“I see the Klembas have got some apples on their trees still.”
“Oh! and you’d like to eat them? Did you plant them?—Come, say the Creed again.”
“You did not hatch the partridges, either; yet you have taken the whole brood.”
“Silly lad! the apples are Klemba’s, but partridges belong to our Lord. Do you see?”
“But the field where you took them belongs to the Squire.”
“And the field, too, is the Lord’s. You’re too clever by half.—Now say the Creed.”
He did so, but in haste, for it hurt him to stay on his knees so long.
“I think that filly is going into Michael’s clover!” he exclaimed, preparing to run after her.
“Don’t trouble about her, but say your prayers.”
He went through them at last, but had to rest on his heels, and turned and twisted in every direction. A band of sparrows having settled on a tree close by, he shied a clod of earth at them, and at once beat his breast in contrition.
“Ah, what about the Offering at the end? Swallowed like an overripe pear, I suppose?”
He said the Offering, and immediately started up to wake Lapa and play with it.
“The calf-like witling! Always scampering about!”
“Are you going to take the birds to his Reverence?”
“Yes, I am.”
“They would be nice, if roasted here. …”
“You have potatoes to roast. What would you more?”
“See, they are going to church already!” cried Vitek, glancing through the hedge and the orchard-trees at the red aprons that went twinkling along the road.
It was pretty warm, and all the doors and windows of the huts had been thrown wide open. Here and there, in front of the huts, some were still washing their faces, or combing or plaiting their hair, or beating their Sunday garments, which had suffered from a week’s stay in the trunks; but others had already started, in raiment of the hues of vermilion poppies, or saffron-tinted dahlias, or nasturtium flowers. Women and girls, in bright array, farmhands, little children, grave husbandmen, in long white capotes that reminded you of huge sheaves of rye, were all slowly wending their way to church along the roads that led to the pond, which reflected the sunbeams like a golden trencher.
And joyfully the big bells boomed, and told of Sunday, and rest, and prayer.
Kuba had meant to wait till they rang no longer, but his patience gave way, so, putting the partridges under his capote, he said:
“Vitek! as soon as they have done ringing, drive the cattle to the byre, and then come to church.”
He then started off—as fast as he could, for he was very lame—along the road, bordered with orchards, and so strewn with yellow linden leaves, that he seemed to be walking over a carpet of motley fallow hue.
The priest’s dwelling stood over against the church, at the bottom of a large garden, in which there were trees still laden with green pears or ruddy apples. All over the porch there grew a wild vine, the leaves of which were now of a rich crimson. Kuba stopped outside, embarrassed, and looking timidly in at the window and the passage. He durst not go in, and stayed by a large flowerbed, gay with roses, gillyflowers, and asters, whose fragrance was very sweet. From the roof, green with moss, a flock of white doves flew down to settle on the porch.
The priest was walking in his garden, saying his Office; but time and again he would shake an apple or a pear-tree. The fruit fell in a sounding shower, and he gathered them up in the skirts of his soutane.
Kuba came up to him, and humbly embraced his knees.
“What is it you say?—Ah, Kuba, Boryna’s man.”
“Yes. I have brought your Reverence a few partridges.”
“Thanks for your gift. Come this way.”
Kuba accordingly entered the passage, but stopped at the threshold of the room. He feared to go in, and would only look through the open door at the various pictures that hung against the walls. He crossed himself, and breathed a devout sigh, so dazzled by the splendour he saw, that the tears started to his eyes, and he felt like saying prayers. Only he was afraid to kneel down upon the polished slippery floor, lest he should soil it.
Presently the priest came out of the room, saying, as he handed him a zloty:
“God reward you, Kuba; you are a good man and a godly one, who never miss church on Sundays.”
Kuba again embraced the priest’s knees, so overwhelmed with bliss that he never knew how he got out and on to the road.
“What, so much money for so few birds! How I love his Reverence!” he whispered, looking over the coins given him. He had more than once brought him birds, or a leveret, or mushrooms; but never had he received so much: at most, ten kopeks and a kind word. And now! O sweet Lord! a whole zloty!—And he had called Kuba into his room besides, and said such gentle words! Lord, Lord!
“None but the priest has regard for poor people, no one else!—May God and the Blessed Virgin of Chenstohova grant him health!—Yes, a good man you are, and a kind one!—All the village, farmhands and owners, only give me nicknames—call me Cripple, Good-for-Nothing, and Hanger-on. No one else speaks to me with the least kindness or compassion … no one cares for me, but the horses and the dogs. And yet I am of an honest family: no foundling, but a farmer’s son.”
He raised his head higher at the thought, straightened himself, and looked almost defiantly on those about him going to the churchyard, and on the horses which stood harnessed to the carts outside the enclosure. He donned his cap, and covered his head of tangled hair, and slowly, with dignified mien, made for the church; thrusting his hands into his girdle, as a farmer would have done, though the dust flew up as he dragged his lame leg after him.
No. This day he would not, as his wont was,
