Iermola
by Józef Ignacy Kraszewski · English · Gutenberg #37622 · 413,033 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Iermola
Author: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski
Release date: October 4, 2011 [eBook #37622]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37622
Credits: Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IERMOLA ***
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
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2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Jozef Ignacy Kraszewski
IERMOLA
IERMOLA
BY
JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI
Author Of "The Jew"
Translated
By MRS. M. CAREY
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD, AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1891_,
By Dodd, Mead, and Co.
* * *
_All rights reserved_.
CONTENTS.
I. The Land and the People.
II. The Background of the Picture.
III. What there was at the Foot of the Oaks.
IV. First Cares and First Happiness.
V. Set a Cheat to catch a Cheat.
VI. When One Loves.
VII. A New Life.
VIII. Happy Days.
IX. A Visit to the Door.
X. What a Strong Will can Accomplish.
XI. A Pottery at Popielnia.
XII. Paternal Happiness.
XIII. The Gray Mare.
XIV. Improvement and Deception
XV. The Other Father.
XVI. Alone!
XVII. In Bondage.
XVIII. The Last Journey.
XIX. The Drama in the Forest.
I E R M O L A.
I.
THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE.
_Amor omnia vincit_.
The events which are here related took place in Wolhynian Poland, in
that little corner of the earth, happily overlooked, where up to the
present time neither great highways nor roads frequented by carriages
are to be seen,--a land remote, almost lost, where the antique modesty,
simplicity, innocence, and poverty of past ages are still preserved. I
do not mean by this to say that all human vices with burdens of sins
upon their backs are always to be seen following in the footsteps of
civilization along the great highways; but unfortunately there is
always, between one social condition just ended and another which is
beginning, a period of transition during which the old life is
extinguished, and the new does not yet exist; and the result is
indecision and sad confusion. That hour, which has already chimed for
other nations and other provinces, has not yet sounded for this little
nook of our land. Here people live, particularly in the _dwors_[1] of
the lesser nobles, according to the traditions of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, which have left upon the people the impress of
their thought, their faith, and their manners.
It is true that in those yellow-painted _dwors_ belonging to the richer
nobles certain reforms have been adopted and a few new customs are in
use; but the mass of the lesser nobility are astonished and scandalized
at these innovations. Can it be otherwise in this honest little corner
of the earth, where the newspapers arrive in bundles once a month;
where the sending and receiving of letters is managed only by means of
the Jews who come to pass the Sabbath in the neighbouring town; where
the whole business of the country, with the exception of some traffic
in building timber, of which we shall speak farther on, is the breeding
of livestock and the manufacture and sale of shoes made of bark? Some
persons perhaps will find it difficult to believe that there still
exists a spot on earth so remote and so behind the rest of the world;
but it is really true that in the district of Zarzecze, in the environs
of the marshes of Pinsk, not very long ago, there were still homes of
nobles, whose occupants sometimes inquired of travellers for news of
the health of King Stanislaus-Augustus, and were still in complete
ignorance of all events which had taken place since the days of
Kosciusko.
Soldiers are never seen there; officials are unknown. Even those of the
inhabitants who go to Pinsk to pay taxes never ask the names of those
to whom they pay them, and wrapping their receipts carefully in their
handkerchiefs, never dare to examine them closely, fearing lest this
might cost them dear.
The portion of country which will be the scene of our narrative was,
however, neither so remote nor so wild. The almanac of Berdyczew
regularly found its way there in the latter days of December, bringing
a far-off reflection of foreign civilization and a collection of the
facts most necessary to the inhabitants,--such as the name of the
dominant planet for the current year, the date of the feast of Easter,
the hour of the rising and setting of the sun, and the receipt for the
destruction of insects which had been brought over from England. The
post-office was only ten miles away, and the richer nobles sent a
messenger for their newspapers every month or six weeks; some of them
even received letters by this means still so little used.
The majority of the inhabitants preferred, in fact, to confide their
commissions to the hands of a messenger on foot, even when he had to go
as far as fifty miles, for the Polesian messenger is superior to all
others. None walk so rapidly; none are so discreet, so faithful; none
ask so few tormenting questions; and none so surely and so cleverly
escape all sorts of dangers. At first sight one would take this peasant
porter for a beggar or vagabond, with his torn and threadbare old gray
coat, and his wallet containing a few crusts of bread and a change of
shoes; but closer examination would reveal that in the folds of his
girdle or in the lining of his cap, wrapped in an old ragged
handkerchief or a scrap of paper, he carried titles, documents, and
papers representing hundreds of millions of francs, or interests of the
greatest importance. When God created the Polesian He made him a
messenger: he always finds the shortest road by instinct; he never
loses his way; and he goes through the most difficult places with
marvellous ease. Consequently a tradition concerning messengers is
current among the gentry; they hold that the promptest and surest post
never can replace them. And therefore each village possesses a certain
number of these hireling footmen, who tramp over the space of a hundred
miles like apostles, and who, provided the recompense were sufficient,
would not hesitate to carry a letter to Calcutta.
The portion of country of which we are speaking, whose geographical
position it is not necessary more exactly to determine, is not so
remote from Pinsk as Zarzecze, nor so near as Western Wolhynia; but it
touches both of these regions, and thus occupies an intermediate
position.
It is a long strip of land still in great part covered with forests of
pine and oak. In the midst of it are to be found fields recently and
with great difficulty reclaimed, and miserable villages all smoked and
blackened by the resinous vapours from the forests.
The river Horyn flows through these forests, thus rendering them of
great commercial value, for the principal revenue of the country is
derived from the sale of timber transported to Dantzick in rafts.
Thanks to their simple habits, almost all the inhabitants become rich
in their old age. In fact, the Polesian, in spite of his wretched and
poverty-stricken appearance, in spite of the inconveniences of the
_plica_,[2] with which they are frequently afflicted, would not change
his condition for that of his cousin, the Wolhynian, who is apparently
much more robust and prosperous.
In this country the peasant does not depend for support entirely upon
the cultivation of the soil; there are varied means of subsistence
which prevent his entertaining too great a dread of the unproductive
seasons which are so terribly felt in other parts of the world. The
forests and the river, to which the nobles grant him access, are for
him an inexhaustible source of certain revenue and small industries.
Those forests particularly from which the proprietors draw no profit
after the trees suitable for sale have been cut down, furnish the
principal wealth of the peasants,--bark from the oak and linden trees,
barrel-hoops, bark slippers, osiers and rushes for the manufacture of
baskets, blocks of beech and box wood for making domestic utensils,
resinous torches, laths, and shavings. The dwellers in the _dwors_ do
not take the trouble to pick up all these refuse objects; but the
peasants gather them and gain both profit and pleasure. Then, too,
dried mushrooms, strawberries, mulberries, pears and wild apples, the
berries of the guelder-rose and hawthorn furnish the peasant so many
small harvests which yield him a modest and certain profit.
The working-men frequent the river shore. The young men of the
villages are employed as raftsmen to float the timber down the river;
they stretch nets and weirs, and hunt with the sparrow-hawk and
boar-spear,--in a word, no one dies of hunger, and although famine
sometimes threatens the poor people of the villages (and where does not
this stern benefactress show her face?), if only they can hold out till
harvest-time, they are sure to be able to live along together quite
comfortably during another year. There are, it is true, bad days,--dark
days, as the people call them. Sometimes they are obliged to make bread
of bark, hay, and buckwheat. But the world would not be the world if
one always enjoyed in it the peace and happiness of heaven.
The nobles who dwell in the _dwors_ lead a patriarchal life, toward the
maintenance of which the commercial relations with foreign countries
contribute so little that these might without much inconvenience be
altogether done away with. Everything is found, everything is
manufactured in the villages; the people buy only sugar and coffee, a
few bottles of Franconia wine, which is here called French wine, a few
pounds of tea, a little pepper, and that is all. In many instances
honey, which costs nothing, is substituted for sugar and chiccory for
coffee; camomile or balm and lime tree flowers, infinitely more
healthy, for tea, and horse-radish for pepper. Meat necessary for
household purposes is frequently butchered at home; at other times the
Jews bring it for sale at six and seven cents a pound, and tongues and
tripes for even less. The poultry-yard furnishes fowls and eggs;
candles are moulded in the old fashion; cloth is woven after an antique
method, admirable for its simplicity; linen also is equally well spun
and woven in the villages; and there are no trades necessary to daily
life which are not practised in the somewhat larger towns. Everywhere
one will find farriers, wheelwrights, carpenters, coopers, and masons,
usually very industrious, although it must be said not very skilful.
And besides, in urgent or difficult cases, when one is in a hurry, for
instance, and a workman is not just at hand, there is always some
Polesian who remembers having seen the thing made somewhere, and who
will undertake the needed job. He does it as well as he can, and
usually after several attempts becomes a tolerable workman.
I do not mean to say that trades and the arts are in a flourishing
condition in Polesia; in a country so simple, but little that is
artistic is required. When the shoemaker brings you a pair of boots, at
first sight they will certainly not seem to be made for a human foot,
they look so awkward, hard, large, rounded, and apparently moulded on a
block of iron. But try them, wear them for two years in water and mud,
and not a crack will be seen in the leather, not a peg will have come
out, they are so solid, strong, and conscientiously made. No one asks,
it is true, if his feet are more or less comfortable; has he not
something for which to thank God if a good piece of ox-hide covers them
and a thick sole protects them? And as for corns and bunions, he
considers them the natural consequence of years and hard work, and not
the effect of ill-made shoes.
It is in this way that everything is done there,--strongly, solidly,
roughly. If the epidermis suffers in consequence, so much the worse for
a skin which has been made tender by too much care, and for the eye
which has become too delicate and exacting from the effects of luxury
and studied refinement, I will only observe further that in this
fortunate country each mechanic, who is oftener an amateur, and
who has very few rivals professionally, thinks himself an artist, a
being of superior nature, uncomprehended and unappreciated by his
fellow-citizens. The frequent communications which he has with the
_dwors_, the efforts he makes to possess himself of the secrets of his
trade, the consciousness of being a necessary man,--a sort of axle in
the social mechanism which surrounds him,--contributes to arouse in him
feelings which, even if absurd, are manifested in other spheres and
under other skies than those of our Polesia.
In this country vast green forests form the frame and horizon of each
landscape. As we pass along we come to an occasional clearing; there a
pond glitters, or a slow, deep river runs; there damp marshes stagnate
eternally, and meadows grow green, half buried under rushes. Farther on
rise the roofs of huts blackened by the everlasting smoke. The Horyn,
like a rich silver girdle, surrounds this sleeping country with its
sparkling waters, which enrich and fertilize it; almost all the small
towns of this region are grouped along the river shore.
In other countries the name of town is not given to such miserable,
straggling villages; but in Polesia any assemblage of houses among
which may be found an inn, a Catholic chapel, a _cerkiew_ (Russian
church), a market-place, and above all two or three Jews, is called a
town.
The number of Israelites dwelling in a small town constitutes its
wealth; the more of them, the richer it is considered. In each of these
little capitals one encounters a Boruch, a Zelman, an Abram, or a
Majorko, who trades in everything; who furnishes to each person
whatever he desires, from a coat of lamb-skin to a gold watch; who buys
wheat and grists of corn, keeps an inn, sells rum, tobacco, pipes,
and sugar, and is acquainted with the whole history and condition of
all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, numbers of whose notes and
receipts he has in his portfolio. The great storehouse situated on the
market-place supplies the general needs of the poor villagers, who find
there pots, girdles, bonnets, iron, salt, tar, etc.; besides, there are
two or three little shops containing stuffs and haberdashery and a few
groceries, and that is all. The entire little town is nourished,
clothed, and subsists by means of the activity of the Jews who are its
soul. The cultivation of the soil, it is true, which is carried on by
the inhabitants of the towns, according to the ancient Slavic custom,
also furnishes other supplies.
A few poor gentlemen, one or two functionaries poorer still, the
curate, the Russian priest, and the employees of the _dwor_ compose
almost all the population. During the week the town seems deserted;
only the Jewish children run about the streets playing at quoits and
skittles. The chickens, goats, and cows wander peaceably through the
market-place. But on Sunday it is almost impossible to pass on the
square, there are so many riding horses, so many wagons laden with wood
and fodder, and so brisk is the trade going on in all sorts of produce.
And when once a year the day of the town holiday comes, then there are
all sorts of noises, and a crowd, and a fair. Then the pedlers arrive
with their little wagons, and display their bundles of merchandise upon
the square. The Jew hatter hangs from long poles planted along the wall
the bonnets and hats of his own manufacture; the Gypsy horse-doctor
appears; hand-organs abound; and the crowd increases every moment. All
the land-holders of the neighbouring parishes also come with their
wives; the stewards and managers, the poor gentry who own only one
field, the villagers who wish to get rid of any surplus commodity or
useless provision, such as leather, wool, cloth, or linen,--all are
there.
It is a pleasure to see, and a delight to hear, the noise and commotion
with which business is carried on. On the square every few moments some
of the men conclude a bargain and go off to the inn to confirm the
agreement by emptying a pint mug; the old women venders of onions,
garlic, tobacco, girdles, and red ribbons pick up as many big coppers
as they want. The day after the fair, and even for many succeeding
days, unless a good rain storm washes out the numberless traces, one
would divine at first glance what had taken place. Possibly the pools
of the blood of slaughtered goats and sheep which are drying and
blackening on the ground might even suggest that some dark crime had
been enacted.
But with the exception of this one day of bustle and gayety, the whole
country reposes during the entire year in that state of sweet torpor
and melancholy silence which is the normal condition of its daily life.
Man always absorbs, more or less voluntarily, the external influences
to which he is exposed. We are, in the scale of universal order, like
the caterpillar who clothes himself with a green robe while living on
the leaves of a tree, and with gorgeous attire when his food is the
heart of its purple fruit.
In a country fast asleep, like Polesia, where the murmur of the
venerable trees lulls the thin grass and the rushes on the marshes,
where peace and torpor is inhaled with the heavy air,--damp, and filled
with resinous vapours,--the inhabitants, with their growth, feel the
blood flow more and more slowly in their veins; thoughts arise more and
more slowly in their minds, and man, thus quieted and softened, desires
only repose, trembles at the idea of a sterner and more active destiny,
and clings like a mushroom to the soft, damp earth.
The peasants at about forty years of age have long beards like old men;
the nobles at that age cease to wear coats, wrap themselves in
dressing-gowns, allow their mustaches to grow at will, and to the end
of their lives, if they have wives and children, never again go out of
their houses. As for the old bachelors of the same age, they begin then
to consider that the sole result of marriage is inconvenience and
useless subjection.
There is but little visiting, although generally there is much
cordiality between the land-holders; but in summer it is too warm, in
winter it is too cold; in the autumn the mud and wind are disagreeable,
and in the spring there are the gnats. If ever one of them determines
to overcome his laziness, it is only on the occasion of a feast at the
house of an esteemed neighbour or in case of inevitable necessity. As,
however, it is not possible to live without some news, and some
intellectual intercourse, the Jew who owns the inn of the town
undertakes to retail the one and furnish the other. He comes at the
slightest call, or naturally in virtue of his ordinary occupations; he
stops at the door and begins at once to give an account of what he has
heard during the week, either in his excursions through the
neighbourhood or from the peasants who come to the mill or to the
blacksmith's shop. Generally the amount of his information consists in
being able to tell who has sown, who has harvested, who has sold, who
has gone on a journey, how much money the one has received and why the
other has departed. But this scanty supply of news feeds the curiosity
of the noble for a time, amuses him or wearies him, makes him gloomy,
irritates him, and sometimes even suffices to drag him out of his
house.
Let us not therefore seek in this country any modern innovations,
any enterprise or invention of the day; they would be greeted here
only by incredulity, distrust, and dislike. Everything is done in an
old-fashioned way; and if one should seek for the living tradition,
perfect and entire, of the life of past times, he will find it nowhere
in such perfection as here. The noble has the same respect for old
customs as the peasant; and if outwardly he laughs at them, in the
bottom of his heart he renders them homage, because with his blood and
his milk, with his eyes and his ears, he has absorbed them from his
infancy.
Thus it happens that in places where once rose a castle, and where now
a new _dwor_ stands in its place, the site of the new edifice retains
the old name, and the peasants who haul wood for the proprietor still
say that they are taking it to the castle. The spot once occupied by an
ancient _cerkiew_ is perhaps now a potato field, but the gardens of the
proprietor are none the less called the monastery. At the cross-roads
in the forest, where the foot-paths meet, a grave dug ages ago has
disappeared under the grass so that no trace of it remains; the wooden
cross has fallen and rotted in the sod, and may be traced in the thick
green grass which alone marks the spot where the soil has been enriched
by the decayed body. Still, not a peasant passes that way without
throwing, according to Pagan custom, a stone or a broken branch upon
the spot. Everything that has lived in this country lives there still.
The legend of the founding of a colony whose limits were traced by a
pair of black bulls whose privilege it was to preserve the future city
from infection and diseases common to cattle; the story of the prince
who drowned himself in a pond; the narrative of the Tartar invasion;
the sad fate of the two brothers in love with the same young girl, on
whose account they killed each other in single combat, and who
afterward, in despair, hung herself on their tomb,--all these survive.
The same songs have been sung for a thousand years; the same customs
continue to prevail; and all are faithful to them as to an engagement
sacredly entered into with their ancestors.
II.
THE BACKGROUND OF THE PICTURE.
Let us now imagine ourselves transported to the banks of the Horyn.
On the shore, close to the water's edge, there was a pretty little
_skarborwka_[3] painted a light yellow. Some planks, piled one upon
another and closely pressed together, extended so far out into the
water that one could not only walk with dry feet up to the little
cabin, but almost out into the middle of the river. Every preparation
had apparently been made for a voyage; nothing seemed wanting but the
signal for departure; the men alone had not arrived. But at this very
moment boatmen were being collected, more provisions supplied, and so
day by day the hour for setting sail was deferred.
The country along the shores, though sterile and bare, was not devoid
of a certain sweetly melancholy attraction. Beyond the broad spreading
sheet of water, a little back to the right of the ploughed fields,
might be seen a large Polesian village with its gray chimneys and the
great clumps of trees which in summer crown it with verdure, its
ancient Russian church surrounded by embattled walls and surmounted
by a clock-tower, and its cemetery situated in the midst of a pine
wood through which gleamed here and there the silver bark of a few
birch-trees. On the other side of the river a dark forest stretched
like a great wall as far as the eye could reach; upon the plain invaded
by the waters, the long rows of damp osiers marked the place where the
ponds and marshes usually ended. The village, which stretched in length
for a great distance, must have been founded ages ago, and once was of
considerable size, as one might see by the height and number of the
trees which surrounded it.
The eye which seeks among the huts of the village for the roofs and
walls of the _dwor_, which ought to be its crowning ornament, would
expect to find it on the top of the hill overlooking the river; but on
closer examination it would discover, in the midst of an abandoned
orchard and brush-wood scattered over with rubbish and old tree-trunks,
only the blackened ruins of an old wooden building which gives to the
spot a sad and savage aspect. Three fourths of the dwelling-house had
tumbled down; one of the chimneys opened to view its dark depths; and
not far off, the farmhouse, very old and miserable looking, but still
inhabited, sent up a little gray smoke from its roof. It was easy to
see that for a long time the proprietor had not lived there; even the
wooden cross which once stood at the courtyard gate had fallen and
rotted on the ground. The broken-down hedges gave foot-passengers and
flocks access to the orchard, while near at hand, the great gate, by an
ironical stroke of fate, was still standing as though to defend the
entrance.
The broad road which formerly extended between the _dwor_ and the
village was now deserted and overgrown with grass. One could scarcely
even distinguish the narrow foot-paths trodden by the cattle which the
villagers took there to pasture.
The same neglect was noticeable in those houses in the village
depending for repairs entirely upon the proprietor; but in spite of
this apparently poverty-stricken condition, the rafting, the work in
the forest, and the various small trades of the inhabitants were
productive of employment and competence.
