It was early dawn, and all the country was covered over with a deep
azure bloom of haze like a ripe plum, when Hanka drove up to the cabin,
whose inmates were all asleep as yet. But with the sharp clatter of the
wheels, Lapa fell to barking for joy, and leaping up in front of the
horses.
“Why, where is Antek?” Yuzka exclaimed on the door-step, putting on her
skirt over her head.
“He is to be released in three days only,” was the tranquil reply, as
Hanka kissed the little ones, and distributed pastry among them.
Vitek now came running out of the stable, and after him trotted the
colt, whinnying and going straight to the mare, still in harness, while
Pete was taking the parcels out of the cart.
“Have they begun to mow yet?” she asked, sitting down at once on the
threshold to give suck to her baby.
“Yes, they began at noon yesterday: five of them. Philip, Raphael and
Kobus to work out their debts to us; Adam Klemba and Matthew for hire.”
“What?—Matthew Golab?”
“I too thought it strange; but he would have it so. Said his carpentry
work made him stoop too much, and he wanted to get straight again,
scythe in hand.”
Yagna then opened her window and looked out.
“Is Father sleeping still?” she was asked.
“Aye, in the orchard. We left him out at night, so hot it is within
doors.”
“And your mother, what of her?”
“As usual; perhaps somewhat better. Ambrose, who tends her, came
yesterday with the shepherd of Vola, who fumigated her, rubbed her with
ointment, and said that, provided she stays at home till the ninth
Sunday from now, she will by then be healed.”
“’Tis the best remedy for a scald!” she said, and, passing her baby to
the other breast, listened attentively to what had occurred in her
absence. But not for long: it was now broad daylight, the sky flushing
red with bright streaks athwart the air. Dewdrops fell from the trees;
birds were garrulous in their nests; bleating and lowing resounded all
through the village, and hammers, hammering scythe-blades, whose thin
keen tinkling made a piercing din.
No sooner had Hanka undressed after her journey than she ran to Boryna,
who was lying asleep under a bed of down, in a great basket beneath the
trees.
“Hark!” she said, pulling him by the arm; “Antek will be home in three
days. He had been taken to the Government prison. Roch followed him with
money that must be paid. Both will come home together.”
On a sudden the old man sat up, rubbed his eyes, and seemed to listen;
but he sank back at once, pulled the down covering over his head and
fell asleep again.
There was no more talking with him; besides, the mowers were just then
coming into the yard.
“Yesterday,” Philip told Hanka, “we mowed the meadow adjoining the
cabbage-plot.”
“To-day ye will go beyond the river, by the boundary-market; Yuzka will
show you where.”
“’Tis in Duck’s Hollow; a big piece of land.”
“And the grass comes up to the waist, lush and rank: very different from
yesterday’s meadow.”
“Was the grass so poor there?”
“Aye, all but dried up: it felt like cutting a brush.”
“Then it may be tossed this very day, since the dew will soon be quite
dry.”
They started at once: Matthew, smoking a cigarette in Yagna’s room, was
the last, and cast a rueful look behind him as he went, like a cat
balked of its bowl of milk.
The rest of the village, too, soon poured forth its troops of mowers.
Scarcely had the sun risen, huge and ruddy, when the weather grew warm,
and presently very hot indeed.
On the mowers marched, in Indian file, preceded by Yuzka, dragging a
pole after her.
They passed the mill. The meadows were veiled in a low creeping haze,
through which tufts of alders peered out like puffs of dark smoke; here
and there the river peeped from under its greyish screen, glittering
brightly; the dew-drenched grasses drooped their heads in the meadows,
and the piping of lapwings came on the eastern breeze, scented with the
bland fragrance of many blossoms.
Yuzka, having taken them as far as the landmarks, measured the extent of
her father’s meadow-land, stuck the pole up at the border, and scampered
away home.
Pulling off their spencers and tucking their breeches up, they formed
into line, and thrust the scythe-handles into the ground, to sharpen the
blades with their whetstones.
“The grass is as thick as the wool of a fleece; some of us will sweat
soundly,” said Matthew, who stood first, testing the sweep of his
scythe.
