Chapter I: E R M O L a (4)

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.