At the moment when this story begins, not a single person remained on
the rafts which were ready to depart; twilight was coming on; the
breeze from the water became brisker and more chilling. On the trunk of
a fallen tree, near the river shore, was seated an old man, already
bent with age, holding between his lips a small wooden pipe; near him
came and went a little boy, who from his dress and exterior seemed to
belong to a position between that of peasant and servant in a
gentleman's family. It would have been difficult to determine precisely
the exact age of the old man. Are there not faces which, having reached
a certain age, change so entirely and so rapidly that the years which
pass afterward seem to leave no trace upon them?
He was small in stature, a little bent, his head almost bald and
slightly gray, his beard and mustaches short, though allowed to grow at
will. His cheeks were wrinkled as an apple withered by the winter's
cold, but retaining some fresh and healthy color. His eyes still had
much vivacity and some brilliancy; and his features were remarkable for
their regularity even under the yellow and furrowed skin which covered
them. His face, at once quiet and slightly sad, wore an expression of
peace and tranquillity of mind which is rarely met with in the
countenances of the poor; one would say on seeing him that he had
peaceably settled all his affairs in this world and that henceforth he
would await quietly the reward which he might receive in a better one.
It would be equally difficult to form any positive idea of his
condition or position from his dress. According to all appearance, he
was not a simple peasant, although he wore the costume of one. The
threadbare coat which covered him was shorter than the _sukmane_ of
the Polesian, and it was gathered about his waist by a leather belt
with a metal clasp; he wore besides dark cloth pantaloons, an old
neck-handkerchief, and on his head an old brimmed cap considerably
faded and worn.
But even in this dress, so simple and so worn, there was something
which showed that the old man had still a certain care for his
appearance: the coarse shirt which showed below his cravat was very
white; the _sukmane_ spotless and whole; the shoes of linden bark which
covered his feet were tied carefully with narrow strips of linen.
The youth who was standing beside him and who was neither peasant nor
servant, but who looked like a boatman's apprentice newly enlisted, had
the features of the Polesian race, small, very bright brown eyes, long
brown hair falling over his neck, a face almost square, a rather large
mouth, a well-shaped turned-up nose, and a low but intelligent brow.
His entire countenance was expressive of cheerful good-humour
heightened by the natural gayety of youth and utter carelessness of the
future.
"There are three brothers of us at home," he was saying to the old man.
"My lord has allowed me to hire myself as a boatman on the rafts; and I
assure you I like such a life much better than the one I spend at home,
doing all sorts of drudgery and melting behind the stove."
The old man shook his head gently.
"I see very well," he replied, "that you will no longer listen to my
advice since you have got the desire to go on a voyage into your head.
When youth wishes for anything, nothing but want can dissuade him from
it. Go, then, and may God guide you, but this shall not prevent my
telling you--"
The young man burst into a merry laugh.
"Let me first tell you what I think," said he, "and then I will listen
to what you have to say. First, it is not a bad thing for a young man
like me to see something more of the world than may be viewed from his
window; secondly, I shall certainly be much more comfortable here with
this Jew, who, though he cannot tell why, is always afraid, than with
our lord and master, the steward; and last, but by no means least, I
shall pick up during the voyage enough money to pay the taxes."
"All that is very true," replied the other, "and there are other things
you may gain besides; but an old man looks at it in a different light.
During these voyages, or rather, these wanderings, one becomes weaned
from one's old home and unaccustomed to regular work, one gets into the
habit of roaming about; and there is nothing so sad as to become
dissatisfied with one's birthplace. When, after that, one returns to
one's old home, everything seems strange and distasteful: the bread
tastes bitter; the soup is poor; the neighbours are wearisome, and the
daily work is a burden. At first one goes to the inn to talk with the
Jew for some sort of distraction; then one grows accustomed to drinking
brandy, and ruin surely follows. If I had a son, I never would allow
him to go wandering about the world in company with a Jew. Let him whom
God has appointed to live peacefully in his cottage take care never to
stray away from its threshold."
The young boatman became thoughtful. "But," he replied, after a
moment's pause, "do you believe that one so easily forgets all that has
been about him from infancy, all his former life? No, no; surely not,
my father. Can it be any harm to go and see the world so as to have
something to talk about to one's children when old age comes? Would you
not be constantly sighing for home and the good friends left behind,
rather than forgetting them and laughing at them? Would not home food
taste better after you had eaten the bread of strangers?"
"That is perhaps all true, if one continues honest and discreet,--if
one lives in the fear of God; and then the voyages on the rafts might
be of some service," answered the old man. "But it is so easy to grow
dissipated, to get in the habit of seeing and desiring new things, and
then grow weary and lounge about with arms folded. On the raft there
are so many occasions for drinking: the unbelieving Jew does not spare
the brandy at every mill, at every lock; and the men, from continually
tasting it, soon go to the devil. What matters it to the Jew merchant
what becomes of the souls of his boatmen, provided his wood arrives
safely in Germany, and the thalers flow into his purse? As for me, I am
an old man now, as you see, yet never in all my life have I had any
desire to see what is going on far away in the rest of the world. I
never have gone far from the threshold of the house in which I was
born, and I have now only one prayer to offer to my God, and that is
that I may be allowed to lie here in peace when I die."
"Bless me! And are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly, perfectly! And I ought to be, because I am no longer fit
for the world, and I ought to be content to have in my old age all that
is necessary to life,--a little corner and a bowl of soup. But I have
had many sad moments too, and I am persuaded that it is much easier to
endure poverty, weariness, and misfortune when one is among one's own
people."
"Is this, then, your native land?" said the young man.
"Yes, here I was born, here I have dragged out my pitiful existence,
and here I shall end it in peace," replied the old man, a little sadly.
"It is not for the mushrooms to grow big like the oaks."
"It must be a strange story."
"What?"
"Your own, to be sure."
"Mine? Have I a history? Poverty was born, and poverty is dead."
"Ah, please! We have nothing to do this evening; I dare not go to the
inn. I beg you, good father, do tell me something of your life. It is
so lonely there all by myself on the raft; in this way we can while
away an hour or two, and I shall have learned something from you."
The old man smiled sweetly.
"But what can I tell you? There has been nothing unusual in my life;
there are a great many lives like mine in this world. I have lived all
alone, without friends, without brothers. Not even one being calls me
cousin; not a living soul bears my name. Moreover, my child, you know
that what gives an old man most pleasure is to talk about the days of
his youth; therefore, if you are wise you will not call the wolf from
the forest, for you never will be able to get rid of him again."
"Never mind; only talk to me, talk to me! I shall always be glad to
listen."
"Well," began the old man, "I remember that when I was a very little
boy I used to run about here in this very spot, on the shores of the
Horyn, with other little villagers of my age. Ah, it mattered not then
whether my head was bare or my shirt torn; no other days that I can
recall seem so joyous and so sweetly happy as those."
"And your parents?"
"I do not remember them. I was six years old when they died of
a terrible fever; and as they had come from Wolhynia, I had no
relatives here, and was entirely alone. I see as through a mist the
village watchman leading me away, as we came out of the cemetery
to a neighbouring hut, where an old woman who called herself my
foster-mother gave me a large plate of soup which I devoured greedily.
I had eaten nothing for two days except a crust of dry bread which I
had concealed in the bosom of my shirt. The next day I was sent into
the fields to mind the geese; after that I was made to take care of the
pigs; and finally, when it was found that I was not awkward, and that I
knew how to take care of cattle, I was appointed to take the village
cows to the meadow. Oh, how sweet a herdsman's life is! It is true that
we had to go off with the cows at daybreak through the long grass all
wet with dew; but to make up for it, we had a good nap in the middle of
the day under the trees, when the cattle were at a safe distance from
the wheat, and when our happy band of shepherds were frolicking in the
furrows or in the great clearings. Cattle are not much trouble: they
are quiet and intelligent; when once they are accustomed to their
pastures, they will not go out of them even though beaten with a stick.
If they are driven away once or twice from the oat or wheat fields,
they never will go back there again; the boy has only to look at them
and call to them from time to time, and then amuse himself as he
pleases."
"But what pleasure can he have when he has no companions?"
"I told you that we went out in companies. And when we lighted a fire
on a little rising ground among the rushes, or in the forest against
the trunk of an old fallen tree; when we roasted potatoes, fried some
mushrooms and morels, or a little bacon which we had brought with
us,--what a feast we had, and what a good time! Then we would sing till
the woods resounded; and our hearts beat fast for joy, the far-away
echo of our song seemed so beautiful to us. So when it happened that
the proprietor of the village, our old lord (God rest his soul!),
chanced to meet me one day as he was hunting, took a fancy to me and
ordered that I should be taken to the _dwor_ where I should serve as a
cossack, God only knows how sad this made me, and how I longed to be
able to refuse to go."
"Ah! So you have been in service at the _dwor_?"
"All my life, my child, all my life."
"And you have not been able to lay by anything for your old age?"
"Wait a moment, my child. Surely I do not complain, though labour has
not been so profitable to me as to many others. But if I had more than
I have, what good would it do me? I should not eat with a better
appetite; I should not sleep more peacefully. Listen now, and you will
learn what I gained by such service. They carried me by force to the
_dwor_. I was washed, combed, dressed, whether I would or not. I was
obliged to stay where I was put, although my heart was ready to break.
But after three or four days I began to acquire a fondness for work.
"In fact, my work was not too hard; occupation was given me in the
office until I should become sufficiently polished up to wait in the
dining-room. The lord at that time was not an old man; he was tall and
very handsome, had a fine mind and the best heart in the world. After
hearing him speak only a few words, one could not help feeling that he
was a man to be loved and respected; his appearance, his gestures, and
his voice all bespoke the lord and master. If he were dressed in a
cassock and a _sukmane_, one would recognize at once, though one should
meet him in the dark, that God had created him to command others. But
his commands were neither rough nor offensive to any one; he never
spoke an angry word to his servants. When he was angry, he always kept
silence, and his servants had the terrible punishment of seeing him
refuse to speak to them and turn his face away from them. The home was
like the master; not only the old cossack whose business it was to
instruct me, but the other servants at the _dwor_ were quiet, affable,
and kind, and I soon grew accustomed to them.
"It is true they put upon me a good deal of their drudgery; but only my
legs suffered from the errands they sent me on, and I cannot recall
ever being injured or maltreated. The old cossack often said in a low
voice, 'He is a poor little boy, an orphan, and it would be too bad to
hurt him.' Thus little by little I forgot the open-air life; and a few
weeks after, meeting on the dam old Hindra, the shepherd, and my old
companions, I contented myself with smiling at them from a distance and
showing them my wide pantaloons with red bands, and I did not feel the
least desire to rejoin them in the woods. My task was not at all
severe. The lord wished to have me take care of his apartment, and it
was for this duty that I was first trained. As for his own wants, he
gave but little trouble to any one; usually he waited on himself, and
showed the kindness of a father to those whose business it was to serve
him. His old cossack was like a brother to him, and often scolded him
for one thing or another."
"Upon my word, he must have been a good lord."
"Yes, he was, God bless him!" answered the old man, wiping his eyes,
which were full of tears; "there are no more like him in this world. He
was brother and father and everything to me. He lived over there, do
you see, in the place where that great gray chimney still stands; but
in his time things were not as they are now. In his household there was
neatness and order in every little corner as well as in the great
courtyard; not a useless straw could be found lying about, and now
there is nothing but brush-wood, briers, and rubbish."
Here the old man heaved a deep sigh and then resumed.
"He rarely quitted the estate, and seldom received visitors. However,
now and then a guest did arrive; and although the house was ordinarily
as quiet as a cloister, it was not dull,--for all of us, and especially
the master, took part in cultivating the fields and garden, we went
hunting, and we never had a moment of idleness or weariness. The lord
loved the horses, the dogs, the trees, and the chase. Sometimes he
delighted in fishing; and thus the days passed so pleasantly that we
scarcely knew how the years rolled by. The master never married, and he
seemed to have no relatives. It was said that he came from a distance,
and had bought this estate; but though he was a new-comer, the country
people were as much attached to him as if they had served his ancestors
for generations, and he was beloved as a father throughout the
neighbourhood.
"It was indeed an easy matter to become attached to him, he was so
good, so frank, so cordial and honest; he had such pity for human
sorrow that the most wretched being who came to his house was sure to
receive help and go away comforted. I loved him at first sight; and
before a year had passed, I took the place of the old cossack, who was
beginning to grow infirm. He wished to give up work, for thanks to his
master's goodness he owned a thatched cottage with a field, and had an
annuity; so after having taught me all about his business, he asked
permission to retire and rest. But how strong is the effect of habit!
He thought he should be happy doing nothing in his own house, but at
the end of three weeks he began to be so tired of it that he came every
day to the _dwor_; there, leaning against the garden hedge, he smoked
his pipe with us, or sat on the porch from morning till night. If it
happened that for a single day he did not see his master, it had the
same effect upon him as going without his food, his heart hungered so.
"As for me, no one could have forced me to leave my master, even though
I should have been beaten, for he was indeed such a lord as is not
often found in this world. I will give you an instance of his goodness,
though it is only a little thing: whenever anything better than usual
was served for him, whether good fruit from the gardens or a dish well
prepared, he never failed to leave a bit of it for his servants.
Gradually, as I came to know him well, I loved him more and more; and
like all the others who surrounded him, I would have given my life for
him. I saw more of him than any of the other servants did; together we
went to the chase, of which he was passionately fond, we fished, we
rowed on the river, we worked in the garden. We often rose in high
spirits at daybreak; and old Bekas, my lord's spaniel, as if divining
what we were going to do, would jump and bark and wag his tail. Then we
would throw our game-bags over our shoulders, and away we would go to
the marshes through the mud and the brush-wood, frequently spending the
whole day without any other refreshment than a little brandy and bread
and cheese.
"I was at first astonished that so good a man should live so alone; but
after I knew him better I saw plainly that although he did his best to
be calm and happy, and smiling toward others, there was something which
he concealed which had embittered his life. Sometimes, even in his most
joyous moments, he would stop suddenly, sigh, and turn pale; tears like
large pearls would flow down his cheeks; but as soon as he became
conscious of them, he would put his gun on his shoulder and go off to
the woods or go to work in the garden or occupy himself in some way so
that no one should see that he had been weeping.
"In the service of such a master I was so happy that I forgot to think
of myself. I was beginning to be advanced in age; he himself undertook
to make a marriage settlement for me, and to establish me in the
village, but how could I bear to leave him? Besides, at the _dwor_ we
had become so accustomed to doing without women that we almost forgot
there were any in the world. We learned by experience that it was very
possible to get on without them; and the old cossack was of the opinion
that they were good for nothing but to make a fuss, and cause disorder
and waste in the household. Nevertheless, he married after a while.
"Our master never spoke to any woman; he never even cast a glance upon
those who came in his way; and as for us servants, it never even
occurred to us to marry. Our master grew old, and so did we. Some of us
died; others grew gray-headed, and I sooner than any of them, for I was
scarcely thirty years old when my head, God only knows why, began to
turn white. Our life at the _dwor_ underwent no change; the master
continued erect and vigorous, and went hunting constantly, but he
showed less enthusiasm for it, and preferred to work in the garden, for
his legs began to refuse to obey him. Probably they had grown stiff, in
consequence of his having tramped so much through the water and the
snows of winter, for he walked a great deal and very rapidly.
"When he felt himself growing feeble and infirm, he became sadder. As
it was thenceforth difficult for him to engage in any sort of labour,
he buried himself in his books and sighed frequently, muttering
mournfully to himself; and at night he prayed aloud, calling upon the
name of God in a plaintive, tender voice which brought the tears to my
eyes. We tried to amuse him, now in one way, now in another, but this
became a more difficult task every day. I raised some birds for him,
and this appeared to distract him; but he grew more feeble constantly,
and began to be indifferent to everything.
"As soon as he took to his bed, some fine people, until then unknown to
us, arrived. First came a lady, who, it was said, was our lord's
sister-in-law; then came her husband, who, it appeared, was our lord's
brother; and after that a horde of cousins, nephews, and other
relatives, who formerly had not known him, and who now seemed to spring
up from the ground.
"But all these people were so different from him that one never would
have supposed that they belonged to the same family. They were polished
and elegant in their manners, cordial in their greeting, and spoke in
gentle voices; but we learned from their servants that all this was put
on, for in their own homes they conducted themselves quite differently.
I do not know what good reason our master found for sending them away,
but they all suddenly departed in great anger; and after that we were
left alone, thank God!
"We continued to lead a more and more gloomy existence. Thirty odd
years had passed, and I had scarcely perceived the lapse of them; the
last of these I spent constantly near the bedside of my good lord.
There were moments when he still amused himself, sometimes with me,
sometimes with old Bekas or some of his tame birds; at other times a
book would please him; then he read night and day, and seemed more
tranquil. It was easy to perceive that for him the end was near; but we
loved him so much that we thought only of him, and never asked
ourselves what would become of us afterward. We dared not think of the
moment when he should be taken from us. I was almost forty when my good
master died. I had passed my whole life near him; I was as devoted to
him as if I had been his dog; consequently when we had laid him in his
coffin, I felt as if it was a great misfortune to survive him, I was so
sad and lonely and out of heart.
"I sat down at his feet and wept a long time. The lawyers came and
wrote papers and sealed them; one of his cousins took charge of the
funeral. I know nothing of what happened after that, for I was like
one stunned. The next day I entered his room, swept it, and arranged it
as if he still lived, and then sat there, bewildered, waiting for I
knew not what. At times all seemed a terrible dream. But soon the
sister-in-law, the brother, the cousins, and other relatives arrived,
and turned everything upside down, searching everywhere for the will.
They went through the house from top to bottom; and as they found no
will, the brother and sister-in-law took possession of everything,
sending the rest of the family abruptly away.
"They then undertook to manage everything after their own liking, to
sell, to rent, collect money, and rule the village people. For my part,
I begged them only to allow me to remain in service at the _dwor_; but
what did they care for the _dwor_, when they did not wish to live
there? They ordered me to go and live in a hut in the village; but
there was not a vacant one, and our deceased master had made no
arrangement for me. There seemed therefore nothing left for me but to
take old Hindra's place as shepherd. But when they became convinced
that I had given up faithfully to them all that my deceased master had
confided to my care, they had sufficient consideration for me to allow
me to end my days here. As I have told you, there was no vacant
cottage, and I had no relatives. Do you see that old ruined inn down
there near the clump of trees behind the cemetery? It was there that
they gave me a small lodging and a bit of garden ground, which rented
for three roubles a year. I have now lived there over twenty years,
giving thanks to God. Each day I go to the old _dwor_; I recall the
days of the past, I weep, and then I return to my hole--"
"And you live all alone?"
"Just as you see me. It is my fate doubtless to die alone also, without
ever having had any one to live near me. Since the death of my good
master, I never have been able to become attached to any man, and no
man has ever seemed to care for me. I do not complain, for no one in
the village seeks to do me any injury; they would, on the contrary,
rather help me, but I am alone, always alone."
"At your age, that is very sad--"
"Oh, yes, it is sad," sighed the old man, "that is very true; but what
is there to do? When one is gray-headed and walks with a stick, it is
too late to marry. Besides, no woman would have me, except perhaps some
one I would not have myself. God gave me neither relatives, friends,
nor brethren. What can I do? I must die alone, as I have lived."
"And do you never murmur?"
"What good would that do?" answered the old man, quietly. "Should I
lessen my grief or alter my fate by offending the Lord God? And
moreover, cannot man become accustomed to anything, even to such a life
as mine? That is, if one lives long enough."
So saying, he sighed, shook out his pipe, and taking up his stick,
prepared to depart.
"Good-evening, my child," said he; "are you going to spend the night
here?"
"The Jew asked me to sleep in the cabin; for there are some bags of
flour and barrels of bacon on board, and he is afraid they may be
stolen."
"Even the thought of theft should be unknown to us," answered the old
man; "but God guards what the master takes care of. I must go, my son;
good-evening."
"Good-evening, old father, good-evening."
III.
WHAT THERE WAS AT THE FOOT OF THE OAKS.
