The Peasants, page 98
Gasping and recovering his breath a little, the priest again began to speak of the dead man, how he had fallen on behalf of them all … And he called them to accord. He called them to justice. He called them to restrain themselves in sin, for there was no knowing for whom the final hour would sound next and who would come to stand before the terrible judgement of the Lord …
Even the squire himself raised a fist to wipe away a tear.
The priests soon finished their business, however, and went off with the squire. When the coffin had been lowered and they began to sprinkle the sand so that it thumped on to the lid below, then, my Jesus, what a cry erupted, what shouts, what laments, fit to break the hardest of hearts!
Józka wailed, Magda wailed, Hanka wailed and all the cousins, both close and distant, wept, kin and total strangers, and Jagusia perhaps most bitterly of all, for something had pierced her so deeply in her breast that she was fair beside herself.
‘Ha, she’s whining now, but what about the merry dance she led him before!’ someone muttered to one side, while Płoszkowa added, wiping her eyes: ‘She’s crying herself some mercy, so they don’t throw her out the house.’
‘Does she think anyone’s stupid enough to fall for it?’ the organist’s wife said loudly.
But Jagna was oblivious to the whole blessed world. Wracked by such miserable sobs, she fell upon the sand, as though those fine heavy streams of earth were pouring over her, as though the gloomy voices of the bells were booming over her, crying over her …
And the bells kept ringing as though complaining to the heavens, while beside the fresh grave all those cries, those sobs and laments complained, too, of relentless fate and endless human injustice.
Soon people began to disperse slowly. One or two still knelt here and there. Some said a prayer for the dead and others wandered among the tombs and pondered sadly. Others, meanwhile, headed reluctantly for their homes, looking round expectantly, for Hanka and the blacksmith were inviting folk for the wake that was customary after a burial.
When they’d patted down the grave and fixed a black cross into the ground at its head, those that remained drew the poor wretches among them and set off in a sizeable group, chatting quietly, commiserating together and crying a little …
In Boryna’s chamber, everything was already neatly arranged. Tables stretched along the walls lined with long benches, so that as soon as all the men were seated, bread and vodka were served.
They drank with dignity, quietly and gravely, had a bite, and the organist began to read from the prayer book. Then they sang the litany for the dead, making the responses gladly and fervently, breaking off only when the blacksmith passed the bottle around again and Jagustynka served more bread.
The women gathered on the other side of the house, at Hanka’s. They drank tea, ate sweet cake and under the direction of the organist’s wife sang so plaintively and poignantly that the chickens began to cluck in the orchard. And so, remembering the departed kindly, folk ate and drank and wept and sang pious hymns for his soul, as was fitting at such a time and for such a farmer …
It was a lavish wake. Hanka urged them to help themselves, begrudging neither food nor drink. At noon, when several people had begun to look around for their hats, they served noodles and milk, and then roast meat and cabbage-with-peas, liberally garnished.
‘Better than some folk’s weddings!’ whispered Bolesławowa.
‘Well, didn’t the departed leave plenty behind, eh?’
‘Indeed, they’ve got more than enough to cheer them, they have.’
‘They must have snapped up plenty of ready cash too …’
‘Blacksmith’s carping that there was a goodly amount, but it’s vanished.’
‘He gripes, but he’s likely got it well hidden somewhere.’
The women chatted quietly among themselves, scraping their bowls clean and with an eye on Hanka, who was constantly vigilant in case anyone should lack anything. On the men’s side, the organist, not a little drunk now, hoisted himself up at the table and, glass in hand, began singing the dead man’s praises in such lofty terms and with Latin citations that, though they understood but little, they all felt like crying as at a sermon.