“Thick it is—and tall!” said his neighbour. “Well, there’ll be plenty of
hay.”
“Yes, if the weather be fine,” said a third, glancing up at the sky.
“When you’re mowing a meadow, rain always is ready,” remarked the
fourth, with a grin.
“The saying’s not true this year!—Come, begin, Matthew!”
They all crossed themselves. Matthew tightened his girdle, straddled
forward, spat on his palms, took a deep breath, and launched his scythe
far into the grass, plying it with swift strokes; the others following
him one after another, in a slanting line, for fear of accidents. So
they cut their way into the mist-covered meadow with a steady rhythmical
advance, their cold blades glistening, with a swish at every stroke, and
forming long swaths heavy with dewdrops.
The breeze rustled in the grass; overhead, the lapwings screamed more
and more plaintively: and they, rocking their bodies from right to left,
mowed on unweariedly, conquering the meadow foot by foot. Only now and
again did one or another of them halt to whet his scythe or straighten
his back, and then once more he mowed away with a will, leaving behind
him ever more and more numerous swaths.
Before the sun had risen above the village, all the meadows echoed
beneath the strokes of the mowers: the blue steel of the scythe-blades
flashed everywhere; everywhere could be heard the stridulous clang of
the whetstones; everywhere the strong perfume of mown grass was inhaled.
It was perfect weather for haymaking. An ancient adage says, indeed:
“Begin to make hay: rain will fall the same day”; but this year it was
quite the other way round. Instead of rainy weather, there was drought.
The days began, moist with dew, and yet parched, like a man in a fever;
they ended in nights baked with heat. Some wells and rills had been
dried up; the corn was turning yellow, the plants withered away.
Countless insects assailed the trees, which began to cast their yet
unripe fruit. Cows, returning hungry from the sere grass of the
pastures, had ceased to give milk; and the Squire allowed none to graze
their beasts on his clearings but those who paid him five roubles a
head.
Very many had not so much cash to pay him.
But, setting aside these particular inflictions, the hard times usual
before harvest were this year harder than ever.
They had reckoned on rain falling surely in June, and the field crops
benefiting thereby: nay, money had even been offered for Masses to that
intention. And now, some had really nothing to put in the pot!
But the worst of all was that not even the oldest inhabitant could
remember a time when there had been so many law troubles: the great
forest action not yet settled, and the Voyt’s affair still setting
people by the ears, and Dominikova’s quarrel with her son, and the
Germans, and many another matter of dispute between neighbours: so many,
in fact, that what with such incessant brawls and wranglings, they
almost forgot their more material afflictions.
Of course then, as soon as ever haymaking time had come round, all the
people began to breathe more freely, the poorer among them hurrying off
to seek work at the Manor farms, and the wealthier peasants, deaf to all
other matters, setting at once to mow their grass.
They did not, however, quite forget the Germans, but got someone or
other to go daily and see what they were about.
They still were there, but had given up digging wells and fetching
stones to build; and, as the blacksmith announced one day, they had laid
a complaint against the Squire for money matters, and against the men of
Lipka for “threats and conspiracy.”
At this the peasants laughed very heartily.
It was just this topic which was discussed that day in the meadow at
dinner-time.
An intensely hot noontide, with the sun overhead, the sky hanging above
with a whitish glow, a blasting heat around as from an oven; no breath
of wind; leaves shrivelling up; birds silent; short thin shadows that
scarcely shaded at all; the strong aroma of the heated grasses; corn and
orchards and huts standing as if wrapped in white flame; all things, as
it were, melting away in the air that trembled like water simmering on
the fire. Even the river ran more slowly, its stream shining like fused
glass, so transparent that beneath the surface-currents every gudgeon,
every stone at the sandy bottom, every crayfish scuffing about in the
luminous shadows of the banks, showed forth clear and distinct. A deep
calm, spinning its slumberous web, crept over the sunlit earth; and
nothing was noisy save the buzzing flies.
The mowers sat down on the river-bank, beneath a clump of tall alders,
eating their dinner out of the porringers brought, for Matthew by his
sister Nastka, for the others by Hanka and Yagustynka. These seated
themselves on the grass in the sun’s full glare, and, with their
kerchiefs drawn over their heads, listened attentively to the talk.