Thus they parted,--these men whom chance had brought together, whom an
hour's conversation had made friends, and who were perhaps never to
meet again during their lives. It is strange, but where manners and
social conditions are primitive, friendship and sympathy between men
are easy, and they are unhesitatingly fraternal; and on the other hand,
when men become civilized and polished, they carefully and politely
avoid personal relations and fear and shun each other.
But among the lower classes it is quite the reverse; and I cannot say
that things are any the worse for it. An hour is sufficient to bring
two strangers together, and make them feel almost like brothers; a
hearty speech or a sympathetic look excites ready confidence and prompt
exchange of feeling; friendship is quickly formed, and grows as
vigorously and ardently as hatred. Here at least, men are men.
Good Iermola, as the old man was called, then returned to his own
house, his head still full of his old memories, while the young
boatman, whistling a tune and thinking of the poor and friendless old
man, spread down the bundle of straw upon which he was to stretch
himself in front of the cabin door, content to go to rest; for as soon
as the sun is set, the peasant, no matter what the hour may be, is
always ready to sleep if only he is allowed to do so.
Meantime, Iermola walked slowly toward his lodging, which was but a
short distance away. Between the village and the river, on a sandy bit
of ground strewn with the trunks of old pines and oaks broken down from
old age, mutilated also in many places by the hand of lazy villagers
who were not willing to take the trouble to go to the forest for their
fire-wood, stood an old building curiously constructed, which served as
a shelter for our old servant. It was neither a thatched cottage nor a
_dwor_, but simply a ruin,--an old deserted inn which once had covered
a far larger space, and which had been knocked down and demolished by
some unknown accident. Its roof had disappeared; its bare beams and
rafters crossed one another here and there; and fragments of the straw
thatching were still hanging suspended above the corners of the old
walls. One of these corners, although strangely bent and filled with
long cracks, still remained standing and entire; here might be seen a
window half chinked up with mud, with a few panes of glass still left
at the top, a door which had been freshly patched and nailed together,
and walls which once had been painted white, but which now wore a coat
of doubtful gray.
The rest of the building was all one mass of ugly ruins,--beams and
rotten planks, blackened woodwork, pieces of rubbish all buried
together, covered with mud and overrun with briers and high grass.
By what miracle was the fragment of roof still held in place over the
room which it sheltered? How had this remnant of the building been
preserved? These were questions difficult to answer.
Quite near the old building, a paling of half-rotten laths surrounded a
small garden, shaded at one end by a clump of pines and large oaks.
Above the roof rose the old chimney, black, bare, and cracked, which,
however, still served to warm the sole inhabitant of this poor lodging.
The mouldiness of the beams, which were rotting on the ground, extended
to the walls, which remained standing; the work of destruction might
here be seen in all stages from beginning to completion, and one might
quite certainly foretell the time when these miserable ruins would be
only a vast mass of wood, mud, and useless rubbish. Gazing upon this
wretched dwelling, it seemed cruel to think that a man should be
obliged to find shelter there. Yet Iermola, accustomed to his pile of
trash, approached this den without repugnance; he opened the door and
entered his chamber. Then, as it was very dark inside, he hastened to
kindle the fire and make a blaze of pine wood which he kept ready for
this purpose in the little hearth of his stove.
Gradually every corner of the room was lighted up, and might be seen
distinctly by the blaze of the dry wood. It was a small chamber
situated in an angle of the building, where the roof and walls were
still left, and which must formerly have been used as a bedchamber and
office for the innkeeper.
The doorway opening into the large dining-hall of the inn, now entirely
destroyed and uninhabitable, had a few planks nailed across it which
were chinked with a mixture of chopped straw and mud. The large old
stove, having been patched and mended every year, had lost its
rectangular form and become externally utterly irregular, bulged out,
rounded, dented, and altogether shapeless; and the metal plates which
formerly closed it were now replaced by some tiles. Inside the
fireplace, now stopped up, a few planks served as cupboard shelves, and
the end of the mantel-piece as table and sideboard.
It may be easily imagined that the furniture was not elegant. It was
partly of village manufacture, and had been roughly made with axe and
saw; the rest was composed of a few respectable old pieces brought from
the _dwor_. When the new owners sent Iermola away empty-handed, after
thirty years of service, he was granted, as sole recompense for a long
life of labour and devotion, permission to take with him a few old,
broken, and useless pieces of furniture which otherwise would have been
thrown on the rubbish pile. The poor but worthy and industrious old man
had succeeded in transforming these into almost comfortable
furnishings. The ingenious Iermola knew how to make the most of the
least thing; and so his one apartment was soon quite decked out with
souvenirs of his youth and happy days. He slept on an old sofa with
broken and twisted feet, which was of fine wood, and had once been
painted white and gilded. At his head stood a little round table
supporting a chess-board which had been made and inlaid by the hand of
some old master; two or three old chairs, upon whose seats some boards,
nailed on, took the place of the velvet cushions, were evidently of
Dantzick manufacture, but it was only by the aid of numberless nails
and strings that the different pieces succeeded in holding together.
Near them was a large wooden chest painted green, whose rough
appearance clearly indicated that it had been made in the village. A
bench, rough-hewn with an axe, was near the door; another table of
unplaned plank served to hold all his collection of jugs and plates of
common pottery. In contrast, on the mantel-piece stood a small pitcher
of fine Sevres china, without a handle; egg-cups and mustard-pots with
delicate bright flowers shone there, a tea-pot of Saxon china with
dainty feet, one of which had been broken off fifty years before, a cup
of Wedgwood, and a butter-dish of Russian manufacture in the shape of a
paschal lamb. The general appearance of the good man's chamber was poor
and neat, but sad, because it was filled with mementos of former
comfort striving to conceal present poverty. The drapery which covered
the wall near his bed was a fragment of Turkey carpet, torn and
patched, but still in strong contrast with the coarse bed-coverings.
Broken glasses, porcelain, and bits of china glittered beside pots of
clay, mahogany, and pine. On the wall, not far from a rude picture of
Our Lady of Poczai, was hung a fine engraving by Raphael Morghen,
horribly mouldy and old, with part of one corner torn off; it was "The
Last Supper," after the painting by Leonardo da Vinci. Farther on was
an old picture of the twelve apostles, by Hoffmann, of Prague, and a
small painting on wood of the German school, much injured, and
representing the birth of our Saviour.
The only real adornment of the room, therefore, was the exquisite
neatness and order which reigned in it. There was no litter to be seen
in any part of it, not the smallest crumb or the least speck of dust;
each thing was in its place, and although in this poor apartment all
sorts of things were mingled,--provisions, food, cooking utensils, the
poor man's wardrobe, and all his simple stores,--there was neither
inconvenience nor confusion. Cupboards were made on the walls, shelves
set up in the corners of the room, the large chests rolled under the
table; the hiding-place behind the stove--the fireplace, over which a
piece of cloth was hung--served to shut up and conceal all disorderly
objects. Even the chips and bits of wood used to kindle the fire were
piled up neatly in their own proper corner. It is true that Iermola had
very near at hand, in the ruins of the inn, a sort of cellar surrounded
by walls, where he stored his more cumbrous provisions; but he could
not leave many things in a place which had no fastening, for poverty,
scorning the laws of proprietorship, often dares to share with poverty.
On entering, the old man contented himself with lighting in the stove
his pieces of resinous wood, for candles or oil were luxuries which he
did not allow himself; then he looked around to see if all was in good
order in his dwelling. After that he took one of his pots and proceeded
to warm his supper, which the cossack's widow usually prepared for him
in the village, or which he sometimes cooked himself on his return to
his lodging; and then he seated himself on a stool in the corner of the
fireplace, and began to say his prayers.
The wind sighed fitfully in the branches of the pines and the oaks
close by his little garden; a deep silence reigned all about him; and
Iermola, sad and motionless, was beginning to dream as he prayed, when
in the midst of this profound stillness the cry of a baby was suddenly
heard, at first feeble and indistinct, then loud and shrill.
It was like the cry of a new-born baby; and it seemed very near, as
though it came from the other side of the garden, out of the clump of
pines and oaks.
"What can it be?" said the old man, interrupting his prayers, and
rising from his bench. "It is now so late. Can it be possible that any
silly woman can have crossed the river with her baby to come and ask
for medicine?"
He paused and listened, but the trembling, feeble wailing did not seem
to come nearer nor to recede; evidently the child remained in the same
place. It was impossible to believe that any woman working in the
fields could have left her cradle there; the chilliness of the evening,
the lateness of the hour, the solitude of the secluded place, would not
permit such a thought. And still the wailing cry continued.
"Ah! it is doubtless an owl," thought the old man, as he seated himself
once more. "It is perched on one of the trees at the end of the garden,
singing. But one could swear that it was a baby. How perfectly they can
imitate the human voice!"
He continued to listen; the wailing became more and more distinct and
pitiful.
"No, truly, it cannot be an owl; I must go and see. Perhaps some
accident has happened. But what can it be?"
So saying, Iermola rose quickly, put on his cap, seized his stick, and
rushed to the door, forgetting his pipe, which usually he never left
behind him. When he reached the threshold, he became convinced that
there was no longer any doubt that the cry he heard was not that of an
owl, but the wail of an infant. This frightened the good man, who,
following the sound of the voice, set out to see whence it came. He
went at once to the garden, and thought he saw something white lying at
the foot of one of the nearest oak-trees. The old man's eyes had not
deceived him; on the thickly interwoven roots, padded and made velvety
with mosses, a little baby, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lay crying.
A baby! A baby here! all alone! deserted and cast off by its parents!
The good man could scarcely conceive such an idea. He trembled with
fright, surprise, sorrow, and pity; and darting forward, scarcely
knowing what he did, he tenderly lifted the poor little creature, who,
feeling perhaps that some one was near, immediately ceased to cry and
be frightened.
Then, bewildered and forgetting his stick, the old man fled back to his
chamber, carrying the baby, trembling, crying, and repeating over and
over to himself, "A baby! A baby! How could this have happened?"
Suddenly it occurred to him that doubtless the little one had only been
left alone for a moment; that the mother would be very anxious if she
should not find it again on the spot where she had just left it.
He then began to shout as loudly as he could, repeating all the calls
known to the Polesian tongue, which brought back to him his shepherd
days; but no one answered.
"At any rate it is impossible to leave this poor baby out on so cold a
night," said he, with emotion; "I shall take it to my room. Any one
will immediately suppose that it is I who have picked it up."
He opened the door of his lodging. The fire had gone out in the stove;
it was pitch dark. He deposited his living bundle on the bed, and again
lighted his chips and twigs, of which this time he was lavish.
But when the light again glimmered through the room, and the old man
returned to the side of the baby, who moaned constantly, his fright and
astonishment knew no bounds. The little creature evidently did not
belong to the peasant class; the clothing in which it was wrapped
sufficed to show that. And in vain did Iermola imagine a thousand
reasons, admit a thousand suppositions; he could not comprehend how a
mother or a father could have been able to decide thus to abandon the
innocent little creature, the very sight of whom caused him to shed
tears of tenderness and emotion. In fact, from the moment when the
baby's first cry had reached his ears and his heart, a strange feeling
had taken possession of this old man hitherto so tranquil. He felt
moved, frightened, but at the same time awakened and enlivened; it
seemed as though he had grown twenty years younger in a few moments. He
therefore examined with curiosity this little unknown being whom
Providence, perhaps in pity for his terrible isolation, had sent him as
a consolation at the very moment when he was sadly longing for some one
tie which might still bind him to life.
The child, swaddled with care, was nevertheless clothed externally in
such a manner as at first sight to conceal his origin. The heartless
mother and unfeeling father, touched by some small feeling of
solicitude, had covered the baby's long clothes entirely with a large
piece of coarse white percale, leaving exposed only a part of the
little suffering, weeping face.
Iermola gazed at the baby with his own sad eyes, and took its little
hands in his.
It was some time before he remembered that there was something else to
do; that a baby who cried so was perhaps hungry; that an unlooked-for
burden had been sent him from heaven; that it would be difficult for
him to take care of it, even with every exertion that he could make.
Then came flashing like lightning before his mind the images of a
cradle, a nurse, smiles, maternal cares, at the same time also his own
poverty, which would not allow him to pay any one to take care of the
little one.
Suddenly he said to himself that hireling hands were not fit to touch
this gift of God,--this frail new-born being whom Providence had
doubtless intrusted to him that he might be its nurse and father. Then
he trembled, as it occurred to him that some one might take this baby
from him; and at this thought he felt ready to faint with terror,
although he had not yet been able to make up his mind what he should do
with it.
"No," he cried aloud, "I will not give it up to any one; it is my
child,--the child whom God has sent me. I will never desert the little
orphan."
But he must hasten; the baby cried and moaned continually. Iermola
again took it in his arms. What should he do? How should he begin?
Whose advice should he ask?
As he was thus carrying the baby up and down the room, his arms filled
and his mind bewildered by this strange adventure, a heavy little
package escaped from the long clothes and dropped on the floor. Iermola
in still greater astonishment picked it up and found about fifty pieces
of gold wrapped in a scrap of paper. His surprise was so great that he
almost let fall his precious burden.
"So they are rich people, who have abandoned their child, at the same
time paying some one to take care of it."
And the old man, simply and deeply overcome, paused a moment,
endeavouring to comprehend the baseness of this world of which he knew
so little. Perhaps in that one moment he intuitively divined all the
misery and woe of human existence.
"My God!" he cried, "there are perhaps men who would rob this little
orphan of this gold! No, no! no one shall know anything about it. I
will keep the money and give it to him some day when he is grown up;
and I, by the fruits of my own labour, will bring him up."
He hastened to throw the gold-pieces into an old casket which was under
his bed, and in which he usually kept the few coppers he happened to
have; then having wrapped himself in his cloak, he determined to go to
the village to ask advice of some of his neighbours.
Then covering up his precious burden warmly, the old man, troubled and
surprised, yet happy, started for the nearest cottage.
IV.
FIRST CARES AND FIRST HAPPINESS.
In this thatched cottage lived the widow of the old cossack Harasym,
with her only and dearly loved daughter, who, having sought for a
husband for several years, had not been able to find one, though she
was young, beautiful, and consequently well worthy of attention.
The cottage which the late landlord had granted to Harasym was situated
at the extremity of the village, not far from the river shore, so that
the old servant of the _dwor_ could say, in the words of the national
proverb, "My cottage is all alone in the world; it has neither
neighbour nor master,"--for from its window could be seen only the
woods, the waters, and the barren plain upon which rose the ruin
inhabited by Iermola. But cordial and friendly communication was kept
up between the two huts, on account of the former relations which had
existed between the two servants. The cossack's widow never refused
Iermola her support and her counsel; he took his meals at her house,
and went there for consolation in his hours of sadness, or distracted
his mind by a few moments of friendly conversation or hearty
interchange of feeling. But the widow's house was far more comfortable
than poor Iermola's lodging. The cottage was well supplied; the good
woman was active, orderly, and somewhat avaricious; she never had
suffered either care or hunger, even just after seedtime or during the
dark days, and she always had laid by a little money or a measure of
wheat for those who were in want.
The cottage, already old-looking, was blackened and wretched outwardly,
although the old cossack had built it himself with his master's
assistance, and consequently neither care nor expense had been spared.
The exterior, therefore, was similar to that of others which a little
way off extended in a long line; but the planks of which the walls were
built were thicker, more solid, and better arranged, and the interior
more convenient, since there was a good stove and a first-rate
fireplace, which furnished plenty of light and did not smoke.
There was one small lot belonging to this hut, which was left to grow
up in grass for hay, and another larger one, which was usually sowed
down in rye or planted in vegetables, and which on the farther side
joined the commons. The cossack's widow owned four cows from whose milk
she made butter and cheese, which she sold to the neighbouring _dwors_
and to the peasants; in addition she had a team of two oxen for
ploughing, which she often rented to her neighbours, or sent now and
then without pay to cultivate the field of the poor,--also ten sheep,
three small calves, and even a horse which she had bought to use in the
harrow, but which had proved useless, as it was spavined. Besides
herself and her daughter, there dwelt in the cottage old Chwedor, her
servant, whose hair had grown gray in the service of others, and who
was also a little deaf, and a great toper. Then there was a little
orphan about ten years old, who drove the cattle to pasture, and a
young servant. It was, in fact, a complete and flourishing household,
skilfully managed by the widow. The comfort in which she lived and her
honest reputation rendered more striking the indifference with which
the young men of the village regarded her daughter, Horpyna, who had
now reached her twentieth year, and was justly considered the greatest
beauty in the village.
She had a tall, erect figure, which she inherited from her father, a
charming bright and healthy complexion, beautiful hair, and fine black
eyebrows. When she dressed herself on Sunday in her ribbon head-dress,
her jacket of gray-blue cloth, and yellow Wolhynian boots with high
heels, she might have been taken for a great lady in disguise. The
young men of the village gazed at her from a distance, sighed, twirled
their caps in their hands, and scratched their heads; but none of them
dared approach her, for Horpyna was as proud as if she had been the
daughter of a great lord. Besides, it had been whispered about for two
years that one of the gentlemen of the lesser nobility who had served
in the capacity of agent in a great land-scheme was suing for her hand,
and made frequent visits to her and her mother. It was this which
frightened and discouraged the village suitors, who took pleasure in
laughing secretly at Horpyna's vanity, her fine-lady airs, and her
liking for the nobility.
But the old mother, apparently expecting no good to come of such a rash
project, used every effort in her power to marry off her daughter. She
went with her to all the fairs and jubilees; she invited the fathers of
families and the young men to suppers and wakes. Every one went gladly
to her house, were entertained, ate and drank heartily, but nothing
came of it all, and Horpyna still had not seen the arrival of her
bottle and napkin.[4]
It happened that Iermola encountered no one on his way to the widow's
cottage; and he reached it all out of breath, holding in his arms the
baby, who still continued to cry. But the light which glimmered from
the window told him that the thrifty housewife was at home. He
therefore hastened with his burden straight into his old friend's
chamber.
The widow was seated on a bench near the table, leaning her head upon
her hands, and seemed in deep thought; Horpyna was standing beside the
fireplace. They were both gloomy and silent; but when they saw Iermola
with his burden, they rose at once, somewhat confused, and uttered a
cry of astonishment.
"What have you got, old man? What is it?" cried the mother, who was the
first to speak.
"See what it is," answered the old man, as he laid upon her lap the
baby, upon which his eyes were fixed. "Look at it; see, it is a baby
which God has given me."
"A baby! to you? How is this?"
"It is a marvel, a miracle; I can scarcely believe it myself. I had
just come from the river shore, where I had been to help the raftsmen
bind up the wood; I had lighted my fire and sat down to say my prayers,
when I heard all at once something moaning under the oaks. Now it
sounded like the voice of an owl, and then like the wail of an infant.
At first I was sure it was an owl, because those hateful birds have
nests in the old trunks, and I went on with my prayers; but suddenly
the voice rose in louder weeping. Then I could not tell what it was,
and I began to be anxious. I ran out hurriedly and looked around; and
what do you think I found? This baby. And now what shall I do with it?
What shall I do?"
The two women, shaking their heads in their extreme astonishment, had
listened to Iermola in profound silence.
"Some one must have brought it there," said the widow, at last; "but
who could it have been?"
"And who could have been willing to desert such a pretty baby?"
answered the old man, indignantly. "How could such a thing be
possible?"
"Oh, oh! There are many people capable of such a thing," replied the
widow, shaking her head sententiously. "This is not the only instance
which might be related of human depravity. Did you never hear of the
unnatural mother who had the atrocity to give her sweet little baby to
be devoured by swine?"
Old Iermola, not being able to comprehend what he heard, kept silence,
opening wide his eyes and shaking his head. Meanwhile the two women had
been kneeling on the floor that they might see the baby better.
"How fine and white his long-clothes are!"
"And how delicate it is!"
"It must be the child of some lord, for no one in the village would
have dared to do such a thing."
"And was it really brought and placed near your hut?"
