The Peasants by Wladyslaw Reymont

Author:Wladyslaw Reymont [Reymont, Wladyslaw]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241524251
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2022-11-03T03:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 3

‘Józia, light the fire in the range and get all the pans, fill them with water and put them on, and I’ll dash off to the Jew for the spices.’

‘Hurry up, Ambrozy’s on his way.’

‘Don’t worry, he won’t turn up first thing. He’s got to see to the church.’

‘Nay, he’ll ring the bells and soon be here – Rocho’s taking his place.’

‘I’ll make it; shout for the boys to scrub the manger quicker and get it to the porch. Jagustynka’s coming, so she could wash the bucket, and the barrels need bringing out of the storeroom and rolling to the pond to soften up; but don’t forget to put stones in so they don’t float off. Don’t wake the children – let the little mites sleep, there’ll be more room …’ Hanka issued her orders sharply and, throwing her apron over her head, hurried off into the early and thoroughly quaggy morning.

The day had just dawned, cloudy, wet and unpleasantly chilly. Grey mists drifted like smoke over the softening earth, shedding a fine cold drizzle. The slippery roads were drenched grey with damp, and the blackened cottages were barely visible in the drab light. Soaked through, the trees shrank here and there like trembling shadows, as though they too were fashioned from translucent wisps of mist, leaning over to look into the faint blue pond, while from under the cloudy tangle all that could be heard was the quiet shivering tinkle of raindrops beating ceaselessly upon the water, and everywhere it blustered, so that hardly a thing could be seen, and hardly anyone had yet ventured out.

It was not until the Angelus bell began to sob that the red skirts of the women could be seen flashing here and there as they picked their way to church along the drier patches of ground.

Hanka hurried, reckoning to meet Ambrozy at the bend before the church. He’d not come out yet, though as usual at this time the priest’s blind horse was loitering at the pond, pulling a barrel on skids. It kept pausing, hobbling over the bumps, aiming for the water by smell alone, for the farmhand had stopped to smoke a cigarette, squatting at the fences to shelter from the bluster.

And just at that moment, a britchka drawn by fat chestnuts pulled up before the presbytery and the stout red-faced priest from Łaznów descended.

‘He’ll be hearing confessions, and the priest from Słupia will be here any minute too,’ Hanka thought, casting about in vain for Ambrozy. She then moved off down one side of the church, along an even muddier road. It was lined by rows of massive poplars, but so plunged in grey drizzle that they looked like shadows moving behind a steamed-up windowpane. She passed the inn and took a muddy path across the field on the right.

She’d reckoned there was time enough to visit her father and chat with her sister, with whom she was quite reconciled from the time of her move to Boryna’s.

They were all sitting inside.

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