The hum of talk grew and faces reddened, and since the bottle circled often and the glasses were clinking away, many a guest groped for his glass with one hand and embraced his fellow’s neck with the other, mumbling in a befuddled way. Someone droned some dirge and attempted to pray for the dead man, but no one echoed him or listened now, as all were talking with their favoured companions, vowing eternal friendship and raising toasts again and again, while those keen on the drink slipped out furtively and made for the inn. Ambrozy alone was quite unlike himself today. Aye, he drank as much as the rest, and maybe more, since he himself adjured them for the vodka, but he just sat in a corner, greatly morose, wiping his eyes constantly and sighing.
Someone prodded him, keen to draw out a droll tale or two.
‘Leave me be, I’m in too sad a way for it!’ he retorted. ‘I’ll die soon, die … Only the dogs’ll howl for me and a woman’ll ring a broken pot,’ he muttered tearfully. ‘Why, I was at Maciej’s christening! … I danced at his wedding! … I buried his father! I remember it well! My Jesus, so many folk’s graves I’ve heaped with earth, rung that many bells … And now my time is come!’
He got up suddenly and went out quickly to the orchard. Witek later recounted how the old man had sat crying behind the cottage until late …
Aye, no one troubled themselves over him; each had woes aplenty of his own, and besides the priest came at dusk, most unexpectedly, together with the squire. He comforted the poor bereaved kindly, petted the children, chatted with the housewives and even willingly drank the tea that Józka served him, while the squire, after conversing of this and that with one or other of the guests, took a glass from the blacksmith and drank to all as he said to Hanka:
‘If anyone has cause to mourn for Maciej, then it is surely I, for were he living now, I would willingly seek peace with the village. Perhaps even give what you first wanted!’ He raised his voice, casting his eyes about. ‘But is there anyone I can discuss terms with now? I don’t wish to parley with the commissioner and in the village there is no one to step up!’
They listened attentively, weighing his every word.
He said this and that and talked some more, but he might as well have addressed the wall, for not a single tongue did he entice nor did anyone even open his mouth, but they just nodded, scratching their heads, and glancing at each other meaningfully. Seeing that he would not break through this cautious watchfulness, he summoned the priest and they left, a whole crowd seeing them off as far as the farmyard.
After this departure, they began to wonder and puzzle greatly.
‘Well, well, a squire at a peasant’s funeral.’
‘He needs us, so he’s buttering us up,’ said Płoszka.
‘And why wouldn’t he come out o’ the goodness of his heart, eh?’ Kłąb defended him.
‘You’ve gathered years aplenty but have grown no wiser. When did the squire ever come to the village in friendship, when?’
‘There must be something in it, since he’s seeking accord!’
‘He needs it more than we do, that’s what.’
‘And we can wait, we can!’ called a drunken Sikora.
‘You can, but others can’t!’ yelled Grzela, the Voyt’s brother.
They began quarrelling and holding forth, for one had to say his piece and the next his, with a third opposing them both, while others muttered:
‘Let him hand over the woods and land, and then there’ll be accord.’
‘We don’t need accord. When the distributions9 come, it’ll all be ours anyroad. Let the son-of-a-bitch pack his bags and begone for the wrong he’s done us.’
‘The Jews are squeezing him, so he’s whining for the peasants’ help.’
‘And all he knew before was how to shout: “Out of the way, lout, or you’ll feel my whip!”’
‘I’m telling you, don’t go believing the squire, for every one of ’em is ready to betray the peasant,’ called someone even more drunkenly.
‘Listen now, farmers!’ the blacksmith shouted suddenly. ‘I’ll give you a word of advice: if the squire wants accord, then you should accept and take what you can and not wait for pears to grow on a willow.’
Grzela, the Voyt’s brother, rose at that and cried:
‘Gospel truth! Let’s go to the inn, we can talk there.’
‘And I’ll stand you all a drink,’ the blacksmith added willingly.
They soon piled out into the farmyard. Dusk was deepening a little, the cattle were returning from the pastures, and from all over the village came sounds of lowing and honking, the shrill tunes of a pipe, and childish songs and shouts.
And despite the women’s nagging and opposition, the men set off for the inn in a body. Only Sikora dallied a little, catching hold of a fence, where he lingered awhile, clearing his throat.