"Yes, yes! but advise me; tell me what I ought to do with it."
"Do what you like best," answered the widow. "You can take it to the
steward, who will have it sent to the chief of police; and then it will
be taken to the hospital."
"Take it--and send it--to the hospital!" cried the old man, in a voice
choking with tears. "Ah, do you call that good advice? Would any one
there pity it; would any one take care of it? How could I be sure they
would not leave it to die?"
"Well, but what are you going to do with it," replied the old woman,
shrugging her shoulders.
"Ah, I do not know; advise me, neighbour."
"Well, what do you think of doing?"
"How can I tell what to think?" answered the old man. "My head is going
round like a crank. I would not for anything in the world abandon a
child whom God had intrusted to me; and when I think of rearing it
myself, I fear I am not capable of doing it. But I feel almost sure I
could; why should I not?"
"But you would have to put it out to be nursed; you could give it to
Jurck's wife."
"No, no! not for anything in the world!" cried the old man. "Jurck's
wife is too wicked; she treats her own poor child badly; and besides,
she would ask God knows how much for taking care of it, and I always
have a hard time making both ends meet. Could you give it a little
milk? See how it is crying; perhaps it would drink it. I will buy some
milk from you every day."
At this the cossack's widow burst into a loud laugh.
"Well, well! So you are the one who is to rock its cradle, amuse it,
and make its broth? But if you do, you must remember that you will not
be able to do anything else. A little baby is a constant occupation and
care. I remember very well what I suffered with my little Vymoszek, who
only lived one year, and with my Horpyna too. I had not a moment day or
night without anxiety."
"But I do not need much sleep, and I have not much to do," replied the
bewildered old man, who felt himself drawn more and more to the poor
little foundling. "Three or four hours' sleep is quite sufficient for
me; and a little baby sleeps almost all the time, provided his stomach
is not empty. I should find plenty of time to rest myself, take care of
my garden, and roast my potatoes."
"But what would you give it to eat?"
"Why, milk, to be sure."
"Suppose it should not be able to drink, it is so young and so weak."
At this Iermola heaved a deep sigh. "It may not be able to drink at
first," he said; "but it will learn after a while. But what shall we do
for it now?"
Then the cossack's widow took the baby in her arms so as to examine it
closely. Her daughter ran to get some new milk, and the neighbours,
attracted by curiosity and by the few words which had fallen from
Horpyna as she passed, began to assemble, first by twos and threes, and
then in large numbers.
Since the village had been in existence, in the memory of the oldest
inhabitant nothing like this had ever occurred, so there was no end to
their observations, exclamations, and conjectures.
The oldest inhabitant gave his advice; the counsellors counselled; the
young and the old gave their ideas on the subject,--women and men and
even the servants. But no one could suggest any very acceptable plan;
each repeated the same opinions, each differing a little from his
neighbour in particulars, but in the end coming to the same
conclusions, and all recommending the wife of Jurck to Iermola as
nurse.
There were numberless conjectures, wild suppositions, jokes, and
accusations with regard to the wicked parties. But no one had the
slightest suspicion who the authors of the scandalous act could be.
No one had seen any strange person about nightfall either in the
village or its vicinity; the roads and foot-paths had been deserted; at
the ford, at the mill, at the inn, no stranger had appeared. After
discussing the matter a long time, the villagers gradually dispersed,
spreading the strange story as they went along; at last no one remained
but old Chwedko, the illustrious proprietor of a gray mare, who stood
leaning on his stick, and after a few moments of thoughtful silence
addressed his friend Iermola as follows:--
"There comes to my mind at this moment something which happened twenty
years ago. A farmer of Malyczki, who was a friend of mine, had the
misfortune to become a widower; his wife left him a poor little orphan
who had scarcely drawn a breath.
"The poor man, who was blind in one eye, lame, and poor, had nothing to
pay a nurse. He went in vain from cottage to cottage trying to find a
woman compassionate enough to be willing to nurse his child; and he had
no cow even to furnish him milk. Do you know what he did? He bought a
goat with the last half-rouble which remained after the funeral
expenses had been paid; and that goat nursed and reared for him the
little daughter, who afterward became the loveliest girl in the
village."
At these words Iermola trembled and rose.
"Somebody find me a goat!" he cried aloud. "Where is there a goat? I
will buy one at once."
"The Jew innkeeper has one."
"Then I shall go and buy it."
He had already started for the door when Chwedko and the cossack's
widow stopped him.
"Take care what you do, good man," said his old companion. "The Jew
will fleece you if he knows that you really need the goat very much."
"Ah, well, let him ask what he will, provided I get the animal."
"He will take your last shirt from you, old fool," said the cossack's
widow, in her turn. "You know Szmula; he is a regular thief, the most
miserable rascal that ever lived, even among the Jews of his class. Do
not be in too great a hurry, for God's sake! Use a little deception at
least, and say that you want the goat to raise a little flock, or else
he will make you pay more than you would have to give for a cow."
"I will go with you," said Chwedko, "see if I don't; between us we
shall be a match for the Jew."
"But what shall we do with the baby?"
"Never mind about it; I will keep it here. No harm shall happen to it."
"I pray you, good mother," said Iermola, trembling, "take special care
of it."
"Ha, ha! he undertakes to give me lessons, do you see? Just as if it
was the first baby I ever had in my arms. I shall rock it, and feed it
with some milk, and perhaps I shall let it suck the end of my finger.
Do not be at all anxious."
"I shall be back again in a moment," continued Iermola; "do take care
that nothing happens to the baby."
The old woman burst into peals of laughter as she listened to him, he
looked so anxious. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, he
remembered that he had not smoked for some time; he drew from his bosom
his old wooden pipe, which was his constant companion, went up to the
tinder, lighted it, and then started off with Chwedko through the
darkness in the direction of the new inn situated in the centre of the
village.
V.
SET A CHEAT TO CATCH A CHEAT.
In a small town where, by reason of its trade in wood and its rafting,
the number and the means of the transient inhabitants is considerable;
where the boatmen, the merchants, and their employees constantly come
and go,--it would not be possible for a Jew, without money and without
credit, to keep the principal hotel. Consequently the illustrious
Szmula, who owned the inn of Popielnia, whence he reigned over the
village and its vicinity, was not a mere innkeeper going from time to
time a distance of three miles to purchase a little barrel of brandy.
He was a Jew who had grown rich upon the profit of his trade in wood,
timber, tar, and ashes,--in fact, all the products of the Polesian
forests, including dried mushrooms and conserved berries.
His inn also, particularly in the springtime, brought him gain which
was not to be despised; and Mr. Szmula, justly valuing the rotundity of
his girth and the dignity of his position, began to set himself up for
a great lord. The new inn, from which he lorded it, was different in
appearance from the old-fashioned inns whose architecture had been
perpetuated according to Slavic custom because they were intended to be
used for public assemblies and councils. It was without the traditional
vestibule, projecting and supported by pillars, for the practical
Israelite cared but little to entertain the poor and infrequent
travellers who usually passed through that secluded region; but there
was a stable and coach-house sheltering the great carriage which was
used in going to the fairs, and the house had externally very much the
appearance of a gentleman's _dwor_. On one side was a large apartment,
which was in fact the dining-hall of the inn, where heavy benches were
placed all about the wall, with an enormous table in front of them. In
one corner there was a sort of staging which was shut up during the
night by means of several window shutters, and where during the day
brandy was retailed from the counter. In the other part of the house,
which was furnished with some elegance, lived Szmula Popielauski and
his family; and there was a pretty unoccupied room kept for the
merchants of his religion who might stop in the neighbourhood.
The front room in this portion of the house made some pretence to the
name of drawing-room, for it contained a wooden sofa polished and
varnished, and covered with a sort of damask studded with gold stars,
two chairs with arrows of black wood on their backs, a mirror suspended
on the wall, the framed portraits of two illustrious Israelites,--the
rabbis of Hamburg and Wilna,--a cupboard filled with china cups, cut
glass, and bottles of rum, and a somewhat rickety table supported by a
lyre and covered with a bright cloth.
The floor of this room had once been painted white, but the colour
having been rubbed off in many places, it was now variegated; the stove
was closed by a small iron door with a brass knob; and Szmula, having
done all this _proprio sumptu et cura_, to satisfy his taste for
elegance, congratulated himself upon the effect. In the second room the
Jewish dirt began to assert itself, but did not exclude attempts and
pretensions to elegance. Above the bed was placed a fringed canopy with
curtains covered with enormous flowers. Near this might be seen a
cupboard of black wood, full of books and papers, and a small rickety
bureau; also a pile of potatoes, one or two buckets of kindling-wood,
some cakes of dough drying on a plate, a large earthen pan full of
dish-water, and a white turkey, walking composedly about surrounded by
her brood.
Szmula was no longer in his early youth. He was about fifty years old,
and was married a second time, his late spouse having left him only one
son, who kept a shop of his own in the next town. Not being satisfied
with this only scion, Szmula had taken to wife a young Jewess, very
poor but extremely beautiful, who had borne him three children during
the three years of their marriage. His gray hairs were honoured by this
blessing from the Lord. At first sight, this grave descendant of Israel
was very pleasing, with his long beard and hair, his regular features,
his serious and winning expression. One had a desire to study him
closely, and to believe in his honesty. Nevertheless, his beauty and
the sweet expression of his eyes were, as is so often the case,
deceptive.
In fact, there could be no more insatiable vampire, no more greedy
blood-sucker, than the worthy Szmula of the village of Popielnia. The
constantly increasing profits earned by his deceit and tact did not
render him above turning to account the smallest opportunities. Besides
his bills of a thousand roubles and his coupons of government bonds, he
deposited without shame in his chests the big copper money bathed with
the sweat of the wretched peasants; and puffed up by his position and
his wealth, he treated the poor villagers as though they were mere
beasts of burden, and fleeced them without mercy.
The result was that when the villagers had any business to transact,
they preferred to do so secretly with the poorer Jews who lived in the
little town; and this aroused the deepest resentment in Szmula. He
could not forgive them for being unwilling to allow him to cheat them.
He considered their conduct a daring revolt; and as an old tradition,
founded upon some unknown basis, gave him the right to claim one pint
of flour when a peasant took his corn to the mill, he thought therefore
he had the right to fly into a rage and make a terrible fuss when a
peasant took his cow to the market or sold a bag of corn without his
royal permission. Gifted with indefatigable energy, Szmula neglected
nothing, for all gain was acceptable to him, and he always had time for
everything. His presence of mind and dexterity never forsook him.
Such was the all-powerful autocrat to whom the simple-hearted Iermola
was about to apply in the hope of buying his white goat. Fortunately,
he had with him old Chwedko, who was infinitely better acquainted than
he with all the subtleties of human rascality; who, experienced,
cunning, and prudent, spared neither time nor words nor pains when the
question was to economize or to earn a little money. As they went
along, therefore, Chwedko gave all sorts of advice to Iermola, but the
latter heard little of it, so absorbed was he with his own plans for
obtaining the goat.
Unfortunately this old animal was the pet of Sara, Szmula's second
wife, and also of her eldest son, who often amused himself by pulling
the goat's beard, although she had more than once mercilessly trampled
upon him. The goat in question was not worth more than twelve florins;
but Iermola was quite willing to give twenty rather than not get it,
and even Chwedko thought this a not unreasonable price considering the
circumstances. But how were they to approach the subject and make this
proposition to Szmula? If the Jew for a moment suspected how
exceedingly necessary the animal was to poor Iermola, he would take
advantage of the situation and fleece him unmercifully.
The question therefore was, if possible, to deceive the Jew, so that he
should not have the opportunity to rob the unfortunate Iermola.
When the two men were within a short distance of the inn, Chwedko, who
had reflected for some time, made a sign to Iermola to stop.
"Stay here a moment, near this cottage," said he, pointing to the spot.
"Wait here a moment for me; I will go and feel the Jew's pulse. Do not
fear; I will find some good way to arrange the matter. If we go and ask
him for his goat outright, he will make us pay as much for it as the
price of a cow. We must manage to have him offer it to us; leave it all
to me."
"But what are you going to do?"
"You shall see; you shall see," answered good old Chwedko, deeply
interested in Iermola's project. "Only be careful to do just what I
tell you."
Then Iermola, making a great effort to be quiet, seated himself on the
ground beside the wall of the hut, for he was in great need of rest for
mind and body. He leaned his head on his hand and fell into deep
thought. For the first time in his life he was obliged to think of the
future.
As for Chwedko, he went straight to the great dining hall of the inn,
but Szmula was not there,--no one was there, only the goat. Partly
opening the door of the chamber, carefully wiping his feet, and humbly
asking permission to enter, he stepped inside with a low bow and
holding his cap under his arm. He took special care not to step off the
door-mat, for the Jew flew into a rage if any one soiled the floor of
his chamber. Having established himself firmly in his position, Chwedko
dropped his hand down to his knees and made another low bow to the
dreaded Szmula.
In order to be favourably received by the innkeeper, it was really
necessary to go through with all these formalities, as the far-seeing
Chwedko well knew,--first to wipe one's feet, then stop at the
threshold, and above all, not to call the worthy man Mr. Innkeeper, but
instead, Mr. Merchant, for our Szmula maintained that if he kept an inn
it was for his own entertainment, and that it was for his pleasure
alone that he lived in the country.
"Well, what do you want, Chwedko?" asked the Jew, without rising from
his easy-chair, where he was bending his head, with his long nose over
a book, yet ready without hesitation to interrupt his devotions
whenever his interests required it, for he knew very well that God is
more patient than man.
"Mr. Merchant--I want to tell you--there is an occasion."
Thus the lower classes speak of every unexpected event which may serve
as a pretext for feasting or drinking.
"An occasion! What is it? A baptism? A betrothal? A wedding or a
funeral? Is any one dead, any accident? I'll venture you have come to
ask for some brandy on credit."
"No, indeed, sir; but I chanced to hear something, and I wanted to tell
my lord the merchant about it. It is perhaps an opportunity to make
something."
"Let me hear; what is there to be made?" said Szmula, rising, thrusting
his hands into his girdle, and approaching Chwedko.
"Your Honour" (this title was specially flattering to the Jew's
vanity),--"your Honour knows Iermola, the old man who lives in the old
ruined inn."
"Certainly I know him; but he is only a poor devil, a beggar."
"That is true, but it does not prevent his having gained a few
roubles."
"Well, what? He wants to drink them up?"
"No, no! he does not drink brandy, but he has taken it into his head to
buy a cow, paying half the amount down and asking credit for the
balance."
"A cow! and what will he do with it?"
"He was going to the town to look for one; but I stopped him because I
thought of a plan for him."
"To the town! always to the town!" repeated the Jew, shrugging his
shoulders. "The fools! That is their first thought. But tell me,
Chwedko, what is your plan?"
"I have tried to make him think that it is not a good idea for him to
have a cow and be in debt; that it would be better for him to buy a
goat with his money. He would have milk immediately, and in a little
while a flock. Perhaps you would sell him your white goat?" Just here
the Jew fixed his piercing eye on Chwedko's face, but he fortunately
was not disturbed thereby. It was scarcely possible, in fact, to
suspect any design in so simple a proposition. The innkeeper, however,
tried to sound the intentions of the good man by a sudden question.
"Is Iermola here at the inn?"
"No; since noon he has been down there with the neighbours. But if you
wish, I can go and bring him here, though usually he does not like to
come to the inn. But perhaps you do not wish to sell your old white
goat? I merely thought of this for your interest; why should you let
all the money of the people go out of the village? However, if the idea
does not suit you, say nothing about it, and let him go on to the
town."
"Wait a moment, wait," said the Jew, after a pause, seeing Chwedko with
his hand on the knob of the door. "Why should he go to the town?"
Here he called Sara, who came in with a discontented countenance; they
exchanged a few words in their own language, Szmula speaking in a low
voice and his wife looking very cross. Chwedko tried to divine the
intentions of the couple from their voices and their gestures, but in
vain; the Jewess went out at last, and Szmula, turning to him and
slapping him on the shoulder, said,--
"You are a good man when you want brandy on credit. I have told Sara to
let you have a rouble's worth; do you hear? Bring Iermola here in the
great hall. The goat is there; he can buy it. It is a good goat; he
will like it. It is an excellent goat. How much money has he?"
"I do not know really," answered Chwedko. "He must have, I think, about
fifteen florins; and the cossack's widow will probably lend him
something more."
The Jew nodded his head silently, and having thus taken leave of the
peasant, who hastened to rejoin his companion, he put on a warmer
overcoat, for he took great care of his precious health; then he walked
slowly into the great hall under pretext of going to look over some
accounts with his servant, Marysia, who on the Sabbath as well as all
other days served at the bar of the inn, besides which she took care of
the children, milked the cow, in fact, rendered herself generally
useful to the household.
The great hall, dark, dirty, and mean-looking, without any floor, dimly
lighted by a torch of resinous wood which was smoking in one corner,
was occupied at this moment only by Marysia (who was so very fat and
short that the peasants compared her to one of the big-bellied barrels
in which bacon is put up in brine), the white goat, who wandered around
looking in all the corners for something to eat, and a Polesian
peasant, who, after having taken a small glass of brandy and an onion,
had stretched himself beside the wall with his money-bag and his shoes
under his head, and was sleeping like a rock, and snoring like a
chariot in need of greasing.
Szmula walked up and down for some time, looking first at the goat and
then at Marysia, who was quite astonished at his sudden entrance. He
yawned, sighed, and turned his thumbs over each other; then all at once
hearing the sound of a footstep in the vestibule, he went to the window
and began chalking figures on the shutter, keeping his eyes fixed on
his calculations, and pretending to be very busy.
Just at that moment Chwedko appeared, followed by old Iermola, who was
trembling like a leaf and blushing also at the thought of the farce he
was obliged to play in order to get the white goat. His first glance
fell upon the tall figure of the Jew; and this glance would doubtless
have been sufficient to betray him if Szmula had seen it. But
fortunately the Jew at that moment was entirely taken up with his own
role; he seemed utterly absorbed in important business, and was
standing with his back to the two friends.
"Good-evening, my lord merchant," began Chwedko.
"Good-evening," answered Szmula, half turning round, and muttering a
few words through his beard.
"Well, what shall we do? Shall we take a drink of brandy?" continued
Chwedko.
"For my part, I rarely drink; but to keep you company--Pour out
something for us to drink, Marysia."
"You are going to the fair," resumed the first speaker; "you must
strengthen yourself for the journey."
"Ah! so you are going to the fair, are you?" interrupted Szmula.
"Perhaps you have something to sell. I shall be glad to buy it from
you."
"No, I am going for another purpose."
"And what is it?" said the Jew. "This is the way all of you peasants
do,--as soon as you have any business to transact, you run to the town.
Are you thinking of buying anything?"
"See here, my lord merchant," answered Chwedko, interrupting, "my
neighbour wants a cow; he is lonely, and for company's sake is willing
to take on himself one more bother."
"But why get a cow?" asked the Jew, in a scornful tone.
"Well, it would give me some pleasure, and perhaps some profit."
"Pshaw, pshaw!" cried Szmula, waving his hand, "one can see plainly
that you never have owned a cow, and that you do not know what it is to
take care of one. First, you must pay the little herdsman, and God only
knows how much the herdsman asks; besides, the cattle always come home
hungry. Then you will be obliged to buy hay,--and hay costs as much now
as pepper; and tailings,--and tailings are now ten coppers a bag; and
buckwheat,--and I do not sell that for less than forty coppers a bag;
that is what every one pays me. Besides, she must have grass and
potatoes; and if you do not give her some of all these things, the
animal will get poor. Then there are so many diseases and so much time
when the creature gives no milk. Think of it! not a drop of milk for
six months in the year!"
"Yes; but one has the calf and a little milk."
"And who, pray, will take care of the animal for you?" interrupted the
Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
"What did I tell you?" here put in Chwedko. "For a poor man like you a
cow is only a bother and nothing else."
"But she would give me nevertheless a calf and a few drops of milk."
"Yes, about milk; talk about that," answered the officious go-between.