“I,” said Matthew, scraping his emptied porringer, “have always held
that the Germans would take themselves off one of these days.”
“The priest held so too,” Hanka remarked.
“And so they will, if the Squire wills it,” growled Kobus, always ready
to argue, stretching himself out under a tree.
“What?” Yagustynka asked, sneeringly as usual; “did they not fear the
noise ye made, and run?”
Her jeer was unnoticed, and someone observed:
“The smith said yesterday that the Squire would come to terms with us.”
“Strange that Michael is on our side now!”
“He has,” the old woman hissed, “found he would get more thereby.”
“The miller too, they say, has pleaded at the Manor-house for the
village.”
“Those good souls! They are all on our side now!” said Matthew.
“Why?—I’ll tell you. The Squire promised the smith a goodly reward for
the reconciliation. The miller fears the Germans may set up a windmill
on the high ground in Podlesie. And the tavern-keeper befriends the
people out of fear for himself: he knows well that where a German
settles, no Jew can get his bread.”
“The Squire wishes to be reconciled: does he fear us peasants, then?”
“Ye have hit the mark, Mother; of all of them, he is the most afraid.”
Here Matthew broke off; Vitek was coming from the village at full speed.
“Mistress, come at once!” he bawled from a distance.
“What, is the house on fire?” she faltered, terrified.
“’Tis Master, and he is crying out for something.”
She ran off instantly.
The fact was that, ever since morning, Matthias had been strange,
plucking at his coverlet and seeming to look for something. Before
setting out for the meadow, Hanka had charged Yuzka to take special care
of him, and the latter had many a time gone to look; but he had lain
quiet till about dinner-time, when he suddenly fell a-shouting very
loud.
On Hanka’s arrival, he sat up, and called out:
“My boots—where are they? Give them to me, and quickly too!”
“I’ll get them from the store-room in an instant!” she said, to pacify
him; for he seemed quite sensible, and looked keenly about him.
“Mother of dogs! how I have overslept myself!” and he yawned wide and
deep.
“It is broad day, and ye are sleeping, all of you!—Let Kuba get the
harrow ready,” he commanded; “we shall go out and sow.”
They stood before him, hesitating, when he suddenly collapsed, falling
helpless to the ground.
“Fear not, Hanka, I had a fit of dizziness. Is Antek afield,
hey?—Afield?” he repeated, when they had replaced him on the bed.
“Aye,” she stammered. “Ever since daybreak.” For she feared to cross
him.
He looked about him brightly and talked much; but one word out of ten
was sense, and the rest drivel. He again wanted to get up and go out,
called for his boots—and then put his hands to his head and moaned
pitifully. Hanka knew that the end was at hand; so she ordered him to be
borne within doors, and sent for the priest in the afternoon.
He came presently with the Holy Sacrament, but could only give him
Extreme Unction.
“His state needs nothing more,” the priest said; “in a few hours he will
be with his fathers.”
In the evening, many people visited the cabin, for he seemed on the
point of death; and Hanka put the lighted taper of the dying in his
hand. But presently he fell into a quiet sleep.
The next day there was no change. He recognized people, and spoke
sensibly, but lay for hours together as still as a corpse.
The smith’s wife was at his bedside continually; also Yagustynka, who
wanted to fumigate him!
“Let alone; ye may set the place on fire,” he burst out unexpectedly.
And at noon, when the smith came and looked into his half-closed eyes,
he smiled strangely, and uttered these words:
“Do not trouble, Michael; I shall drop off soon enough—soon enough!”
So saying, he turned his face to the wall, and spoke no more. He was
evidently going rapidly downhill, so they now watched him with care;
especially Yagna, over whom an extraordinary change had come.
“I alone shall tend him! It is my right,” she had told Hanka and Magda
so peremptorily that they had not opposed her.
She no longer left the cabin at all: a vague terror oppressed her.
