Plain, almost blank in his soul, the
middle-aged peasant of the crucifix resisted unmoving the misery of his
position. He did not yield. His soul was set, his will was fixed. He was
himself, let his circumstances be what they would, his life fixed down.
Across the marsh was a tiny square of orange-coloured light, from the
farm-house with the low, spreading roof. I remembered how the man and
his wife and the children worked on till dark, silent and intent,
carrying the hay in their arms out of the streaming thunder-rain into
the shed, working silent in the soaking rain.
The body bent forward towards the earth, closing round on itself; the
arms clasped full of hay, clasped round the hay that presses soft and
close to the breast and the body, that pricks heat into the arms and the
skin of the breast, and fills the lungs with the sleepy scent of dried
herbs: the rain that falls heavily and wets the shoulders, so that the
shirt clings to the hot, firm skin and the rain comes with heavy,
pleasant coldness on the active flesh, running in a trickle down towards
the loins, secretly; this is the peasant, this hot welter of physical
sensation.
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