Selected Polish Tales | Page 4

his wife had been rating him severely for not yet
having found a farmhand, it chanced that Maciek Owczarz,[1] whose
foot had been crushed under a cart, came out of the hospital. The lame
man's road led him past Slimak's cottage; tired and miserable he sat
down on a stone by the gate and looked longingly into the entrance.
The gospodyni was boiling potatoes for the pigs, and the smell was so
good, as the little puffs of steam spread along the highroad, that it went
into the very pit of Maciek's stomach. He sat there in fascination,
unable to move.
[Footnote 1: Pronunciation approximately: Ovcharge. Maciek (pron.
Machik): Matthew.]
'Is that you, Owczarz?' Slimakowa asked, hardly recognizing the poor
wretch in his rags.
'Indeed, it is I,' the man answered miserably.
'They said in the village that you had been killed.'
'I have been worse off than that; I have been in the hospital. I wish I
had been left under the cart, I shouldn't be so hungry now.'
The gospodyni became thoughtful.
'If only one could be sure that you wouldn't die, you could stay here as
our farm-hand.'
The poor fellow jumped up from his seat and walked to the door,
dragging his foot.
'Why should I die?' he cried, 'I am quite well, and when I have a bit to
eat I can do the work of two. Give me barszcz[1] and I will chop up a
cartload of wood for you. Try me for a week, and I will plough all those
fields. I will serve you for old clothes and patched boots, so long as I
have a shelter for the winter.'
[Footnote 1: Pronunciation approximately: barsht. The national dish of

the peasants; it is made with beetroot and bread, tastes slightly sour,
and is said to be delicious.]
Here Maciek paused, astonished at himself for having said so much, for
he was silent by nature.
Slimakowa looked him up and down, gave him a bowl of barszcz and
another of potatoes, and told him to wash in the river. When her
husband came home in the evening Maciek was introduced to him as
the farm-hand who had already chopped wood and fed the cattle.
Slimak listened in silence. As he was tenderhearted he said, after a
pause:
'Well, stay with us, good man. It will be better for us and better for you.
And if ever--God grant that may not happen--there should be no bread
in the cottage at all, then you will be no worse off than you are to-day.
Rest, and you will set about your work all right.'
Thus it came about that this new inmate was received into the cottage.
He was quiet as a mouse, faithful as a dog, and industrious as a pair of
horses, in spite of his lameness.
After that, with the exception of the yellow dog Burek, no additions
were made to Slimak's household, neither children nor servants nor
property. Life at the gospodarstwo went with perfect regularity. All the
labour, anxiety, and hopes of these human beings centred in the one
aim: daily bread. For this the girl carried in the firewood, or, singing
and jumping, ran to the pit for potatoes. For this the gospodyni milked
the cows at daybreak, baked bread, and moved her saucepans on and
off the fire. For this Maciek, perspiring, dragged his lame leg after the
plough and harrow, and Slimak, murmuring his morning-prayers, went
at dawn to the manor-barn or drove into the town to deliver the corn
which he had sold to the Jews.
For the same reason they worried when there was not enough snow on
the rye in winter, or when they could not get enough fodder for the
cattle; or prayed for rain in May and for fine weather at the end of June.

On this account they would calculate after the harvest how much corn
they would get out of a korzec,[1] and what prices it would fetch. Like
bees round a hive their thoughts swarmed round the question of daily
bread. They never moved far from this subject, and to leave it aside
altogether was impossible. They even said with pride that, as gentlemen
were in the world to enjoy themselves and to order people about, so
peasants existed for the purpose of feeding themselves and others.
[Footnote 1: A korzec is twelve hundred sheaves.]

CHAPTER II
It was April. After their dinner Slimak's household dispersed to their
different occupations. The gospodyni, tying a red handkerchief round
her head and a white linen one round her neck, ran down to the river.
Stasiek followed her, looking at the clouds and observing to himself
that they were different every day. Magda busied herself washing up
the dinner things, singing 'Oh, da, da',