Chapter I: E R M O L a (6)

The gray mare, naturally very grateful, knew no one but her master, and would not allow any one else to approach her, she was so obstinate and cross; he only could drive her or manage her. All the village people knew her as well as they had known Iermola's goat, which was now dead; as they knew Hudny's chestnut horse and Madam Szmula's black cow. A true type of the peasant horse, lean, small, bony, short and thickset, with heavy well-built legs and a full set of teeth, like all September colts, whose teeth always indicate youth, the gray, when starting out on an expedition, invariably limped with her left foot; but this slight infirmity disappeared when she became animated and warmed up.

She had a large head and one eye, slightly injured, and a rough coat; in many places the hair had come off, from a habit she had of rubbing herself against the stable wall. Her tail and mane were very thin, and much tangled, and to look at her one would not have given three coppers for her; yet nevertheless more than one fat nag, well-cared-for, well-fed, and handsome in appearance, would not have been able to compete with her in strength and endurance. She could go the whole day without eating, contenting herself with drinking; for the peasants and Jews water their horses six times a day, thinking thus to supply the place of hay, which they use so sparingly. Hunger was for her a thing usual and to be scorned; in the evening she satisfied her empty stomach with a little hay and a handful of oat-straw. She was not dainty; she did not care for bedding; she would find grass to browse upon in places so dry and barren that a goose even would not pasture there; she only insisted that no one should offend her.

When she scented a bag of oats anywhere, she invariably succeeded in getting at it and eating it; she did not fail to eat up the bark strings, finding them both pleasant and profitable. Whenever a strange horse ate his oats in her presence, she always succeeded in getting them away from him, even if it was necessary to fight for it; and she knew equally well how to defend herself against men and dogs, either with her teeth or her heels. Strangers could only approach her very cautiously, for she was always ready to salute them with a kick. This inestimable creature had already served Chwedko at least twenty years, and could not have been less than five years old when she was first put in harness; still up to this time, with the exception of a slight blowing, she had no defects.

Chwedko and Iermola, being seated in the wagon, and having lighted their pipes, began to talk together in a friendly fashion, without paying the slightest attention to the gray mare, who took upon herself the entire charge of keeping the road.

"Do you remember, neighbour, the day I made you buy the goat?" said the former, smiling. "Ah, ha! that was a good bargain. Szmula has never yet forgiven me for it."

"May God reward you, Chwedko! it was an excellent bargain. The goat is now dead, it is true; but she brought up the child for me."

"Yes, and he is a very pretty boy now; God bless him!"

"I should say he is pretty,--pink and rosy and fresh, as fresh as a strawberry. Ah, what a good child he is, what a dear child!" added Iermola; "it would take a year's time to tell how intelligent he is, and how prudent and honest and amiable."

"Just like my mare, if you'll excuse me," interrupted Chwedko; "my gray is a real treasure. Come, get up, my old woman; gee, gee, my dove, get up! And what an idea it was for you to become a potter in your old age!"

"Bless me! I had to make bread for the child."

"Certainly; but do you not think his parents will come for him some day?"

"And who would dare to come and take him from me?" cried Iermola, much agitated. "If they are coming to take him away, why should they ever have abandoned him?"

"One never can tell about these things," said Chwedko. "Sometimes parents abandon their children forever; but sometimes they come back and say, 'He is ours; you must give him back to us.'"

Iermola, still more agitated, trembled at these words.

"How is he theirs?" he cried. "How? The poor little innocent, did they not cast him away, throw him down under a hedge? And who picked him up, reared him, rocked, petted, and fed him? He is now more mine than theirs."

"You think so? Bless me! I know nothing about it," said Chwedko. "But I should figure it out another way. And have you ever told the little fellow how he happened to come to you?"

"I have kept nothing secret from him; moreover, the whole matter is known through the village. Some one would have told the child; what was the good of keeping it from him? I told him the whole story as soon as he could understand me; and he assured me at once that if his parents should now come for him, he would not leave me."

"He has a good heart."

"A heart of gold, I tell you, my little eaglet, my Radionek."

"Now tell me why you are going to town," said Chwedko, after a moment's pause.

"Must I tell you the real truth?" answered Iermola.

"Of course; but what notion have you taken up?"

"Well, I am not going to the next town; I am going farther."

"Really? Your little boy told me that you were going to collect your money from the Jews."

"Yes, I told him that; but I have another plan."

And here Iermola heaved a deep sigh, and then related to his companion the story of the glazed pottery, to which Chwedko only replied by a scornful laugh and a shrug of his shoulders.