All the village was out in the meadows: the haymaking had been going on
since dawn; ever since the very first faint flush in the sky, they had
started for the meadows. Rows of peasants in shirt-sleeves, looking like
grey storks, were now all over the lands, whetting their flashing
scythes, and mowing amain all day long; all day the hammers rang upon
the scythes, and the girls sang their merry impromptus as they raked up
the cut grass.
All those verdurous glossy flats were swarming with people, noise and
clamour; loud ditties and peals of laughter resounded to the
accompaniment of the tinkling blades, and the work went on everywhere
with energy and goodwill. Every day, too, when the blood-red sun was
descending towards the woods, and the air full of the twittering of the
birds, and grass and corn alike seemed quivering to the crickets’ merry
notes, while the frogs in the marshes struck up their croaking serenade,
and perfumes rose from the incense-breathing earth—then all along the
roads were crawling great heavy wagons filled with hay; the mowers went
home with songs, and on the meadows, now yellow and trampled, stood
close crowds of haycocks and ricks, like so many fat gossiping dames,
squatting down to have a quiet talk together. Amongst these the storks
strutted, above them the lapwings wheeled, with their sad piping cry;
and on towards them the white mists came driving up from the marshes.
Through Boryna’s window there came these voices of men and of the
land—the glad sounds of life and toil, and the aromatic scents of corn
and meadow and sunlight; but Yagna was deaf to them all.
The undergrowth round the cabin protected it from the glare and spread
within it a greenish slumberous twilight. Flies buzzed; and now and then
Lapa, watchful beside his master, would yawn, and then go and fawn upon
Yagna, who sat for hours without motion or thought—as still as a statue.
Matthias spoke no longer, moaned no longer. He just lay still; but his
eyes rolled unceasingly—those bright eyes of his, as shiny as glass
globes, following her with cold persistency, piercing her through and
through like knife-blades.
She turned her back on him, endeavouring to forget. It was in vain—in
vain! They peered out at her from every sombre nook, floated in the air,
glowing with fearful brilliancy, and a fascination so irresistible that
she had to obey their call and stare back into them as into some
unfathomable abyss.
At times, as though waking from a horrible dream, she would beseech his
mercy: “Prithee, look not thus: ye are tearing my soul out of me: look
not thus!”
No doubt he heard her: a quiver passed over him, his face twitched
dumbly, as if to cry out, his eyes stared yet more gloomily, and big
tear-drops rolled down his livid cheeks.
Then, driven by sheer terror, she would rush from the hut.
Hidden in the shade of the trees, she would peep out at the meadows full
of people and of tumultuous joy.
And the sight made her cry bitterly.
Then she fled to her mother’s. But hardly had she looked in and seen the
darkened room and scented the rank pungency of the medicines, when she
would hasten away once more.
And again she would weep.
Then she wandered abroad, and looked out upon the country-side with
longing eyes. But thence sprung yet more bitter and dreary and agonizing
tears; and she mourned grievously over her own sad lot, like a bird with
broken wings, deserted by its mates.
Thus one day after another went by without any change. Hanka, along with
the rest of the village, was absorbed in haymaking, and it was only on
the third day that she stayed at home since morning.
“’Tis Saturday: Antek is sure to come!” she thought joyfully, setting
the cabin in order to receive him.
Noon came and went, and he was not there yet. Hanka ran beyond the
church to look up the poplar road.
They were carting the hay, hurrying it home, for the weather was about
to change. The air was stiflingly sultry, cocks were crowing, hailstorm
clouds hanging about in the sky, winds wheeling and whirling.
All expected a storm with a great downpour, but there only came down a
short though plentiful rain, at once swallowed up by the thirsty soil,
and only cooling the air a little.
The evening, somewhat less sultry, was redolent of hay and of the
sprinkled earth. Mists rolled along the ways; the moon had not risen
yet; the dark sky was but scantily studded with stars. Through the
orchards, the light of the cabins glimmered like glow-worms, reflected
in the pond and multiplied to myriads. Everywhere the people took their
supper out of doors. Hard by, the air trembled with the ripplings of a
pipe; from the fields came floating the crickets’ feeble ditty, along
with the voices of the land-rail and the quail.
