Chapter I: E R M O L a (5)

At last, a little later, as the poor foster-father was burning with impatience, the two men left the cabin to go off on their search for potter's clay, though Procope separated himself with evident regret from the dishes and bottles, and would gladly have deferred the expedition to another time.

Iermola sent up fervent prayers to God from the very bottom of his heart, imploring Him to point out to him some good clay; for to tell the truth, he had not the least idea where to go to look for any, and had scarcely any hope of finding it. He, however, comforted himself by saying that Providence often accomplished more than men dared hope for. Having always heard that oak-trees grow best in clay soil, and knowing that the peasants went to look at the foot of the trees around his garden, in the very place where the baby had been put, for the clay which they used to repair their cabins, he resolved, guided by some vague instinct, to go first to that spot.

The two men took from Iermola's cabin a large strong spade, and went together down the little slope which led to the bottom of the garden. Procope, in order to appear important, walked slowly, with both hands stuck through his belt.

"Why, there is nothing here but pure sand," said the old potter at first. "The clay, if there is any, must be underneath it; and who knows if it is good for anything? It seems to me we had better look somewhere else."

They went on a few steps farther, and when they came to the big oak, which Iermola had christened Radionek's tree, the old man took a notion to dig in that place.

Procope, who, naturally listless, disliked exertion, seated himself quietly on the ground; and Iermola, spitting upon his hands, went bravely to work. The first spadefuls of earth he threw up were absolutely worthless; it was only white sand, then gray sand, then yellow sand, then gravel. Suddenly the spade encountered something heavier, more compact, and offering greater resistance; and digging down, Iermola found some clay. But this clay would not do: it was yellow and full of small pebbles; it was thoroughly mixed with sand and gravel.

Iermola offered a sample of it to Procope on the spade, but he contented himself with giving it a scornful glance and shrugging his shoulders.

"Dig deeper; dig somewhere else," he growled, red and breathless from the effect of his recent good cheer; "and--see here, give me your pipe."

Iermola at that moment would have given not only his pipe, but even his last shirt, to conciliate the good graces of the old potter; so quickly taking his clay pipe, which was already lighted, from his lips, he handed it to his companion, and bending down, he silently went to work again with his spade.

At the bottom of this layer of clay another appeared, thicker and deeper, but Procope was not satisfied with that; it was not the real potter's clay. Underneath the third layer suddenly appeared a sort of green earth, very curious-looking, dense and compact as stone, of a dirty cloud-colour and filled with fawn-coloured veins. As he saw this strange, disgusting-looking earth, Iermola felt cold in his very heart; he threw down his last spadeful of earth with a jerk, and almost breathless, leaned upon his spade. At that moment Procope's eye caught sight of a few pieces of earth which rolled to his feet; his face lighted; he stooped, took a bit of it in his fingers, mashed it and cracked it with his teeth.

"Oh, ho!" he cried, in a transport of delight, "You surely knew about this bed of clay. Do you know what sort of earth this is? Why, it is a kind of potter's clay which never has been found within twenty leagues around; there is none known of nearer than Wlodzimiez. Ah, you old raven, old rogue! I did not know you were so designing," continued Procope, letting fall his pipe.

Iermola was struck dumb with astonishment at these words; but he comprehended the necessity of appearing to have acted knowingly, while in reality the hand of Providence alone had led him.

He smiled mysteriously and shook his head.

"And is the bed deep? Dig a little farther and see," said the potter. "When I say that there is not such clay within twenty leagues from here, so tender and strong, and as fat to eat as butter-- Unless you go to Wlodzimiez-- Oh, such pots as we shall bake! Such pots!"

They both then began to dig, and soon discovered a thick and abundant bed of clay. True, they again came upon some veins of whiter earth, mixed with gravel and sand; but these slight layers soon disappeared, and the precious clay, thick and greenish, was there alone, rich and inexhaustible. They carried some of it away with them in an old cloak,--a good big lump which they wanted to try; and having drunk several bumpers to finish up the affair, Procope remounted his carriage and took the road to Malyczki.

Thus it was that the discovery was made at Popielnia of clay, the existence of which had until then never been suspected. That very evening the future potter, the first of all the potters who have rendered the village famous, knelt down in his chamber after Procope's departure, his eyes wet with tears of joy, and prayed fervently.

"The child will have bread!" he cried, perfectly wild with delight. "I thank Thee, my God! Thou hast heard my prayer. The child will have bread!"

XI.

A POTTERY AT POPIELNIA.

"The Lord God feeds and clothes his servants," says the Slavic proverb; and the servants of God are men of kindly hearts, throughout whose lives the guiding hand and love of God is as clearly seen as in the destiny of the children of darkness may be traced the result of sin and evil.

