'Have you forgotten? You owe me two roubles since Christmas'

Maciek swore at him. 'Everybody knows that one can only get a drink from you for cash.'

'That's true on the whole. But when you were tipsy at Christmas, you embraced and kissed me so many times, I couldn't help myself and gave you credit.'

'Have you got witnesses?' Maciek said sharply. 'I tell you, old Jew, you won't take me in.'

The publican reflected for a moment.

'I have no witnesses,' he said, 'therefore I will never mention the matter to you again. Since you swear to me here in the presence of other people, that you did not kiss me and beg for credit, I make you a present of your debt, but it's a shame,' the publican added, spitting, 'that a man working for such a respectable gospodarz as Slimak, should cheat a poor Jew. Don't ever set foot in my inn again!'

The labourer hesitated. Did he really owe that money?

'Well,' he said, 'since you say I owe you the money, I will give it you. But take care G.o.d does not punish you if you are wronging me.' In his heart, however, he doubted whether G.o.d would ever punish any one on account of such a low creature as he was.

He was just leaving the inn sadly, when a band of Galician harvesters came in. They sat down at the table, discussing the profits that would be made from the building of the new railway.

Maciek went up to them, and seeing that their appearance was not much less ragged than his own, he asked if it was true that there were railroads[1] in the world? 'No one,' he said,'would have iron enough to cover roads, not even the government.' The labourers laughed, but one, a huge fellow with a soldier's cap, said: 'What is there to laugh at?

Of course a clodhopper does not know what a railway is. Sit down, brother, and I'll tell you all about it, but let's have a bottle of vodka.'

[Footnote 1: The Polish word for 'railway' is 'iron road'.]

Before Maciek had decided, the publican had brought the vodka.

'Why shouldn't he have vodka?' he said, 'he is a good-natured fellow, he has stood treat before.'

What happened afterwards, Maciek did not clearly remember. He thought that some one told him how fast an engine goes, and that some one else shouted, he ought to buy boots. Later on he was seized by his arms and legs and carried to the stable. One thing was certain, he returned without a penny. Slimakowa would not look at him, and Slimak said: 'You are hopeless, Maciek, you'll never get on, for the devil always leads you into bad company.'

So it happened that Maciek went without new boots, but a few weeks later he acquired a possession he had never dreamt of.

It was a rainy September evening; the more the day declined, the heavier became the layers of clouds. Lower and lower they descended, torn and gloomy. Forest, hill, and valley, even the fence dissolved gradually into the grey veil. The heavy, persistent rain penetrated everything; the ground was full of it, soaked through like kneaded dough; the road was full of it, running with yellow streams; the yard, where it stood in large puddles, was full of it. Roofs and walls were dripping, the animals' skins and even human souls were saturated with it.

Everybody in the gospodarstwo was thinking vaguely of supper, but no one was in the mood for it. The gospodarz yawned, the gospodyni was cross, the boys were sleepy, Magda did even less than usual. They looked at the fire, where the potatoes were slowly boiling, at the door, to watch Maciek come in, or at the window, where the raindrops splashed, falling from the higher, the lower, and the lowest clouds, from the thatch, from the fading leaves of the trees, and from the window frames. When all these splashes mingled into one, they sounded like approaching footfalls. Then the cottage door creaked. 'Maciek,'

muttered the gospodarz. But Maciek did not appear.

A hand was groping along the pa.s.sage wall.

'What's the matter with him, has he gone blind?' impatiently exclaimed the gospodyni, and opened the door.

Something which was not Maciek was standing in the pa.s.sage, a shapeless figure, not tall, but bulky. It was wrapped in a soaking wet shawl.

Slimakowa stepped back for a moment, but when the firelight fell into the pa.s.sage, she discerned a human face in the opening of the shawl, copper-coloured, with a broad nose and slanting eyes that were hardly visible under the swollen eyelids.

'The Lord be praised,' said a hoa.r.s.e voice.

'You, Zoska?' asked the astonished gospodyni.

'It is I.'

'Come in quickly, you are letting all the damp into the room.'

The new-comer stepped forward, but stood still, irresolutely. She held a child in her arms whose face was as white as chalk, with blue lips; she drew out one of its arms; it looked like a stick.

'What are you doing out in weather like this?' asked Slimak.

'I'm going after a place.' She looked round, and decided to crouch down on the floor, near the wall. 'They say in the village that you have a lot of money now; I thought you might want a girl.'

'We don't want a girl, there is not even enough for Magda to do. Why are you out of a place?'

'I've been harvesting in the summer, but now no one will take me in with the child. If I were alone I could get along.'

Maciek came in, and not being aware of Zoska's presence, started on seeing a crouching form on the floor.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'I thought Slimak might take me on, but he doesn't want me with the child.'

'Oh Lord!' sighed the man, moved by the sight of poverty greater than his own.

'Why, Maciek, that sounds as if you had a bad conscience,' said the gospodyni disagreeably.

'It makes one feel bad, to see such wretchedness,' he murmured.

'The man whose fault it is would feel it most!'

'It isn't my fault, but I'm sorry for them all the same.'

'Why don't you take the child, then, if you are so sorry?' sneered Slimakowa, 'you'll give him the child, Zoska, won't you? Is it a boy?'

'A girl,' whispered Zoska, with her eyes fixed on Maciek, 'she is two years old... yes, he can have her, if he likes.'

'She'd be a deal of trouble to me,' muttered the labourer, 'all the same, it's a pity.'

'Take her,' repeated Zoska, 'Slimak is rich, you are rich....'

'Oh yes, Maciek is rich,' laughed Slimakowa, 'he drinks through six roubles in one Sunday.'

'If you can drink through six roubles, you can take her,' Zoska cried vehemently, pulling the child out of the shawl and laying it on the floor. It looked frightened, but did not utter a sound.

'Shut up, Jagna, and don't talk nonsense,' said Slimak. Zoska stood up and stretched herself.

'Now I shall be easy for once,' she said, 'I've often thought I'd like to throw her away into a ditch, but you may as well have her. Mind you look after her properly! If I come back and don't find her, I'll scratch out your eyes.'

'You are crazy,' said Slimak, 'cross yourself.'

'I won't cross myself, I'll go away....'

'Don't be a fool, and sit down to supper,' angrily cried the gospodyni.

She took the saucepan off so impetuously, that the hot ashes flew all over the stove, and one touched Zoska's bare feet.