Hordubal rubbed his neck doubtfully. “And why are you sitting here?” he said slowly. “Go and water the horses.”
CHAPTER XVI
AND then he went straight to the room, and knocked at the door. “Let me in, Polana!”
The door opened, and Polana stood there like a shadow.
Hordubal sat down on the box, with his hands on his knees, and looked at the floor. “Manya has come back,” he said.
Polana said nothing, she only breathed heavily.
“There were some—rumours,” murmured Juraj. “About you … and about him. That’s why I sent him away.” He snorted with annoyance. “And he’s come back, the rogue. Things can’t go on like this, Polana.”
“Why?” burst out Polana sharply. “Because of those stupid rumours ?”
Hordubal nodded gravely. “Because of those stupid rumours, Polana. We’re not the only ones here. Stepan—is a man, let him defend his own self against human tongues; but, you—eh, Polana, after all, I’m your husband—at least in public. So there.”
Polana leaned against the door, her legs felt weak, and she didn’t speak.
“It seems,” murmured Hordubal, “it seems that Hafia is used to Stepan—he’s good with the child. And horses—they miss Manya. He worked them hard, but even that they liked.” Juraj lifted his eyes. “What should you say, Polana, if we betrothed Hafia to Stepan?”
Polana’s heart sank. “But that is impossible,” she cried in terror.
“Yes, that’s true, Hafia is young,” said Hordubal thoughtfully. “But to betroth isn’t to give away. In the old times, Polana, they betrothed even children in the cradle.”
“But Stepan—Hafia is fifteen years younger than he is,” objected Polana.
Juraj nodded. “Like you, my dear. It’s sometimes like that. But Manya can’t stay here like a stranger. As Hafia’s bridegroom—that’s different: he belongs to the family, he’s working for his little wife—”
It began to dawn on Polana. “And could he stay here then?” she asked, tense and breathless.
“Yes, why shouldn’t he? As if he were with his own parents. Who’s the stranger ? He’s our son-in-law. And people’s mouths would be shut. At least they’d see that… that it was only spiteful gossip. That’s because of you, Polana. And otherwise—well, it seems as if he likes Hafia—and he understands horses. He’s not keen on work, it’s true—but does a hard worker ever get rich?”
Polana was so perplexed that she began to frown. “And do you think that Stepan would be willing?”
“He will, my dear. I’ve got some money—well, he can have it. I ask you, what am I to do with the money? And Stepan—is greedy; he would like to have fields, horses, the plain as far as you can see—his eyes will just shine. He’ll fall on his feet—will he think it over!”
And Polana’s face again became impenetrable. “Well, do as you like, Juraj. But I shan’t tell him about it.”
Juraj rose. “I shall tell him myself. Don’t worry. I shall even get advice on this and that from a lawyer. There will have to be some kind of an agreement, I think. Well, I’ll even arrange for that.”
Hordubal stood waiting, perhaps he thought that Polana would say something. But she was suddenly seized with activity: “I must get the supper ready.”
And Juraj strolled behind the barn as he used to do before.
CHAPTER XVII
MANYA took his master to Rybary, to talk with his parents. C-c. The horses, with their heads up, were a pleasure to look at.
“And so you, Stepan,” said Hordubal pensively, “you have an elder brother, a younger one, and a married sister…. Hm, there are enough of you. And tell me, isn’t it flat in your district?”
“Flat,” said Stepan quickly, and his teeth shone. “We breed buffaloes mainly—and horses. Buffaloes do well in the swamp, mister.”
A swamp, thought Juraj. “And wouldn’t it be possible to dram it? I’ve seen that kind of thing in America.”
“Why drain it?” laughed Stepan. “There’s land enough, mister. It would be a pity for the swamp, reeds grow there; we make baskets in the winter. We have wicker instead of planks. Wagons of wicker work; fences, stables—all made of wicker, look at that lambing pen there.”
Juraj didn’t like the plain, it was endless, but what could he do ? “And your father’s alive, you say.”
“Alive. He’ll be astonished to see who I’m bringing him,” said Manya rather proudly, boyishly. “But there, that’s Rybary already.” And with his little hat stuck at the back of his head, cracking his whip, he drove Juraj, like a baron, into the village and up to the Manyas’ home.