"Ah, ah! your little fellow wants the moon. And since you are contented with your business, why not stick to it without running after new ideas? Sometimes, neighbour, people turn fools with trying to be too wise. You make simple, old-fashioned pottery, and you find purchasers, because even the poorest creature cannot do without some of them, the most wretched must have a pot to boil his vegetable stew. But it will be altogether a different thing with your glazed ware; you will be obliged to go to town to sell it, for no one will buy it in the village. The Jews will buy it from you and pay you a poor price. At the fair one makes little; it will be quite a different thing."

"But the child wishes to do it so very much."

"You will see that this will not help you at all."

"Perhaps it may be so; but how can I do it?"

"You may try, of course, for you will not mind the time. But do you believe that these potters will be sufficiently tempted by your money to give you the secrets of their art?"

"But I will pay them well."

"They are not so foolish as to give a florin for a penny. Do they not know that you want to take the bread out of their mouths? You are not going to learn for your amusement,--that is clear."

At these words, Iermola seemed troubled and bowed his head.

"All that is very true," said he; "but when once God has helped you, He never abandons you till the end. I hesitated very much before, when I went to see Procope; I did not even know where to go to find clay. Yet it was found, and everything succeeded, and now--well, something will turn up."

Something will turn up, is the great unanswerable argument of our poor people, to which they have recourse when all others fail,--an argument which answers for everything and puts an end to all difficulties, for it tacitly expresses faith in Providence and confidence in the intervention of God.

At this moment the gray mare, being accustomed always to eat her small ration of hay in front of the inn, situated about a third of the way and in the midst of the wood, did not go past the well-known place, but stopped of her own accord. Chwedko also got down here regularly to drink a small glass of brandy and light his pipe.

He felt, however, some confusion, seeing that the gray had stopped without his permission; he dared not, in Iermola's presence, go and take his dram without any excuse, but he got down from the wagon and threw a handful of hay to the mare.

"How warm it is!" said he, as he shook his pipe.

"It is indeed; the sun burns one."

"Would you like to go into the dining-room for a moment? Sometimes, when I feel as if there was something heavy on my stomach, I take a little dram."

"How about the heat?"

"Oh, a little brandy is refreshing."

"Very well, neighbour, let's take a drink; I will pay for it," said Iermola, as he got down from the wagon.

The inn in question was one among others where the Jew was constantly on the watch for the peasant, his poor dupe.

The Israelite who lived here did not hesitate to avow that he made his living by selling brandy. There was no courtyard in front of the inn and no stable for horses.

The house was crooked and broken-down, half in ruins and considerably sunken in the ground; but the narrow space in front of it showed at a glance that it was much frequented.

It was situated at a cross-road where three ways met, in the midst of an old forest of oak and undergrowth of alder, visibly damaged by the wheels of wagons, and offering a sight to travellers which at once explained the history of Dubowka (this was the name of the inn hidden among the brush-wood). All around there was nothing but remains of straw, hay, grain, bark, bones, bits of bread, egg-shells, fragments of broken china,--to say nothing of the different spots which showed plainly that many of the teams which stopped in front of the inn of Iuk remained there longer than they had intended.

Upon these remains of hay, straw, millings, and sometimes grain, the Jew's cow and goats, accustomed to live by plunder, grew fat, for as soon as a wagon appeared, one could be sure to see one of these animals steal from behind the house, with the step of a wolf, and retire quietly with the straw or hay upon which they proposed to feed. It was useless to try to drive them away even with a stick; in fact, they ran off whenever the door was opened, but returned again immediately with the double persistency of hunger and gluttony.

The old labourers, being well acquainted with the habits of the place, never left their wagons in front of the inn without leaving their wives or children standing, whip in hand, to drive off the bold invaders. But these impertinent creatures were so sly! if for a moment the children would turn their heads or the mothers begin to scold, one of the goats would jump up on his hind-feet at the back of the wagon and do much damage. Iuk, the owner of the inn, was a little Jew of the very worst kind; lame and quarrelsome, a fool, but a fool after the manner of Sologne, avaricious and mean, in every sense of the words, he cheated and stole from the peasants, without the slightest consideration or shame, and often ended his quarrels with them by fighting with his fists, knowing very well that he would make them repay him in money for every bruise or blow he might receive; and whether beaten or beating, he would always manage to get the advantage.

How he succeeded in living night and day in such endless tumult and turmoil, in constant fuss and noise, never closing his doors, and only lying down to sleep about daybreak on an empty bench, is something that never will be understood.

Iuk knew every one, having studied carefully not only each individual in his own community, but also each one of those belonging to the small neighbouring towns. As soon as the wagons of the peasants of the vicinity stopped before his door, he knew at the first glance whether he must be ready to receive them with a smile, a blow of his fist, a low bow, or a scornful expression.