This world is so wisely regulated and so skilfully directed that all the good done here bears good fruit by reason of natural causes; while evil carries with it not only its punishment, but in addition the principles and germs of evil. Often the inevitable results of these two great causes are for a time invisible to the eyes of men; a day comes, however, when one sees appear upon the surface what has been fermenting in the vast depths. Often too the great results of good and evil, done here below, are not made manifest in this world; the justice of God, hindering us from seeing them, allows us only to have a presentiment of them. There is one thing certain,--that wherever in this life one meets with faith, love, and devotion, he can be sure also of finding peace of mind and heart, superhuman strength and power.

There is in this world nothing like this for directing the will and making it a power. Love has insight, spiritual presentiments, an innate intelligence, an instinctive knowledge, which amount to infallibility.

Wherever love is found, and under whatever form it appears, when one meets it, one recognizes his king. The animal, raised and animated by love, becomes human. Maternal tenderness, devotion, and fidelity ennoble it. There is nothing sadder in this world, nothing more repulsive, than a life blasted by selfishness and hatred, by the voluntary separation of one being from the duties and interests of others.

The world is framed and bound together by this great tie of love, which makes it one, entire and lasting; and the heart in which no love exists is excluded from the family of God.

Love had sufficed to transform, to strengthen, to rejuvenate Iermola, this weak and poor old man; it had come to the brink of the tomb to give him a new life and to give him more strength than he had had in his youth. You ask me perhaps why I have chosen a being so small and so weak as the representative of a feeling so sublime and generous. But he who has love in his heart is never either small or weak. As for the rest, I shall here repeat the Latin axiom, _Natura maxime miranda in minimis_. This truth was not made to be perceived only by the microscopic world of learned men and naturalists; in the moral world there are very many opportunities to apply it.

But to return to the moment when that fine potter's clay was found at Popielnia,--a great event in the life of our old man,--everything came to him abundantly and without trouble; everything appeared easy to him, although neither the village people nor strangers could understand how an old and almost decrepit man had been able to learn a trade of which until then he had been entirely ignorant. But with man, will is everything; and when a powerful feeling directs it, to what elevated aim may not the two attain?

The clay was tried at Malyczki, where Procope's pottery kiln was all ready for use; and when Procope had turned a couple of pots out of the new clay, after marking them, he put them in among his others. As soon as the kiln was cold, they hastened to take out the pots and examine them, and found two which were white, pretty, light, and resonant, quite different from those made of the Malyczki clay; the sight of them alone threw Procope and all who were present into ecstasies of delight.

Neither of them had cracked during the firing, and when they were both taken to Popielnia and put in the widow's cottage, every one in the village came to see the wonderful things; and Iermola, perfectly beside himself, hugged the two jugs and wept.

After this it was easy enough to come to an understanding with Procope with regard to the apprenticeship to the trade, the construction of the kiln, setting up the wheel, and other necessary implements; the most difficult part of the business was conciliating the terrible steward Hudny, whose permission was indispensable before digging the clay or building the kiln in the garden. Fortunately, the steward's wife proposed to make something by this new industry. One of the new pots was given her to try; and after that Hudny put no more insurmountable obstacles in the way of the manufacturers. Not being willing, however, to depart from his long-established custom, he gave Iermola to understand that he would be obliged to pay him cash if he expected to obtain permission to work at his trade. So many obligations, so many necessary expenses now overwhelmed the future potter,--who was still unacquainted with his future trade,--that he scarcely knew how he should be able to undertake it. Procope was not willing to give him his time for nothing; the establishment, the tiles, the different instruments, and the digging of the clay were all sources of expense. The poor man's room was now too small; he had to repair, as well as he could, another one, which was next to it. All these preparations caused much loss of time; and the little supply of money was diminished and exhausted with frightful rapidity.

So before the poor man could be in a condition to make anything by his new business, he was compelled to go considerably into debt. Once he thought of using Radionek's money, which he had put away so carefully; but he could not make up his mind to resort to that means. He feared, moreover, and not without reason, lest he should be annoyed by disagreeable conjectures, and exposed perhaps to painful persecutions, if he chanced to allow even one ducat to be seen in his hands.

Fortunately, the widow, while she scratched her ear and shook her head, decided from time to time to open one of her sacks in order to help her old friend, for she was sincerely attached to him as well as to Radionek, the beautiful adopted child. Nevertheless, as the expenses increased, she grew more and more afraid that the whole pottery business would be a failure; and she frequently reproached herself for having encouraged the old man to choose that trade.

Procope, whom the old chief of squadron had ordered into his presence, telling him in plain terms that he expected Iermola's business to be successful, had set himself bravely to work, hoping, however, secretly to derive considerable profit for himself.

As for Mr. Steward Hudny, Iermola paid him twenty florins for permission to dig clay and build a kiln. Then he was obliged to hire two workmen to fit up and plaster another room. A fortnight from that time old Iermola hauled, mixed, and prepared the clay, turned and dried his pots, and was at last ready to fire the first pottery which had ever been manufactured in Popielnia. Procope undertook to watch the fire; and the first burning succeeded so well that on the whole there were very few pots injured.