"As for milk, I can assure you there is nothing so good as a goat.
Observe, a goat costs very little and lives upon anything it can
find,--branches, leaves, or stubble. Besides, a goat needs no care; and
when once you have tasted goat-milk, you can be sure you have had
something to drink, it is so sweet and nourishing."
"Really, to tell you the truth," said the innkeeper, in his turn, "I
can assure you there is nothing like a goat. If any people know how to
manage, it is our race, I believe; and you see that we almost
invariably have goats. But men have opportunities to observe, yet do
not comprehend; a goat is a treasure."
"Well, when I have thought the matter over, perhaps I shall buy a
goat," said Iermola.
"And you will do well," cried Chwedko,--"you will do well, I repeat.
Now suppose Mr. Szmula were to sell you his white goat?"
"What is it you are saying?" said the Jew, quickly, as though he had
heard by chance. "I would not sell my white goat for any price; do you
hear? It is the only pet of my wife and children, and moreover it is an
invaluable animal; it is worth more than a cow."
"I am sorry," answered Iermola, looking attentively at the white goat,
which was strolling around, "for the town is not here; my old legs will
scarcely carry me so far, and, dear me, I might have decided to buy
your goat."
"True, it is only a goat, but such a goat!" answered the Jew. "Have you
ever seen one like it? She has so much instinct, so much sense, upon my
word, one might almost talk to her; and as for her milk, it is all
cream. You might go twenty miles and not find her equal. It is not a
goat; it is a treasure, a rare possession."
"But it is old," observed old Iermola, respectfully.
"Old, old! Well, what does that matter? The older a goat grows, the
more it is worth. Besides, how could it be old? It has hardly begun to
live; it will live twenty years yet," cried Szmula, becoming more and
more excited.
"How much did it cost you?" asked Iermola.
"Oh, it has cost me-- I cannot tell you how much. First, when it was
just born, I paid two roubles for it. For you see this is no ordinary
goat; it is of a fine breed,--a very rare breed. I would not take six
roubles for it; she eats almost nothing, and she is always fat, and
every year she bears two kids."
After this speech there was a moment of silence. Iermola turned pale
and became agitated, not knowing what to say. He gazed at the goat,
which continued to walk around, stamping on the ground with her hoof,
and poking her head into every corner where she perceived the faintest
odour of food. She occupied herself in picking up scattered leaves,
bits of bark, and cabbage stalks; and in justice to her, it must be
said that she minded her own business and disturbed no one.
"She would suit you exactly," said Chwedko, resuming his role of
courtier. "She never would run away, because she is already accustomed
to the village. She knows where to go to graze; she is old, gentle, and
used to being milked."
"And she is not an ordinary goat," repeated the Jew, in a sententious
tone; "she is of a rare breed,--a good breed."
"But where should I find so much money?" sighed Iermola.
"Come, see here," answered Szmula, coming nearer and speaking
earnestly, "you are an honest man; I will have every consideration for
you. In the town people might cheat you; I will give you a good
bargain, and let you have the goat for three roubles. Now that is the
best I can do; make up your mind."
Chwedko, who had not expected such reasonable terms, hastened to
conclude the bargain, quite satisfied to find Szmula in such an
accommodating mood.
"Come, hold out your hand, neighbour, and thank my lord merchant; you
have made an excellent bargain. Pay for the animal and take her; I hope
you will be quite satisfied with her."
"Well, what shall we do?" sighed the old serving-man. "I will take it
at that price, since my lord merchant will not take less. Please give
me a bit of cord so I can lead the goat home."
Accordingly, the purchase was quickly made and satisfactorily beyond
all expectations. Iermola drew from a knot in the corner of his
handkerchief three roubles, which he gave to Szmula. The Jew examined
them, threw them on the ground, as was his custom, and then, dropped
them into his pocket.
"You will return the string to-morrow?" said he, as he slowly retired
to his chamber.
"How about the treat?" said Chwedko, timidly.
"That is Iermola's right," answered Szmula, "but since he did none of
the bargaining, you shall not pay for your little glass of brandy; I
will treat myself."
Then Marysia threw to the two friends a piece of cord with a buckle at
the end which was used to carry the fagots of kindling-wood. And
Chwedko, having shut the door, began to chase the goat, who, suspecting
some foul play, fled from the least approach of her two pursuers. The
Jew had already gone away to his own apartment.
"Well, upon my word, you have shown your sense," cried the servant when
she saw that her worthy master had disappeared. "What a shame to give
twenty florins for a miserable old beast! you might have bought three
young ones at the fair for that price."
The two old men kept silence; and having tied the string to the
animal's horns, they led their conquest away.
Iermola was trembling with pleasure; the tears filled his eyes; and he
embraced his neighbour.
"You have done me a great service; may God reward you!" he murmured.
"For the present, I shall not think of showing myself at Szmula's
house," sighed Chwedko, who recognized the full extent of the danger to
which he had exposed himself. "As soon as he hears about the baby, the
rascal will suspect some trick, and never will forgive me. He would
have fleeced you famously had he known that the goat was such a
necessity."
Talking thus in low tones, they reached the widow's hut, forcing the
goat to obedience by various means, more or less gentle, for she had
not the slightest desire to go away from the inn.
Meantime the storm began to mutter behind them, for Sara, greatly
enraged, had just rejoined her husband, and was relating to him the
story of the baby left at old Iermola's house, which news she had just
learned from Marysia, the bar-maid.
Szmula, who was not wanting in sagacity, understood at once why his
goat had suddenly become so necessary; he pulled his beard and bit his
finger-nails.
"Just wait a while, you rascal, you scoundrel of a Chwedko," muttered
he, shaking his head. "If I live only a little while longer, I will pay
you for it."
VI.
WHEN ONE LOVES.
In the life of a good and loving man,--one who, like Iermola, had led
an isolated existence and had preserved in full force all the strength
of his affections,--an event such as that which had just happened
produces a sudden and entire change. The old man became young again. He
felt the ties which bound him to the world renewed and strengthened; he
had henceforth an aim in life, a hope, a bond, an affection, a new
desire for work, the delights and anticipations of an unknown feeling.
The poor orphan, cast off by his parents, became the crowning treasure
of his old age.
A sort of excitement, such as he had not felt for years, took hold of
his entire being, and made him at once stronger and more tender. He was
disturbed; he wondered; he feared; he hoped; and he was anxious
concerning the morrow. Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt that he had
changed; he had become another man. He had forgotten the past, and he
was dreaming of the future. He felt himself blest, very happy, never
suspecting the weary moments, the cares and toil he was preparing for
the remainder of his existence. Like the bird in whose nest the cuckoo
lays her eggs, he was astonished, frightened, content. For the first
time he found, to his surprise, that he dreaded death; that he felt the
need and the desire to live. Chwedko no longer recognized him, he was
so utterly changed; the old man, usually so silent and indifferent, now
spoke with warmth and vivacity, so entirely did he resume the
attraction, the gestures, and thoughts of a young man.
He found it impossible to remain patiently any longer beside Chwedko,
for their stubborn companion never ceased for a moment to make every
effort in its power to get away from them and return to the alehouse.
He therefore confided the goat to the care of Chwedko, and hastened on
in advance.
He rushed into his old friend's hut and ran at once to the wooden bench
where the new-born baby was lying asleep, quieted and satisfied by the
good milk it had drunk. Beside it stood Horpyna, the little shepherd,
and the servant, who were watching in silence this unexpected guest.
Iermola made his way through the little group, and seated himself on
the floor so as to see the baby better.
"I think he is asleep," he whispered in the old widow's ear.
"Ah! to be sure, the poor innocent one," replied the old woman, nodding
her head.
"And did he drink the milk?"
"Oh, certainly he did, and stopped crying immediately. But about the
goat?"
"We have bought it; Chwedko is leading it hither."
Good old Iermola gazed with rapture upon his precious baby. "How
beautiful he is!" he cried after a moment. "It must be the child of
some nobleman."
"He is a fine hearty boy," interrupted the widow; "but all children
look alike when they are small. It is only later on, my good old man,
that it is possible to distinguish those who have sprouted up under the
hedge like a bunch of nettles from those who have grown up in the
sunshine in the open fields. But at least this one is as lively as a
fish; so much the better for you,--you will have less trouble."
Iermola laughed, but at the same moment his eyes filled with tears.
"Mother," he replied, "never in all my life have I seen so beautiful a
baby."
"You have lost your senses, Iermola," cried the cossack's widow,
bursting into a loud laugh and shrugging her shoulders. "Are you really
thinking of bringing up the child yourself all alone?"
"And why not?" replied the astonished old man. "Do you suppose I would
turn him over to strangers?"
"But you will not be able to do it. It seems an easy thing to you; but
what will you do all alone, no woman near you at your age? Remember it
must be fed, bathed, put to bed, amused, and looked after; this will be
too great a task for you, all by yourself."
"Let me alone," answered Iermola, waving his hand. "It is not the
saints who boil the pots;[5] I will prove it to you. You shall tell me
what to do; and as true as there is a God in heaven, I never will be
separated from this baby."
"Has the old man gone crazy?" cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders.
"He thinks it is as easy to bring up a child as it is to raise a little
dog; and how much worry and fatigue he will have during two long
years!"
"The longer the better. Don't say anything to me, mother, don't say
anything; I will not listen to you, I will bring him up; I shall do it
well, you will see."
Every one laughed at old Iermola's enthusiasm. He was unable to jest on
the subject, and for a moment he even began to be doubtful of himself,
to hesitate.
"Good mother," said he, in a low voice, a little sadly, "help me, teach
me, advise me; you will find that I shall know how to show my
gratitude. When harvest-time comes, or when it is time to work your
garden, you will find that all that sort of work will cost you
nothing."
"Make yourself easy," answered the widow; "you know that I am not
stingy with my good advice. I will help you and this orphan; but tell
me this one thing, do you really believe that in your old age, and
knowing nothing about nursing or bringing up children, you will be able
to undertake to be its mother?"
At these words Iermola bowed his head and made no reply. Judging the
feelings of others by those of his own heart, he feared that under this
pretext some one would come and take his baby from him.
Then he rose, cautiously approached the bench, raised the coverings,
took the baby gently in his arms, and started toward the threshold. At
that moment the door opened, and Chwedko appeared, accompanied by the
goat. The white head and horns of the animal appeared in the dark space
of the half-open door, touched by the light of the flickering candle,
and began to move. Horpyna, at sight of it, was startled, and screamed.
"Well, well!" cried the widow, "here is a nurse."
"Let us go back to the house," whispered Iermola. "Good-evening,
mother; come to see me to-morrow, if you will be so good."
"I will, if only for the sake of curiosity," answered the old woman.
Then the good man, constantly fearing lest they should take his baby
from him, hastened to leave the house. His heart felt lighter when he
found himself in the street. Chwedko followed behind him, leading the
goat, and both went on in silence toward the old ruined inn.
Iermola, however, was communing with himself all along the way.
"Why should I not be able to do it?" said he to himself. "I
understand,--I understand; the old woman wanted to keep him herself,
the beautiful little angel. But I will not give him to her. No, indeed;
she shall not have the care of him. Once more I repeat, 'It is not the
saints who make the pots boil.' I will bring up the child! I shall have
a son!" he cried, with joyous pride. "My good Chwedko, take care of the
goat; I will give you a florin, for you helped me very kindly. May God
have in store for you a more abundant reward!"
The two, walking cautiously along, at last reached the door of the old
house. Iermola laid the baby, who was still fast asleep, upon his own
bed, and then undertook to light a fire; as for Chwedko, he even put
off going to see after his gray mare, the only possession he had in the
world. Seeing this, the old man gave a florin to his friend, embraced
him, and sent him off, remaining alone in the room with the goat and
the baby.
He did not think of going to sleep; he felt no need of sleep, he had so
much to do, so many preparations to make. At first he seated himself
near the stove, not knowing what to do first, his eyes fixed on the
baby as one gazes on a rainbow after a storm. The old goat wandered
restlessly about the room, butting against the door with her horns, and
mousing around in the corners, picking up whatever she could find to
eat.
The noise at last woke the baby; and Iermola sprang forward to hush it,
when it occurred to him that the best plan would be to tie the Jewess
(that was the name Chwedko had given to Iermola's new possession).
Accordingly he threw her a little straw, and she became quiet,
resigning herself to her fate. The baby slept on sweetly and soundly.
Iermola had now no bed for himself, but he did not care for it; he sat
down upon the piece of a tree-trunk, cut flat off at both ends, which
served him as a stool whenever he wished to sit near the stove.
His bed was well filled; and he had so many things to think about and
so many things to do before to-morrow morning!
He had already been warned that he would have to announce the discovery
of the baby to the steward Hudny, who represented the estate, and tell
him that he, Iermola, would undertake the charge of the poor little
one. In addition to this disagreeable duty, which he would have given
anything to escape, he had to make a cradle for the baby and to attend
to a number of other small matters. Then the creature might waken and
cry; he must soothe it lest it should shed tears. However, he felt that
he could do all this, for strength did not fail him now,--that strength
which comes from the heart.
The whole of this bright, short spring night was passed by him full of
anxiety and care; the first gray light of morning which shone through
the window found him still disturbed and embarrassed, but feeling no
need of sleep or rest. Finally he thought he would like to go and cut
some feet for the cradle from the old logs which were in his other
room; but he feared to leave the child, and besides, the goat might
disturb him. The creaking of the door even might waken the little
creature; and what if, when he was busy at work, he should not hear him
cry!
But the sense of these difficulties and apparent impossibilities
overwhelmed him only momentarily; at other times he told himself that
it would be easy to surmount it all, and he strengthened himself by
hope, forgetful of hunger, fatigue, and want of sleep. The sun was just
about to rise when he undertook the task of milking the goat, so that
he might have some milk ready when his dear little one wakened; but the
old Jewess was not in a kindly and accommodating humour. She was
stubborn as a goat; that describes her temper. Moreover, she was
accustomed to obey only her old master and mistress, and absolutely
refused to submit to the will of her new owner. At first Iermola
treated her with great gentleness. He patted her, spoke to her, and
endeavoured to convince her of the necessity there was for her to be
docile; but all was of no avail, and he was finally compelled to resort
to violent measures. Then the goat boldly raised the standard of
revolt; she broke her rope and rushed toward the door of the chamber,
butting it with her horns. The baby, at this noise, woke; the old man
tore his hair.
Fortunately, at this moment the cossack's widow arrived, the curiosity
which had consumed her since she wakened having led her to Iermola's
hut. Seeing him in such a state of bewilderment, she burst into a loud
laugh, but she also set to work and succeeded in milking the goat with
the most surprising ease. It might have been because the Jewess was
accustomed to allow herself to be milked by women, or perhaps seeing
herself alone against two, she doubted the expediency of opposition;
but she voluntarily submitted to the widow. As for Iermola, he was
already rocking the baby.
"Well," asked the old woman, "how did you pass the night?"
"I did not go to bed," answered Iermola; "but the baby slept sweetly.
Only that miserable goat--"
"Oh, you will not have much trouble with her; she will become
accustomed to you in a day or two if you feed her well. And so the
little one slept?"
"Like a little angel! I am sure that there is not a baby in the world
who sleeps better than he. You should see how intelligent he is! I
believe he almost knows me, neighbour."
The orphan's adopted father was greatly astonished when the widow burst
into a hearty laugh on hearing him say this. After that he kept silent,
quite abashed.
"I really do not know why God did not give you a wife and children,"
said she, a moment later; "or rather, why He did not make you a woman."
She stopped suddenly; just outside the door a loud voice was heard,
saying, "Ha, Iermola! old idiot, come here; you know very well that I
expect you." It was the voice and the signal of the steward Hudny, who,
having been already informed of the event of the evening before,
desired by visiting the hut to see with his own eyes what had happened,
so that he could relate the whole affair to his wife. The old man
trembled at the approach of this stern master, whom he feared
exceedingly, and whom he usually carefully avoided; but leaving the
baby in the hands of his old friend, he hastened out of the hut.
The steward was mounted on a fat little horse, with a well-kept and
glossy coat; he wore a gray cloak lined with lambskin, long boots,
carried a whip in his hand, and had a cap pulled over his ears. One
could see at a glance that he had not left his home fasting; and it was
easy to perceive that he had fortified himself against the fog with the
usual quantity of brandy. He was one of those stewards of the new
regime, who had taken the place of the loyal and faithful servants of
the old. To the defects of his predecessors, which he had preserved
intact, he had taken care to add others peculiar to himself, and which
were the penalty he paid to the advance of the times. The worthy Mr.
Hudny, as former managers had done, treated the peasants as clowns and
clodhoppers. He beat them, oppressed them, and rendered them miserable;
moreover, he outrageously robbed and abused those who called him by the
old title of manager, enjoining it upon his subordinates to address him
as my lord the steward, and announcing to all who would listen to him
that he should soon rent a large estate.
He and his wife lived like bugs in a rug, on this fine old deserted
domain; they seized upon everything they could possibly take, and
sought by every means in their power to escape from a position which
was distasteful to them. Neither of them had any heart; but they
possessed a revolting pride and an absolute want of principle, such as
is manifested only in the ranks of a half-disorganized and deeply
corrupted society. Two small bright eyes, a little crossed, which
sparkled above a round red face, partly concealed by two enormous
eyebrows, on account of their uncertain and conflicting expression, at
once threatening and cowardly, gave at the first glance some idea of
the character of the man. The rest of his rough and irregular features
were partly concealed by his abundant beard and by the enormous
whiskers which met under his chin.
Iermola bowed till his hands touched the ground.
"What are the orders of my lord the steward?" he asked.
"What is the news at your house? I hear some talk of a cast-off baby."
"Ah, yes, most illustrious master," answered the old man, adding the
word "illustrious" if possible to secure a favourable hearing for his
story. "Yesterday evening I heard a moaning sound under the oaks. I
thought at first it was an owl; but, no, indeed, it was a baby, please
your lordship."
"A boy?"
"Yes, a fine boy."
"And you found nothing else at the same time,--nothing but the baby,
eh?" said the steward, fixing upon the old man his piercing, avaricious
glance,--a glance which was almost terrifying. "No explanation
whatever? No papers, no medal? For everything of that sort, you
understand, must be turned over to the police; and the baby must be
taken to the hospital."
At these words Iermola began to tremble and wring his hands. "No, my
lord," he cried, "there was no sign of an explanation; the baby was
wrapped only in a piece of coarse white cambric. I swear to this, my
lord; but I do not wish--I will not give this little one to anybody,
for God Himself gave him to me."
"Oh, oh! there must be something at the bottom of all this," replied
the steward, laughing his wicked laugh. "A child is left at your door,
and you wish to keep it? But an inquest may be held, some difficulties
may arise, and some expenses be incurred. It is best that you should
take the brat to the court or to the chief of the police, so that they
can decide the matter; and as for the piece of cambric, send it at once
to my wife, do you hear?"
So saying, the steward dismounted and gave his horse to the good man.
Then he entered the hut, and Iermola's heart began to beat very fast.
The poor old man dreaded for his child the presence and the gaze of
this man, particularly as he could not go and protect the baby, for he
could not leave the horse. He would have liked exceedingly to be
present at the interview, but that was impossible; he listened
intently, however, so as to hear as much as he could of the
conversation which took place between the steward and the cossack's
widow. This mental strain and anxiety agitated him to such a degree
that when Hudny came out of the lowly mansion, Iermola was wiping away
great drops of sweat as large as tears, which were running down his
cheeks.
Fortunately the cossack's widow, for whom the steward entertained a
sort of respect, had resolved to purchase peace at a moneyed price, and
had taken care to buy her supply of butter from the Hudny dairy, and in
some way or other succeeded in persuading him; and the result was that
he did not persecute Iermola further on the subject of the baby, nor
did he again order him to deliver it over to the police.
"Fie, fie, old fool!'" said he, as he remounted his horse. "Upon my
word, it seems absurd for you to take upon yourself such a useless
burden. However, I will undertake to make the report to the court; but
if you take my advice, you will get rid of the new-comer as soon as
possible. What necessity is there that you should have another mouth to
feed; and why should a child be brought to you? Ah, it must be a droll
story," he added, laughing again his coarse, wicked laugh.