"Those from Popielnia," said he, "are all great lords; they must always have an onion or a clove of garlic to eat with their bit of bread, and almost every one of them buys a buttered roll. Those from Malyczki are good workmen, but better drunkards; and from Wiezbera they are all Bohemians, all thieves."

The Jew, having seen from his window the gray head of Chwedko's mare, recognized at once the custom which was coming to him; and as there was at that moment no one in the inn, he came out upon the door-sill.

"Ha! ha! ha!" said he, stretching his limbs, "here is Chwedko going to the city again. What business have you there, my good fellow, that you go there so often? And you also, old potter? This is not market-day. You have some engagement down there, doubtless."

"Yes, you are right; an engagement."

"Meantime, give us a glass of good brandy."

"Why do you say good?" returned Iuk, bridling up. "Do I ever have any bad at my house? There is none at the house of Szmula, your great lord, like mine, you well know; and he pours it out half water, at that."

"That is all true; Iuk's brandy is real good, pure gin," said Chwedko, spitting as he spoke, for his mouth began to water.

"I tell you there is none in all the neighbourhood like it. Do me the favor to taste it; you will see that only the nobility drink better. Old, fragrant, clear, strong, it is more than twelve years old; I bought it at Bebnow. It cost me dear; but I love what is good, I do,--that is my way."

As they spoke, they entered the room, to which one had to descend as into a cellar, for the wretched building had sunk considerably into the ground. The ceiling almost rested on the heads of the inhabitants; and the well-trodden dirt floor, which took the place of a plank one, had sunk so low that the windows of the inn were, on the outside, on a level with the ground.

The peculiar situation of this old building; the elevation of the small place in front, where the vehicles stopped; the entire absence of paving or any drainage,--all contributed to form before the door a deep black-looking pond which never dried up and which one had to cross by means of stones. The Jewish innkeeper's ducks and geese paddled here at will; and the travellers who frequented the place, as they stooped to pass under the low door, were obliged to cross very cautiously this offensive Black Sea lest they should get soaked above their calves. The Jew had never felt the necessity of remedying this inconvenience. In times of great drought it often happened that the pond thickened up and was transformed into a gluey and almost solid mud-hole; but the first rain that came would dilute it again, and it would extend half over the room. Iuk did not find this the least obstacle to the comfort of domestic life.

In the inner room there were the Jew's wife (a fat, dirty matron with her breast uncovered), his six children of different sizes, a servant, a few goats, some pet chickens and geese, and only one traveller,--a stranger, who wore a coarse woollen cap, and was asleep, sitting on a bench with his head resting on the table. Chwedko, as he entered, slipped upon one of the stones in the mud-hole, splashed the black water all over himself, and swore a terrible oath which wakened the stranger.

The latter wore a costume closely resembling that of the towns-people,--a cloak with lappets turned back and faced, a green belt, a large hat; and he had an iron-shod stick which he laid down beside him, with his small bundle tied up in a handkerchief. He was still young, apparently scarcely thirty years old, and had a tall, robust figure, and a round red face. He seemed to know nothing of poverty, for gay life and good cheer had left their traces on his brow and eyes; and it was easy to see that he was tipsy, thanks to the good old brandy of Bebnow, for he had scarcely raised his head when he pulled up his mustache and began to sing a tavern song. At this moment Chwedko was plunging and splashing in the mud-hole, which caused the stranger to burst into a loud laugh and shout,--

"Help! help! The gentlemen from Popielnia are drowning!"

Iuk and his people at this also laughed; and the merry fellow, putting his hands on his hips, began to stare impertinently at the two new-comers.

"And how do you know that we are from Popielnia?" asked Iermola.

"Bah! it is not hard to tell that. All the people of Popielnia wear a mark."

"What do you mean? A mark? Do they mark us like sheep with a red cross on our backs?"

"Is it possible that you do not know," answered the stranger, "that the tailors in your village make hoods for you different from any which are made anywhere else in the world?"

From time immemorial, in fact, the hooded _sukmanes_ of the inhabitants of Popielnia had been cut and made in a peculiar fashion, which fact Chwedko and Iermola had for the moment forgotten. They also, desiring to preserve the old custom, would never have bought or worn any hood which was not of the exact shape worn by their ancestors.

"And you,--where do you come from?" asked Chwedko of the young man.

"From a country which is beyond the seventh sea of the seventh river, and the seventh mountain," answered the merry joker.

"Ah, ah! Even in that distant country it seems, then, that they know about the people of Popielnia; that is very complimentary to us. But without joking, my brother, tell us from what land the Lord God has led you."

"From Mrozowica, neighbour."