At Boryna’s, too, they were all outside the hut: the hay being brought
home, Hanka had invited them to a first-class supper; and the great dish
clinked with the tapping of the spoons in a lively measure. Yagustynka’s
rasping tones were often heard, accompanied with shouts of laughter.
Every now and then, Hanka would fill the dish again from the pots, while
anxiously watching all the time for any least sound on the road; and she
frequently slipped out into the enclosure, looking for Antek.
There was not the least trace of him; and only once did the shape of
Teresa, leaning against the hedge, no doubt waiting for somebody, meet
her eyes.
Matthew, unable that day to get speech of Yagna, who was then sullen and
unpleasant of mood, was beginning to wrangle with Pete out of sheer ill
humour, when Andrew came to call his sister, whom her mother wanted to
see.
The party broke up thereupon; but Matthew lagged behind for some time.
Hanka also went out a little after for another vain look into the
darkness, when she heard his voice, gruff and cross, wafted from the
mill-pond bank.
“Why dog me so? I shall not flee you.... Are we not enough on the lips
of folk already?”—He added still more cruel words, to which there came
in answer a storm of sobs and a flood of tears.
But there was nothing in that to interest Hanka, who was awaiting her
husband: she cared little then for other folks’ doings. Yagustynka did
the evening household work for her, whilst she herself dandled in her
arms the baby, that was rather troublesome; carrying it out with her and
rocking it, she went to see the patient.
“Antek may be here at any moment!” she cried from the door-step.
Boryna was lying with eyes fixed on a lamp that smoked above the
fire-place.
She whispered in Boryna’s ear: “He has been released to-day, Roch is
awaiting him,” and her beaming eyes watched him to see if he had
understood. It seemed not: he neither moved nor looked at her.
“He may be in the village by now. Belike it is so,” she thought, as she
ran out every now and then to see.—So sure was she of his return, so
agitated with her long wait, that she spoke to herself, walking
unsteadily as one drunk. To the darkness she talked about her hopes, and
confided in the cattle as she milked them, informing them all that their
master was coming back.
She waited on.—But every minute was wearing out her strength and her
patience.
Night was there, the village abed. Back from her mother’s, Yagna had
gone to rest at once. All in the house were sleeping presently. Hanka
still watched outside the hut, and far into the night; but at last,
exhausted with weariness and crying, she too put out the light and lay
down.
The whole land was now plunged in the deep stillness of repose.
The village lights had gone out one by one, like eyes that close in
slumber.
The moon rolled up the soaring black-blue sky, sown with a twinkling
dust of stars, and rose higher and higher, as a bird that wings its way
athwart the void on silver pinions. The scattered clouds slept, huddled
up into balls of soft white down; whilst on the earth all creatures lay
quiet, wearied out and lost in sleep. Only a bird sang sweet exuberant
lays from time to time; only the waters whispered drowsily; and the
trees the moonlight bathed stirred now and again, as if they dreamed of
day. Sometimes a dog growled, or the night-jar flapped its wings as it
passed by; and low earth-clinging vapours now began to wrap the fields,
but slowly, as a tired-out mother wraps her child.
The sounds of quiet breathing rose from the almost invisible orchards
and buildings, about which the people lay in the open air, trusting to
the mildness of the night.
In Boryna’s room as well, sleep and tranquillity prevailed, except for
the _cree-cree-cree_ of the cricket on the hearth, and Yagna’s breaths,
fluttering like a butterfly’s wings. It must have been at some time in
the small hours (the first cock was crowing already) that Boryna began
to move, the moon at the same time shining through the window-panes, and
pouring on to his face its cold though seething torrents of silvery
splendour.
Sitting up in bed, and clearing his throat, he attempted to call out,
but could utter no other sound than a gurgle.
Thus he sat for a time, looking round with a vacant stare, and fumbling
with his fingers in the light of his coverlet, as though he thought to
grasp that luminous stream of moonbeams that struck his eyes.
“Day has come.... It is time,” he mumbled at last, standing erect upon
the floor.
He looked out of the window, and, like a man awaking from a deep sleep,
thought that it was day, that he had slept overmuch, and that some
pressing work was awaiting him.
