THE PEASANTS SPRING

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

The Peasants has been translated from the original Polish by Michael H. Dziewicki, Reader of English Literature at the University of Cracow. I wish to make special acknowledgment to Dr. A. M. Nawench of Columbia University for his invaluable assistance in seeing the work through the press.

CHAPTER I

Spring had come.

Like a toiler who, having slept the sleep of exhaustion, is forced to rise ere dawn after a too short rest, and go out and plough without delay, the April morning was rising lazily.

It was grey dawn.

Silence reigned everywhere, save for the copious dews that dropped and dripped from the trees, wrapped in dense mists and slumbering.

Over the black earth, plunged in stillness and deep darkness, the sky was beginning to glimmer palely, and look like a sheet of wringing wet bluish canvas.

All the low-lying meadows were whitish with mantling haze, which resembled the frothy head of milk in a pail.

Cocks presently vied with one another, crowing in the yet invisible hamlets.

The last stars went out, closing their tired and sleepy eyes.

And now a glow was kindled in the East, as when they blow on embers half quenched in the ashes.

The floating mists rolled heavily hither and thither, surged about the dusky fields as floods in the spring thaw, or went up the sky in thin blue spirals, like incense smoke.

The day was at odds with the paling night, which crouched and clung close to the earth, covering it with its thick wet cloak.

The light was slowly spreading all over the sky, and coming down nearer and nearer to the ground, and struggling with the entangling fog. In places, along the uplands, there were seen drab dew-soaked expanses, peering out of the night, 4and plashes of water that shimmered with lack-lustre surfaces, and brooks that poured their streaming contents along, between the dissolving mists and the brightening dawn.

And as it grew lighter, the flush in the East changed from livid violet to the blood-red tints of a huge conflagration. Things grew visible: the black circle of forest at the sky-line, the long row of poplars on the ascending road, drooping forward, as though tired by the weary climb, sprang into sight; and the hamlets sprinkled over the country-side, and hitherto buried in shadows, now peeped forth here and there in the morning light, like dark rocks in a swirl of foaming water, and some of the nearer trees were silvered all over with morning dews.

The sun had not risen yet, but it was clearly on the point of bursting out of the crimson glory round it, upon the world now just opening its bleared eyes, and stirring a little, but still resting and drowsily enjoying its rest. Now the stillness seemed to ring yet more loudly in the ears, for the earth was, as it were, holding its breath: only a feeble breeze, faint as the breathing of an infant, blew from the woods and shook the dewdrops from the trees.

Out of the greyness of the early morn, above those fields still deep in slumber and in shadow, like a church filled with silent worshippers, suddenly rose the ditty of a lark.

Up from the ground it soared, and, rising, flapped its wings, twittering with silvery sounds—the tinkling of a Mass-bell, as it were—or like a fragrant column of springtide perfumes, rising, rising upward; and from the hallowed heights and silences of the eastern sky it called aloud to all the country-side.

And in a little others joined its song, soaring to heaven, and, as they beat their wings, proclaimed the approach of day to every creature!

The sun was coming, it was close at hand.

At last it peered above the far-off forest, as if it rose from an abyss; as if divine invisible hands were holding up its huge and glittering paten over the drowsy lands, and blessing with the blessing of its light all things that in them were—living 5or dead, coming to life or dying out of it—beginning thus the holy offering of the day, while all things fell and worshipped in the dust, mutely closing their unworthy eyes before its sacred majesty.

Now day had dawned.

Like odoriferous smoke, the haze was wafted upwards from the meadows to the gold-splashed sky; and birds and living things of every kind burst out into a chant ... a cry, a thankful prayer, a prayer rising from the heart!

Then did the sun appear above the dark woods and countless villages, high, mighty, shedding warmth below—the eye of God’s own mercy—and commence its reign, its peaceful gentle mastery over all the land.

It was just then that Agata, the Klembas’ aged kinswoman, made her appearance upon a sandhill near the forest, where several stacks belonging to the Manor stood by a roadway full of deep ruts.

In early autumn she had started on her pilgrimage of beggary, and eaten “bread of our Lord’s giving” ever since.

And now she had come back, just like those homing birds that always find their nests again in spring.

