we had succeeded in boiling whole, was considered the crowning success of our labour and art. We rightly anticipated that this magnificent fish, prepared with an appallingly highly seasoned and salted sauce, would move the hardest hearts. Also, we did not forget a small Christmas tree, and decorated it as best we could in honour of our guest.



At last the longed-for day came. The student started at dawn for the nearest posting station to await the newcomer and bring him to us. Before two o'clock, when it began to be dark, we were all assembled, and soon after two the melancholy sound of the sleighbells announced the arrival of the students. We hurriedly pulled on our furs and went out. The sleigh and the travellers were entirely covered with snow, long icicles hung from the horses' nostrils when they whipped into the courtyard, they were covered with a fine crust of ice. Another moment and they stood still in front of the door. Every man bared his head...there were some who had grown grey in misery and sorrow.



I will not describe our first greeting—I could not do so even if I would. We did not know each other, and yet how near we felt! I doubt whether it will ever fall to my share again to be one of a number of human beings so different in birth and station in life, yet so nearly related, so closely tied to each other as we were on the day when we greeted our guest.

He was small and thin—very thin. His complexion showed yellow and black, much more than ours did; he seemed marked for life by an earthen colour; his deeply sunk eyes were the only feature which was burning with vitality, they had a phosphorescent glow.

It had grown quite dark by the time he had changed his clothes and warmed himself, and we were sitting down to our dinner. Noise and vivacity predominated in our small abode; a cheerful mood rose like an overflowing wave, washing away all signs of sorrow and bitterness.

'Let us be cheerful!'

Louder and louder this cry arose, now here, now there, and when our guest took it up even the gloomiest faces brightened. We broke the sacred wafer, then we emptied the first glasses. My industrious scullion had been deeply moved by a folk-song from the Ukraine, one of those songs rich in poetical feeling and simple metaphor which go straight to the heart; he therefore got up to make the welcoming speech, and, encouraged by the tears of joy which rose in the eyes of our guest, he quite took possession of him. He told him that he and I had worked uninterruptedly for two days and nights in the sweat of our brows, so as to give him a noble repast after his many days of privation and hunger; he forecast the whole menu, beginning with his favourite Kutja, he drew close to him and put his arm round his neck, laughing gaily, and seemingly inspiring him so that he wept tears of joy.

Our animated mood rose higher and higher. A storm of applause greeted the first course. The student filled the guest's plate to the brim. At last the harmonious rattle of the spoons replaced the laughing and talking. 'Excellent,' was the universal verdict.

My scullion was in raptures and loudly assented; finally he too became silent and applied himself like us to his plate.

But what in the name of God did this mean? We were all eating, only our guest fumbled about with his spoon and stirred his soup without eating, laughing the while with a suppressed, hardly audible laugh.