They advanced so noisily, bursting into song for a little relief, or giving vehement shouts, that they could be heard for some time.
At the Borynas’, meanwhile, once they’d tidied up after the guests and a dark evening had fallen, it grew quiet, strangely empty and sad.
Jagusia knocked about her chamber like a bird in a cage and kept darting to Hanka’s side, but seeing them all so gloomy and troubled, she ran off without a word.
Aye, the cottage was like a tomb, and when they’d done the farm chores and eaten supper, though almost falling asleep, no one was in a hurry to leave the room. They sat by the fireplace, gazing into the flames and fearfully listening for every rustle.
It was a quiet evening, with only an occasional gust of wind sweeping through the trees. Sometimes the fences creaked, windowpanes rattled or Łapa would growl and bristle menacingly, followed by long, sepulchral silences that went on for ever.
Meanwhile, they just sat there, more and more shaken, and so afraid that, again and again, someone would cross themselves and, with trembling lips, begin a prayer. It seemed to everyone that something was moving around somewhere – walking overhead and making the beams shake, listening at the door, looking in at the window or rubbing against the walls. It sounded as though someone had lifted the latch and was now walking around the whole cottage with a heavy tread.
They blenched as they listened, holding their breath, almost beside themselves.
Suddenly the horse neighed in the stable, Łapa barked furiously and hurled himself at the door and Józka, unable to restrain herself, shouted, ‘Father! God’s sake, Father!’ and burst out crying, terrified.
At this, Jagustynka snapped her fingers three times and said gravely:
‘Stop your bleating: you’re keeping the soul from leaving in peace. Weeping only binds it to the earth. Open the door – let the wanderer fly away to Jesus’ fields … Let it depart and be at peace.’10
They opened the door. The chamber grew quiet and seemed to ebb somehow. No one moved; only their feverish eyes darted about. Łapa sniffed the corners of the room, whining a little and wagging his tail as though fawning over someone, so that everyone was quite certain now that the soul of the dead man was moving somewhere among them.
Then Hanka began to sing in a trembling, strangled voice ‘All Our Daily Cares’.
And they all repeated it fervently and with immeasurable relief.
CHAPTER 2
It was the most beautiful, truly summer day.
It must have been ten in the morning, for the sun was poised halfway between dawn and midday and beating down more intensely as it rose, when every single Lipce bell rang out with all its might.
The one they called Pieter boomed loudest of all, singing out full-throatedly, like a slightly drunken peasant swaying from side to side along the road and assailing the whole world with his tales of mirth …
Meanwhile the second, a tad smaller, the one Ambrozy declared had been christened Paweł,1 was clamouring no less loudly and joined in even more eagerly, pealing long and loftily in pure high-pitched tones as though carried away, like some lass when love overwhelms her, or a spring day when it flies into the field, pushing its way through the wheat and singing with all its heart to the winds, the fields, the bright sky and its own festive soul.
As for the third – the Angelus bell – it twittered like a bird, trying to outdo the others, but in vain, though it jangled in the quick choppy voice of a childish squabble. They were ringing now like a proper band with a bass booming, fiddles wailing and the tabour’s cymbals jingling merrily – all clanging away, loud and sonorous.
For it was St Peter and St Paul’s,2 always a solemn feast in Lipce, and this the people’s joyful summons to the indulgences.
The weather couldn’t have been better, quiet and sunny, promising a true scorcher of a day. The tradesmen had been busy since dawn on the square before the church, putting up all manner of stalls, booths and tables, covered with canvas canopies.
No sooner had the bells begun to chime, no sooner had their exultant voices rung out into the world, than more and more carts began to rumble along the dry roads in clouds of dust. Throngs of folk appeared on foot, so that, as far as the eye could see on every side, roads and paths and baulks were red with women’s dresses and fluttering with white capotes. They came trailing in rows like gaggles of geese shimmering in the heat among the green wheat.