A small, stocky boy came out of the hut. “Look here, Dula,” shouted Stepan. “Put these horses under cover, and give them a drink and a feed of oats. This way, mister.”
Hordubal just ran his eye over the farm; the tumble-down barn, the pigs rooting in the yard, hen turkeys preening their feathers; in the framework of the door a big bodkin was sticking-- “That’s a bodkin, sir, for making the baskets,” Stepan explained. “And we shall build a new barn in the spring.”
On the doorstep old Manya was standing with a long moustache under his nose. “I’ve brought you, dad, the farmer from Kriva,” announced Stepan, puffing himself up. “He wants to talk with you.”
Old Manya led his guest into the room, and waited suspiciously for what was to come. Hordubal sat down with dignity, but only on the end of the chair, to make it clear that the business was not over yet. “Well, Stepan, tell him what we’ve come for.”
Stepan showed his teeth, and poured out all the great news: that his master there would let him have his only daughter, Hafia, when she grew up; and so he wanted to talk with his father, to come to an agreement.
Hordubal nodded his head: yes, that’s it.
Old Manya began to be interested. “Hi, Dula, bring some brandy! You are welcome, Hordubal; and was the journey pleasant?”
“Good.”
“Thank God. And have you had a good harvest?”
“Very fair.”
“And your family well?”
“Very well, thank you kindly.”
Having said everything that was right and proper, old Manya began: “And so you have only one daughter, Hordubal?”
“Well, only one has come up.”
The old man sniggered, but kept his wits about him. “Don’t say that, Hordubal, you may have a son yet. A fallow field is fertile.”
Juraj only jerked his hand to signify dissent.
“Perhaps a little boy will be born, an heir,” the old man grinned, keeping his eyes open all the time. “And you look well, Hordubal; you will farm for fifty years yet.”
Hordubal slowly rubbed his neck. “Well, as God wills. But Hafia need not wait so long. Thank God, I have a dowry for her.”
Old Manya’s little eyes gleamed. “Why not, that’s understood. In America, they say, you’ve only to pick up money lying on the ground, isn’t that so ?”
“It’s not as easy as that,” said Hordubal cautiously. “And you know, Manya, money. You keep it at home—they steal it; you put it in a bank—they steal it as well. A farm would be better.”
“Holy truth,” agreed old Manya.
“I’ve been looking round here,” Hordubal went on considerately. “Your soil can’t support many people. All swamp and common. It seems to me that a farmer would have to have lots of acres of pusta if he’s going to live on it.”
“Well, that’s true,” growled the old man suspiciously. “It’s not easy to divide a farm here. Our oldest, that’s Michal, should inherit the farm, and the other two—only shares.”
“How much?” Juraj shot out.
Old Manya blinked with surprise. Eh, you, why don’t you give me time? “Three thousand,” he murmured, squinting at Stepan.
Hordubal quickly figured it out. “Three times three—then nine, your farm’s worth ten thousand, you say?”
“ What’s that you say, three times three?” The old man wa
s vexed. “The daughter ought to get a share as well.”
“That’s true,” admitted Hordubal. “So let’s say—thirteen.”
“Oh, no, not that,” the old man shook his head. “And you, Hordubal, you’re only joking?”
“No joking,” insisted Hordubal. “I should like to know, Manya, how much a farm like this would cost in the plain?”
Old Manya was puzzled, Stepan’s eyes bulged: will the rich man Hordubal buy Manyas’ farm ?
“A farm like this you wouldn’t get for twenty thousand,” the old man faltered.
“With the whole lot?”
The old man jeered. “That’s good, Hordubal! We run four, five, horses in the yard.”
“I’m counting without the horses.”
Old Manya became serious. “And after all, what do you want, Hordubal—have you come to buy the farm, or to betroth your daughter?”
Hordubal grew hot. “Buy the farm—me, buy a farm in the plain ? Would I buy mud ? No. Rods for whisdes, eh ? No, thank you, Manya, but wait a moment; if we two come to an agreement, if your Stepan is betrothed to Hafia, you would leave your farm to Stepan. After the wedding—your Michal would have his share paid out by me. And Dula as well.”