Mrozowica was a large colony of freemen of the lower class, who paid taxes to the Government instead of doing service; it was just there that the potters lived to whom Iermola wished to apply, and the old man felt his heart beat as he heard the name pronounced.

"From Mrozowica?" he repeated eagerly. "And where are you going, if I may ask?"

"I am going over the world as far as my legs will carry me."

"All over the world? Oh, that is very far!"

"Well, yes; but I am tired of staying forever in the same place, sitting on the ground with my legs crossed. I have started out to look for poverty along the road."

"Why seek for it?" said Chwedko. "It comes soon enough of its own accord."

"Let it come. I do not fear it; we will quarrel together," answered the merry stranger.

"Do you happen to be a tailor?" asked Iermola, timidly. "You noticed the shape of our hoods so quickly."

"Why not? Why shouldn't I be a tailor?" answered the fellow, putting his hands on his hips. "Rather ask me what I have not been. I have been a farmer; I have been a blacksmith; I have been a carpenter; I have been a tailor; I have been a dyer, a musician, and a shoemaker. Ta, ta! All those are miserable trades, starving occupations. Now I am no longer so silly; I am going to be a lord."

"That is your idea, is it? Upon my word, you have not made a bad choice," said Chwedko, bursting into a laugh. "Not a bad thought, my brother. I salute you, my lord." And taking off his hat, he bowed down to the ground.

"But it seems to me," said Iermola, "that since you have so soon grown weary of all your different occupations, perhaps you will quickly tire of being a lord."

"Oh, well, then I will turn beggar; it is a fine trade, and I had as soon be one thing as another," answered the fellow as he sang,--

"'My stick, it is my friend;
My wallet is my wife.'"

"Upon my word, this is a merry, pleasant fellow; and we have met him just at the right moment," muttered Iermola. "While the gray is eating her hay, and Chwedko is finishing his onion and his glass of brandy, I can easily learn something about the potters in Mrozowica.--See here, brother," said he, drawing nearer the stranger, "won't you take a glass of brandy?"

"If you will pay for it, why shouldn't I? A Bohemian will hang himself for the sake of company."

"Iuk, give us a good drink of your best Bebnow brandy."

"Give it to us, Iuk, you pagan dog, do you hear?" said the young fellow from Mrozowica.

"You see," said Iermola, drawing nearer, "I am just going to Mrozowica to--"

"Well, take care to take two sticks with you, and sew up your pockets; for they are all thieves and rascals there."

"Ah, you must be joking."

"It is true; ask any one who has ever been there. There is not one honest man there."

"But how about the potters?"

"Bah! they are the worst of all."

"Dear me! I am greatly disappointed."

"Why?"

"Ah! there are a great many reasons which you would not care to hear."

"I really would not advise you to go there," continued the young man. "If you want a cracked pot, you will be sure to find it there."

"But you see that is not what I want."

"What is it you do want, then?"

"I want-I want--" said Iermola, scratching his head.

At this moment Chwedko, who had fortified himself with a good drink of brandy, and who had resolved to serve as interpreter, interrupted the conversation without ceremony.

A sober man always finds it extremely difficult to talk with a man who has been drinking; but nothing is easier than for a tipsy man to come to an understanding with another who is also half intoxicated.

"He wants--you see," murmured Chwedko, in the young fellow's ear--"this Iermola here--is a sort of potter. But he knows nothing--not at all--about glazed pottery; and he would like to learn how to glaze, you see."

"Ta, ta! And why does he go to Mrozowica to learn that?"

"Bless me! where should he go?"

"Why, I can teach him myself. How much will he pay me to do it?"

Iermola and Chwedko, filled with astonishment, stared at each other in silence.

"You are joking, aren't you? Are you a potter yourself?"

"I am the son of a potter, and I worked six years in glazed pottery. But it is a foolish trade; I am tired of it," answered the man from Mrozowica. "Daub yourself with the glazing, black yourself up with the mixtures, roast yourself in the fire,--that is all the pleasure to be found in it. I spit upon it and left; but that does not prevent my having worked a long time with Father Martin, or hinder me from knowing all about glazing, no matter what colour you wish to use. And my pottery was always bright and polished like glass."

"Really?"

"Bless my heart! if you wish it, I will prove it to you."

"How much will you charge me?" said Iermola, with a bright smile.

"How much will you give me?"

Iuk, comprehending that some sort of bargaining was going on in his presence without his being able to know just what it was about, hastened to join the group, planting his snout between the two faces, and fearing lest an opportunity to sell something should slip from under his nose.

"What are you bargaining over there?" he muttered.

"A cat in a sack," answered the fellow from Mrozowica.