Old, feeble, very short of breath, and something like a roadside willow, rooted in the sand, decrepit, phosphorescent, tottering to its fall—she walked all in rags, staff in hand, wallet on back, and a rosary dangling at her side.

The sun was rising when she passed the Manor stacks with quick short steps, raising her weatherbeaten shrivelled face to the sun, while her grey eyes, though bloodshot, sparkled bright with joy.

Ah! Back again in her native village, after the long hard winter!—The thought gave wings to her feet; her wallet jogged upon her shoulders, and her beads tinkled at her side: but soon her breath grew short, her labouring lungs failed her, and she had perforce to stop and then go on more slowly and painfully. But her hungry eyes scoured the country round; she smiled on those grey fields, now greenish with a haze of growing corn; on the villages, coming little by little out of the enveloping fog; on those trees, as yet bare of 6foliage, that stood as guardians of the road, and on those others, scattered solitary about the plain.

By this time the sun was pretty high, and cast its beams over the farthest fields of all. The whole country gleamed with rosy dew; the black ploughed lands shone in light, the waters glittered, streaming by in the ditches, the voices of the larks rang loud through the cool air. Farther, beneath some outjutting crags, the last patches of vanishing snow still glistened. On a few trees there hung clusters of yellow catkins that dangled in air like amber beads. In certain nooks, and from the beds of pools drying in the sun, young grass with golden blades was springing up amongst last year’s dry rust-coloured leaves, or wild flowers were opening their yellow eyes. A light breeze had caught up the rich dank odours of the plain that basked idly in the sunlight; and everything around was so bright, so vast, and full of such delicious sweetness that Agata would fain have had wings, to soar upwards with a great cry of joy and rapture.

“O good Lord! O dear Jesus!” she gasped, sitting down to take the whole view, as it were, into her tender heart that throbbed with gladness.

Oh, how the springtide was rolling on over the broad plains, while the lark’s anthems announced its coming to all!... And that sacred sun!... And oh, the soft warm caresses of the wind, like the kisses of a mother!... and the still, mysterious yearnings of the land, awaiting the plough and the sower!... Oh, and the seething of life everywhere coming forth, and the breezes pregnant with that which was soon to be the blade—the flower—the full corn in the ear!

Oh, how the spring was coming forth, like a bright lady clad in sunbeams, with a face like the rosy dawn, and tresses like streaming waters! Here she was, floating down from the sun, and hovering over the cornfields this bright April morning; and from her outspread hands fluttered many a lark, set free to sing her praises blithely! In her wake flew 7rows of cranes, with joyful clangorous notes, and wild geese, in wedge-shaped formation athwart the pale-blue sky. Storks went forth along the marshy levels, swallows twittered by the huts, and all the winged tribes came singing merrily. And as often as that sunny mantle of hers touched the earth, grasses sprang up, quivering to the breeze; swollen buds glistened under their coating of viscid gum, and leaflets whispered low; for a new strong lush life was rising everywhere.

And oh, how she caressed and fondled all those poor lowly tumble-down cottages! With what eyes of mercy did she glance beneath the thatches, and awake to life the chilled and palsy-stricken hearts of men, who now—in this hour of longed-for consolation—put aside their griefs and sombre broodings, and dreamed that a happier lot might yet be theirs!

The land resounded with life, as a bell long silent, when given a new tongue. It was the sun’s gift, and the magnificent peal rang out and boomed with clamorous joy, waking timid hearts and singing of things most marvellous, until it found an echo in every soul. Tears started to every eye: the immortal spirit of man, rising up in its strength, knelt in raptures to embrace the land—that world of its own—aye, every swollen and pregnant clod of it!—every tree and stone and exhalation—all that he cherished and held dear!

Thus felt Agata, as she dragged herself slowly along, greedily gloating over that Holy Land of her dreams, and reeling at times as if from strong drink.

The Mass-bell, tinkling in the steeple, recalled her to her senses at last, and she fell upon her knees.

“... Thy holy will, O Lord, has brought me home.

“... Thou hast shown mercy to the friendless one!”

She could hardly get the words out. A great torrent of tears welled up from her heart and poured down her withered cheeks. So moved was she that she could no longer find her beads, nor any but incoherent utterances, struck out from her soul like burning sparks. At last, with a mighty effort, 8she rose and went forward, her eyes on the country-side around her.