Then when all the pots had been carried in and ranged round the room, the eyes of the two old men sparkled with delight, their handiwork looked so good and so pretty, was so resonant, so round, and so neat, and promised to be so good and solid. The pots stood the second firing splendidly, and as novelties are the rage even in a village, at the expiration of a few days they were all sold out,--not one jug or dish was left. The profits of the sales, it is true, were not sufficient to pay off all the debts; but the cossack's widow received a part of what was due her, the old man kept some for himself, Procope made a feast with the portion which came to him, the steward's wife pocketed her share, and Iermola, justly proud, entertained brilliant hopes for the future.

In the midst of all these worries Iermola never lost sight of little Radionek, and always kept him in his arms as much as possible. The child gave less trouble every day; one could almost see him grow. His intelligence developed; and it was evident already that he would one day be a charming frolicsome child. In his busiest moments Iermola intrusted him to Horpyna, who was always glad to have him; but he never allowed him to spend the night under a strange roof, for he was too lonely without him. When the baby was away, the poor goat did not know what to do with herself. If she stayed with the baby, she missed the old man; if she followed Iermola, she would bleat sadly as if calling for Radionek.

Fortunately, the first hours spent in the stupid lessons of his apprenticeship passed so rapidly that Iermola became convinced of the truth of the proverb, "It is not the saints who make the pots boil." Thanks to his quick mind, he learned rapidly the first principles of his art; but the turning and sizing of pots, the manipulation and preparation of the clay, were far more easy to comprehend than the manner of arranging the pottery in the kiln and managing the fire. The care necessary to keep the fire moderate, to prevent its going out, and to extinguish it at the proper time, so that the pots should not be burned too much, was the greatest difficulty of all for him,--a difficulty which could only be overcome by long habit and experience.

Procope, who was anxious to make himself very necessary to the old man, only half revealed to him the secrets of his art, which in great measure Iermola was therefore obliged to guess at, and only learned the truth after long groping in the dark. His strong and tenacious will enabled him to concentrate all the faculties of his mind on this one object; and this was a great help to him.

By the time the winter was over, and spring once more clothed in verdure and flooded with water the shores of the river Horyn, when the mariners again appeared on its banks with their rafts, Iermola had really, in every sense of the word, become a potter; his whole stock of pottery was sold at once to the carpenters and woodcutters in the forest. They literally grabbed for them; and the steward's wife was seriously angry because none were left for her, and the old man was obliged to give up even the small dishes he had kept for himself.

Meantime little Radionek grew and developed every day, and possessed every grace and beauty which were necessary to delight a father's heart.

He already began to call Iermola by that dear name, and this brought the tears to the old man's eyes; the child was learning to walk alone, and no longer needed the old goat, for he could now manage to eat a crust of bread, and the good Jewess was only needed to amuse him.

At the end of the year a little kid was added to the family; Iermola was not vexed at this, although he was sometimes much displeased to see that the Jewess bestowed her attention upon her young offspring to the neglect of his adopted son. Radionek played with his innocent, frolicsome little brother in such a pretty, sportive fashion that the old man, as he watched them, often held his sides for laughter, and this furnished him excellent reasons for going and embracing his child and being grateful to the kid.

Thus into this solitary ruin, which a year before had been dreary and almost deserted, hope, joy, and life had entered with the foundling child. One would scarcely have recognized Iermola, he seemed so much younger, and was so active, contented, and clever. The portion of the inn which he inhabited had been repaired and carefully covered, and another room furnished next his; the garden where the kiln stood was shut in by a small, very solid gate and by carefully trimmed hedges; it was evident that the good man was gradually acquiring comfort and competency. Iermola had employed a servant to help him and to take care of the goats; he was a little orphan about ten years old named Huluk. It was impossible for Iermola to do everything by himself; and now he had enough to pay for the child's services.

He really needed a woman in the cabin; but the widow came often and overlooked the household. Besides, his bread was baked, and his linen washed and mended at her house; and it was she also who prepared most of his dishes and undertook to make provision for the winter.

Every time that Iermola boasted to her of the results of his trade, she reminded him of her broken pot, which had first suggested the idea to him; and there is no telling how many times she told the story over, and commented on the accident. Providence had also granted her what she desired most; for her Horpyna had at last made a very brilliant marriage.

The young secretary who had for so long been attentive to Horpyna and made her frequent visits, after much hesitation, reflection, and a great struggle with his feelings, had concluded to listen only to the voice of his heart and asked her mother's consent to their marriage. This was not exactly the person the widow would have chosen, though her daughter was marrying an officer and making a brilliant match. She would have greatly preferred that she should have married a rich peasant, a farmer, who would probably have lived near her. But the young man would not hear of such a plan; he was preparing himself to be a surveyor, and was ambitious. The widow therefore was obliged to give up her daughter, and live alone at Popielnia on the small estate which the old lord had given her. The wedding was very elegant; and the next day after, when the young man, impatient to be settled in his own house, had carried off his bride, the widow, not being able to remain all alone in her deserted cottage, where everything reminded her of her daughter, went and spent the whole day with her friend Iermola. From that time she rarely passed a day without going to his house, for she could talk freely with him about her dear Horpyna, of her utter loneliness and her sad old age; and as Radionek at such times touched her heart and distracted her mind, she gradually became very fond of him.

