The peasants, [vol. 2] : $b WinterReymont, Władysław Stanisław
General
The peasants, [vol. 2] : $b Winter
Reymont, Władysław Stanisław
Peasants -- Poland -- Fiction; Polish fiction -- Translations into English
Folk were sorely troubled at this, for they had lived in hope that,
after a week or two, spring would get the upper hand and make amends for
all they had suffered. And, meantime, the roofs let the rain in, the
water came through walls and windows, and poured on every side. In
despair they saw it creep in from the fields, fill all the ditches even
to brimming over, make the roads gleam and glitter like waterways, come
round through the hedgerows, and stand about the farm-yards in deep miry
pools. And as the snow continued to melt and the rain to fall, the
thawed ground soon softened to such a degree that in many farm-yards
there were mud-pits without number at noontide, and folk had to lay
boards outside the huts, or bridge the approaches with trusses of straw.
Nor were the nights less unbearable, with their downpours and their
black darkness—so thick that one might fancy light had gone out for
ever. Few lit fires in the evening: weary of the wretched weather, all
went to bed at nightfall—and Lipka was in palpable obscurity. True, in a
few huts they assembled to spin: there the windows gleamed, and the low
chant of the “Lamentations” quavered, together with other mournful hymns
on the sufferings of Jesus. They were accompanied by the blasts, the
pattering rain, and the trees lashing one against the other through the
enclosures.
No wonder if Lipka was lost in this sea of slush: the huts were so
lowly, they scarce rose out of the ground where they crouched, dank,
dingy, wretched to look upon. And, as to the lands and gardens and roads
and sky, there was so much water everywhere that no one could
distinguish anything from anything else.
The weather was bleak, besides; it chilled the very bones, and few cared
to meet it. The blasts blew, the rain pattered, the trees rocked in a
solitude; for all the voices heard, Lipka might as well have been a
place of the dead. Only the cattle lowed sometimes over their empty
mangers; or cocks fell a-crowing; or ganders, parted from their brooding
mates, would cry aloud and indignantly.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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