"Come, come! why do you joke so?" replied the innkeeper. "What is there for sale? I will buy it."

"They are haggling over the price of glazing pitchers," answered Chwedko.

The Jew, not being able to comprehend, shrugged his shoulders and withdrew a few steps, keeping a watch from his seat by the stove over the traders, who would be obliged to come to him for the drink which would clinch the bargain.

After having haggled sufficiently, they ended the matter by the payment of five roubles. They shook hands, drank a bumper of Bebnow brandy, and Iermola, accompanied by the man from Mrozowica, prepared to return to the village.

"In this case, I shall not go on to the city to-day," muttered Chwedko, somewhat confused; "the rain would certainly catch me on the road."

Iermola and Siepak (that was the name of the newcomer) seated themselves beside Chwedko on the wagon-box, and they returned together to Popielnia, to the great despair of Iuk, who was not able to succeed in getting at the matter, and who vaguely scented under it all a sum of money which was beyond his reach.

Thus it was that the art of glazing pottery was introduced into Popielnia; and Iermola thanked God for it as though a miracle had been wrought.

XIV.

IMPROVEMENT AND DECEPTION.

It was about noon--for they had not hastened on the way and had stopped a long time at the inn--when our travellers, having persuaded the gray to beat a retreat, disappeared from the village and stopped with Siepak before the entrance of the old inn.

In front of the door sat Radionek, rapidly turning an enormous porringer, and Huluk, as he helped him, was talking with him in gay tones.

As soon as he saw his father, Radionek, both surprised and alarmed, sprang forward to assist him to descend.

"So here you are, father. Did anything happen on the way, that you have come back so soon?"

"Nothing, nothing at all, my child; only I met this honest fellow, who has worked a long time with the potters in Mrozowica, and he has offered to teach me to glaze pottery."

Radionek, overcome with joy, jumped up and cried, "Is it really true? Can it be possible?"

"Why, yes, I know how to glaze as truly as I stand here," cried the merry Siepak; "and I shall be very glad indeed to play a good trick upon my neighbours in Mrozowica, for I never shall forget the rascality of those lazy fellows.

"'I'm not your brother; you're not my father.'"

Thus sang Siepak, with his hands on his hips, standing on top of the wagon. Then jumping lightly to the ground, he began to examine with the air of a connoisseur all the implements used in the manufacture of the pottery; but it was easy to recognize in him one of those boastful loungers, those village blusterers, who regard everything from the height of their own grandeur, and make little of everything done by others. The working implements which composed the stock of the poor potter seemed very poor to him; as he looked over them, he shrugged his shoulders so scornfully and seemed so amused that Iermola and Radionek felt sad and confused.

Siepak manifested equal scorn in regard to their wares; he treated them unceremoniously as so much trash and rubbish, threw them about, cracked some of them, and stretching himself on the bench, began to boast loudly of what he knew and what he could do, over and above what others knew and what others could do.

This conduct was not pleasing to Iermola, who understood men; but he endured Siepak's ridiculous bragging in silence, hoping at least to be able to gain something from his teachings, though seeing him behave in such a manner caused him to lose confidence in him.

Meanwhile the man from Mrozowica ordered them to fry him a bit of bacon and give him a pint of brandy; then he lay down in the sun for a nap, and toward evening he repaired to the inn.

The next day Iermola was to go to the town to buy some litharge, colours, and other ingredients necessary for glazing the pottery; while Radionek, under the direction of Siepak, who was always joking and singing, should get ready the vessels which were to hold the mixtures to be used in glazing.

When finally the preparation of the glazings began, Siepak showed himself skilful and adept beyond all expectation, so much so that his companions were more astonished than they had at first been at his swaggering; but he had scarcely worked half an hour in the cabin, when he could contain himself no longer, and ran off to the inn, where he flattered the musicians, collected half the villagers, and ordering a pailful of brandy to be placed in the midst of the assembly, he led the carousal and dance until about midnight.

That night late, two of Siepak's comrades, as drunk as he, brought him back, staggering, screaming, and singing, and laid him down on the ground before Iermola's door; Huluk and Radionek regarded him with astonishment mingled with deep pity.

Some time passed before any positive proof of the work could be attained; but during that time Iermola's adopted son, gifted with a mind as quick as it was retentive, had profited so well by the lessons of the cunning young journeyman, and having seen some of the manipulation, had so well divined the rest, that the work of preparing the pottery was no longer unknown to him. He was equal to the emergency; it was sufficient to give him a few suggestions, to put him in the way, to explain some of the processes, and the child's ingenious mind and practical sense supplied what his instructor wanted. Iermola was extremely anxious to get rid of the Mrozowica man's presence as soon as possible, for he feared the effect of it upon Radionek; but in fact, it seemed that the light-headed Siepak was chosen expressly for the purpose of disgusting the child with a life of the frightful emptiness and wretched pleasures of which he had a daily proof. Siepak, it must be said, was an example of a curious moral type,--a type frequently met with among the lower classes, in all its strange ingenuousness; intelligent, adroit, active, and variously gifted, he got but little good out of either pleasure or labour, soon wearying of the one, and never being satisfied with the other.