XII.

PATERNAL HAPPINESS.

We now pass over an interval of ten years before we again seek the child and old man whom we left growing and working, and dreaming hopefully of the future.

Everything in the neighbourhood had changed very much, and nothing more than Radionek, whom no one would have recognized, he had grown so tall and handsome.

The peasants, whose children, early accustomed to rough work, grow slowly and seem with difficulty to get away from the earth, looked upon Iermola's adopted son with astonishment, and shook their heads, saying that he must owe all his strength, elegance, and beauty to the vigorous blood and strong constitution which he inherited by birth. None of his little companions in the village could be compared to him; and it was certain that none of them had such a father as his, or had been, like him, surrounded from the cradle by constant care and tender love. Radionek's appearance attracted every one at once; his features were fine and remarkably regular, his face rather too oval, his nose straight, his mouth small and expressive, his eyes brown and full of fire and life, and his whole countenance full of pride and happiness, sensibility and strength. His hair was cut close above his forehead after the Polesian fashion, thus revealing still more the nobility of his expression by exposing his brow; his beautiful, fine long hair, which had been allowed to grow on the back of his head, fell in golden curls upon his shoulders. Seeing the elegance of his vigorous and supple body, one could scarcely believe that he had been deprived of his natural nourishment when an infant. The breadth of his shoulders foretold a figure of unusual height and strength; the simplicity of his education, which had early accustomed him to rough work, inconveniences of all sorts, and the inclemency of the seasons, had gifted him with the agility, vigour, and elasticity of a young wild animal.

The expression of Radionek's eyes betokened a bright clear mind; he had a firm, frank glance, as though he knew nothing about the struggles and burdens of life, or at least, if he knew of them, did not fear them. The child, young and full of curiosity, lively and tender, animated by pure and ardent sentiments, owed his amiable qualities and his uncommon development to the affectionate heart and tender love of his excellent father. Thus it is that the love of one being is shed upon all who surround him, elevates and ennobles them, and bestows upon them intelligence and strength,--unique and precious gifts which no other power on earth can bring them. Radionek, who felt himself surrounded by Iermola's care and protection, and who from his infancy had seen about him only what was cordial and tender, was accustomed to sweet sentiments, and had imbibed them; he loved all things,--and loving, he was happy. All the inhabitants of the village considered him their nursling; and with the exception of the steward Hudny, who was still at Popielnia, though each year he made preparations to take a large farm, there was not a single person who did not take great pleasure in welcoming and petting the little boy.

In all their plays, in all their undertakings, the children of the village, both girls and boys, obeyed the slightest sign from Radionek; and although he was a little better clothed and was handsomer than any of them, and though he knew more than they did, he never took advantage of his superiority, or even overestimated it. He was pleasant and affable to all, and never wounded any one. It is rare that any real father ever watches over and teaches his child as Iermola watched over and taught Radionek. During his earliest years, he had cared for his body; later, when his ears and his eyes were opened, he began to awaken his soul and to prepare him for the struggles of life.

The instinct of affection had in this respect guided him marvellously; and thus was wrought imperceptibly one of the miracles of life. The master learned and developed along with his pupil. Will had enlarged and softened his heart; feeling had elevated and enlightened his mind. In seeking for the true and the good for his child, Iermola had found them for himself; the chilled, sleeping, half-dead seed had produced fruit, late, but excellent and fine.

The old man, wishing to instruct the child, had been obliged first to learn himself; he had studied, compared, reflected, meditated, prayed, and he had finally learned by the power of love what is rarely accomplished by wit and reason. He knew but little, it is true; but that little was a great deal. The child knew how to read, and read no book but the Bible.

Here it was that he found nourishment, from the healthful source of life.

Besides, the old man, who feared constantly that he might die and leave Radionek entirely orphaned, had taken care to teach him his trade as soon as he had acquired some skill and quickness, and to make him fully acquainted with all the little secrets of his daily work, the knowledge of which gives a man independence and teaches him to depend upon himself. Our peasants are still in that stage of barbarism which belongs to half-civilized people, and which gives them a certain superiority over civilized races, enabling them to supply all their own wants. Even a very young villager knows how to do a great many things. Every day he is obliged to try his skill in some way; he is at once farm-hand, carpenter, miller, architect, mason, dyer, weaver, and in almost any case of urgent necessity he easily succeeds in doing what is needed.