“And Marja?” murmured Stepan.
“And Marja—you haven’t got anyone else, have you? Let Stepan farm here in Rybary.”
“And what about Michal?” the old man inquired, not being able to follow.
“Well, he will get his share, let him go with God. A young man—he would rather have money than land.
Old Manya shook his head. “No, no,” he murmured. “That won’t do.”
“And why shouldn’t it?” Stepan burst out eagerly.
“You get out of here, hurry up,” the old man cried. “What has our talk got to do with you?”
Growling and offended Stepan slouched into the yard. Dula, of course, was with the horses.
“Well, what about it, Dula?” said Stepan, putting his hand on his shoulder.
“A nice horse,” said the boy like an expert. “Can I have a ride on him?”
“Too good for your backside,” murmured Stepan, nodding his head in the direction of the room. “Our old man—”
“What?”
“Oh, nothing. He’s doing what he can to spoil my happiness.”
“What happiness ?”
“Oh, nothing. What do you know!”
Silence reigned in the yard, only the sow grunted to herself; the corncrakes could be heard in the swamp, and the frogs had begun.
“And shall you stay in Kriva, Stepan?”
“Perhaps—I’ve not decided yet,” boasted Stepan.
“And how about the mistress?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Stepan darkly. Look at the mosquitoes! And the swallows, it’s a wonder they don’t scrape the ground with their bellies. Stepan yawned nearly wide enough to dislocate his jaw. What are the old beggars up to inside there ? Let them bite their noses off!
Stepan was ruffled, and out of boredom he pulled the bodkin from the door frame, and stuck it in again with all his might. “Now you pull it out,” he said to Dula.
Dula pulled it out. “Now who can stick it in furthest ?” For a short time they amused themselves by sticking the bodkin into the door until splinters began to fly. “And what now ?” said Dula. “I’m going after the girls. With you there’s no fun any longer.”
Dusk slowly fell, over the plain the horizon became flushed with a purple mist. Should I go in? thought Stepan. Not on purpose—hurry up, the old man said, what has our talk got to do with you ? Is the American Hordubal giving his daughter to him, or to me ? I ought to be able to look after myself, and instead—hurry up! And why do you order me about, raged Stepan, I already belong to another family!
At last Hordubal swayed out of the door, he was tipsy with brandy—they must have come to some agreement, the old people—old Manya came with him, and patted him on the back. Stepan stood at the horses’ heads, holding the bits by the reins, just like a groom; even Hordubal noticed it, and he nodded approvingly to Stepan.
“So on Sunday in the town,” cried old Manya, and C-c, the wagon started.
‘‘A pleasant journey!’’
Stepan glanced out of the corner of his eye at his master, he didn’t want to ask; perhaps he would begin himself—
“There—our river,” he said, pointing with his whip.
“M … m.”
“And there, that wagon with the reeds, that may be our Michal. We use reeds for bedding instead of straw.”
“So.”
And still nothing. Stepan drove the horses as nicely as he could, but his master only nodded his head. At last Manya couldn’t stand it any longer. “Well, mister, how much have you given them?”
Hordubal raised his eyebrows. “What?”
“How much have you promised them, mister?”
Hordubal said nothing. Only after a little while: “Five thousand each.”
Stepan thought it over, and then spat between his teeth: “Then they’ve robbed you, mister. Three thousand would have been enough.”
“M … m,” murmured Hordubal. “Your father—as hard as oak.”
Ah, so, thought Stepan. He gives to others, and me—as if he wanted to rob me.
“And you—five thousand as well,” added Hordubal. “To put into the farm, he says.”
Good, thought Stepan. But now, when I’m nearly his son—how will it be with my wages ? He can’t pay me like a farmhand. Perhaps he might give me that colt ? Sell it, Stepan, aren’t you one of us already ?
“And drive properly!” commanded Hordubal.
“Yes, mister.”
