They spoke long together, and Uncle John in his presence unbosomed himself completely, as if he had seen in the father the spirit of poor Betuska—so he disclosed in his presence everything without reserve. He added that he desired but one thing, and that was that Kubista should recognise that he was worthy of his daughter.
And Kubista did indeed stand to him in place of a father, at least according to sorrow.
Whenever they saw one another a-field they always came together, and their first salutation was dedicated to the memory of Betuska.
Only sometimes uncle came here alone, alone and then complained to heaven and earth, fell on his face, and drowned his grief in tears. Aye, he could not see this place without shuddering, but his eyes in vain sought the village, to see whether Betuska would come from it, to make all clear to him as none else could.
Coming home again he was so variable that neither grandfather nor grandmother could understand him.
Sometimes indeed quite affable, and at other times again he shut himself within himself like a monastic in his cell.
He did not speak much with people, and if he spoke he touched on matters entirely indifferent, so that it might appear to others as if this misfortune had not so very deeply affected him.
Sometimes also he jested with them—even cruelly. He said “So! I told you to laugh at me when I was no more Kubista’s boy. Laugh now, you have a right to do so.”
And he began himself to laugh, as though he wished to give them a taste for laughing.