“I must get up, it is time,” he repeated, crossing himself again and
again, and beginning his morning prayers. Then he glanced round for his
clothes. Not finding them, he forgot them quite, and, passing his hands
over himself, made a feeble attempt at dressing. His prayer broke off in
the saying, and he could only mutter a few incoherent fragments in a
soundless voice.
His brain was vexed with vague thoughts of things to do, remembrances of
things done, and, as it were, the echoes of what had gone on around him
when he was lying ill. In evanescent flashes there came to his mind dim
recollections, activities that had been indistinct as the furrows on
reaped land, and now started up clear and sharp; they took shape in his
brain, struggling to come forth, and every instant formed some fresh
phantasm which vanished away ere he could grasp it, like rotten tissues
that crumbled into dust; so that his mind was as restless as a wandering
flame that finds nothing to feed upon, and strays perforce.
And thus, whatever he now did, he did out of mere habit, like a
horse that has for years walked round, turning the beam of a
threshing-machine, and when set at liberty still goes round.
He opened the window and looked out; he gazed into the store-room, poked
the fire-place after much pondering—and then, just as he was, barefoot
and in his shirt, walked out.
The door was ajar, the passage flooded with the rays of the moon. Curled
up on the threshold, Lapa was sleeping. At the sound of a tread, he
woke, growled, and, recognizing his master, followed him out.
Matthias halted outside the hut, scratched his ear, and strove hard to
remember what that urgent piece of work that awaited him could be.
The dog was leaping up joyfully at his master, who patted him as of old,
whilst staring bewilderedly about him.
It was bright, like day. The moon had now risen above the cabin, casting
deep blue shadows on the white walls, and making the mill-pond waters
shine like a mirror. Lipka was still as death, but a few birds were
noisily fluttering in the thickets.
Something came to his mind on a sudden: he hurried to the yard. All the
doors were wide open, and the men snoring in the shadow of the barn. He
looked into the stables, patted the horses; they whinnied at his touch.
Then he peered into the byre: the cows lay in a row, and only their
rumps were visible in the light of the moon.
He then tried to drag a cart out of the shed; but a glittering plough
hard by the sties drew off his attention, and he moved towards it ...
and ceased to think of it before he got there.
In the middle of the yard he stopped short and looked round on every
side, for he thought someone had called him.
The well-sweep stood high in front of him, throwing a long shadow.
“What is it?” he asked, and paused for a reply.
The orchard, slashed with moonbeams, seemed to block his way; its
silvered leaves were whispering to him.
“Who calls?” he asked, stumbling against a tree.
Lapa, following at his heels, uttered a whine. At the sound he stopped
and drew a deep breath; then he said, gaily: “Quite right, good dog!
Aye, it is seed-time!”
And this idea too passed from his mind in an instant: everything slipped
out of his memory, as dry sand creeps through the fingers.
Continually fresh thoughts kept him moving, puzzled, bewildered, and
like a spindle that is turned round by the thread that runs out, though
it turns in the same place.
“Aye, aye, it is seed-time,” he repeated, and moved quickly to the part
of the premises which adjoined the fields. There he saw before him that
hayrick of bitter memory, burnt down last winter, and but just set up
again.
He meant to pass by it, but started back on a sudden. In a flash he saw
the past, which memory made present. He tore a stake from the fence;
brandishing it in both hands like a pitchfork, he dashed forward with
rage in his eyes, ready to smite and slay; but before his blow could be
struck, the stake fell from his grasp, now weak and slack.
Beyond the rick, along the road that skirted the potato-field, there
stretched a long strip of ploughed land. Here he stopped, and cast
troubled glances round him.
The moon had gone through half her course, bathing the earth in misty
beams; it lay covered with pearls of dew, and, as it were, silent in
rapt attention.
Impenetrable depths of silence came down from the upper fields, and from
where earth and sky met in the hazy distance; from the meadows rose up
white vapours, crawling over the corn, enveloping it in its warm damp
folds, as it rose.
The tall yellow-green rye-borders bent over the field-pathways, drooping
under the weight of the ears, that hung down like the saffron-hued beaks
of unfledged birds in their nests; the wheat stood upright boldly, as
straight as so many pillars, lifting their glossy and dusky heads; the
oats and barley, as yet in the blade, lay green as meadows, but silvered
by the moonlight and blurred with dark veils of mist.