Iermola, in his terror, kissed his knee and hand and elbow, and begged
that he would leave the baby with him with an expression so paternal
and tender that any one but the steward would have been deeply touched.
But thus Iermola escaped a disagreeable errand; he was not obliged to
go to the _dwor_, which would have been bad for him for two reasons:
first, because the sight of the dear old house awoke in him painful
memories; and secondly, because the steward and his wife, gentle and
fair-spoken to their superiors, were harsh, scornful, and unkind to the
common people. Thus he also had his whole day to himself, and could do
all that was needful for the baby.
At that moment the sun rose, glad, bright, and radiant, like a
messenger of hope and faith. Motion and labour began; a thousand noises
awoke along the river shore. As the news, the wonderful news, had
spread like lightning, all whose business led them along that road went
into Iermola's house to see the baby and hear how it had all happened.
The cossack's widow, more eloquent than her neighbour, undertook to
tell the story, which she constantly clothed in new colours, repeating
the smallest details with indefatigable delight. Meanwhile the old man
occupied himself in making the cradle, for which, fortunately, he found
a rush mat, perfectly woven and sufficiently light.
This mat, swung between the two feet which he had constructed as well
as he could, then filled with hay, and covered with the softest and
whitest cloth that Iermola could find among his rags, was ready about
midday. It would have been, indeed, much easier to suspend a basket by
a rope to one of the beams of the ceiling, as was the custom of the
peasants, and rock it with his foot. But Iermola was afraid of
everything where the baby was concerned,--the rope, the hook, the
basket, the beam; and he preferred to undertake a tiresome and
difficult task himself rather than to expose the innocent creature to
any danger.
The widow rallied him upon his anxieties and fears, but she could not
convince him. Then when the cradle was finished, he found it necessary
to rearrange the chamber,--that room in which nothing had been moved
for so many years. Now it must be arranged differently altogether,--so
that the light should not fall upon the baby's eyes; so that he should
not feel the draught from the door or the heat from the stove. And
after that, he had to build a little shelter in one corner for the
goat, with the help of an old door and a broken-down ladder. The
obstinate animal did not become at all more docile. She ate whatever
was thrown to her, but she would allow no one to come near her; and it
was necessary for the present to keep her tied.
When his various preparations were ended, Iermola came and seated
himself beside the widow, and listened attentively to all the precepts
she laid down to him on the subject of caring for the baby. By dint of
strict attention and numberless and exact questionings, he succeeded in
learning precisely what he should give him to eat, how many times and
in how much water he should bathe him, how he should amuse him, quiet
him, and put him to sleep.
The profound and inexpressible affection he felt for the innocent
new-comer was only equalled by the intensity of his hatred for the
horned and rebellious goat, who persisted in her disobedience, and
would not endeavour to appreciate the good fortune which was in store
for her. All the while that Iermola was listening to the widow, he cast
upon the Jewess a menacing glance, unable to boast sufficiently of the
baby's lovable qualities or sufficiently to deplore the goat's
unworthiness, her stupidity, and the detestable habits she had acquired
while frequenting the inn.
It was in such important occupations that the first day of poor old
Iermola's paternity was passed.
VII.
A NEW LIFE.
The fortunes of man are often very strange. He frequently passes
through long, barren, unemployed years, awaiting the one moment which
brings into relief and into activity all his faculties and all his
powers; it seems as though he had slept an age in order to awaken for
one hour. A new situation arouses in him unknown sentiments, enlightens
his mind, opens his heart, and changes the indolent dreamer into a
worker, an indefatigable athlete.
Thus it happened to Iermola, whom the mere presence of this unknown
child had regenerated and revived, and who, to the great astonishment
of the widow, the people of the village, and all who had formerly known
him, not only acquitted himself without difficulty of the care
necessary to be bestowed upon his nursling, but became quite another
man. He always had been considered one of the most good-for-nothing and
insignificant beings in the world, silent, humble, timid, and ignorant.
People had become accustomed to see him every day at the same hour in
the vicinity of the ruined inn, and to hear the same words of greeting
repeated by him every day. With his bowed head and stooping shoulders,
and his eyes fixed on the ground, and leaning on a cane, he might be
constantly seen, now on his way to the river shore, and now going
toward the _dwor_; he gathered grasses, kindling-wood, and fagots, and
cultivated in his garden a little tobacco and a few vegetables. On fine
summer evenings he repeated his chaplet sitting on his door-sill, and
sometimes, when his complete isolation did not weigh too heavily upon
him, he allowed several months to pass without appearing in the
village. He never went to the inn, never showed himself at weddings,
funerals, or baptisms; and when he went to them because he was invited,
he stayed only a very short time, and was in a hurry to return to his
den, where he squatted down and secluded himself as though there was
some sad mystery attached to his life.
Moreover, he visited at none of the houses in the village with the
exception of the widow's hut, whither he was drawn by memories of old
friendship and also the need of assistance, for there he had his linen
washed and mended, and took some of his meals. Some said that he was
sulky and cross; but those who knew him best rarely spoke of him
otherwise than in terms of kindest friendship. And indeed under his
cold, rough exterior was concealed a rare heart, a heart of gold, one
of those hearts to be met with among the poor and simple more often
than one believes.
Nowadays a goodly number of thinkers interested in such matters, and
who judge quite erroneously, have succeeded in discovering in the
peasant far more bad qualities than good ones. But considering the
influences to which the lower classes are subjected, the examples they
have before them, their surroundings, the poverty which enervates them,
and the want of moral education which brutalizes them, one can only be
astonished at the treasures of honesty which God puts into their
hearts.
Under such a condition as theirs, the greatest faults are pardonable;
for which of our reformers proposes to inculcate either moral or
religious principles? Therefore the virtues they possess really seem
miraculous. In order to know the lower classes, it is necessary to
observe them closely, and to study them, and not allow ourselves to be
led astray by the prejudices and false ideas which we may have imbibed
from the speeches of interested persons and from books. Virtue, with
them, is the more to be respected, because it is indigenous, like pure
native gold. As for us, we are inoculated with it; it is preached to
us, taught us from our infancy. It is very easy for us to be honest.
Our own interest, our self-love, the aid which circumstances give us,
the advantageous emulation with which the social struggle inspires us,
our conception of duty,--all help to clear the way for us; and in spite
of this, all are not virtuous, or at least as virtuous as they ought to
be. It is not at all astonishing, therefore, considering all that we
have on our side, and all that makes against the lower classes, that
good, equitable, and strict judges have discerned more worth and virtue
in the lower than in the higher classes, and have invited the fortunate
ones of this world to follow the example which by a sort of miracle is
presented by those who enjoy fewer comforts.
We, who are in constant and active communication with our country
people, do not hesitate to recognize that they are better by nature and
by instinct than the people in other classes of society, than the
people of other European races, especially the Western races. Let us
examine, compare, and number their vices; and we shall be astonished to
find still so much morality among a populace so miserable and entirely
abandoned, who must have received the strength to be virtuous simply
from the air which surrounds them, from the blood which flows in their
veins. It is easy for us to understand and excuse their faults if we
will only be just.
Iermola was precisely one of those men, gifted with a marvellous
instinct of virtue and feelings naturally affectionate and just, whose
nobleness servitude had not been able to stifle, possessing a heart
which coarse and imperfect civilization had not been able to make cold,
and earnest moral strength which old age had not withered or destroyed.
I can find no other word than "instinct" to express that rare and
powerful faculty; and I would willingly admit, if I were writing a
treatise on psychology, that by the side of the coarse, egotistical,
material instinct exists a second one, noble, generous, sublime,
different in every respect from the other, which elevates often to the
highest plane of virtue the weakest and simplest natures. Those who
possess it usually act contrary to their most evident interests; they
listen only to their hearts, which never breathe the voice of violence
and passion, but rather that of pure love, which longs for perfection,
and action, which reveals the need of devotion and tenderness.
The old man of whom we are speaking never had deplored the miseries of
his useless and suffering life. He never had cursed his past; he
neither scorned nor complained of men. He found a sufficiency in
himself, suffered, was silent, and did not succumb, because he accepted
everything with a humble and thankful spirit. No one ever saw him spare
himself; he was always ready to help others, though he could do but
little for himself. Every one knew him in the village; and strangers,
as well as old friends, knew to whom to apply when they needed help or
sympathy,--for poor old Iermola had nothing else to give. To watch and
care for a sick person, to harvest a widow's field of barley, to take
care of a houseful of children when the mother of the family was away,
to collect herbs and recipes for curing wounds and diseases, were the
things that Iermola knew how to do best, and that he did with most
pleasure. People made use of him the more willingly because he would
not accept any pay, and because he never drank brandy.
Among the lower classes it is customary in such cases to recognize by
some gift or other even the smallest service rendered; the good
villagers would be offended if these slight marks of their gratitude
should not be accepted. They therefore slipped into Iermola's hands a
few presents which he took, lest he should wound his friends; some
eggs, a little butter, a small loaf of bread, seemed to him more than
sufficient return for his services.
He bore no grudge against those of his old friends whom he had obliged,
who in times of sickness and need had come to him for help, and
afterward deserted and forgotten him. He never complained of their
indifference, never called their neglect ingratitude or coldness of
heart; he knew the villagers had but little time at their disposal in
which to pay debts of affection or gratitude; that generally it was not
the will which was wanting, but the possibility; and their indifference
was often feigned and very frequently forced. It is necessary to know
thoroughly their life of labour and weariness, to feel the effect of
fatigue and its consequent lassitude, in order to comprehend it and not
be surprised by it. And if with regard to matters of the heart Iermola
was superior to his neighbours, in other respects he was still a child
of the village, retaining its tastes, habits, inclinations, and
prejudices.
The day following that upon which the event we have related took place,
nothing was talked of all over Popielnia but the baby found under the
oaks by old Iermola, and the goat bought from Szmula,--for Chwedko
boasted as much of this good bargain as he usually did of his famous
mare.
There were a thousand conjectures concerning the inexplicable
appearance of the new-born baby,--an event the like of which was
unheard of and unknown in the village; this miserable act was laid to
the door, not of the peasants very naturally, for they would not have
been able to commit such a deed, since they had no such habits, but
rather to some unknown father and mother belonging to the nobility.
Suspicions fell first upon one and then another neighbouring lord; but
nothing confirmed them, and they contradicted each other. Effort was
made to recall exactly everything which had taken place on the two
previous days; unfortunately, the tracks of the person who had brought
the baby and placed it in the garden had been entirely effaced. One of
the villagers had indeed seen, about nightfall, a carriage driving
rapidly away in the direction of Malyczki; but this proved to have been
only the _briczka_ of the young secretary, who had been to pay a visit
to Horpyna and her mother. Another remembered having seen, from a
distance on the river shore, a man on horseback, holding under his arm
a bundle wrapped in a white cloth; but he learned that it was the
manager Hudny, who was taking a ride, and who, on account of the cold,
had wrapped a towel round his neck. Marysia, the servant at the inn,
also recalled the unknown Polesian who the previous evening had snored
so loudly on one of the benches at the inn, and had disappeared when
the cocks began to crow; but could he have slept so quietly if he had
been the one who undertook to abandon to fate such an innocent
creature?
At the inn, in the fields, in the woods, on the river shore,
everywhere, in fact, nothing was talked of but the foundling baby; but
no person knew any more about the matter than another. All were,
however, astonished at Iermola's determination and laughed at the old
man, shrugging their shoulders. Meanwhile, in the good man's hut the
cossack's widow was preparing a bath for the little one. As she was
unwrapping it from the piece of coarse percale which was to be sent to
the steward's wife, she examined the child more closely, and began to
share the convictions of his adoptive father. The baby was surely the
offspring of some noble family, he was so delicate, so fresh-looking,
so charming. There was no mark on his clothing, but around his neck was
a silk cord from which hung a small medal of gilded brass which Iermola
supposed to be gold, and put carefully away. Because of this the two
old people began to wonder if the baby had been baptized; and the widow
told her neighbour that when there was any doubt on the subject, it was
always prudent to have the infant sprinkled with the waters of holy
baptism. That very evening the baby took the name of Irydion, which was
that of the saint the church invokes on the day it was found.
In the dialect of the lower class, this name assumes a Slavic sound,
and is transformed into Radion or Radiwon; the little one was therefore
called Radionek, as a sort of pet name. Iermola wept with joy as he
took him in his arms and covered him with caresses, saying over and
over a hundred times that at last he had a son, and that this son would
make him so happy.
Our good man got a little tipsy for the first time in his life, on the
occasion of the baptism. He treated Chwedko and the widow to bountiful
drinks, embraced them both, pressed their hands, and showered
affectionate words upon them. As for the unfortunate goat, who regarded
all these joyful demonstrations with angry eyes, he shook his fist at
her threateningly.
"Listen, wretched Jewess," said he to her, as he stood before her with
flaming eyes and uplifted hand. "Listen, vile descendant of a horned
and bearded race: if you are not gentle and obedient, if you are not
willing to be an honest and affectionate nurse for this dear little
baby, I will immediately find another to take your place. But as for
you, I will cut you in two with a wood-saw, as truly as there is a God
in heaven."
To these menacing words the goat replied by stamping her feet, shaking
and throwing her head up proudly, and all the people present burst into
peals of laughter; but it was observed that from that time forth she
conducted herself with much more gentleness and docility, as though
Iermola's violent harangue had finally triumphed over her indomitable
obstinacy.
VIII.
HAPPY DAYS.
Such was the beginning of this self-imposed paternity; in spite of the
difficulties at the outset, the good man was so successful that at the
expiration of three months he had become perfectly acquainted with all
the duties and requirements of his new occupation. The village people
never tired of seeing the old man with the baby in his arms, walking
with him in the fields or on the river shore; they would immediately
surround the pair so strangely but so entirely united, and overwhelm
Iermola with questions and the baby with caresses.
What may not love, will, and patience overcome? The old goat, which had
shown such obstinacy of character in the first days after her
separation from Szmula at last grew so attached to her new master that
she followed the old man and the baby everywhere. At first she ran away
several times and went back to the inn. Szmula had even given secret
orders to have her killed, intending to put her four quarters into the
pot, but Iermola, divining his intentions even at that distance, gave
the baby for a few moments to the widow, and found the goat concealed
behind a pile of straw in the pig-sty; whereupon he, by his cries and
threats, frightened Szmula so terribly that the Jew never again had any
desire to face such an adversary. As a finishing stroke to his
misfortunes, Szmula was obliged to bestow gratuitous drinks upon the
village men who had been attracted to the inn by Iermola's cries and
uproar, and whom he naturally wished to get rid of as soon as possible.
Finally, the goat, well cared for and well fed, began to understand
that she could henceforth expect no good from Szmula. She therefore
regarded him with supreme indifference; and serving her new owner with
fidelity, she would not even turn her head when she happened to pass by
the inn. Consequently she became a great favourite with Iermola, the
thing he loved best in the world, except the well-beloved baby, of
course; and as the child jabbered to her constantly, and she was always
with him, she became not only his nourisher, but almost his nurse. The
baby knew well her black fierce eyes and her long beard, which he
pulled with his little fingers; the Jewess would come at his slightest
call and stand over his cradle with wonderful intelligence and
precaution. She became, in fact, one of the family; and Iermola,
rendering her full justice, was utterly astonished that he had not been
able at first to recognize her excellent qualities.
But the satisfaction which the old goat gave him--and he would not now
have given her up at any price--was nothing in comparison with the
infinite and ever-increasing joy the baby was to him, as he grew and
developed day by day. Little Radionek had a peculiarly gentle
disposition and uncommon strength and health, as is usually the case
with poor little orphans.
It seems as though God in His providence bestows earlier and more
abundantly upon those who have no mother the faculties and forces
necessary to existence. But however lovely and well-developed Radionek
may have been, Iermola doubtless saw in him many more virtues and
charms than he really possessed. The widow rallied him on the subject,
but this did no good, and only irritated him; he called her wicked,
jealous, and blind, and would go away, low-spirited, carrying his
treasure with him. The old woman, however, was also sincerely attached
to the child, who certainly owed much to her. Indeed, without her
counsels and assistance, the adoptive father would have found it very
difficult to acquit himself in his new, strange, and hard position. All
his neighbours were good to him, and helped him in time of need, for
the baby became the pet, the darling, and the wonder of the village.
After several months of watchfulness and continual care, Iermola at
last found time to ask himself what he would do in the future, and even
spoke frequently of the projects he had formed for himself and the
baby. Ah, he had so many dreams, and built so many castles in the air!
First of all, he did not wish the child to be a simple villager; he
desired for him a better condition and more brilliant and noble career.
But the choice of a career seemed very difficult to him; for his dear
Radionek everything seemed too humble and too pitiful. What he would
have liked best would have been to buy an estate and see him some day
manage it as he chose; but poor as they were, it was foolish even to
think of that. He was of course obliged to think of something else.
During his long seasons of thought Iermola reviewed a number of trades
and different occupations; but he always found some fault with them.
The shoemaker from sitting so constantly must have bent limbs and
stooping shoulders; the miller was obliged to stand all day; the
blacksmith was exposed to being burned by his hot fire; the mason was
tired with carrying tiles and climbing ladders and suffering from the
cold and the wind and the heat. Iermola did not wish to expose his dear
child to any of these dangers and troubles.
He always firmly intended to have his dear Radionek learn to read and
write, but it was necessary to wait a few years before doing that; and
the chorister in the church, the only man in the village who had dived
into the mysteries of the alphabet, and who would have been able to
take charge of his pupil's education, was already very old. If he
should die, would his successor be as accommodating or as learned as
he? This was a sadly perplexing subject for the old man. He conceived
the idea of settling the matter by asking the chorister to teach him,
so that when the time came he would be able to teach the child to read
and write without any one's assistance. With this intention he bought a
primer from a Jew pedler; and soon every day the old man might be seen
with the baby in his arms and the goat following him, going along the
one street of the village on his way to the farther end of it, where he
took his daily lesson from old Andrej Prosforowiez. It was beautiful to
see the old man perspiring and growing red in the face, studying and
working over the pages of his primer, holding the baby with one hand,
and with the other the iron needle which he used to point to his
letters. One consoling idea sustained him through all this hard task.
At least, in this way the old chorister, who was not very patient,
would not be made to torment Radionek, whom he would doubtless have
caused to pass some unhappy half-hours. Iermola knew very well that
when he should undertake the task of paternal education, he would
succeed by means of gentleness and perseverance in imparting all he
knew to his child, without either trouble or contention.
But truly it is no easy matter to undertake to learn the alphabet when
one is almost sixty years old; to sit quietly with fixed attention for
long hours; to keep eyes still which have been accustomed to wander
freely; to take an interest in those black, irregular, and excessively
small characters. It is an enormous undertaking, a real torment, which
can be endured only by remarkable perseverance, will, and strength of
affection. Iermola, indeed, groaned and was weary more than once; but
he did not abandon the task which he had so bravely begun, and at last
the time came when he could read. Fortunately, his sight was still
good, which helped him very much in his work; and he found less
difficulty, after all, than the chorister had feared. The old
instructor received as his pay a half-roll of linen containing fifty
yards, and very wide, which had been kept a long time, with a shiny
silver rouble in addition.
As for the care bestowed upon the baby, the old man acquitted himself
as if he had been a foster-father all his life. The cradle was placed
beside his bed; the goat slept in a corner near by. At the slightest
sound from the baby, the father was on his feet to see what the
innocent creature needed. He slept but little; but he never had needed
a great deal of sleep. During the day he took the little one in his
arms and wandered with him along the shore, in the woods, in the
fields, under the oaks; and when he grew weary he sat down on the
door-sill. This sight, which at first had appeared so strange and
ridiculous to the villagers, at last seemed pleasant and interesting.
They smiled at the orphan, and admired the perseverance and tenderness
of the foster-father; and on Sundays, a few old companions came out to
the ruined inn to see the baby and talk with their old neighbour.