Among people living in a state of higher civilization and bound together by joint responsibility, the case is quite different. Such a mode of living reduces them to real inferiority; the English emigrants who settle as colonists in new countries almost all succumb to the difficulties of a life which is unendurable to them. Not only in large cities, but even in the villages, the necessaries of life can all be bought ready-made, and consequently each one knows only one trade; all necessities can be obtained by exchange. It is true that in this way each particular article is skilfully manufactured and sold cheaply, and a profit is made by exchange. We cannot, however, recognize as healthy and beneficial the result of civilization in the exclusive employment of the faculties of man, which in time transforms him into a sort of machine, and if he is thrown out of his place, in the end renders him useless, as a wheel cast from the axle. This evil is only the fatal consequence of the imprudent and excessive division of labour, which offers great advantages doubtless, but which, carried to an extreme, presents great dangers. In this respect our nation is not yet subject to the prejudices which in the West exercise such a baleful influence.

Iermola, like every peasant of his time, knew therefore a great many things which he had learned in the business and events of ordinary life; and if he did not place these things in the honourable rank of attainments, they nevertheless constituted for him an inestimable treasure.

A potter by trade, and a very skilful potter, he was at the same time a tolerable fisherman, having learned, at first for his own amusement, to use the netting-needle and to set weirs. He used the axe skilfully, was not unacquainted with the different sorts of work necessary in a mill, was an excellent teamster, and knew a great many things in connection with out-of-door work which are usually known only by regular farm-hands.

While the child, during these ten years, had grown wonderfully and become much handsomer, our good Iermola had grown very little older; there was scarcely any noticeable change in his appearance. He stooped perhaps a little more; and sometimes his limbs were stiffer and more weary. He still devoted himself constantly to his adopted son, and worked in his pottery; and this continual activity kept up his courage and strength. One of the most important secrets of the higher knowledge of life--which unfortunately is not learned from the lips of a master--is a healthful and constant employment. Many old men have prematurely given up life, which they might have sensibly prolonged if they had not allowed the fire to grow cold and die out. In the laborious life of peasants all the hours of the day are occupied; the body does not languish in weak repose; motion strengthens and preserves it. With us, very often intellectual languor and idle effeminacy kill the body, formed to move and act; the unused organs fall into a sort of atrophy; the intellectual faculties even, reduced to inaction, wear out and are destroyed; we sleep and sleep, and finally we cannot waken. Iermola, on the contrary, lived a life of labour and motion; consequently he did not seem to grow old, he at most only faded.

In fact, the manufacture of his pottery was not very laborious, neither were the household duties which devolved upon him; Radionek and Huluk spared him all the most tiresome work. But his life was not an idle one; and he did not give up a single hour more to rest during the day under pretexts of fatigue or great old age.

The deep peace which reigned in his mind and heart contributed wonderfully toward preserving him in such a healthy and happy condition. He could not even imagine that any one would some day come and demand the child of him, and have the right to take him away. A few years more and he would see Radionek, his darling child, a man, comfortably settled, married, no longer needing help, flying with his own wings. The trade in pottery increased daily. Old Procope had died a few years after Iermola had ended his apprenticeship with him; and his pottery kiln, managed by a young servant, had yielded only more and more indifferent articles till it had finally fallen entirely into disuse.

But Iermola had no need of this favourable circumstance to dispose of his pottery, for which there was always an excellent market; but he was none the less well pleased to find that the town of Malyczki was henceforth supplied from Popielnia. Moreover, the vessels made from his excellent clay were so solid and so light, had, in fact, so many attractive qualities, that it was not necessary to recommend them very much; it was not even necessary to carry them very far, but only to the little neighbouring town, where the Jews and hawkers bought them up at once. The potters in the vicinity made only extremely fragile ware, of a dark, heavy sort of clay; consequently, as soon as white pottery was put upon the market, there was a rush for it, and it sold for much better prices than the other.

Iermola made only pots and dishes and housekeeping utensils of different sizes, shaping them always after the long-used models, and never thought of inventing other forms; but Radionek, who had now grown to be quite a big boy and was becoming every day more active, inquiring, and mischievous, began to weary of turning and burning perpetually the same vessels of the same old-fashioned shape. At first he began to vary the stripes and the red festoons which are always found on the pottery of the country; he amused himself by getting up new and more complicated and elegant designs, which he constantly altered. Then he took it into his head to give new and less simple forms to his dishes,--to make plates, pitchers, and little twin vases, of a quite new curve and design. Finally, he undertook to manufacture clay toys for children, and even small figures of horses, which also served as whistles, thus carrying out without knowing it the old Hindoo tradition; for in the old Indian land small horses made of baked clay are still used as talismans in the fields and gardens. All his playthings were badly baked and not very successful; but the old man had not the heart to forbid his dear Radionek such childish amusements.