Sometimes, exhausted by his dissipations, he would lie all day long upon his back in the hay, half tipsy, singing with all his might, or else uttering heart-rending sighs as though he were about to die. Then he would go to work with earnestness for an hour, and his hand, which at first would tremble and refuse to serve him, would in a few moments acquire astonishing skill and dexterity; but he would scarcely begin to do well, when he would get tired and give it all up, call in the first passer-by, talk and joke with him, and most frequently end by going off to the inn, where behind the table he spent most of his time.

After some attempts which were not altogether unsuccessful, Radionek, under his direction, had begun to use the glazing on his pottery without much difficulty, when Siepak, who was already tired of his sojourn in Popielnia, of Szmula, of the old inn and the quiet which reigned in the village, finding no companions whose tastes suited his own, demanded of the old potter the remainder of the sum which would be due him, and furnished with this, set himself up at Szmula's house, where for three days he kept up a ceaseless orgy accompanied by silly music.

The fourth day, taking his valise on his shoulder and his travelling stick in his hand, Siepak started off and disappeared, without bidding any one good-by,--to the great regret of the Jew innkeeper and a few dissipated companions who had every evening passed some pleasant hours at his expense. From that moment he was never again seen in Popielnia.

Then the old peacefulness, which had been for a while disturbed, returned to the modest dwelling. Radionek went to work earnestly, and at first wanted to glaze all the pottery; but the old man restrained him by wise observations.

"Remember," said he, "that the manufacturing of them is not all; we must sell them in order to succeed. We cannot tell how our new wares will be received in the market. If no one wishes to buy our glazed pitchers and dishes; if we get badly paid for them,--we should have done better with our common pottery, which sells perfectly well. God only knows whether we shall succeed in selling our finest plates and dishes; and if we make no more dark dishes and coarse pots, the people will get in the habit of going somewhere else to get them."

Iermola succeeded in persuading the child, who resigned himself to glazing only half the burning. Up to that time their trade had been very good. The old man feared lest this change of affairs should injure it, but Radionek wanted to do something new, and did not count the cost; his father's fears seemed to him silly and groundless. With the lower classes, nothing is accepted and adopted at once. It is necessary to proceed slowly and carefully in order to introduce any new custom; for, obedient to their conservative instinct, our peasants hold with a firm grasp to the habits and even the prejudices bequeathed them by their ancestors.

This is what happened after the burning, which was half of common pottery and half glazed ware, was fired. The day of the great _pardon_ arrived, and also the week of the town fair. The stock of pots and plates and dishes was all completed. Chwedko's mare was hired for the day; the wagon was carefully packed; and the old man and the child, leaving Popielnia at midnight, reached the little town about daybreak. They were accustomed to display their wares always on the same spot, under the pent-house of the largest Jewish inn on the square, where all the people attending the fair, accustomed to see them there, could come and find them with their eyes shut. From morning till night the crowd used to gather round them; and generally the sale was enormous. Our potters made haste to unpack their wares as soon as they reached their favourite corner, and separated the common pottery from the glazed. Radionek, as he waited for customers, palpitated with hope; Iermola trembled with fear. When day broke, the crowd began to assemble, and at once pressed around the goods exposed for sale.

But it was in vain that the two merchants offered to purchasers their most successful dishes, their best glazed and newest-shaped pitchers, at very moderate prices. Most of the housekeepers gravely shook their heads without saying anything; others frankly declared that they preferred to supply themselves from the potters in Mrozowica.

In fact, custom prevailed, and neither the beauty of the wares nor the cheapness of the prices could induce any one to buy; in vain Iermola and Radionek sounded their praises and boasted of their good quality. The customers listened with a mocking and incredulous air, and went off to supply themselves from the merchants long known. Radionek wept in silence; and the old man tried to console him by representing to him that it must be so at first, and that they must resign themselves to be patient and learn to wait.

Toward evening they sold part of the glazed ware to some strangers; and there was no common pottery left in Iermola's collection.

But as for the other vessels, many were left on hand; and a Jew in the little town bought them all at half price because the old man did not want to take them home.