Iermola was charmed when he found himself surrounded by this little
circle of friends, in whose presence he could show off the attractions
of his darling pet; and by his earnest praise and repeated recitals he
at last succeeded in persuading his neighbours that the pretty boy he
had found promised to be really an extraordinary child. What was indeed
very strange in all this was that in spite of his various cares and
constant fatigue Iermola grew visibly younger. His figure was more
erect than before, his step lighter, his countenance more smiling,
fresh, and fair; work, want of sleep, and fatigue did not overcome him
so much as hope soothed and strengthened him. It might really be said
that from the moment when he had found a hope and an aim he had begun a
new existence, a sweeter life. Nevertheless, his existence, as may well
be imagined, was not a succession of joys and ever-renewed delights;
the presence of the child, while sensibly increasing his wants and
expenses, forced upon him a formidable undertaking, a constant labour,
for henceforth he must supply not only the bread for to-day, but that
for the morrow also.
The poor usually require very little to satisfy their daily wants.
Iermola was particularly temperate and sober; he could easily do
without this or that thing when necessary, and he had never, up to the
moment when, by God's providence, the new-comer had appeared in his
cabin, suffered from hunger. He had indeed no certain income; but he
never begged, and he managed, by doing his best, to pay very regularly
a rent of twenty florins a year for his little garden and poor cottage.
It is very hard for us, who have been accustomed to a better style of
living, to understand how the poor can sustain themselves, and be
content upon so little. Old Iermola had saved up during his long years
of service only a few pieces of cloth, which he had laid by, one at a
time, together with about twenty roubles and some worthless rags. He
could have obtained for these enough to pay his rent in advance and buy
his daily food; but if he had not added to this little sum by his daily
earnings, it would soon have been exhausted. Iermola, it is true, spent
very little upon himself, for he got his meals at first one place and
then another in the village; the cossack's widow fed him oftenest, and
was not willing to receive anything from him in return. Moreover, he
was always content with a little bread and bacon and some potatoes; he
took great care of his old clothes, which fortunately had not yet given
out. But there was that dreadful rent, which had to be paid from the
profits of his garden, which formed the sole income of the good man.
This square bit of ground, surrounded by a paling of laths and situated
close to the old house, was almost as large as an ordinary peasant's
garden; besides this, there was, a few rods from the inn, about an acre
of good land on which oaks and pines grew. There Iermola sowed some
tobacco in the spots he thought most fertile; farther on he planted
potatoes, cabbages at the end of his garden, beets, peas, and other
vegetables in the rest of the enclosure. Sometimes his little crop
turned out well, and then, besides getting from his garden all that he
needed for his own subsistence, he sold enough to bring him the twenty
florins necessary to pay his rent. At other times the vegetables were a
failure; and the poor man was obliged to resort to other means of
procuring the sum.
Under such circumstances, the woods and the river were a great resource
for the peasants; and as the inhabitants of Popielnia were not
forbidden access to them, they all found there some means of existence.
So long as Iermola had lived alone, he had engaged in fishing; for this
purpose he stretched nets and set weirs. In fishing at night with a
lance he was at times not unsuccessful, and he sold the fruit of his
labour at the neighbouring _dwor_ or in the town. In addition to this,
he gathered and dried mushrooms, which were a still more profitable
commodity, as the price of them had for some time been going up. But
after he had little Radionek almost constantly in his arms, these two
employments became impossible. He could not leave the child alone, and
spend the night fishing or pass the day in the woods.
And meantime the expenses increased; the small supply of money had been
used at first to buy the goat and several trifles the baby was obliged
to have. It was necessary for the poor man to do something new.
Formerly he had worked gratis in the fields of his friends and the
poor; now his time became dear and precious to him. He resolved to work
for hire. Soon he might be seen, like those women who at times when
work is pressing join the reapers in the fields, starting out every day
with the goat, the baby, three stakes, a basket, and a tent. He put the
baby in the basket between two furrows under the shade of the piece of
coarse linen, stretched on top of the stakes; the old goat watched the
little one, and he meantime cut down, gathered, and bound the wheat. In
this way he earned his food and about twenty coppers a day in addition;
for it is rare that a labourer is paid more than that in Polesia. He
had to work three days, and work hard too, in order to earn two
florins, which elsewhere is given for sixty sheaves. He had to cut
sixty sheaves of thin, scattering wheat, and stoop over them, sweating
and breathless, then carry them; and they make them heavy in Polesia,
although in order to form them, one has to gather the straws one by
one.
Often, returning to his deserted home from the distant harvest field,
carrying the basket and the baby, the old man felt overcome with the
weight of his years and the heat of the day, worn out and sleepy and
almost sad; but one single glance at little Radionek, who was always
smiling, sufficed to restore his strength, and the night's sleep
refreshed him and prepared him for the next day's work. In fact,
Iermola never had worked so hard or been so fatigued before; the
villagers regarded with respect his perseverance, his earnestness, and
his faithful devotion. Not daring to touch the gold found in the baby's
clothes, because he considered it the orphan's property, he undertook
to supply everything himself; and this became more and more difficult,
for he scarcely had time to work his garden. He bravely devoted all his
mornings and evenings to this work; the rest of the day he occupied
himself in working in the fields.
But the heart can conceive and work out miracles as soon as it is
warmed and animated by a ray of affection. It is a unique and sovereign
talisman. Without it everything is full of thorns, everything is
difficult; with it all obstacles melt away, and dangers disappear.
At the end of a few months of brave and constant effort, field labour
began to be unsatisfactory to Iermola. The baby grew, and the earnings
were very small; besides, the chorister had charged a rouble for his
lessons, and God knows how much time the study-hours occupied each day.
The poor man became at times very sad; then his one resource was to
seek his old friend, the widow, to whose house he was in the habit of
going for consolation and advice. He was always welcomed cordially and
joyously there. The widow was perhaps a little sour and cross
occasionally; but she was always really good and affectionate. When at
his old friend's house, Iermola was never troublesome, never
inconvenienced any one; on the contrary, he often made himself very
useful,--for however weary or anxious he might be, if the widow asked
him to her table, or even to warm himself by her fire, he felt obliged
to cut up her wood, or go to the well for water, in fact, to take the
place of old Chwedor, who usually took himself off to the inn for the
evening, and could scarcely be moved from there, even if one drove him
with a stick.
The widow had a great deal of trouble with the drunken Chwedor, but it
was a difficult matter to find servants in the village who were willing
to live on a farm, the strong, hearty men greatly preferring to take
their axes and go to work in the woods; she was compelled, therefore,
to put up with this good-for-nothing creature, who, if he had not had
the assistance of the young orphan servant, would scarcely have
accomplished the feeding and caring for the cows. Chwedor was truly a
singular being; he seemed to be two men in one. In the morning, before
he had taken anything to drink, he was industrious, obedient, diligent,
and silent,--he even sometimes did things of his own accord which his
mistress had not commanded; but when he returned from the fields,
although he had solemnly sworn never to drink again, he would scarcely
have driven the cattle into the courtyard before he would suddenly
disappear, and installing himself at the big table in the hall of the
inn, would drink, swear, scream, and give himself up to the most noisy
and ridiculous behaviour. With his cap pulled down over his ears, and
his hands on his hips, he would grow excited, scream, swear, abuse the
innkeeper, sing, dance, stick up his mustache, and strut about as
though he were neither more nor less than a _waiwode_.
On his return to the cottage he went regularly to bid his mistress
good-night, and after that went to bed, still singing and swearing,
then fell asleep and snored; and when he awoke in the morning, he was
as pleasant and obedient as the previous evening he had been brutal and
blustering. After having shirked the widow's service, using most
abusive language to her, the evening before, he would be eager next
morning to reinstate himself in her good graces by all sorts of kind
attentions and ingenious devices. She herself had several times
discharged him; but as it was almost impossible to procure another
servant, and as Chwedor was thoroughly well acquainted with the duties
of a farm, the noises and rows of the evening were invariably followed
by reconciliation and peace in the morning.
But in consequence of Chwedor, Iermola was particularly welcome at the
widow's cottage whenever he came in the evening, first, because he
helped a little, and then because she found in him a willing listener
to whom she could relate all her gossip and make all her complaints.
Horpyna also loved the old serving-man, especially for the sake of the
baby, who always smiled for her so sweetly.
One day as Iermola was returning late from the fields, having spent the
whole day without being able to gather his task of sheaves from the
scattering and ill-grown barley, his heart sad and anxious, and very
weary from stooping so long, he turned in the direction of the widow's
cottage. As soon as Horpyna saw him, she took the little boy in her
arms and began to jump about the room with him; and the old man sat
down by the fire and gazed at the flames dreamily. The sun had given
him the headache; fatigue had stiffened and bent his back; the weight
of the reaping-hook had bruised his wrinkled hands, although he had
carefully wrapped the handle with a piece of coarse cloth.
This temporary weakness, by which he was for the moment overcome,
frightened him on the child's account and not on his own; he began to
sigh heavily, and his old friend, as she busied herself with her
cooking, understood very well that he was in need of counsel and
comfort.
"Now, you see, good man," said she to him, "I told you how it would be;
when you took the baby, I knew you would not be able to raise it. But
perhaps you are over-anxious and have been unfortunate today, for you
sigh so sadly."
"Yes, yes, it is true,--all true, neighbour. I realize now that I am no
longer twenty years old; for when I return from the fields, I am good
for nothing but to lie down in my grave, I am so sick and weary. But
what is to be done? I must work or die of hunger. And Hudny would drive
me out of my poor den if I did not give him his twenty florins at
Michaelmas; and I must eat and take care of the baby. Think of it, I
can earn only twenty coppers a day, and I have a broken back."
"But I tell you now, as I have often told you before, that you must
find some other means of earning your bread. You have spent your whole
life seated by a table in an office, with little work to do, and
suddenly you take a notion to handle the reaping-hook and the scythe
just as those do who have been accustomed to it all their lives. Why do
you not try to find some other sort of work?"
"Because, really I do not know how to do anything else."
"But you did not know how to read a while ago, and now you tell me you
have learned. Can't you learn how to do something else?"
"Do you think I could?"
"Indeed?" answered the old woman, in that interrogative formula which
often in the language of peasants takes the place of affirmation.
"What?"
"How do I know? Any sort of trade. You do not want for sense; you have
seen and observed a great many things; you would learn much faster than
any number of young giddy-heads."
"I should not like the shoemaker's trade, though I sometimes mend
shoes," replied Iermola, shaking his head with a thoughtful air. "There
are plenty of tailors who come from Kolkiow with their measuring sticks
on their shoulders; and no one would be willing to trust a piece of
cloth to me, lest I should spoil it. As for cloak merchants, there are
already three."
"Yes, and there is not even one honest weaver, who would not steal a
third of your package of warp," cried the widow. "The old man who
steals least will keep you three months waiting for your roll of cloth;
and if you pay any of them in advance, they will sell it to the Jews. I
can truly say no one here really understands weaving, though it is a
trade which pays well. Now, couldn't you undertake to learn it?"
"But how about the weaving-room and the loom? How could I put it in my
house? The room is small; the goat occupies one half of it, and the
baby the other; all my furniture is already piled up one piece on top
of another. It is impossible to think of such a thing. If you want to
give me helping counsel, think of something else."
"Bless me! I should have been very glad if you would have learned the
weaver's trade, as I should then have been able to find some use for my
thread, which is rotting here, and I do not know what to do with it."
At this Iermola laughed, but he also sighed.
"Ah! you are advising yourself, then, and not me. Think of something
else, neighbour."
"Can't you think of anything?" cried Horpyna. "I know of something.
Haven't you told me that at the _dwor_, when you had nothing else to
do, you used to amuse yourself by playing on the violin?"
"Yes, that is so; I used to play sometimes all the evening."
"Very well; why not be a musician?"
"Pshaw, for shame!" cried Iermola, spitting on the ground. "It is not
right, Horpyna, for you to give me such advice. Suppose I should take
to drinking from playing at weddings and balls? And then how could I
take the baby with me to all the inns?"
"Ah! that is very true. I have advised you as my mother did. But why
couldn't you leave the baby with us?"
Iermola smiled and shook his head.
Just at that moment the two large pots which the widow had on the fire
knocked together; one of them, which was probably already cracked,
burst wide open and broke in pieces. The boiling water dashed all over
the fireplace, on the coals, and spilled upon the floor, and would have
gone upon the widow's feet if she had not jumped aside.
There was a moment of confusion. Horpyna gave the baby to the old man
and ran to her mother's assistance; the widow began to cry; the servant
screamed with fright; the half-cooked potatoes rolled upon the floor;
the dog, which was asleep upon the door-sill, was startled, and began
to bark loudly.
Some minutes passed before order was restored. Fortunately, no harm was
done, except to the pot, for the boiling water was all over the floor.
The young girls set to work to pick up their supper; and the widow,
having cursed the decrees of fate, seated herself on the bench to
collect her wits.
But when they came to put the potatoes again on the fire, and went to
the loft for another pot, it was found that there was not another there
so large as the one which had just been broken; and they were obliged
to use in its stead two small ones which were like small pennies in
comparison.
"There never was such a pot as that," cried the widow, recommencing her
mournful wail. "I remember perfectly the day I bought it. It was at the
fair at Janowka. It was as white as milk, and so strong and solid. One
might have cracked nuts on it. We came back home at night, that drunken
Chwedor and I. As we were passing by Malyczki, he let the wagon run
into a rut; Chwedor and I and everything that was in the wagon were
thrown into a ditch. There were five pots and a sifter. 'Confound you
and your brandy!' said I; and I began to grope about for the utensils.
"The sifter was ruined,--the wagon-wheel had broken it in half; two of
the smaller pots were broken all to pieces; but my big white pot had
rolled two fathoms away down the road. I ran after it; it was perfectly
whole, and had not even the slightest crack. I could scarcely believe
my eyes. I have used it for two years, and I never shall find another
like it. Ah, that is what we need,--some good potters. To get another
set, I must wait till a pedler takes pity on us and comes this way. But
as the roads are bad and the merchandise easily broken, they come
seldom; and they cheat us--oh, the way they cheat us is a caution! Now
there is Procope, the potter at Malyczki; he makes such indifferent,
ugly black pots. They are really good for nothing but to hold ashes. He
is compelled to go away to sell them because we know them so well; no
one here would buy them. Suppose you learn to be a potter; what do you
think of that? It is an honest and quiet trade, and it is not hard
work."
"Do you think I could?" said Iermola, shaking his head. "But who would
teach me? And the clay? Is it good about here? And how could I build an
oven? Besides, even supposing I could do all that, I should need a
wagon and horse to carry my wares about; and suppose I should happen to
upset them?"
"Well, really, what is the matter with you to-day, old man?" cried the
widow. "Everything seems disagreeable and difficult to you. I repeat to
you your own proverb, 'It is not the saints who make the pots boil.'"
At this, all present burst into a laugh; Iermola alone remained silent
and thoughtful.
Thus passed this memorable evening, which was to bear so many fruits;
for although Iermola did not then make up his mind clearly, he
nevertheless, on returning to his home, begin to think seriously what
there was for him to do, and gradually he recovered hope and courage.
"Since I have succeeded in learning to read," said he to himself at
last,--"which is much the most difficult thing in the world,--I ought
to be able also to learn a trade. I am old, it is true; but do arms and
thought and will belong to youth alone? We shall see."
IX.
A VISIT TO THE DWOR.
Next day the old man intrusted Radionek to the care of his friend
Horpyna, and under some pretext or other started for Malyczki. A
thousand projects were whirling in his head.
The village was of medium size, surrounded by deep marshes and immense
forests, built upon barren soil composed principally of sand and
peat-moss.
Nevertheless, the village was wealthy, for it was inhabited almost
entirely by industrious mechanics. The peasants of this town were
obliged to buy bread every year; the soil was like that of the district
of Opoezynsk, and perhaps even worse, and returned for one bushel of
wheat sowed only sixty sheaves, which would scarcely yield a bushel of
grain, making a gain of only the straw. They were therefore compelled
to resort to other means of subsistence. They made charcoal; they sold
bark; they dealt in staves, made tubs and casks, and turned out various
other small household utensils; they constructed carriages and ploughs,
or were carpenters, weavers, or clothiers; they even wove caps and red
belts; and there was one potter among them. But this last trade was not
very profitable, although the man made his living,--for his wares were
considered of indifferent quality.
As a general thing, potters rarely set up a business in a place where
no one has previously worked at the trade; in most cases the ovens have
descended from father to son for a considerable length of time.
Formerly, in the ancient times, when the potter's art was more
necessary, because it was called on to furnish the sacred urns used at
the sacrifices, the qualities of the different clays were better
understood, and also the degrees of heat in the kiln; the situations
for manufactories were better chosen, and a better standard of work
prevailed among the men of the trade.
At the present time it is rare that any one attempts to build a kiln on
a spot where no one has ever built before. Potteries are carried on
just where they have been for ages, and the same clay is used which
furnished the funeral urns of our ancestors.
The last descendant of the potters of Malyczki had sunk pretty low in
his profession as artist and also in the social scale; he drank,
lounged about most of the time, and cared very little about the quality
of his clay, and still less about the quality or the beauty of his
wares. His pots gave forth no sound to the touch; they were black,
ugly, and so easily broken that the people in the village never bought
them except when in extreme need. But during his expeditions to places
at a distance he managed to get rid of them; and in his neighbourhood
he passed for a rich man, for he put on proud airs and indulged himself
in everything.
He ate bacon, drank brandy, wore a robe of lambskin with a collar of
gray astrachan, a woollen cloak with a hood, and a big cap of black
lambskin as high as that of any gentleman. He had never had a son, and
only one daughter, recently married to the richest peasant in the
village, to whom he had given such a handsome dowry that his neighbours
could scarcely believe their eyes or their ears,--horses, cattle, three
chests of clothing, and a cap full of silver roubles.
Iermola knew all about these matters, for formerly, when he was in the
service of his good master, there was frequent intercourse between the
_dwor_ of Popielnia and the _dwor_ of Malyczki, and also between the
two villages. Consequently, from the first the idea suggested by the
widow had taken possession of his mind. He did not wish to reveal his
designs at first lest he should be laughed at; and under pretext of
some business common to village people, he set out for the _dwor_ of
Malyczki.
For many years there had lived in this _dwor_ a weak and decrepit old
man, once a chief of squadron in the national cavalry, and an old
friend of Iermola's good lord, whose name was Felicien Druzyna. He had
once been rich, but had lived to see all his fortune melt away during
the civil wars; and he had for a long time wandered about the world,
travelling sometimes in the north and sometimes in the west. Finally he
returned to Polesia, to live on the estate which was all that remained
of his possessions. For several years his infirmities had so increased
that he was now confined to his bed, and prayed for death, which seemed
to refuse to put an end to his sufferings.
Even the exterior of the house in which he lived in Malyczki showed
that it had formerly been the seat of considerable wealth. It was
old-fashioned, large, and gloomy, surrounded by an old garden,
trellised in the French fashion of the time of Louis the Great; and
there were large ponds, a chapel and a small bastion,--monuments left
behind by the ancestors of the chief of squadron.
But all these ancient beauties were falling to ruin; the revenue of one
poor village was not sufficient to maintain so much splendor. The
monotonous life of the old man brought out all his peculiarities. It
may have been that he had naturally an ill temper; it may have been
that the sorrows of his long life or the sufferings of his long illness
had rendered him extremely irritable; but in his old age he had become
unusually violent and passionate.
His only son, who was about thirty years old, and a young relative of
his wife, who assisted in taking care of him, could not leave him for a
moment, and were condemned to a continual punishment by the constant
whims and endless persecutions of this despotic old man. But in spite
of his physical weakness, the chief of squadron retained such
remarkable activity and vigour of mind that he still exercised the
entire control of his affairs. He treated his son as a child of twelve
years old, his ward as a servant, and held his servants in the harshest
manner to the strictest performance of their duty. The keys of all the
granaries, the cellars, and cupboards were brought to him every day
after the distribution of necessary provisions, and were carefully
placed by him under his pillow. When he ordered corporal punishment to
be administered to his servants, he never prescribed less than fifty
lashes; the oldest received a hundred in compliment to their age. Every
one in the house trembled before him, and obeyed his slightest breath;
and each one was obliged to be ready to account for the smallest trifle
whenever he took it into his head to inquire about it.
