SPRING had come. All about the birds were twittering, crocuses and daisies were coming into bloom. The little buds on the lilac bushes had turned green. Katrinka danced barefoot down the village street towards the store, there to exchange dried fish for sugar and tea.
KATRINKA DANCED BAREFOOT DOWN THE VILLAGE STREET.
Now and then a shadow swept her brow and her feet grew heavy. This was when she remembered with a pang that no word had yet come from her father and mother. But when spring is in the air and one is only ten years old, tragedy must look on at a distance, while joy sends the blood bounding through the veins. So, on the whole, Katrinka was happy, although she fell on her knees many times a day to pray to the Virgin for the return of her parents, and she had stripped the storeroom of good things until it was as empty as the storeroom of Ivan Drovski, to make gifts to the village priest, in return for his prayers for the happiness of her poor father and mother.
To-day the air was wonderfully sweet and full of life, and Katrinka felt sure that the prayers would soon be answered. Her feet seemed hardly to touch the ground as she approached the store and then suddenly paused. She had almost bumped into Marie Drovski. She laughed, then sprang back to look admiringly at her friend.
Usually Marie wore an old crimson skirt, figured with bright yellow cornucopias, but today she had changed it for a skirt and kerchief of dark blue, which in Russia is the mourning color and is always worn by engaged girls–and Marie Drovski had been engaged for almost two months now.
It had come about in this way. A big man driving a fine sleigh had come to the village from the other side of St. Petersburg. He was in search of a bride for his son.He stopped at all the village houses to get a sly peep at the girls of marriageable age. He came finally to the dwelling of Ivan Drovski. As he entered the kitchen he saw Marie, who was taking a big loaf of bread from the oven. It was a white loaf and very light, made from flour that Katrinka had given Mother Drovski the day before. At the sight of the fine white loaf the man struck his hands together delightedly, and asked to see Mother Drovski. After some talk and laughter the visitor managed to find out a great many things about Marie that pleased him. He learned that she could spin, knit, sew, cook, milk the cow and work in the fields. Also he saw that she had a pretty face and guessed that her disposition was merry. He found that when she married she would have as a dower the fine young calf that had been kept in the outer room during the winter, as well as a pig, a sheep and a great deal of cloth that she had spun on the big loom which belonged to Katrinka's mother.
When the stranger learned all this he was very much pleased. He invited Mother Drovski to drive to his home with him, there to inspect a fine jewel that he had. Mother Drovski set out the following day, and that night Marie confided to Katrinka that the jewel her mother was to see was the son of the stranger. Two days later Mother Drovski returned, well satisfied with the young man whom she had met.
A fine feast was then prepared by the Drovskis, and on the day of the feast, towards the evening, three knocks sounded upon the outer door. By this time the snow had almost disappeared and the weather was so much warmer that the chickens, the calf, and the young pigs had been taken to the shed back of the house, and the outer room had been cleaned from floor to ceiling. The shutters had been removed from the double windows and the room was light and fairly cheerful.
When Mother Drovski heard the mysterious rapping she pretended to be very much surprised, and going to the door, threw it open. Twilight had fallen and she held in her hand a tallow candle. Two women stood outside.
"What brings you to my dwelling at this hour?" demanded Mother Drovski, as if she did not know who the strangers were or why they had come.
"We are hungry. We would eat," replied the taller of the women.
"Then enter," said Mother Drovski. "Our supper is spread. It is plain and poor but there is enough for all." Really it was the very finest supper that Mother Drovski had ever prepared.
The women lowered their heads and passed through the outer room into the kitchen. The big oven had been freshly white-washed, and the rough pine table, covered with a white cloth, was groaning under the weight of good things to eat. Marie in her red skirt made a pretty picture, standing shyly with downcast eyes in the corner near the glistening oven. She knew perfectly well why the women had come. One of them was the mother of the young man whom Marie had never seen, but whom her parents had decided she should marry, providing his mother thought well of her.
The mother of the young man, a broad-shouldered woman with sharp blue eyes, looked around the room, making believe, meantime, that she had not noticed the girl in the corner. Untying the white kerchief from her head, she placed it on the bench under the window.
"I have a son," she said, her eyes fixed on the face of Mother Drovski. "He is broad-shouldered and as strong as an ox. His face is so handsome and his disposition so kind that all the girls in our village desire him for a husband. But he will have none of them. He has heard that in this village, in this very house, there is a maiden of sixteen years with eyes as soft as a young lamb's and with a complexion like the sunny side of an apple. It is said of her that she has many virtues; that she goes to church regularly, that she is quick and neat, that she can sew, spin, weave, knit and bake a loaf that is good enough for the Imperial Prince. I have also heard that she is as good as a man in the fields. If there is in this house this beautiful maiden, pray show her to me at once, that I may return and tell my son that I have found for him a fitting bride."
