“Now, men, stir yourselves! I am here on duty: such jests are untimely.”
“Our Voyt, ’tis known, fears God alone!” said one peasant, a man from Rzepki.
The Voyt, now furious, shrieked: “If any man speak one word more, I’ll have him thrown in jail!”—And then he ran round to the cemetery that stood upon the height on which the District Office was perched.
It was overshadowed by many an ancient tree, through whose branches the grey church tower was seen; the black arms of the crosses bent over the stone wall, and above the road that led through the village.
Nothing was to be seen as yet. The Voyt left the Soltys along with the people, and went into the Office. Here someone was continually entering, called in by the scrivener, who took occasion to remind him gently of taxes in arrears, unpaid subscriptions for the court buildings … and other things still more important. These reminders were truly very distasteful to each of them: how could they pay in such hard times, and just before the harvest? So they only made him a very deep bow, some even kissing his hand, and some pressing their last zloty into the man’s outstretched palm. But they all implored him to wait till the harvest, or till next fair.
That scrivener! he was a cunning blade, a wily crafty old fox! How many a way he had of fleecing the people! To some he would make no end of promises, others he wrought upon through fear of the gendarmes; these he got the upper hand of through sheer flattery, and those, by treating them with free and easy friendliness. But he always and somehow got something out of every one of them. He was in need of oats, or he required a few young goslings for the head of the District; or he obtained a promise of some straw ropes for binding sheaves. And, willingly or unwillingly, they promised whatever he wanted. And then—just as they were leaving—he would take those apart whom he knew best, and say to them in friendly guise:
“Look ye, vote for the school; for if ye should oppose it, our head may wax angry, and peradventure cancel your agreement with the Squire as to the forest.”
“How’s that?” cried Ploshka, in astonishment. “Why, we made the agreement freely on either side.”
“Aye, but know ye not?—‘But noble with noble is hand in glove; for peasants, never noble has love.’ ”
Much dismayed, Ploshka left him; and he continued to call the men in, frightening each of them in a different way, but pressing them all to do the same thing.
A good many people were gathered together—more than two hundred—who at first grouped themselves by villages, each with his own acquaintances: men of Lipka with men of Lipka, and so on. But now it was known to be the head of the District’s will they should vote about the school, they began to mingle together, passing from group to group as it suited them. Only the “nobility” of Rzepki held proudly aloof, looking down upon the other peasantry. All the rest had presently mixed together, like lentils in a dish, all over the square, but congregating mostly in the shadow of the churchyard trees, or about the wagons.
But it was round the large tavern that they thronged closest. This stood opposite the District Office, surrounded by a clump of trees, as in a shady grove; and many a one went that way to refresh himself with a glass of beer, after standing so long in the hot glare. The tavern being chock-full, quite a number of groups were lounging about under the trees, discussing the news and attentively watching both the Office and the other side of the house, where the scrivener lived, and where the noise and bustle was greatest.
From time to time, the scrivener’s wife thrust her fat face out of a back window, screaming:
“Make haste, Magda! O you sluggard! may you break both your legs!”
The girl was heard every now and then rushing about the rooms, the panes quivering to her tread; a child would squall with shrill vehemence; somewhere behind, the fowls were cackling in great trepidation, and a panting constable was hunting chickens in the corn and down the road.
“Belike they are going to feast the head official,” someone remarked.
“They say the scrivener brought in half a cartload of liquor yesterday.”
“Then they’ll get as drunk as they did last year.”
“Oh, they can afford it. Do not the people pay, and is there anyone to watch what their hands grab?” said Matthew: to whom another cried at once:
“Be silent! the gendarmes have come.”
“They prowl about like wolves: where they go, and by which ways, who can tell?”
So they stood mute with fear, when the gendarmes drew up in a line before the Office, with a number of people round them: amongst whom were conspicuous the miller, the Voyt, and—at a little distance—the blacksmith, alert and attentive.
“That miller!—He fawns upon them, like a famished dog!”
“Wherever the gendarmes are seen, look out for the District Official!” Gregory exclaimed, passing over to where Antek, Matthew, Klemba, and Staho were talking together. Then they parted to mix with the people, holding forth and expressing their opinions with much force. They were listened to in silence; sometimes one or another of their hearers would groan and scratch his head with an embarrassed air, or cast a glance at the gendarmes, now drawing closer to one another.
Antek, with his back against the corner of the tavern, spoke curtly, but with conviction, and an air of authority. In another group, Matthew was talking humorously and making many a man laugh at his jests, while in a third crowd, nearer the cemetery, Gregory lectured with much ability, and as if he were reading out of an open book!
But their speeches all tended in one direction: to oppose the head official, to vote against the school, and not to heed those who were always on the side