It was about the second cock-crow now, and the night far spent. The
fields rested, lost in profound sleep, sometimes rustling quietly as it
were with an echo of the day’s toil and troubles, and sighing as a
mother may sigh when she lays herself down to rest with her little ones.
Boryna knelt down immediately, and set to gathering earth in a fold of
his shirt, like seed-corn in a sower’s bag, and in such quantity that he
could scarce rise. He made the sign of the cross, swept his arm round to
try his reach, and began to sow.
Bent down beneath the burden, he went slowly, step by step, sowing the
field with that semicircular sweep of his arm, like a priest’s
benediction.
Lapa followed him; and when some frightened bird rose from before his
feet, he would run after it awhile, and then go back to his master.
In this charmed world of night and spring, Boryna, gazing straight
before him, walked on through the patches of corn, like a spirit
blessing every clod of earth, every ear of corn; sowing on, sowing ever.
At the furrows he stumbled; at the hollows he staggered, sometimes even
fell. But of this he was unconscious—aware of nothing but the dull
irresistible craving to sow the land.
Thus he walked on to the end of the field. When there was no earth
remaining for him to throw, he took up more and sowed on. When his way
was barred by trees and brambles, he would turn back.
He had walked a good distance. The birds’ twitterings were no longer to
be heard; the whole village had disappeared in the misty darkness, and
the billowy sea of tawny cornfields surged all about him. There he
stood, forlorn and lonely and lost—as a soul that is wandering away from
this world.—And then, once more he came back towards the village,
towards the ring within which the twittering of birds was again audible,
and towards the circle of human activity, now stilled for a time: he, a
waif thrown back to the shores of life and existence by those waves of
the surging sea of corn!
So the time passed, and so he went on sowing indefatigably, stopping at
times to rest his limbs a little. Then he would again take up his
bootless toil and vain exertions.
Later, and near the close of the night, he worked more slowly, stopped
oftener, forgot to gather the earth for his seed, and sowed
empty-handed: as though he were now sowing his very being in those
fields of his fathers—all the days he had lived, all that life he had
received, and was now giving back (a sacred harvest) to the Everlasting
Lord!
And in those last moments of his life there came to pass a very
wonderful thing. The sky turned grey, like a shroud; the moon set; all
light went out; the whole land was plunged in murky inextricable depths
of sudden and utter darkness. And then a Something beyond all thought
seemed to arise from ... none knew where—and to walk in those shadows
with footsteps so ponderous that they made the very earth to rock.
Then a long blast blew from the woods, with an ominous murmur.
The trees in the fields were shaking; the corn, the grass, waved
shudderingly; from the trembling plots of land there came a low moan of
dread:
“O Master! Master!”
The green ears of barley quivered convulsively, as if weeping, and bent
to kiss his weary feet.
“O Master!” the rye-patches trilled, stopping his way, and shaking down
a shower of dewy tears. Birds gave forth a melancholy cry. The wind
sobbed over his head. The mist enveloped him in her dank dripping folds.
And the voices sounded ever louder, ever more sadly, and always
repeating:
“O Master! Master!”
At last he paid heed to them, and said, under his breath:
“Lo, here I am: what will ye, say?”
No answer came; but when he would have moved on farther, sowing with
that tired empty hand, the earth cried out to him, in a mighty voice:
“Remain with us! Remain with us! Remain!”
And he stood in astonishment. All things seemed pressing forward against
him. The grasses came crawling, the corn billowing towards him; the
fields beset him round; the whole country-side rose up and fell upon
him. Dismayed, he would have cried aloud; but his fast-closed throat let
no voice pass. He tried to flee; his strength failed him quite. The
ground caught his feet, the corn entangled them, the furrows tripped him
up, the stubborn glebe balked his steps, the trees shook their boughs at
him to stop his way. He was pricked by thistles, hurt by stones, chased
by the angry wind, and led astray by the night and the many voices
crying out from everywhere:
“Stay with us! Oh, stay!”
