[Footnote 1: The Polish peasants call all Germans 'Swabians'.]

'They will shoot the cattle.'

'That isn't allowed.'

'Then they will go to law and worry the life out of me.'

'Very well, then we will buy fodder.'

'Where? The gospodarze won't sell us any, and we shan't get a blade from the Germans.'

The breakfast was boiling over, but the housewife paid no attention to it. She shook her clenched fists at her husband.

'What do you mean, Josef! Pull yourself together! This is bad, and that is no good!...What will you do then? You are taking the courage away from me, a woman, instead of making up your mind what to do. Aren't you ashamed before the children and Magda to sit there like a dying man, rolling your eyes? Do you think I shall let the children starve for the sake of your Germans, or do you think I shall get rid of the cow? Don't imagine that I shall allow you to sell your land! No fear! If I fall down dead and they bury me, I shall dig myself out again and prevent you from doing the children harm! Why are you sitting there, looking at me like a sheep? Eat your breakfast and go to the manor. Find out if the squire has really sold his land, and if he hasn't, fall at his feet, and lie there till he lets you have the field, even if you have to pay sixty roubles.'

'And if he has sold it?'

'If he has sold it, may G.o.d punish him!'

'That won't give us the field.'

'You are a fool!' she cried. 'We and the children and the cattle have lived by G.o.d's grace and not by the squire's.'

'That's so,' said Slimak, suddenly getting up. 'Give me my breakfast.

What are you crying for?'

After her pa.s.sionate outburst Slimakowa had actually broken down.

'How am I not to cry,' she sobbed, 'when the merciful G.o.d has punished me with such an idiot of a husband? He will do nothing himself and takes away my courage into the bargain.'

'Don't be a fool,' he said, with his face clouding. 'I'll go to the squire at once, even if I should have to give sixty roubles.'

'But if the field is sold?'

'Hang him, we have lived by the grace of G.o.d and not by his.'

'Then where will you get fodder?'

'Look after your pots and pans, and don't meddle with a man's affairs.'

'The Germans will drive you away.'

'The deuce they will!' He struck the table with his fist. 'If I were to fall down dead, if they chopped me into little pieces, I wouldn't let the dogs have my land. Give me my breakfast, or I'll ask you the reason why!...And you, Jendrek, be off with Maciek, or I shall get the strap!'

The sun shone into the ballroom of the manorhouse through every c.h.i.n.k and opening; streaks of white light lay on the floor, which was dented by the dancers' heels, and on the walls; the rays were reflected in the mirrors, rested on the gilt cornices and on the polished furniture. In comparison with them the light of the candles and lamps looked yellow and turbid. The ladies were pale and had blue circles round their eyes, the powder was falling from their dishevelled hair, their dresses were crumpled, and here and there in holes. The padding showed under the imitation gold of the braids and belts of notables; rich velvets had turned into cheap velveteens, beaver fur to rabbit skins, and silver armour to tin. The musicians' hands dropped, the dancers' legs had grown stiff. Intoxication had cooled and given place to heaviness; lips were breathing feverishly. Only three couples were now turning in the middle of the room, then two, then none. There was a lack of arm-chairs for the men; the ladies hid their yawns behind their fans. At last the music ceased, and as no one said anything, a dead silence spread through the room. Candles began to splutter and went out, lamps smoked.

'Shall we go in to tea?' asked the squire, in a hoa.r.s.e voice.

'To bed...to bed,' whispered the guests.

'The bedrooms are ready,' he said, trying to sound cheerful, in spite of sleepiness and a cold.

The ladies immediately got up, threw their wraps over their shoulders and left the room, turning their faces away from the windows.

Soon the ballroom was empty, save for the old cellist, who had gone to sleep with his arms round his instrument. The bustle was transferred to distant rooms; there was much stamping upstairs and noise of men's voices in the courtyard. Then all became silent.

The squire came clinking along the pa.s.sages, looked dully round the ballroom, and said, yawning: 'Put out the lights, Mateus, and open the windows. Where is my lady?'

'My lady has gone to her room.'

My lady, in her orange-velvet gipsy costume and a diamond hoop in her hair, was lying in an arm-chair, her head thrown back. The squire dropped into another arm-chair, yawning broadly.

'Well, it was a great success.'

'Splendid,' yawned my lady.

'Our guests ought to be satisfied.' After a while he spoke again.

'Do you know that I have sold the estate?'

'To whom?'

'To Hirschgold; he is giving me seventy-five roubles an acre.'

'Thank G.o.d we shall get away at last.'

'Well, you might come and give me a kiss!'

'I'm much too tired. Come here, if you want one.'

'I deserve that you should come here. I've done exceedingly well.'

'No, I won't. Hirschgold...Hirschgold...oh yes, some acquaintance of father's. The first mazurka was splendid, wasn't it?'

The squire was snoring.

CHAPTER VII

The squire and his wife left for Warsaw a week after the ball. Their place was taken by Hirschgold's agent, a freckle-faced Jew, who installed himself in a small room in the bailiffs house, spent his days in looking through and sending out accounts, and bolted the door and slept with two revolvers under his pillow at night.

The squire had taken part of the furniture with him, the rest of the suites and fixtures were sold to the neighbouring gentry; the Jews bought up the library by the pound, the priest acquired the American organ, the garden-seats pa.s.sed into Gryb's ownership, and for three roubles the peasant Orzchewski became possessed of the large engraving of Leda and the Swan, to which the purchaser and his family said their prayers. The inlaid floors henceforward decorated the magisterial court, and the damask hangings were bought by the tailors and made into bodices for the village girls.

When Slimak went a few weeks later to have a look at the manor-house he could not believe his eyes at the sight of the destruction that had taken place. There were no panes in the windows and not a single latch left on the wide-open doors; the walls had been stripped and the floors taken up. The drawing-room was a dungheap, Pani Joselawa, the innkeeper's wife, had put up hencoops there and in the adjoining rooms; axes and saws were lying about everywhere. The farmhands, who according to agreement were kept on till midsummer, strolled idly from corner to corner; one of the teamdrivers had taken desperately to drink; the housekeeper was ill with fever, and the pantryboy, as well as one of the farm-boys, were in prison for stealing latches off the doors.

'Good G.o.d!' said the peasant.