The sun was climbing higher and higher, flying like a golden bird across the pure blue sky, growing brighter and hotter. The air was already trembling over the meadows; sometimes a pleasant chill still blew from the fields and rocked the whitening rye, while the oats rustled faintly, the ears of young wheat quivered and the blossoming, blue-tinged flax flowed in a stream like water, but everything was slowly plunging now into the quiet blistering heat of the sun.
Hej! It was a joyful day, truly a feast! The bells rang out endlessly, their plangent voices reverberating over the world so loudly that blades of grass swayed and birds took fright, but still those bronze hearts beat constantly and rhythmically, strong and high, lifting their poignant song to the sun and crying:
‘Have mercy! Mercy! Mercy!’
‘Most Holy Mother! Mother! Mother!’
‘To you I cry! And I! And I! And I!’
So they sang wholeheartedly as they proclaimed the solemn feast.
The very air seemed to breathe this holy day of indulgence. It was a holiday in every green-wreathed cottage, in the distances that shimmered like candlelight, in happy voices and in something inexpressible that floated over the fields, making hearts swell with tranquillity and cheer.
Crowds of folk were hurrying and piling in from every side. Clouds of dust rolled ceaselessly along all the roads, while carts clattered, horses neighed and a multitude of voices and loud conversations flew to and fro. Someone would lean occasionally from a cart-basket and shout to the passers-by, or a tardy old beggar would hurry along, singing fitfully. In some carts, prayers were being whispered while folk looked all about with mute amazement at the earth that stood adorned as though for a wedding, all decked out in flowers and greenery and full of birdsong, the rustle of wheat and the humming of bees – so wondrous and boundless, festive and utterly holy, burgeoning with life, it filled the heart to bursting.
The trees along the baulks stood like sentries, gazing at the sun, and along the lowlands, as far as the eye could see, stretched green fields, murmuring like a stormy sea, and like a sea they heaved from side to side, lapping against the lanes and baulks and ditches, which gleamed like flowery ribbons densely entwined with yellow, violet and feathery white. Larkspur in every colour was blossoming already, while the hidden fragrant eyes of flowering bindweed looked out from thickets of rye and cornflowers bloomed on softened patches as thickly as though the sky had lain down there. Whole clumps of vetch were in flower, along with buttercups, dandelions and red teasel, charlock, clover, daisies and wild chamomile, and a thousand others known only to the Lord since they blossom for him alone and with such a fragrance that the fields seemed as hazy as in church when the priest was censing the Sacrament.
Breathing in the scented air with pleasure, people flicked their whips to hurry their horses, as the sun was fiery now and sleep tormenting them, so that several heads were already nodding.
Lipce was soon brimming with folk. They kept arriving, endlessly, and everywhere along the road, around the pond, by the fences, in the farmyards and wherever there was the slightest shade, carts parked and people unharnessed their horses, for the square before the church was now so crowded with carts standing wheel to wheel that you could barely squeeze through. Lipce was virtually sinking under the crush of people, carts and horses.
The din grew louder. Noise and shouts rose above the whole village and folk were humming like a swaying forest. The women stood around the pond, soaking their feet, pulling on their boots and making themselves decent for church. The men bantered in groups, conspiring with their neighbours, while the lasses and lads pushed their way eagerly to the stalls and booths, especially to the barrel organ on which some little creature from overseas, dressed in red with a snout like an old German, made such comical little skips and frolics that they clutched their sides with laughter.
The barrel organ played with a vengeance, striking up a tune that set many a foot tapping, and as if in accompaniment the old beggars sitting in two rows from the vestibule to the square began to drone their songs of entreaty. In the very gates of the graveyard sat the fat blind old man with the dog and he sang most earnestly of all, drawing out the notes the longest.
But as soon as the signal came for High Mass, folk dropped their diversions and surged towards the church in a torrent, filling it so tightly that ribs were cracking, and still more folk kept arriving, squeezing in, and even squabbling, though most had to remain outside, huddling against the walls and trees.