When Iermola and Radionek had counted up their expenses, they found that they had lost. The child was very sad as they went along; but the old man comforted him as well as he could, thus endeavouring to prepare him for the future great disappointments of life, which, though bitter, should not destroy either a man's hope or his courage.

XV.

THE OTHER FATHER.

We have carefully described the life of these simple poor people, and the most important events which had happened to them,--the changes in their employments, the acquisition of new acquaintances, the least increase of their comfort. Their days passed in perfect uniformity and an equally profound peacefulness; Radionek at least conceived of no existence happier than this which had fallen to his lot. His father loved him and as far as he possibly could gratified his wishes; he succeeded in his undertakings; he had something to occupy him, something to amuse him; and the distant and unknown future seemed smiling and peaceful.

Sometimes, it is true, the child sat dreamily on the door-sill of the cabin with his eyes fixed on the waters of the river Horyn, on the woods and fields, paying by a moment of inexpressible sadness his debt to the vague and infinite desires and aspirations which arise in the heart of man through the whole course of his life. Then would recur to his mind the remembrance of things his father had told him,--the strange manner of his being found under the oak-tree, his mysterious origin, and the singular and incomprehensible fate which had cast him into the old man's arms. Radionek could not comprehend why he had been forgotten and abandoned; something told him that he would be remembered some day. Sometimes it seemed to him in the silence that he heard the sound of wheels and horses coming to announce the arrival of guests whom he was expecting,--strange, terrible, unknown guests.

In his imagination he often pictured to himself under various forms those parents whom he had never known; but whenever he thought of the grief that his departure would be to Iermola, the bitterness of the separation from him, his constant solitude, he burst into tears and resolved never to leave him. In him as in all other young and ardent beings awoke the desire to see new things, to do something different from the old life; but he felt in the bottom of his heart that whatever he might gain by a change of position, he would surely lose some portion of his real happiness. Where could he be better off? Where happier or freer? He worked only as much as he wished to do, varying his occupations; and the old man rarely had anything to say. It is true that Iermola had reared the boy from the first in such a manner as to be able to control him by encouragement and reason; and he had no need of threats. The old man had made himself a child so as to understand Radionek; the child had endeavoured to attain the maturity of the old man. They shared time and years as they shared all the other things of life.

The days and months were passing in this perfect peace, which at any moment a sudden change might disturb, when one evening Chwedko, returning from Malyczki, passed by the old inn, because the little bridge had been carried away on the other road, and wishing to light his pipe, went into Iermola's house. The gray, who was not at all anxious thus to extend her circuit, had made, it is true, some signs of stopping; but feeling that the stable was not far off, she had allowed herself to be persuaded.

The old potter and the child were seated on the threshold,--the former smoking his pipe, and the latter talking aloud of his hopes for the future,--when Chwedko stopped in front of them with his wagon, and greeted them in his usual fashion, saying,--

"Glory to God!"

"World without end! Where do you come from?"

"From Malyczki."

"Did you go there alone?"

"I carried Mikita the potatoes I had sold him."

"What is the news down there?"

"Oh, there is some news; there is a great deal of news," answered Chwedko, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree. "The old chief of squadron is dead."

"The old man is dead!" replied Iermola. "Peace to his soul! he has suffered a long time."

"And he knew pretty well how to make others suffer."

"So he is really dead!" repeated Iermola. "You see old men must look out; death may call them any time. I trust he will not come for us very soon."

"He was very sick," said Chwedko; "and I do not see how he held out so many years. But there is a regular upturning at the _dwor_."

"And how about his son?"

"His son and his people and every one whom he has tormented so much shed fountains of tears over him. All the people from the village are in the courtyard; it is a pitiful scene of desolation."

"It is the destiny of us all," replied Iermola, with a sigh.

"Yes, truly," continued Chwedko; "but to tell the truth, the chief of squadron was a perfect tyrant over his family. Sick, helpless, and infirm as he was, to the hour of his death he never gave up his keys nor the management of his household, never confided in either his son or his young ward. His son has grown old in his service without enjoying his fortune and without being able to attempt to direct his household; he never would allow him to marry, nor would he permit him to go away from him. He kept the young lady in equal bondage; and though he knew they loved each other, he always forbade them to marry under penalty of his curse."

"Ah, well, they will marry now," said Iermola.

"So you do not know about it, then? They have already been married for a long time; no one knew it at the _dwor_ except the old housekeeper. The parish curate married them. There were witnesses; but what good did that do them? They could not live together, because the old father kept them both always by his bedside night and day; he would have one or other of them always by him. In addition to this, matters were so arranged at the _dwor_ that the stewards and servants were obliged to tell the master everything the young lord did, or else he would scold and abuse them all; and he had assured his son of his curse if he ever dared to think of such a marriage."