On a sudden he became motionless, and all things with him. His eyes, now
growing dark in death, saw clear with a lightning flash. Heaven opened
out before him—and there, seated on a throne of wheat-sheaves, the
Everlasting Father stretched out His hands, and said to him mildly:
“Come unto Me, O human soul; O weary toiler, come thou unto Me!”
Boryna reeled at the words, and, stretching forth his hands (as at the
Elevation):
“O Lord God, I thank Thee!” he cried, and fell prostrate on his face
before that most holy Majesty.
So he fell, and so he died, in the hour of God’s loving-kindness.
* * * * *
Dawn was rising; and over him Lapa howled long and mournfully.
END OF PART III
A NOTE ON THE TYPE IN
WHICH THIS BOOK IS SET
_This book is set (on the Linotype) in Elzevir
No. 3, a French Old Style. For the modern revival
of this excellent face we are indebted to Gustave
Mayeur of Paris, who reproduced it in 1878, basing
his designs, he says, on types used in a book which
was printed by the Elzevirs at Leyden in 1634.
The Elzevir family held a distinguished position as
printers and publishers for more than a century,
their best work appearing between about 1590 and
1680. Although the Elzevirs were not themselves
type founders, they utilized the services of the best
type designers of their time, notably Van Dijk,
Garamond, and Sanlecque. They developed a type
face which is open and readable but relatively narrow
in body, permitting a large amount of copy to
be set in limited space without impairing legibility._
SET UP, ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED
BY THE VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.,
BINGHAMTON, N. Y. · ESPARTO
PAPER MANUFACTURED IN
SCOTLAND AND FURNISHED
BY W. F. ETHERINGTON &
CO., NEW YORK · BOUND
BY THE H. WOLFF ESTATE,
NEW YORK
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
Transcriber’s Notes
1. Italic text in the original is delimited by underscores.
2. Bold text in the original is delimited by equals signs.
3. Footnotes originally appearing at the bottom of a given page have
been moved to directly below the paragraph in which they appear.
4. Hyphenated words were silently joined across lines and pages when
the intended word was clear.
5. The following table notes the other material changes made to the
printed text, in order to correct apparent printing errors
(punctuation, spelling, quotation marks, repeated words), and to
standardize spelling and hyphenation for identical words to the
more common usage across all four volumes. Changes are denoted in
[brackets].
=Page= =Text= =Operation=
4 shook the dew[-]drops from the Removed
10 Lipka?—A little frost[-]bitten, though Added
11 after a night[-]watch over Removed
12 hold out till hay[-]making, or till Removed
49 under his sheep[-]skin, and Removed
54 warm water, sp[i/u]rted out Replaced
61 bearer and everlasting gossip?[”] Added
67 since day[-]break. Having Removed
83 cottage the good[-]wives’ brains Removed
83 for the white[-]wash, and a Removed
88 scattered snow[-]flakes; and the Removed
90 God has been merciful[.]” Added
102 cabin and out[-]houses, after Removed
106 lit the fire[-]wood set ready Removed
115 corn[-]lands, bright dew[-]drops fell Removed
116 indeed, was bare[-]footed; but Removed
122 slowly, the after[-]glow filled half Added
125 dear! how life[-]like it moves! Removed
125 with a great deal of horse[-]play Added
145 of resinous fire[-]wood; and a Removed
157 seeking dry fire[-]wood. Removed
172 along that country[-]side. Waste Removed
179 far as the cross[-]ways, and Removed
185 It is a [holf/half]-holiday Replaced
191 the pot of beet[-]root soup on Removed
201 your Reverence a cart[-]load.” Removed
220 he is returning.[” .../...”] Replaced
220 writing about money![” .../...”] Replaced
226 ground on a sand[-]heap. Removed
227 recognition: bare[-]headed, with Removed
231 “Yagna![”] he sighed. Added
258 with a sheep[-]skin coat. Removed
259 along with the Komor[m]niki and Removed
286 the men [f]uriously, and Added
303 besides at Yule[-]tide and Easter. Added
305 blue with corn[-]flowers, patches Removed
311 [“]On such terms, who Added