'But you must buy a coffin and notify the parish.'

'Let anyone who cares do that.'

'Who will do it? In the village they say it's G.o.d's punishment on you.

And won't the Germans take it out of you! That fat man has quarrelled with them. Josel says you are now reaping the benefit of selling your fowls: he threatened me if I came here to see you. Get up now!'

'Let me be or I'll kick you!'

'You G.o.dless man, is your wife to lie there without Christian burial?'

He advanced his boot so vehemently that the old woman ran screaming out along the highroad.

Slimak pushed to the door and lay down again. A hard peasant-stubbornness had seized him. He was certain that he was past salvation. He neither accused himself nor regretted anything; he only wanted to be left to sleep eternally. Divine pity could have saved him, but he no longer believed in divine pity, and no human hand would do so much as give him a cup of water.

While the sound of the evening-bells floated through the air, and the women in the cottages whispered the Angelus, a bent figure approached the gospodarstwo, a sack on his back, a stick in his hand; the glory of the setting sun surrounded him. Such as these are the 'angels' which the Lord sends to people in the extremity of their sorrow.

It was Jonah Niedoperz, the oldest and poorest Jew in the neighbourhood; he traded in everything and never had any money to keep his large family, with whom he lived in a half-ruined cottage with broken windowpanes. Jonah was on his way to the village and was meditating deeply. Would he get a job there? would he live to have a dinner of pike on the Sabbath? would his little grandchildren ever have two shirts to their backs?

'Aj waj!' he muttered, 'and they even took the three roubles from me!'

He had never forgotten that robbery in the autumn, for it was the largest sum he had ever possessed.

His glance fell on the burnt homestead. Good G.o.d! if such a thing should ever befall the cottage where his wife and daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren lived! His emotion grew when he heard the cows lowing miserably. He approached the stable.

'Slimak! My good lady gospodyni!' he cried, tapping at the door. He was afraid to open it lest he should be suspected of prying into other people's business.

'Who is that?' asked Slimak.

'It's only I, old Jonah,' he said, and peeped in, 'but what's wrong with your honours?' he asked in astonishment.

'My wife is dead.' 'Dead? how dead? what do you mean by such a joke?

Ajwaj! really-dead?' He looked attentively at her.

'Such a good gospodyni...what a misfortune, G.o.d defend us! And you are lying there and don't see about the funeral?'

'There may as well be two,' murmured the peasant.

'How two? are you ill?'

'No.'

The Jew shook his head and spat. 'It can't be like this; if you won't move I will go and give notice; tell me what to do.'

Slimak did not answer. The cows began to low again.

'What is the matter with the cows?' the Jew asked interestedly.

'I suppose they want water.'

'Then why don't you water them?'

No answer came. The Jew looked at Slimak and waited, then he tapped his forehead. 'Where is the pail, gospodarz?'

'Leave me alone.'

But Jonah did not give in. He found the pail, ran to the ice-hole and watered the cows; he had sympathy for cows, because he dreamt of possessing one himself one day, or at least a goat. Then he put the pail close to Slimak. He was exhausted with this unusually hard work.

'Well, gospodarz, what is to happen now?'

His pity touched Slimak, but failed to rouse him. He raised his head.

'If you should see Grochowski, tell him not to sell the land before Jendrek is of age.'

'But what am I to do now, when I get to the village?'

Slimak had relapsed into silence.

The Jew rested his chin in his hand and pondered for a while; at last he took his bundle and stick and went off. The miserable old man's pity was so strong that he forgot his own needs and only thought of saving the other. Indeed, he was unable to distinguish between himself and his fellow-creature, and he felt as if he himself were lying on the straw beside his dead wife and must rouse himself at all costs.

He went as fast as his old legs would carry him straight to Grochowski; by the time he arrived it was dark. He knocked, but received no answer, waited for a quarter of an hour and then walked round the house.

Despairing at last of making himself heard, he was just going to depart, when Grochowski suddenly confronted him, as if the ground had produced him.

'What do you want, Jew?' asked the huge man, concealing some long object behind his back.

'What do I want?' quavered the frightened Jew, 'I have come straight from Slimak's. Do you know that his house is burnt down, his wife is dead, and he is lying beside her, out of his wits? He talks as if he had a filthy idea in his head, and he hasn't even watered the cows.'

'Listen, Jew,' said Grochowski fiercely, 'who told you to come here and lie to me? is it those horse-stealers?'

'What horse-stealers? I've come straight from Slimak....'

'Lies! You won't draw me away from here, whatever you do.'

The Jew now perceived that it was a gun which Grochowski was hiding behind his back, and the sight so unnerved him that he nearly fell down. He fled at full speed along the highroad. Even now, however, he did not forget Slimak, but walked on towards the village to find the priest.

The priest had been in the parish for several years. He was middle-aged and extremely good-looking, and possessed the education and manners of a n.o.bleman. He read more than any of his neighbours, hunted, was sociable, and kept bees. Everybody spoke well of him, the n.o.bility because he was clever and fond of society, the Jews because he would not allow them to be oppressed, the settlers because he entertained their Pastors, the peasants because he renovated the church, conducted the services with much pomp, preached beautiful sermons, and gave to the poor. But in spite of this there was no intimate touch between him and his simple parishioners. When they thought of him, they felt that G.o.d was a great n.o.bleman, benevolent and merciful, but not friends with the first comer. The priest felt this and regretted it. No peasant had ever invited him to a wedding or christening. At first he had tried to break through their shyness, and had entered into conversations with them; but these ended in embarra.s.sment on both sides and he left it off. 'I cannot act the democrat,' he thought irritably.

Sometimes when he had been left to himself for several days owing to bad roads, he had p.r.i.c.ks of conscience.

'I am a Pharisee,' he thought; 'I did not become a priest only to a.s.sociate with the n.o.bility, but to serve the humble.'

He would then lock himself in, pray for the apostolic spirit, vow to give away his spaniel and empty his cellar of wine.

But as a rule, just as the spirit of humility and renunciation was beginning to be awakened, Satan would send him a visitor.

'G.o.d have mercy! fate is against me,' he would mutter, get up from his knees, give orders for the kitchen and cellar, and sing jolly songs and drink like an Uhlan a quarter of an hour afterwards.

To-night, at the time when Jonah was drawing near to the Parsonage, he was getting ready for a party at a neighbouring landowner's to meet an engineer from Warsaw who would have the latest news and be entertained exceptionally well, for he was courting the landowner's daughter. The priest was longing feverishly for the moment of departure, for lie had been left to himself for several days. He could hardly bear the look of his snow-covered courtyard any more, having no diversion except watching a man chop wood, and hearing the cawing of rooks. He paced to and fro, thinking that another quarter of an hour must have gone, and was surprised to find it was only a few minutes since he had last looked at his watch. He ordered the samovar and lit his pipe. Then there was a knock at the door. Jonah came in, bowing to the ground.

'I am glad to see you,' said the priest, 'there are several things in my wardrobe that want mending.'

'G.o.d be praised for that, I haven't had work for a week past. And your honour's lady housekeeper tells me that the clock is broken as well.'