The peasants, [vol. 1] : $b AutumnReymont, Władysław Stanisław
General
The peasants, [vol. 1] : $b Autumn
Reymont, Władysław Stanisław
Peasants -- Poland -- Fiction; Polish fiction -- Translations into English
“Not yet,” he returned; and, suddenly drying his eyes, he forced his way
back to the table. Yes: he would give names. Did it concern anyone that
he had no parents he knew? If he had none, it was his own affair. If he
was a foundling, a foundling let him be.—He therefore took heart, wiped
his eyes, and boldly gave the names Josephine, Marianna, Anthony—the
first that occurred to him.
He paid, took the change, and went with Kuba into the church to pray and
hear the priest read the names of his dear departed!
A catafalque, bearing a coffin at its summit, had been raised in the
centre of the church. Round it many tapers were burning, while the
priest read aloud from the pulpit an interminable list of names. Now and
then he stopped, and the whole congregation said the Paters, Aves, and
Credos that should relieve the souls of the faithful departed.
Vitek knelt down by the side of Kuba; the latter took out a rosary, and
counted thereon all the prayers which the priest had recommended. Vitek
too recited a few prayers; but the monotonous sounds soon made him
drowsy, and, worn out by the heat of the place and his recent fit of
tears, he presently rested his head against Kuba and went to sleep.
* * * * *
In the afternoon, all the Boryna family were present at the Vespers
which were sung once a year in the churchyard mortuary chapel. Antek and
his family, the blacksmith and his, Yuzka accompanied by Yagustynka, and
Vitek, and Kuba dragging himself in the rear, had come, determined to
make the most they could of All Souls’ Day.
As a man shuts his weary eyelids, and plunges into dark unfathomable
shadows, so evening was closing in; the wind sounded with a dreary
voice, long drawn out, and wafted the odours of many a mouldering leaf,
redolent with unpleasant effluvia.
The country-side was serene, with the strange and sombre calm of that
anniversary of sadness. The crowds went about their way—as it were, in
painful silence; their trampling boots echoed with dull dead sounds: the
roadside trees waved their boughs restlessly, and swayed overhead with a
sad sullen murmur.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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