CHAPTER XVIII
THEY drove back from the town; it was sealed. They had come to a proper agreement at the Jewish lawyer’s, but it had cost two hundred crowns—and put that there, if you please, and write this here. Well, a farmer is cautious with property, my lad, he doesn’t want to let himself be caught, and yet he mustn’t forget to make over to Hafia one-half of the farm in Rybary. Good, said the lawyer, we’ll put in a clausula. Aha, my lad, there’s even that in it. And then they all signed it: Juraj Hordubal three crosses, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Old Manya—three crosses. And Michal Manya, a nosegay stuck in his hat, blew himself up and signed importantly with his full name. Marja, the spouse of Janos, with a silk scarf on her head, and Stepan all festive—and still someone has to sign? Oh, no, Dula must be with the horses, and he’s not yet of age. So, finished, gentlemen, and I wish you much happiness. It cost two hundred; well, a thorough job, there’s even a clausula in it.
And then all to the pub, to drink on it. Willy nilly Juraj Hordubal talked familiarly with old Manya, they even quarrelled as if they were relatives. “And let’s go, Stepan.” Stepan would have liked to talk with Hordubal as if he were his father, but was any talk possible with him ? He sat on the wagon, holding on with both hands, deep in thought, and he hardly spoke. This is a strange betrothal, eh, thought Stepan, you never feel at ease with the master. C-c.
And so they drove into Kriva at a nice trot, the horse-shoes clattered. Juraj Hordubal peered out from beneath his brows, and suddenly, with his hand above his head, he snapped his fingers, and sang, whooped, and yelled as if he were at a carnival. He must be drunk—the people turned. Why is Hordubal the American in such high spirits ? On the village green there were girls and boys, they had to drive at a walking pace, Juraj stood up, placed one hand on Stepan’s shoulder, and shouted to the people: “What do you say to the son-in-law I’m bringing? Eh, hurrah!”
Stepan tried to shake himself free, and hissed: “Keep quiet, mister.”
Hordubal gripped his shoulder, so that Manya nearly cried out with pain. “Look here,” he cried, “I’ve got a son-in-law for Hafia, we’re celebrating the betrothal—”
Crack went the whip into the horses! Stepan frowned, and bit his lips until it was a wonder they didn’t bleed. “Hold yourself together,
mister, you’re drunk!”
The wagon rumbled into Hordubal’s yard. Juraj let Stepan go, and suddenly became silent and serious.
“Walk the horses round,” he commanded, “they’re covered with sweat.”
CHAPTER XIX
AND Polana didn’t know what to think of Juraj. He wanted to drag Stepan to the inn. What, he said, you’re not a workman any longer, you’re like our son. And instead of crawling behind the barn he walked about the village, stopped, and began to chat with the old women: “I’ve betrothed Hafia,” he said. Well, she’s only a child yet; but she got to like Stepan when she hadn’t her father at home; and Stepan, neighbour, Hafia is as dear to him as a holy picture—eh, it’s a pleasure to have such children. And he praised Stepan to heaven; what a good worker he was. He’ll make a good farmer, he said. He’ll inherit the farm in Rybary from his father. Round the village he had plenty to say, but at home—as if he were tongue-tied, do this and that, Stepan, and nothing else.
Juraj went round the village looking for those he had not spoken to yet, he waved his hand to Fedeles Gejza, but he avoided Geric. Geric even held his hand out, but Juraj turned away. As long as I live I don’t know you: we’re not on speaking terms, I don’t want to know what you’re thinking about.
The women laughed: queer betrothal. The bridegroom scowled like thunder, and avoided conversation; he was consumed with rage. The bride—at the stream she played with the children, her skirt tucked up to her waist; she hadn’t yet learned to feel ashamed. And Hordubal waved his arms about on the village green, he was proud of his future son-in-law. Only Polana—a strange woman, it’s true, but she looked dark, she saw that there was something for the people to laugh at, she didn’t even put her nose outside the gate. That’s how it was, people, and don’t think that everything was in order.
Didn’t Hordubal notice that Stepan was displeased ? Perhaps he did, but he avoided him. He merely gave him orders over his shoulders, what he had to do, and at once made for somewhere else. And Stepan looked after him as if he wanted to bite his head off.
But Manya wouldn’t give in any more; he waited for his master, with his teeth clenched so tightly that the muscles twitched beneath his skin. His master was walking across the yard. “You ought to drive down, Stepan,” and already he tried to escape, but Manya stood in his way. “I want to talk with you about something.”