and play out that charade of equality between vacationist and hired man that is one of the principal illusions of the leafy months. “Here’s something you ought to read,” Kasiak said, before Paul could speak, and he passed him a newspaper clipping. Paul recognized the typeface of the Communist paper that was mailed to Kasiak from Indiana. LUXURY LIVING WEAKENS U.S. was the headline, and the story described with traitorous joy the hardy and purposeful soldiers of Russia. Paul’s face got warm in anger at Kasiak and at the uprush of chauvinism he felt. “Is that all you want?” His voice broke dryly. Kasiak nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning at six,” Paul said, master to hired man, and he hooked the screen door and turned his back.
Paul liked to think that his patience with the man was inexhaustible?for, after all, Kasiak not only believed in Bakunin, he believed that stones grow and that thunder curdles milk. In his dealings with Kasiak, he had unconsciously sacrificed some independence, and in order to get to the garden at six the next morning, he got up at five. He made himself some breakfast, and at half past five he heard the rattle of a cart on the road. The puerile race of virtue and industry had begun. Paul was in the garden when Kasiak brought the cart into view. Kasiak was disappointed.
Paul had seen the mare only in pasture, and, aside from the fact that she was costing him four dollars, he was curious about the animal, for, along with a cow and a wife, she made up Kasiak’s family. Her coat was dusty, he saw; her belly was swollen; her hoofs were unshod and uncut and had shredded like paper. “What’s her name?” he asked, but Kasiak didn’t answer. He hitched the mare to the cultivator, and she sighed and labored up the hill. Paul led the mare by the bridle, and Kasiak held down the cultivator.
Halfway along the first row in the garden, a stone stopped them, and when it had been dislodged and rolled away, Kasiak called “Gee-up” to the mare. She didn’t move. “Gee-up,” he shouted. His voice was harsh, but there was some tenderness hidden in it. “Gee-up, gee-up, gee-up.” He slapped her sides lightly with the reins. He looked anxiously at Paul, as if he were ashamed that Paul should notice the mare’s extreme decrepitude and reach a mistaken judgment on an animal he loved. When Paul suggested that he might use a whip, Kasiak said no. “Gee-up, gee-up, gee-up,” he shouted again, and when she still failed to respond, he struck her rump with the reins. Paul pulled at her bit. They stood for ten minutes in the middle of the row pulling and shouting, and it seemed that the life had gone out of the mare. Then, when they were hoarse and discouraged, she began to stir and gather wind in her lungs. Her carcass worked like a bellows and the wind whistled in her nostrils, and, like the bag Aeolus gave to Ulysses, she seemed to fill with tempests. She shook the flies off her head and pulled the cultivator a few feet forward.
This made for slow work, and by the time they finished, the sun was hot. Paul heard voices from his house as he and Kasiak led the infirm mare back to the cart, and he saw his children, still in their nightclothes, feeding their rabbits in the lettuce patch. When Kasiak harnessed the mare to the cart, Paul again asked him her name.
“She has no name,” Kasiak said.
“I’ve never heard of a farm horse without a name.”
“To name animals is bourgeois sentimentality,” Kasiak said, and he started to drive away.
Paul laughed.
“You never come back!” Kasiak called over his shoulder. It was the only meanness at hand; he knew how deeply Paul loved the hill. His face was dark. “You never come back next year. You wait and see.”
There is a moment early on Sunday when the tide of the summer day turns inexorably toward the evening train. You can swim, play tennis, or take a nap or a walk, but it doesn’t make much difference. Immediately after lunch, Paul was faced with his unwillingness to leave. This became so strong that he was reminded of the intensity and the apprehensiveness he had felt on furloughs. At six, he put on his tight business suit and had a drink with Virginia in the kitchen. She asked him to buy nail scissors and candy in New York. While they were there, he heard that noise that he lived in dread of above all others?his innocent and gentle children screaming in pain.
He ran out, letting the screen door slam in Virginia’s face. Then he turned back and held the door open for her, and she came out and ran up the hill at his side. The children were coming down the road, under the big trees. Lost in their crystalline grief, blinded with tears, they stumbled and ran toward their mother and searched in her dark skirts for a shape to press their heads against. They were howling. But it was nothing serious, after all. Their rabbits were dead.
“There, there, there, there…” Virginia drew the children down toward the house. Paul went on up the road and found the limp rabbits in the hutch. He carried them to the edge of the garden and dug a hole. Kasiak came by, carrying water for the chickens, and when he had sized up the situation, he spoke mournfully. “Why you dig a grave?” he asked. “The skunks will dig them up tonight. Throw them in Cavis’s pasture. They’ll dig them up again…” He went on toward the chicken house. Paul stamped down the grave. Dirt got into his low shoes. He went back to the rabbit house to see if he could find any trace of what had killed them, and in the feeding trough, below some wilted vegetables that the children had uprooted, he saw the crystals of a mortal poison that they used to kill rats in the winter.
Paul made a serious effort to remember whether he could have left the poison there himself. The stifling heat in the hutch raised and sent the sweat rolling down his face. Could Kasiak have done it? Could Kasiak have been so mean, so perverse? Could he, through believing that on some fall evening fires on the mountain would signal the diligent and the reliable to seize power from the hands of those who drank Martinis, have become shrewd enough to put his finger on the only interest in the future Paul had?
Kasiak was in the chicken house. Shadow had begun to cover the ground, and some of the happy and stupid fowl were roosting. “Did you poison the rabbits, Kasiak?” Paul called. “Did you? Did you?” His loud voice maddened the fowl. They spread their heavy wings and cawed. “Did you, Kasiak?” Kasiak didn’t speak. Paul put his hands on the man’s shoulders and shook him. “Don’t you know how strong the poison is? Don’t you know that the children might have got into it? Don’t you know that it might have killed them?” The fowl involved themselves in the