It was now broad day. All Lipka was spread out before and beneath her, in a circle round the mill-pond, now dark-blue and glittering like a mirror through the thin veil of whitish haze over it. Along its shores the cottages were crouching on the ground, and seated like goodwives amongst their yet leafless orchard-trees. A little smoke rose above some of the thatches, panes gleamed in the sunshine, and freshly whitewashed walls contrasted strongly with the dark trunks that partly hid them.

And now she could make out each of the huts apart. The mill, with its noisy clutter more distinct as she advanced, stood at one end of the village, close to the road she was following, and at the opposite end the church raised its high white front amongst huge trees, its windows and the golden cross on the steeple shining afar, and the red-tiled roof of the priest’s house visible close by. And beyond, to the very sky-line, extended the bluish-grey ring of forest, the wide expanse of cornland, villages at a distance, nestling in their orchards; outjutting crags, winding roadways, lines of slanting trees, sandhills scantily clad with juniper-bushes, and the thin thread of the stream, sparkling as it ran on to the mill-pond, in and out among the huts.

Nearer to her lay the ground belonging to Lipka—as it were, long strips of canvas or cloth that variegated the sloping uplands. They ran in sinuous bands, one close to the other, separated only by the winding footpaths between them, thickly planted with spreading pear-trees, and overrun with briers and brambles; or by drab fallows, clear-cut and sharp in the yellow morning light. Patches of land sown in autumn, now beginning to turn green, dark-hued potato-fields of last year’s crop, bits of newly ploughed soil, and waters on the low levels, with a greyish glimmer as of molten glass, completed the picture. Beyond the mill stretched peaty-coloured meadows, on which storks were seen to wade and heard to “klek”; and farther, cabbage plantations, so flooded 9as yet that only the tops of the furrows emerged from the water like stranded fishes: over these, white-bellied lapwings flew about. At the crossways there stood crucifixes or statues of saints. And above this little world, the hollow wherein the village nestled, hung the hot bright sun, and the lark

trilled out its song: a plaintive lowing was heard from the cow-byres; geese screamed; human voices called one to another; while the wind, bearing all these sounds upon its wings, blew with so warm and so gentle a breath that the land seemed plunged in that quiet ecstasy in which new life is conceived.

Yet there were not many workers to be seen in the fields. Only a few women, close to the village, were scattering dung about, and stray whiffs of its sharp pungent smell came to her nostrils.

“The lazy fellows! What can they be about on such a day as this, when the land is simply begging to be tilled?... Why are so few at work?” she muttered, in no good humour.

To approach the fields yet nearer, she left the road for a narrow path that crossed a ditch where the grass grew lush, and plenty of daisies already opened their pink eyelashes to the sun. She well remembered how, in former years, the fields were at that season all dotted over with red petticoats, and echoing to the lasses’ songs and cries; and she knew well that in such weather it was just the time to manure and till and sow the land. What, then, could the matter be? Why, she saw only one single peasant, standing somewhere in the fields and walking along, throwing grain broadcast in a semicircular sweep.

“He must be sowing peas, so early in spring.... One of Dominikova’s lads, no doubt,” she said, and added, with all her heart: “May God in His mercy grant you a bountiful harvest, O dear sower!”

The path was rugged and uneven, full of fresh molehills and many a puddle. But, absorbed as she was in every bit of land she saw, she paid no heed to these.

10“This is the priest’s rye-field. How well it grows! I remember, when I started on my wanderings, the farm-servant was ploughing here, and his Reverence sat close by.”

Again she crawled on painfully, breathing hard and looking round with tearful eyes.

“This is Ploshka’s rye ... but it must have come up late, or rotted somewhat in the ground.”

She bent down—no easy task for her!—to stroke the moist blades lovingly, as she would have stroked a child’s head, with tremulous withered fingers.

“Ah, here is Boryna’s wheat! A magnificent piece of ground. Of course: is he not the first farmer in Lipka?—A little frost-bitten, though; the winter has been very severe,” she thought, looking out over the flat expanse of fields ploughed last autumn, and the blades sunk deep in the earth and soiled with mire, testifying to the heavy winter snows and floods.