"Indeed," replied Mother Drovski, "I will show my daughter to you. But I fear you will be disappointed. She is a simple village girl, but she works hard and is kind and obedient."
"Pray, let us behold her," said the sharp-eyed visitor, seating herself on the bench that ran along the kitchen wall.
Madame Drovski sighed, and going to the door leading from the kitchen into the backyard, called softly. Immediately several village girls appeared. They entered the house and one after another passed before the mother of the young man, who shook her head sadly, and after the last girl had gone, turned to Mother Drovski.
"I have made a mistake," she said, picking up her kerchief as if about to leave. "None of these is the girl for whom I am in search."
Then, suddenly, as if she had just remembered her, Mother Drovski called Marie, who came shyly from the corner and stood before the two strange women. Immediately the mother of the young man threw out her arms and gathered the girl to her bosom, kissing her first on one cheek and then on the other.
"This–this is the girl for whom I came in search. This is the maiden for whom my son longs."
Mother Drovski who, according to Russian custom, had planned the whole thing at the time she visited the home of the young man, immediately began to wail and wring her hands. Marie joined in the weeping, and even Katrinka, who had been invited to the feast, managed to squeeze out a few tears, although she knew that both Mother Drovski and Marie had been looking forward to the visit of the unknown young man's mother and were pleased at the prospect of the coming marriage. It seemed very foolish to her for them all to cry aloud now as if they were torn with anguish, but she knew it was customary and so, with an effort, joined in the lamentations.
After a few minutes the tears were dried and the Drovski family, the two strange women, Katrinka and little Peter crowded around the table where the feasting continued for hours.
The next day Marie was driven to the house of a relative in a nearby village where the youth she was to marry had also come. Here the two young people were allowed to see each other but not to speak. The young man, as if ignorant of Marie's presence in the house, strolled about the yard while Marie observed him through a window. Later Marie went outside and stood talking with a cousin while the young man watcher her.
It is probable that he was very much pleased with the choice his parents had made, for when Marie at last drove away with her father, he stood for some time in the middle of the road looking after the departing wagon.
All this had taken place some weeks ago, but to-day for the first time Marie had put on her betrothal mourning. To Katrinka's fond eyes her friend looked more enchanting than ever before.
"Oh, Marie," she cried, her gaze fixed on the blue skirt. "You have on your mourning. 9 Then it is true that everything has been arranged for the wedding?"
Marie's color brightened. "Yes, I shall be busy from now on, spinning cloth to make my wedding clothes."
"And in the summer will you go away?" Katrinka's dimples vanished. The corners of her mouth drooped.
"Yes, before the harvesting I shall go to live in the house of my father-in-law."
"Oh, Marie, what will Peter and I do without you? Who will sleep in the house with us after that?" Katrinka bit her under lip to hide its quivering. "We shall be very lonely and afraid, Marie."
"Perhaps your father and mother will have returned by then," said Marie, smiling cheerfully. "Besides, Peter is getting large and strong. He is four years old. He will soon be a man and able to take care of you."
Katrinka clasped her hands, and the dried fish which she was to exchange for sugar and tea fell unheeded to the ground.
"Oh, Marie, I pray to the Virgin every night that Peter may grow up a woman. I fear that if he is a man he will be a man of the sword and a printer. Then he will be torn from me and sent to Siberia. Even now he plays that he is a soldier and one day he had a stone that he said was a bomb. When I asked him what he would do with it, he said he was going to blow up the Czar's Cossacks. I do not know where he learned about these things, but I am sure it would be better for him if he could grow up a woman."
Marie laughed. "Children hear and remember everything. No doubt Peter heard them talking of these things at the meetings which were held in your house."
"They were all good men and good women who came to our house. They were talking and thinking always of what would be best for the poor."
"That may be, but it is foolish to talk of such things. It can do no good, and if the officers of the Czar hear of it they are very likely to throw one into prison. Have you finished coloring your Easter eggs?"
Katrinka picked up her fish and the shadow disappeared from her forehead.
"I have a basket of them and one for Peter. We have some of every color, but the prettiest are the green ones on which I have painted red flowers. I will show them to you to-night."
Marie smiled and started on her way, then suddenly turned and came back.
"A cousin is coming to eat with us to-morrow. I told mother that I would bring her some white flour that we might have a nice loaf for him. But when I looked for the flour in your house this morning there seemed to be none there."
"I gave the last of it to the priest yesterday."
"And the codfish is all gone."
"Yes, your mother took a strip–all that was left–when I gave her the last of the cucumbers, Saturday. There are seven mouths to feed in your family. In our house there are only two. Peter and I like black bread and mushroom soup, and there are enough mushrooms to last for a long time."
Marie looked at Katrinka and frowned, shaking her head dubiously.
"You have given too much to your neighbors and the church. You forget that your father is no longer here to provide food for the long winters."
"But Peter and I are very small. We have enough for a long time to come," replied Katrinka, entering the door of the store and offering her fish to the proprietor.
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