| Yakób
went over to
the window. The snow was lying deep on the fields, like a shimmering
coat
of varnish; the world was bathed in the light of a pale, wan moon. The
forest-trees stood out here and there in blue points, like teeth. Large
and brilliant the stars looked down, and above the milky way, veiled in
vapours, hung the sickle of the moon.
While in
the immensity of
the night cold and glittering worlds were bowing down before the
eternal,
Yakób looked, and noticed something approaching from the
mountains.
Along the heights and slopes there was
a long chain
of lights;
it was opening out from the centre into two lines on either side, which
looked as though they were lost in the forest. Below them there were
confused
gleams in the fields, and behind, in the distance, the glow of the
burning
homesteads.
'They have
burned the vicarage,'
thought Yakób, and his heart answered: 'and here am
I...watching.'
He pressed
against the window-frame,
glued his grey face to the panes and, trembling with cold, sent out an
obstinate and hostile glance into space, as though determined to obtain
permission to keep his own heritage.
Suddenly he
pricked up his
ears. Something was approaching from the distance across the forest
very
cautiously. The snow was creaking under the advancing steps. In the
great
silence it sounded like the forging
of iron. Those
were horses'
hoofs stamping the snow.
This sound,
suppressed as
it was, produced in him a peculiar sensation which starts in the head
and
grips you in the nape of the neck, the consciousness that someone is
hiding
close to you.
Yakob stood
quite still at
the window, not even moving his pipe from one corner of his mouth to
the
other. Not he himself seemed to be trembling, only his rags.
The door
was suddenly thrown
open and a soldier appeared on the threshold. The light of a lantern
which
was suspended on his chest, filled the room.
Yakob's
blood was freezing.
Cossacks, hairy like bears, were standing in the opening of the door,
the
snow which covered them was shining like a white flame. In the
courtyard
there were steaming horses; lanceheads were glittering like reliquaries.
Yakob
understood that they
were calling him 'old man', and asking him questions. He extended his
hands
to express that he knew nothing. Some of the Cossacks entered, and made
signs to him to make up the fire.
He noticed
that they were
bringing more horses into the yard, small, shaggy ponies like wolves.
He became
calmer, and his
fear disappeared; he only remained cautious and observant; everything
that
happened seemed to take hours, yet he saw it with precision.
'It is
cold...it is cold!'
He made up
the fire for these
bandits who stretched themselves on the benches; he felt they were
talking
and laughing about him, and he turned to them and nodded; he thought it
would please them if he showed that he approved of them. They asked him
about God knows what, where they were, and where they were not. As
though
he knew!
Then they
started all over
again, while they swung their booted legs under the seats. One of them
came up to the hearth, and clapped the crouching Yakob on his back for
fun, but it hurt. It was a resounding smack. Yakob scratched himself
and
rumpled his hair, unable to understand.
They boiled
water and made
tea; a smell of sausages spread about the room. Yakob bit his jaws
together
and looked at the fire. He sat in his place as though he had been glued
to it.
His ears
were tingling when
he heard the soldiers grinding their teeth on their food, tearing the
skin
off the sausages and smacking their lips.
A large and
painful void
was gaping in his inside.
They
devoured their food
fast and noisily, and an odour of brandy began to fill the room, and
contracted
Yakob's throat.
He
understood that they were
inviting him to share the meal, but he felt uneasy about that, and
though
his stomach seemed to have shrunk, and the sausage-skins and bones
which
they had thrown away lay quite
close to him,
he could not
make up his mind to move and pick them up.
'Come on!'
The soldier
beckoned to him.
'Come here!'
The old man
felt that he
was weakening, the savoury smell took possession of him.
But 'I
shan't go,' he thought.
The soldier, gnawing a bone, repeated, 'Come on!'
'I shan't
go,' thought Yakob,
and spat into the fire, to assure himself that he was not going. All
the
same...the terribly tempting smell made him more and more feeble.
At last two
of them got up,
took him under the arms, and sat him down between them.
They made
signs to him, they
held the sausage under his nose; the tea was steaming, the brandy smelt
delicious.
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