When for the first time all these new shapes and designs of pottery ware were taken to the fair and displayed in the market, the good women gathered round them and shook their heads long and gravely. Such novelties frightened them and seemed useless; they were accustomed only to the old sizes and shapes, and severely criticised these innovations. But these little fancy articles, being cheap and amusing, pleased the children and young girls; the rich villagers bought for their children the little horses and twin vases instead of _obwarzanki_[6] and honey cakes; and by the time the fair was over, the whole supply was well sold. Iermola, highly delighted, smiled as he stooped down and kissed Radionek's forehead; and the boy clapped his hands, jumped up, and threw his arms around Iermola's neck.

But at this same fair our Radionek spied some glazed porringers and plates, some saucepans which were of a beautiful green colour inside, and other utensils ornamented with a brilliant vitreous glazing which Iermola and he did not know how to give to their wares; and the boy began to feel anxious and somewhat envious.

They returned home; Radionek was quite gloomy.

"What is the matter? Should you not, on the contrary, be rejoicing?" said Iermola to him. "Your little designs have been successful beyond your expectations; why are you making yourself miserable, my child?"

The child looked up at him and embraced him in silence. "See here, father," said he, after a moment, "when I think of all those beautiful glazed things, I cannot sleep."

"Those glazed things? You wish to make some like them? And what good would that do? Our wares, such as they are, sell well, thank God! In order to make glazed dishes, you must have another kind of clay, and work it in another way, and perhaps use other implements; that would give us a great deal of trouble. Why bother our heads with it all?"

"But, father, you did not see how much the merchants charged for their glazed porringers. And how beautiful they were, all painted with different-coloured flowers, and so solid and neat-looking! The people said that nothing one might put into them would stain them, as is the case with other kinds, and also that it is much less trouble to keep them clean. Now, father, why should not we make them also?"

"Good Lord! what sort of an idea have you taken into your head?" cried Iermola, with a sigh, for he was content with his present life, and desired no other. "You do not know, my child, how difficult it is. As for me, it is too late for me to learn new things; and for you, it is too soon. If you desire it very much, you can learn when you are a man."

To this Radionek made no reply. He kept to himself the earnest desire which he had conceived; and though in the bottom of his heart he never forgot the beautiful glazed pottery, he spoke no more about it, for fear of worrying the old man.

But the good father desired above all things to gratify his child's wishes, although he did not sympathize with his youthful hopes, which might lead to such bitter disappointment if the enterprise was unsuccessful. Good Iermola therefore resolved to spare neither time nor pains until he could somehow make that unfortunate glazed pottery; and as he never decided upon any important matter without consulting his neighbour the widow, he went out one evening to ask her advice.

In this other house also, the ten years which had passed had brought many noticeable changes, which had come about gradually and almost insensibly; the widow had lost some of her strength, but she continued to manage actively her house and farm. Horpyna, now the wife of a steward, lived a few miles away; having begun life making her own dresses and wearing a silk handkerchief on her head, she now wore bonnets and hats, and was not quite happy when her mother came to see her, because she wished to pass as the daughter of a gentleman. She rarely came to Popielnia; and when she did come, it was always because she had some request to make of her mother. The old widow of Harasym was always thankful for these short and rare visits, and was always ready to give anything Horpyna asked, provided she had the comfort of seeing her daughter and her grandchildren. When very soon Horpyna would prepare to depart and would not consent to leave one of her children with her mother, the poor old woman would burst into tears, and for several days she would remain seated silently in front of her stove, scorching her face and swallowing her tears; but lest she should bring shame upon her daughter, she regarded her wishes and never went to her house. This continual solitude and constant longing had rendered the widow much sadder than formerly; she found her only consolation in the companionship of Iermola, to whom she could speak of Horpyna and make her lamentations. He in his turn talked to her of Radionek, and in any important matter always sought the advice and experience of his old friend.

So at this moment, when the question of undertaking the manufacture of glazed pottery arose, he hastened to take counsel of her, leaving Radionek and Huluk busy about some work in the shop.

"Well, what news have you brought from the market?" asked the widow. "Did my Horpyna happen to be there?"

"Yes, she was there," said Iermola. "One is scarcely able to recognize her, she has become such a fine lady; she was driving in a painted carriage with two horses and handsome leather harness. They put up at the hotel, and came out to the fair grounds to make purchases."

"And she did not ask you anything about me?" sighed the old woman.

"Of course,--of course she did; how could she have failed to do so? She charged me to give you her love, and she called to me from her carriage for the express purpose; she patted my little Radionek's cheeks."

"And did she have any of her children with her?"

"No, not one."

And this exchange of question and answer would have continued endlessly had not the widow been struck with the expression of anxiety and grief upon her neighbour's face.

"But what is the matter with you? Are you sick, old man?" said she.

"Ah! you are right," answered Iermola, sighing and seating himself on the bench; "I have another great trouble."

"Well, well! tell me about it. We will see what can be done."