Thus the blind old man, irritated by the gloom of his life, and by its
inaction, which was even more difficult for him to bear, endeavoured to
distract his mind by ruling his house and family as strictly as
possible and torturing every one by whom he was surrounded. Every one
who came near him was compelled to serve him; no one had the right to
live for himself. A skilfully organized system of constant watching
produced continual quarrels and anxieties, which had become the chronic
condition of this unfortunate household, where neither confidence, joy,
nor liberty existed.
Even the old man's son, Jan Druzyna, who was kept constantly beside the
sick bed, was losing all joy, hope, and love of life.
Nevertheless the old chief of squadron, so ill-natured and so harsh in
his manners toward his own family, was to strangers particularly
affable, kindly, and good-natured. He adopted one line of conduct for
outsiders and quite another for the bosom of his family. He gave hearty
welcome to the guests who sometimes visited him, was obliging to his
neighbours, and compassionate to the poor. He spoke kindly to every
one, smiled, often joked, and even rendered small services;
consequently those who did not know him, and only saw him at such
times, could scarcely believe the tales which were told of the old
soldier's cross and tyrannical conduct. It is certain that the
sufferings of disease, the long weary hours of blindness, the misery of
sleepless nights, had all contributed to sour his disposition; but his
heart had remained kind and sympathetic, though he had resolved to
disguise the fact from others by such constant and unusual severity of
manner. Moreover, the exaggerated ideas which he had conceived of
military discipline, and of holding a firm hand upon the reins of
domestic administration, had confirmed him in the practice of this
fussy and incessant despotism.
The young heir of the little domain and poor Marie, the far-off cousin,
both nailed to the side of his bed or his easy-chair, passed days
filled with bitter repinings. Their mutual attachment was their only
comfort. The old man had in some way or other discovered the affection
they bore each other,--these two young creatures so cruelly tried; he
had even by persuasion and cunning induced them to confess it to him,
but having done so, he at once forbade them under the severest
penalties, even under penalty of his curse, ever to think of marrying.
He, however, continued to keep them about him in the solitude of his
home, not seeing the necessity of separating them, for he thought his
word was all-powerful, and that no one would have the audacity to
resist his commands. The young people consequently were forced to keep
strict guard over themselves, and went on with their wearisome task
with sorrow and tears, carefully concealing in the old man's presence
their firm and constant affection.
Some one was obliged to watch beside the old chief of squadron night
and day, for he would have some one always by him, and generally
preferred his son Jan or his ward Marie; and he rarely quitted his
bed except to stretch his swollen limbs on the cushions of his big
easy-chair, which was rolled around his chamber. He slept badly and
with frequent interruptions. Usually he dozed until about ten o'clock,
woke up about midnight, and slept again at daylight after he had taken
his coffee; then until dinner-time he attended to his business, calling
his son, his ward, and his servants by turns to his bedside. He would
shut his eyes again for a moment after the midday meal, then rouse up
again to worry, command, and torment his servants and entire family all
the rest of the day till evening. The old officer took much less
precaution in regard to his health than he ought to have done,
considering his numerous infirmities; he drank brandy several times a
day, ate tremendously, and paid no attention to the advice of the
doctor, who constantly recommended temperance.
Beside his easy-chair or bed were discussed the most important affairs
with regard to improving the lands and the most minute details of the
household economy. He consulted, contradicted, judged, and finally
condemned. The old man divined everything, and remembered so perfectly
everything that was said to him that nothing could be kept concealed
from him, although he was blind and helpless.
In former times, when he had good health, he was one of the best
friends and most frequent visitors of the lord of Popielnia. Iermola at
that time had seen him in private; and since then the old officer, out
of respect for the memory of his friend, had sometimes assisted him. To
his _dwor_, therefore, Iermola now directed his steps, relying upon the
old officer's excellent judgment and the kindly interest which he had
always manifested for him.
All the inhabitants of the _dwor_ rejoiced at the unexpected visit,
hoping it would have the effect of amusing the old officer, and so gain
some respite for his slaves, or at least it would cheer him for the
time, and force him to assume the affable and lively manner which he
always had in reserve, not for his own family, but for his guests.
In fact, when Druzyna was informed that Iermola wished to see him, he
began at once to abuse everybody, ordering them to bring him in
immediately, and also to bring some brandy and a good breakfast,--in a
word, he found means to scold and torment half his household in a
sudden overflow of friendly welcome for his guest. Then hearing a timid
little cough coming from the doorway, he greeted the new-comer in a
pleasant and good-humoured voice,--
"How do you do, old man? What is the news from Popielnia?"
"Nothing, most gracious lord,--nothing but hunger and poverty."
"And you,--what have you been doing? Has anything new happened at your
house?"
"Indeed, certainly," replied the old man, sighing; "something very new.
Has my lord heard nothing about it?"
"Why how in the devil could I know anything?" cried the old officer.
"You see how I am, shut up here with ghosts like Lazarus; and as for
these people here, they take special pains not to tell me anything
which could interest or distract me,--they prefer to be silent or else
sigh and complain. But what has happened?"
"Oh, the strangest thing that I believe has ever been heard of within a
hundred miles of us."
"But what is it? Do not weary me, my brother."
"Well, it is this; the good God has sent me a child."
"What, the devil! have you been fool enough to get married?"
"No, no, gracious lord."
"Well, how then!" repeated the chief of squadron, contracting the gray
brows upon his wrinkled forehead.
"My lord does not comprehend at all?"
"No; the devil! I do not comprehend at all; I am waiting for you to
explain yourself more clearly."
"Some time ago--it was in the month of April--some one came and left a
baby near my cabin."
"How? What? When?" exclaimed the chief of squadron, moving about
anxiously.
"It was in the month of April."
"Come, go on; tell me quickly how it all happened."
Iermola then related every detail of the story concerning the baby, the
goat, all his hopes and anxieties; the difficulties he had encountered
in earning enough money, in learning to read, and the necessity which
was now upon him to undertake some trade. The old officer listened
attentively; and what was still more strange, his son Jan, who had
started toward the door as the old man entered, glad of an opportunity
to get some fresh air, was so interested in what Iermola was telling
that he stood motionless in the doorway to hear the end.
"Truly, this is a strange thing!" cried the chief of squadron when the
story was finished. "Unnatural parents abandon their child on the
threshold of a poor cabin, and the Lord sends the orphan a father a
hundred times better than the one Nature had bestowed. But my old
friend, the blessing from Heaven comes to you rather late, it seems to
me. Since the world began, no one ever heard of a man of your age
taking it into his head to learn a trade and undertaking such rash
business projects. How old are you?"
Iermola knew perfectly well that he had lived sixty good long years,
but he dared not confess it, lest the chief of squadron should
discourage him still more or laugh at him; he therefore replied without
hesitation,--
"What does that matter? As soon as the hair turns gray, one is old. But
it is weakness and poverty which make us feel our years; and God knows
the number of them."
"Pshaw! pshaw! God knows, but man knows too; I can tell you pretty well
how old you are," interrupted the chief of squadron, counting on his
fingers. "You were six or seven years old when you were taken as
shepherd boy at the _dwor_. I was not here then; but when I came to
this country forty years ago, your late master told me you had then
been living with him about seventeen years. So counting it all up, you
are now past sixty, my brother."
"That may be; but since I feel well and strong--"
"Ah, that is a great blessing!" cried the chief of squadron. "You are
not like me; I am wretched and infirm, tried sorely by God, despised by
men, and cast down to the very earth itself, which should long since
have swallowed me up."
"Gracious lord, you ought not to speak so."
"Come, come! we all know our own troubles. The ass must rub the place
that hurts."
"Well, then," said Iermola, slowly, "to go back to my story: in order
to rear my little one, I shall be obliged to work for him and for
myself. I am not very strong, and I get along slowly working in the
fields. I would like to find some other means of living,--to learn some
trade or other."
"Why, you are crazy, my friend," cried Druzyna, laughing till he
choked; "your apprenticeship would be a long one. And besides, how
would you ever learn? You have now neither arms nor eyes nor strength."
"I cannot, however, go and beg."
"Bless me! of course you would not wish to do it."
"No, I am not willing to do it, neither for the child nor for myself. I
should be ashamed to go wandering up and down the roads with a sack.
No, no! a hundred times no!"
"Very good; but how will you be able to learn a trade at your age?"
"Why, it seems to me that I should learn now more easily than when I
was young. A man is more attentive at my age; he knows the usefulness
of things, and is not so easily distracted; and then he likes to keep
his hands occupied,--it soothes him."
"Ah, my dear friend, you must be young indeed, to be able to speak in
that way. Believe me, my good man, the young man has nothing in common
with the old one. The old man has a different heart, a different body,
a different head,--is another man, in fact, and a weaker and more
unhappy one. As for you, you are fortunate indeed, if you can at your
age feel the strength and courage to work."
"Truly, it seems to me that since I have succeeded in learning to read
I could also learn a trade."
"Well, well, perhaps you can, but at least choose something easy,"
answered Druzyna, shaking his head.
"Some one advised me to learn weaving; but I should not have enough
money to buy a loom, and I should not know where to find a place to put
it. My own room is so small."
"Well, what are you thinking of doing?"
"Why, to tell you the truth, I came here to beg Procope--"
"Ah, ah! to make pots!" cried the chief of squadron. "Well, but if
yours are no better than his, you will not make a fortune."
"Perhaps if he will only show me how to begin, in the end I may do
better than he; but Procope is jealous of his knowledge and proud of
his trade; he would not be willing to teach me."
"There is a way to remedy that difficulty," said the chief of squadron.
"I will send for him and speak a few words to him. There are no secrets
which he will refuse to share with you after he has received my
orders."
Iermola shook his head sadly. "What one is forced to do, one never does
well," he said.
"Well, see if he will do it of his own accord; and if you are not
successful, I will come to your assistance."
Then after a few moments, the old man sent Iermola off much more
tranquil and comfortable, and ordered him to present himself again in
the evening and inform him of the result of his interview with Procope.
X.
WHAT A STRONG WILL CAN ACCOMPLISH.
On his way to the potter's house, which was situated on a little hill
where one could see the bright kiln surrounded by freshly moulded
pottery and shaded by an old pear-tree, Iermola gave himself up to
thought. It seemed to him that at last he had hit upon a wise and happy
idea. His wrinkled old face began to light up; he rubbed his hands and
walked on toward Procope's cabin with a firmer and lighter step.
The potter of Malyczki, after having married off his daughter, had
established himself, with a very young servant and a little apprentice,
in this cottage then vacant, where he for the greater part of his time
led the idle life of a village epicurean.
Generally he did but little work, for he relied upon the half-rusty
roubles which he had earned in his youth; he was seldom seen seated at
his wheel or busy with his kiln, but could be found frequently at the
inn, or seated at his own table before a well-supplied plate and a
brimming goblet which his servant had just brought to him.
Iermola therefore found the man he was seeking, at table, in front of a
pint of brandy and a great bowl of fresh milk thick with cream.
Procope's hair was quite gray, but he was still erect and vigorous. He
was a peasant of tall and massive figure, with broad shoulders, strong
as an oak, and had a white beard which reached to his girdle. One
glance at him was sufficient to tell that he had strength to struggle
with a bear. When he was tipsy at the inn, every one was afraid of him;
for he would shake the village boys with his long arms as though he
were shaking a pear-tree to make the pears fall off. He could put his
broad shoulders to the axle and move a loaded wagon; and with one hand
he could lift a bag of wheat as easily as any one else would a handful
of straw.
The potter wore a pair of well-tarred leather boots, large white
pantaloons, cut after the cossack fashion, and a shirt of gray cloth,
fastened at the neck by a large red button, and lower down by a broad
belt of the same colour, and was stirring his spoon in his porringer
while watching the servant, who was seated in front of him, showing her
white teeth and covering her face with her hands as she laughed. At
this moment Iermola appeared in the doorway, and saluted the
inhabitants of the potter's house in the following pious fashion,--
"Slawa Bohn! Glory to God!"
The two old men had long known each other; and besides, Procope was
generally pleasant and hospitable to every one so long as he was not
intoxicated; when he was, he was terrible. But just then he was
perfectly sober, and he immediately rose from his table. The servant
disappeared, and the two men embraced each other cordially.
"Well, what is it that the Lord God sends you to say to us?" was the
potter's first remark. "You will drink one good glass, won't you?"
"I will take one glass," said Iermola, "though it is not my custom to
drink at all."
"Ah, ah! a good drink of brandy never did anybody any harm. After that,
we will talk over your business, if you have any."
"Ah, yes! I have something very important to talk about," replied the
new-comer; "but it is a long story."
"Then begin at once."
"Wait a while, till I recover my breath."
"As long as you like."
As he spoke, the servant reappeared; she removed the bowl and spoon,
leaving the brandy on the table. The two old men began by complaining
of the weather and the high prices of provisions. Procope lamented
considerably over the inconveniences of his trade; and gradually they
conversed with frank cordiality.
"You must know," said Iermola, suddenly, not without much internal
agitation, "that I am myself the son of a potter. From time immemorial
my ancestors owned kilns and made pottery."
"Ah, indeed! really?" answered Procope, with visible astonishment.
"Yes, truly, as I have told you; but my father and mother died when I
was quite an infant, and I can barely remember the fact that they
worked in pottery. But to-day there is still in our old garden a fine
potter's kiln, which is overgrown with grass. As for my paternal
property, it has passed into other hands."
"But never in the world was there a potter found among the people of
Popielnia."
"My father was from Wolhynia, and he lived only a very short time after
coming here."
"Ah! that is a different matter," replied the potter, slowly sipping
his brandy.
"And, you see, in my old age, I have taken it into my head to take up
my old trade again," stammered Iermola, blushing and looking down.
Procope stared at him, then began rubbing his head and speaking in
broken sentences.
"You want to take the bread out of my mouth, you wicked old man," he
muttered in a menacing tone.
"Only listen to me," continued Iermola, much agitated; "instead of
injuring your trade, perhaps it may be that I can help you to gain
something. Do not be frightened without reason."
"All right, let me hear; tell me."
"You have no son; your daughter is married; and you have laid by a nice
little pile of money. It seems to me that it is high time for you to
take some rest. The clay you find about here is good for nothing. You
are obliged to go a long distance to sell your pottery, for no one will
buy it here; the quality is too poor."
"Come, come! look out; mind what you are saying," growled the angry
potter, striking the table with his fist.
"Do not be angry, Procope; remember that I can do nothing without your
assistance."
"You want to rob me."
"Not at all; you will see that my plan will bring you quite a neat
little income."
"All right, let me hear it, then; and the devil take you!"
"Well, it is this: if you would only just help me a little at first, I
am sure I could succeed; it seems to me that it runs in the blood to do
it. Let us build, in partnership, a kiln at Popielnia. We will both
attend to the firing of the pottery; and as a compensation for your
trouble, half of my profits shall belong to you as long as you live,
and you need do nothing all day long but lie down with your feet in the
sun and your head in the shade."
At this Procope shook his head gravely.
"That would not be a bad thing; but who will go security for you?"
"Your lord."
"The old officer, the wicked old scoundrel?" cried Procope.
"Yes, he himself; he has seen and pitied the trying situation in which
I am placed in my old age, and has advised me to do this to remedy it."
Procope was confounded, and for a moment made no reply. He looked
puzzled, and pulled his beard.
"Is it really the chief of squadron who advises you to do this? What
does he know about the business? You all seem to think that it is as
easy to turn pots as to plough a furrow, and that one can light a kiln
as easily as he can make soup. Now, I have worked at making pottery all
my life, and still I do not always succeed."
"Because you do not take the trouble to do it. You have money enough,
food, and a cottage; why should you worry yourself when there is no
need of it?"
"That is true enough; but do you really believe, my old friend, that
you can learn easily? Mind, I tell you that this thing needs a young
head."
"Only try me; your lord will be pleased if you will."
"The devil take him with his lord!" muttered Procope. "Do you suppose
the lord cares for the needs of one man?"
"But suppose we should find at Popielnia some good clay for making
white pottery? You only make dark things which are ugly and good for
nothing."
At these words, Procope rose up in a perfect rage, his fists clinched
and his eyes bloodshot.
"They are good for nothing?" he cried in a voice like thunder. "Just
wait till I get hold of you, old scoundrel, and you will see that your
lord himself will not be able to help you."
"And will you be any better off after you have killed an orphan child
and a poor old man?" answered Iermola, humbly, looking down.
His gentleness and submission disarmed the old potter; and he began to
smile.
"What orphan are you talking about?" said he.
"Ah! so you know nothing about it all?"
"Nothing at all; I have been travelling for a long time. Tell me about
the orphan."
Then the old man, quite satisfied with having appeased the terrible
potter, who, though violent and passionate, was really good-hearted,
set to work to narrate his adventure, without omitting the least
incident or smallest detail, as peasants always do when they tell a
story; and fortunately he succeeded in telling it in such a way as to
interest and touch Procope. The old potter called his servant that she
might hear it also; and thanks to Iermola's touching recital, a whole
hour passed without their knowledge. True feeling called forth true
feeling; and pity arose in their hearts.
Procope continued to swear and grumble, now, however, no longer at his
visitor, but at those unworthy, miserable, wretched creatures who had
been so hard-hearted as to abandon a poor child to all the chances of
fate and the miseries of an orphan's life. Iermola's situation
consequently interested him and excited his pity; perhaps also the
remembrance of the dreaded lord, so well known to all his serfs,
contributed to increase this favourable impression. To make a long
story short, when the little company rose from the table, after having
talked for several hours, the potter promised Iermola to come to
Popielnia the next day to see the child and look for clay.
Having obtained this promise, which was sealed in a good bumper of
brandy, Iermola returned to the _dwor_ to inform his protector of the
fortunate result of his day's visit; then hastening through the woods
by an unfrequented path, he reached Popielnia, anxious about his little
charge and fearful lest Horpyna had hindered him from sleeping by too
much petting, or made him sick by stuffing him with sweets.
Tired and dusty, his lips parched, his brow damp with perspiration,
full of anxiety concerning the next day's interview with Procope, and
trembling lest he had entertained vain hopes and lost precious time,
Iermola at last reached the widow's cabin. He immediately seized his
dear little Radionek and devoured him with kisses as though he had not
seen him for a year; then not desiring to confess to his neighbour the
proceedings of the day, he hastened to return to his own cabin.
The next morning he was up at daybreak. He was obliged again to intrust
the baby to Horpyna, for it would have been impossible to hold him in
his arms as he wandered about the vicinity with Procope; then he busied
himself sweeping and arranging his cabin, putting out a flask of
brandy, and roasting in his oven a good-sized piece of meat for
Procope's dinner, knowing he would not be content with a little, for he
was accustomed to living very abundantly.
The potter of Malyczki kept his promise faithfully; about eight o'clock
in the morning his little one-horse carriage stopped before the old
inn. They put up the mare as well as possible in a half-fallen angle of
the wall, and then, as Procope, after having taken two or three drinks
of brandy, asked to go first to see the baby, they immediately repaired
to the widow's cabin. They were probably expected, judging from the
sumptuous reception which was offered them.
The old woman, anxious to second Iermola's efforts, and urged on by her
vanity to appear liberal and magnificent in the presence of her guest,
had prepared an excellent soup of oatmeal and gruel, a large dish of
sausages,--the favourite meat of the inhabitants of Popielnia,--and
also a large and appetizing omelet, which greatly added to the luxury
of the reception, and at the same time gave the potter a great idea of
the widow's opulence.
Consequently the old artisan, overflowing with good-humour, thought the
baby pretty, interesting, and good; it is true that Iermola expatiated
upon all his virtues and precocious characteristics.
At last,
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