The Path of Life. Stijn Streuvels
in, with black window-shutters, which showed dark against the walls and shut in the light, and stumpy chimneys, with thick smoke curling from them. Indoors, there was no seeing clearly: the lamp hung from the ceiling in a ring of steam and smoke and everything lay black and tumbled. In the hearth, the yule-log lay blazing. The farmer’s wife baked waffles and threw them in batches on the straw-covered floor.
In one corner, under the light and wound from head to foot in tobacco-smoke, were the farm-hands, playing cards. They sat wrapped up in their game, bending over their little table, very quiet. Now and then came a half-oath and the thud of a fist on the table and then again peaceful shuffling and stacking and playing of their cards.
The Freezyman sat in the midst of the children, who listened open-mouthed to his tale of The Mighty Hunter.
His star stood in the corner.
Later, the big table was drawn out and supper served. All gathered round and sat down and ate. First came potatoes and pork, red kale and pigs’ chaps, then stewed apples and sausages … and waffles, waffles, waffles. They drank beer out of little glass mugs. The table was cleared, coffee poured out, spirits fetched from the cupboard and gin burnt with sugar. Then the chairs were pushed close, right round the hearth, and Maarten stood up, took his star, smoothed his long beard and, keeping time by tugging the string of his star, droned out:
On Christmas night
Is Jesus born
To fight our fight
Against the night
Of Satan and his devil-spawn.
And a manger is His cot
And all humble is His lot;
So, mortal, make you humble, too, To serve Him Who thus served you. Three wise men and each a king Come to make Him offering; Gold, frankincense and myrrh they bring. Angels sweet Kiss His feet, As they sing: “Hail, Lord and King!” Telling all mankind the story Of His wonder and His glory; So, mortal, make you humble, too, To serve Him Who thus served you.
All else was still. The men sat drinking their hot gin, the children listened with their heads on one side and the farmer’s wife, with her hands folded over her great lap, sat crying.
The door opened and the Kings stood in the middle of the floor. They were white with snow and their faces blue with cold; the ice hung from Grendel’s moustache. They looked hard under their hats at the table, the hearth and the little glasses and at Maarten, who was still standing up. Wulf made his star turn, Top banged his rumble-pot to time and they sang:
Three Kings came out of the East;
’Twas to comfort Mary. …
When the song was ended, each got two little glasses; then they could go.
Grendel cursed aloud.
“That damned hill-devil swallows it all up,” muttered Wulf.
And they went off through the snow.
The others sang and played and played cards for ever so long and ’twas late when Maarten took his star and, with a “Good-night till next year,” pulled the door behind him.
It was still light outside, but the sky hung full of snow; above, a grey fleece and, lower, a swirl of great white flakes, which fell down slowly swarming one on top of the other.
He plunged deep into it. … It was still so far to go; and his house and his pines, he had left them all so far behind.
He was so old, so lone; it was so cold; and all the roads were white … all sky and snow. In the hollow lay the village: a little group of sleeping houses round the white church-steeple; and behind it lay his mountain, but it was like a cloud, a shapeless monster, very far away.
Above his head, stars, stars in long rows. He stood still and looked up and found one which he saw every evening, a pale, dead star, like an old acquaintance, which would lead him—for the last time, perhaps—back to his mountain, back home.
And he trudged on.
There was a light in the three narrow pointed windows of the chapel and the bell tinkled within. He went to rest a bit against the wall. What a noise and what a bustle all the evening … and the gin! And those rough chaps had looked at him so brutally. In there, it was still; those windows gleamed so brightly; and, after the sound of the bell, there came so softly a woman’s voice:
“Venite adoremus. …”
Then all was silence, the lights went out. And he fared on.
The village lay behind him and the road began to climb. There, on the right, stood “The Jolly Hangman.” Now he knows his way and ’tis no longer far from home. From out of the ditch comes something creeping, a black shape that runs across the plain, chattering like a magpie: Mad Wanne, with her thin legs and her cloak wide open. She ran as fast as she could run and vanished behind the inn.
He had started; he became so frightened, so uneasy, that he hastened his steps and longed to be at home.
There was still a light in “The Jolly Hangman” and a noise of drunken men. He passed, but then turned back again … to sing his last song, according to old custom. They opened the door and asked him in. He saw Grendel sitting there and tried to get away. Then the three of them rushed out and called after him. When they saw that he went on, they broke into a run:
“Stop, you brute! … Here, you with your star! … Oh, you damned singer of songs!” they howled and ran and caught him and threw him down.
Grendel dug his knee into his chest and held his arms stretched wide against the ground. Wulf and Dras gripped whole handfuls of snow and crammed it into his mouth and went on until all his face was thickly covered and he lay powerless. Then they planted his star beside him in the snow and began to turn and sing to the echo:
A, a, a—glory be to Him on high to-day! E, e, e—upon earth peace there shall be! I, i, i—come and see with your own eye! O, o, o—His little bed of straw below!
Like a flash, Mad Wanne shot past, yelling and shrieking. Wulf flung his stick against her legs. She waved her arms under her cloak and vanished in the dark.
The three men sat down by the ditch and laughed full-throated. Then they started for the village. Long it rang:
Three Kings came out of the East;
’Twas to comfort Mary …
Great white flakes fell from the starry sky, wriggled and swarmed, one on top of the other.
IV. LOAFING
He went, ever on the move, with the slow, shuffling step of wandering beggars who are nowhere at home.
They had discharged him, some time ago, and now he was walking alone like a wild man. For whole days he had dragged himself through the moorland, from farm to farm, looking for his bread like the dogs. Now he came to a wide lane of lime-trees and before him lay the town, asleep. He went into it. The streets lay dead, the doors were shut, the windows closed: all the people were resting; and he loafed. It was dreary, to walk alone like that, all over the country-side, and with such a body: a giant with huge legs and arms, which were doomed to do nothing, and that belly, that craving belly, which he carried about with him wherever he went.
And nobody wanted him: ’twas as though they were afraid of his strong limbs and his stubborn head—because his glowing eyes could not entreat meekly enough—and his blackguardly togs. …
Morning came; the working-folk were early astir. Lean men and pale women, carrying their kettles and food-satchels in their hands, beat the slippery pavements with their wooden shoes. Doors and windows flew open; life began;