"Ah! this will be a difficult matter to remedy. My youngster, who is obstinate and impetuous as any crazy young thing, has seen the glazed pottery at the fair; and now he has taken it into his head to manufacture some of it, and I cannot possibly make him give up the idea."

"Well, did I not tell you so?"

"What did you tell me?"

"Why, don't you remember? When he began to make his little horses, and his little queer-shaped jugs which scarcely held a pint apiece, I predicted that by the end of the year he would be wishing to make beautiful fine pottery."

"Well, it has happened as you said," answered Iermola, "and now it is impossible to make him listen to reason. I have said what I could to him, but that does not prevent my being anxious to please him; and I really do not know how to do it."

"Why, go and examine the glazed ware closely."

"Ah, mother, I would willingly do that; but it would not help me at all. It is not difficult to turn the dishes; but to glaze them is a very difficult matter, because several drugs must be mixed together for that purpose, and besides, one must know how long to bake them. My eyes are not very good now, and neither is my memory," sighed the old man. "But if you only knew, mother, how much I would like to please my child!"

"But how can you do it?"

"I do not know yet at all; but even if one cannot succeed, one can always try."

"Yes, I am sure of that," answered the widow, with a smile; "how can you possibly refuse your child anything? I know all about that, you see. I was just so about my Horpyna; we scold and fret, but we end by doing what they wish. Consequently you will go, my poor old man, to learn to make the fine glazed pottery."

"Yes, certainly I shall go," sighed Iermola. "Only I would not like the child to know about it. If I should not succeed, it would trouble him very much, but if I could only learn all by myself-- Good Lord, how glad I would be!"

"That's just the way I used to do,--just the way," cried the widow. "Ah, my God! I know all about it. But tell me, where would you go?"

"I would take a little money and go and look up one or two of the potters who sold the glazed ware at the fair; they might teach me if I paid them. If I did not succeed at once, I would take the child; he would understand at once. The only thing I fear is that they would drive me away. How could I propose such a thing to them,--to come to them to learn for the purpose of taking away their living?"

"Ah! you are right; you might not get along so easily perhaps as you did with Procope; but Nad syrotojn Boh z kalitojn,"[7] she added, "and with the help of Providence, you may be able to succeed."

"That is what I think," said Iermola, rising to take leave of the widow. "To-morrow I will pretend to have a little business, and will go to town; please, neighbour, while I am gone, have an eye upon Huluk and Radionek, and do not let them cut up any pranks. They would just as soon go out on the river in a leaky boat or do some other such silly thing."

"Oh, no; they are very quiet, reasonable boys."

"Yes, certainly they are, thank God; but they are so hot-blooded. If a notion strikes them, they are capable of getting lost in the forest, or jumping into the river. May God preserve us from any such misfortune!"

"But it will be hard to keep them near me."

"Certainly; but you can see what they do, and warn them, neighbour."

So saying, the two old people separated, and Iermola immediately announced to the boy that the Jews in the little town owed him some money for his pottery, and had told him to come for it after the fair was over; and that as he wished to collect all the little sums which were due him, he perhaps would be obliged to remain away some days.

He then enjoined upon both boys to be very good, and work well during his absence, and not to go near the river, or wander in the forest.

"Are you going to walk?" Radionek asked him.

"What do you mean? I surely shall not go in a carriage," answered the old man, smilingly.

"But couldn't you hire a wagon?"

"How could I? There is not a single horse in the whole village, except Chwedko's mare, which he would not lend for anything in the world; and as for being dragged along by oxen, I would rather walk. Besides, my legs swell when I sit all the time, and it will not do me any harm to stand up a while."

Poor old Iermola did not remember his age, and attributed the swelling of his limbs to his sedentary occupation, while it was really the effect of age and weakness. He was never willing to spend anything upon himself; and from the moment his business began to pay him anything, he put by all he could spare for Radionek, so that if he should die, the child would not be left penniless. He would certainly have preferred to use Chwedko's mare; but that would have cost him something, and Iermola was extremely economical in everything that concerned himself.

So Radionek was unable to persuade him to hire a wagon; but toward evening he sent Huluk to the village secretly, to learn whether any one was going to town. Then, as he had laid by a few coppers, the product of his work, he charged Huluk, if he found no other opportunity, to hire Chwedko's mare, enjoining it upon the old man to say that having himself some business in the town, he offered a seat gratis to his neighbour Iermola. Everything happened as fortunately as possible. Chwedko's wagon was not hired out for the next day; and the old man, having received two florins for his trouble, engaged positively to feign and lie. Accordingly, by the end of the evening Radionek had everything arranged; and when Huluk returned from the village Radionek went and kissed the old man's hand.

"Father," said he, as he did so, "we have just met Chwedko; he is going to town to-morrow with his mare, and he says that he is lonely by himself and wants you to go with him. In this way it will cost you nothing, good father."

"Chwedko? Where? How?" asked Iermola, in great surprise, as he embraced Radionek. "You are joking, my child, aren't you?"

