They waited a good while, and it was only just before Mass that the dull beat of the hoofs on the highways was heard, and a procession of carts appeared coming out of the distant bluish haze.
“Here they come, from Vola!—From Rzepki!—From Debitsa!—From Przylek!”
With these shouts, they ran towards the church, in front of which the first carts had stopped. Presently the whole space was thronged with horses in harness, and with men. Gaily dressed peasants leaped out of the carts, saluting the women who came crowding in on every side: while the little ones, as usual, bawled a noisy welcome to the strangers.
The service was beginning; so in they went to hear Mass first of all.
As soon as it was over, the villagers grouped themselves round about the belfry, the goodwives foremost, and the girls on either side of them, a little behind; while the komorniki stood apart in a heap, unwilling to appear too bold in the presence of his Reverence, who soon appeared, gave all a hearty greeting, and, in concert with Roch, settled who should work on each farm, taking care that the wealthiest peasants should work on the best farms.
Half an hour had not elapsed before all were distributed; there only remained in front of the church a few komorniki in tears, who had vainly hoped that some worker might fall to their share. And now every homestead was in motion, benches set out in front of the huts, and breakfast laid on the tables; while nips of vodka were tossed off “to their better acquaintance.” The lasses served with alacrity, for most of the visitors were unmarried men, and clad almost as though they had come rather to a betrothal than to a long spell of toil.
There was no time for conversation. Nor did they linger much over breakfast; for, as they politely remarked, “they had not yet deserved hospitality.”
So they speedily made for the fields, under the goodwives’ guidance.
And now arose a day of high solemnity along that countryside. Waste and, as it were, palsied erewhile, it took up a new life now. Wagons rolled out of every farmyard, ploughs moved forth on every road; all the field-paths were alive with people, hailing each other with merry cries across orchards and enclosures; horses neighed, dogs gave tongue, running wildly after the colts; a strong lusty joy of life, filling all hearts, went brimming over into the very fields! And on potato-patch and barley-plot, free space and weedy fallow, there arose a din full of gladness and excitement and racket, as in a ballroom just before the dance.
And then came silence, broken by swishing whips, and tinkling harnesses; the horses pulled amain; the ploughs, still rusty, cut deep into the soil, turning up their first black glossy furrows. And the people, drawing a long breath, crossed themselves, cast their eyes over the fields, and stooped down with a will to labour and to toil.
It was like a huge church in which the service had just begun. With what piety did they bend over the glebe! with what profound devotion and trust in Mother Earth did they cast forth the sacred seed, that was to bring forth much fruit on the morrow!
Like a swarm of bees, they beset the odoriferous soil—a multitudinous, laborious, silent crowd: while the lark sang overhead, poised upon unseen wings, and the wind, blowing by, rocked the trees, tumbled the women’s garments, stroked down the rye-blades, and then fled away with a laugh to the forest.
For many long hours they worked on at a stretch, only from time to time straightening their bent shoulders just for a breathing-spell. Even at noonday, they did not quit the scene, but sat down in the field-paths to rest awhile and eat the food brought in pots from the cabins. But no sooner had the horses done their meal than the men returned to the ploughs again without a moment’s lingering. Only the falling twilight at last put an end to their labour.
And now the village shone bright, and every cabin blazed through open door or window: within they were all busy getting supper ready. Louder grew the noise and uproar: children clamoured, horses whinnied, gates swung rasping rustily, calves bleated, geese gaggled, driven home from their pastures: all Lipka effervesced with commotion and uproar.
With the evening meal there came a hush. The visitors were invited to table, and offered the first places, as honoured guests: they were pressed to eat of all that was best: meat was plentiful, and vodka flowed freely.
Through the open doors and windows, the circle of heads round the tables could be seen, spoons were heard scraping the platters, and far into the roads came the savoury scent of fried bacon.
Roch passed from hut to hut, sowing the seed of good words, as a thrifty farmer, full of care for his lands—yet at the same time not less happy, perhaps happier, than anyone else in the village.
At Hanka’s, too, the day of joy was felt. Though they needed no assistance, yet they had, in order to be of service, invited to supper two men from Rzepki, who had been working at Veronka’s and at Golab’s.
These she had chosen because the Rzepki community claimed to be of noble blood.
In Lipka, indeed, people laughed that claim to scorn; but no sooner had they come in than Hanka was aware of a subtle distinction that stamped all they did.
They were undersized, thin, wore black well-fitting capotes like townsmen; their moustaches, of the colour of hemp, stood out stiffly; their looks were dignified, their manners courteous, and they spoke after the fashion of gentlemen. Very well-behaved folk they were, praising all they saw with courteous grace, and so pleasing of speech that the women felt