“Oh,” she sighed, “the folk here have suffered not a little.” And she shaded her eyes to look at a couple of lads who were coming by from the village.

“The organist’s pupil, and one of his sons.... What large baskets! Ah, no doubt they are going to Vola with their annual list for confession. Yes, that is what they are about.”

She greeted them as they went by, and would have chatted with them willingly; but they only mumbled a reply, and hurried on, deep in conversation with each other.

“And I have known them ever since they could walk!” she said, disappointed and out of sorts. “Ah, well! how should they know a beggar like me?—But Michael has grown up finely, and will surely now be playing the organ for his Reverence.”

She was presently close to Klemba’s property. “Lord! there is not one man to be seen!” she cried.—She was now so near the village that she could smell the smoke of the chimneys, and see the beds and cushions laid out to air in the orchard. Her heart was brimming over with thankfulness for having been spared till now, and allowed to come back 11to her people. In this hope she had been able to live through the winter: it had upheld and strengthened her against cold and want and death itself.

She sat down under some bushes, to arrange her dress a little, but could not. Joy made her limbs quiver and her heart flutter like a strangled bird.

“There are still some good kind people here,” she whispered, looking hard at her wallet. She had put by, she knew, quite enough for her burial.

For many a year she had set her heart upon one thing: to die (when our Lord should call her) in her own village, lying in a cottage, on a feather-bed, and beneath a row of holy images upon the wall: as all goodwives die. And for many a year she had been saving against that last, that sacred hour!

Now at the Klembas’, up in the loft, she had a chest, and within that chest a great feather-bed, with sheets and pillows, and new pillow-covers: all clean, and none of them ever used, in order to be always in readiness. There was no other place to put that bedding, for she never had a room or a bedstead to herself, but was used to sleep in some corner, on a litter of straw, or in the cow-house, according to circumstances, and as the people of the house allowed her. For she would never assert herself, nor make any complaints, being well aware that things take place in this world according to God’s will, and are not to be changed by sinful man.

And yet—in secret, silently, and asking to be forgiven for her pride—she had dreamed of this one thing: to be buried like a village goodwife. For this she had long prayed in fear and trembling.

Naturally, therefore, on arriving in the village, and aware that her last hour was not far off, she set about considering whether there was anything that she had forgotten.

No. She had got all that was required. With her she carried a Candlemas taper that she had begged after a nightwatch over a dead body; a bottle of holy water; a new sprinkling-brush, a consecrated picture of Our Lady of Chenstohova, which she should hold when dying, and a few score 12zloty for her burial, which might possibly also suffice for a Mass to be said, before the body, with candles and the rite of sprinkling performed at the church-door. For she never dreamed that the priest would accompany the body to the grave.

That was out of the question. Not every landowner had the luck of being honoured thus; besides, the fee for that alone would swallow up all her savings!

She sighed heavily and rose to her feet, feeling much weaker than usual. Her lungs hurt her greatly, and she was so racked with coughing that she could hardly crawl along.

“If,” she mused, “I was able to hold out till haymaking, or till the harvest begins! Oh, then I could willingly lie down and die, dear Jesus! lie down and die!”

She thought her hopes sinful, and wanted to excuse them.

But now arose the disquieting thought: who would take her in and let her die in his hut?

“I shall,” she said, “look for some good kind-hearted people: and they may be more willing if I promise them a little money. Indeed, no one cares to have trouble and annoyance in his own cottage on account of a stranger.”

As to dying at her relations’, the Klembas, she durst not even think of that.

“So many children!—No room in the cabin; and the fowls are laying now, and place must be made for them.—And then, it were a disgrace for such landowners to have a beggar, their kinswoman, die under their roof.”

All this she was pondering without any bitterness, as she plodded her way on the road along the dike raised to protect the meadows and cabbage-plantations from a flood.

The mill-pond shone bright on her left, reflecting the sun’s golden locks in its deep-blue waters. On its banks, overgrown with drooping alders, flocks of geese screamed and flapped their wings; on the still miry roads, troops of merry children ran about and shouted.

And Lipka stood on this side and on that of the pond, as it had stood no doubt ever since the world began, buried 13in its wide-spreading orchards, and in the undergrowths of its enclosures.