"No, indeed; ask Huluk," replied Radionek, who exercised over his young valet an authority born of intelligence and affection.

"Oh, certainly not," answered the boy. "I understood him plainly, I assure you; he even begged that you should not start till he comes, for to-morrow, before day, he will be at the door of your cabin."

Iermola bent his head in token of consent, and after that was anxious only concerning the purpose of his journey.

At the bottom of his heart he was quite content to go with Chwedko and so rest his old limbs. He embraced Radionek once more, and then went to bed, always thinking about the beautiful glazed pottery.

Radionek, who was now silent on the subject, thought of it as much. Although he no longer spoke about it, lest he should worry the old man, in his dreams he was constantly handling the large dishes and beautifully glazed pitchers, all painted red and green and white, black and yellow, so as to make them bright and beautiful and attractive. The poor child wearied his brain trying to discover the secret of those preparations which to him seemed like magic, but having no idea, no suggestions on the subject, it was impossible for him to come anywhere near the truth; he could only sigh and worry and grow weary.

XIII.

THE GRAY MARE.

The morning of the next day was clear and bright; from early dawn the sky had been perfectly clear and radiant, which is the sign of a storm. A few fleecy white clouds hung above the forest,--an indication that a shower of rain would fall toward evening; the sun was burning hot; there was not a breath of air. Chwedko was as good as his word, and appeared with his horse and wagon at the appointed hour; he did more than this,--he carefully kept Radionek's secret. He went into the cottage to announce his arrival and light his pipe, calling Iermola hurriedly, as if he had gone out of his way, and complained of being obliged to go on the journey.

"Come, father, come; be quick! Are you ready? When there are two of us, the road will not seem so long. The Devil has sent me on a trip to the city; and the road is very long, and it is so hot. What will it be at noon? We must hurry. Sit down, sit down; do not be ceremonious!"

Iermola took his little bag of money and hid it in his bosom, and was then ready to start.

"Come, let us be off, neighbour."

The two old men sat down in the wagon on a bundle of hay, and Chwedko's gray mare, fastened by her collar surmounted by a bow of wood ornamented with little bells, having cast a glance at her master, decided to start, and went trotting through the village.

In the ordinary life of our lower classes, the creatures which aid them in their work and supply their needs form a portion of their society; the pet lamb, goat, cow, calf, horse, even the goose and hen of the courtyard become companions and sincere friends. How many cares and regrets are had on their account, and how much trouble they give!

From time to time they quarrel, fight, and injure one another; but if one of the household animals falls sick or dies, there is lamentation and weeping. Chwedko's gray mare, of which we should here make mention, for it richly deserves it, belonged to the class of the elect, with whom it is difficult to live, but who, nevertheless, cannot be dispensed with. Gifted with numberless good qualities and terrible faults, she constituted the entire wealth of her master; she was at once his consolation and his perpetual torment, and played a most important part in his life.

In the first place, she was almost the only animal of her kind in this village of Polesia, where the soil was cultivated almost entirely by the aid of oxen; she was consequently well known, respected, and depended upon to execute all pressing commissions, for which one was obliged to hire Chwedko and his horse. The old man, thanks to his gray mare, earned not less than three hundred florins a year; that is to say, three times more than the animal was worth, by taking merchandise to the town and hiring his wagon to the Jews. It might be said with truth that it was Chwedko's mare who fed her master. As for the mare herself, she ate very little. In summer she had no food but the fresh green grass, on which she browsed along the roadsides; in winter a little aftermath, straw from gleanings of grain, a handful of hay, very rarely a small bag of oats, sufficed for the poor beast, which was sober from necessity. Of medium size, old as the hills, healthy, and inured to fatigue, with a sharp backbone and strong neck, the gray mare possessed a bodily vigour which was only comparable to that of her character. When moderately loaded, she would start off at her little trotting pace, and continue the same indefatigably so long as she caught no sight of a stick; but strike her with it once, and from that moment no human power could force her to budge from the spot. Chwedko consequently only carried his stick as a matter of form, and because no villager ever left his cabin without one; but he took care never to show it to his gray, and if when a little tipsy, he inadvertently gave her a touch with it, he knew full well that he should be punished for it by remaining for at least half an hour, nailed to the spot.

The mare's instinct, rendered perfect by long experience, had become infallible; she always knew where her master was going, carried him, guided him, avoided the ruts and muddy places, chose the best roads, and stopped where it was necessary to stop, with a precision which was marvellous,--for the reins, as well as the stick, well-worn, were almost past use, and were there only as a matter of form. Chwedko talked with his mare as if he were talking to a man, only employing at such times a more sonorous voice, which the mare at once recognized as being intended for her alone. He praised her, petted her, encouraged her, and loved to talk to her so well that it had given rise to a proverb in the village where he lived; whenever any one told the same story frequently he would be jeered at and told, "Ah, that is Chwedko's mare."