Selected Polish Tales | Page 6

was all black like that
when your father sowed wheat on it. And now look at the yellow patch
where the stony ground comes out from under the mould and will soon
possess all your land.'
'But that is not my fault,' said Slimak.
'Not your fault?' whispered the earth; 'you yourself eat three times a day,
but how often do you feed me? It is much if it is once in eight years.
And then you think you give me a great deal, but a dog would starve on
such fare. You know that you always grudge me the manure, shame on
you!'
The penitent peasant hung his head.
'And you sleep twice in twenty-four hours unless your wife drives you

to work, but how much rest do you give me? Once in ten years, and
then your cattle trample upon me. So I am to be content with being
harrowed? Just try giving no hay or litter to your cows, only scratch
them and see whether they will give you milk. They will get ill, the
slaughterer will have to be sent for, and even the Jew will give you
nothing for their hides.'
'Oh dear, oh dear!' sighed the peasant, acknowledging that the earth
was right. But no one pitied or comforted him--on the contrary! The
west wind rose, and twining itself among the dry stalks on the
field-paths, whistled:
'Look sharp, you'll catch it! I will bring such a deluge of rain that the
remainder of the mould will be spurted on to the highroad or into the
manor-fields. And though you should harrow with your own teeth, you
shall get less and less comfort every year! I will make everything
sterile!'
The wind was not threatening in vain. In Slimak's father's time ten
korzy of sheaves an acre had been harvested here. Now he had to be
thankful for seven, and what was going to happen in the future?
'That's a peasant's lot,' murmured Slimak, 'work, work, work, and from
one difficulty you get into another. If only it could be otherwise, if only
I could manage to have another cow and perhaps get that little
meadow....'
His whip was pointed at the green field by the Bialka.
But the sparrows only twittered 'You fool!' and the earth groaned: 'You
are starving me!'
He stopped the horses and looked around him to divert his thoughts.
Jendrek was digging between the cottage and the highroad, throwing
stones at the birds now and then or singing out of tune:
'God grant you, God grant you That I may not find you. For else, my

fair maid, You should open your gate.'
And Magda answered from within:
'Although I am poor And my mother was poor, I'll not at the gate Kiss
you early or late.'
Slimak turned towards the river where his wife could be plainly seen in
her white chemise and red skirt, bending over the water and beating the
linen with a stick until the valley rang. Stasiek had already strayed
farther towards the ravines. Sometimes he knelt down on the bank and
gazed into the river, supported on his elbows. Slimak smiled.
'Peering again! What does he see down there?' he whispered.
Stasiek was his favourite, and struck him as an unusual child, who
could see things that others did not see.
While Slimak cracked his whip and the horses went on, his thoughts
were travelling in the direction of the desired field.
'How much land have I got?' he meditated, 'ten acres; if I had only
sown six or seven every year and let the rest lie fallow, how could I
have fed my hungry family? And the man, he eats as much as I do,
though he is lame; and he has fifteen roubles wages besides. Magda
eats less, but then she is lazy enough to make a dog howl. I'm lucky
when they want me for work at the manor, or if a Jewess hires my
horses to go for a drive, or my wife sells butter and eggs. And what is
there saved when all is said and done? Perhaps fifty roubles in the
whole year. When we were first married, a hundred did not astonish me.
Manure the ground indeed! Let the squire take it into his head not to
employ me, or not to sell me fodder, what then? I should have to drive
the cattle to market and die of hunger.
'I am not as well off as Gryb or Lukasiak or Sarnecki. They live like
gentlemen. One drives to church with his wife, the other wears a cap
like a burgher, and the third would like to turn out the Wojt[1] and
wear the chain himself. But I have to say to myself, 'Be poor on ten

acres and