"The old man was a little stern, it is true," said Iermola, "but he had his good side. And besides, he suffered a great deal,--so much that during the long hours of the night, one might hear him crying out almost every moment, 'Good Lord, have mercy on me and take me out of this world!' Toward strangers his manner was gentle as a lamb. It was he who managed so nicely to get Procope to teach me how to make pottery; and when I went to see him, he talked with me and told me stories of old times, and joked and laughed. But that was because he was an old friend of my master."

The old men continued to talk a long time about the chief of squadron, relating in turn various small events of his life, mourning and regretting the dead man as people generally do, for each one of us on leaving this world leaves behind a certain measure of regret and remembrance. They were still talking when the sound of carriage-wheels was heard at a distance on the road from Malyczki; and they could hear that the vehicle which was coming was not the wagon of a peasant.

"That must certainly be Hudny going home," said Iermola. "Let us go inside the cabin; it is best that he should not see us."

"Oh, no, it is not he," answered Chwedko; "it must be a stranger. From the sound of the wheels I should say it was a covered carriage. Some one has lost his way, surely."

Curious to know who it could be, they stood still with their eyes fixed on that side of the plain which extended beyond the oaks and which was crossed by a narrow pathway. Soon, sure enough, a covered carriage appeared, a very neat and almost elegant one, which was coming at a brisk trot toward the village. "Who can it be, I wonder," murmured Iermola.

"Those are the chief of squadron's horses. And that is the young lord and his wife, I am sure. But why are they coming here?"

The carriage approached rapidly; and instead of going past the old inn, where the child and the two old men were standing gazing at it with astonished faces, it stopped suddenly in front of them.

A man of somewhat more than thirty years, and a woman who was still young, got out of it together and hastened up to Iermola; but before reaching him, they stopped. Then a startled cry, sobs, and tears were heard. The young woman rushed to Radionek; the strange man also stepped toward the boy, who drew back frightened.

Iermola understood the whole matter at once. He turned pale, stumbled, and was obliged to sit down, he felt so faint and overcome; for him had sounded that fatal hour, the very thought of which he had always dismissed from his mind with mortal terror.

"My son! my dear child!" cried the lady.

"Marie, be calm, for the love of God, and let us speak to them first!"

The child, who was gazing at his mother with his large, brilliant, and astonished eyes, threw himself into Iermola's arms as though he wished to call upon him to help him.

"He does not know me," cried the young woman, in a sad tone. "He does not know me, and he cannot know me; he runs away from me and repulses me. He cannot do otherwise. Oh, it would have been better to give up everything, to bring down upon our heads your father's curse, rather than abandon our child. He is ours no longer; we have lost him!" As she said this, she wept bitterly and wrung her hands.

"Marie, be calm, I beg you!" repeated the young man.

In the midst of this scene of grief and trouble, Iermola had time to become less agitated, and his face now wore a grave, sad expression.

"This child," said the father, in a choking and deeply agitated voice,--"this child, whom you found twelve years ago under the oak-trees, is our son. In order to escape the curse with which our father threatened us, and the watchfulness of the people who would have accused us before him if they had known of our secret marriage, we were compelled to send him away from us, to abandon him for a time, and to forget him. But the priest who married us, and who baptized the child, will be our witness; the man who placed him here--"

"He may indeed have been your son," slowly answered the old man, to whom strength had returned at this critical moment, "but now he is mine alone; he is my child. You see he does not know his mother, that when his father calls him he runs to me. I have reared him by the labour of my old age, by taking the bread from my own mouth. No one shall take him from me; Radionek will never leave me."

The mother, as she heard this, sobbed aloud. Jan Druzyna held her; but he himself blushed, trembled, and various expressions passed over his countenance.

"Listen, old man," he cried, "whether you will or no, you will be obliged to give up this child, whose caresses we have longed for so many years."

"If I should give him up to you, he would not go with you," answered Iermola; "he does not know you. He would not abandon the old man who has brought him up."

Radionek stood motionless, pale, and troubled. His mother held out her hands to him; her eyes sought his; her lips sought his lips. The mysterious power of maternal feeling roused itself to draw him to her; and the boy's eyes filled with tears.

"Anything for your son, anything you can ask!" cried Jan Druzyna.

"And what should I take from you?" replied the old man, indignantly. "What could you give me which would supply the place of my beloved, my only child? I ask nothing of you,--nothing but permission to die near him and to die in peace."

As he spoke, the old man burst into tears; his limbs shook, and he leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Radionek held him up, and helped him to sit down again on the door-sill; and Iermola, laying his hand on the child's fair head, kissed him passionately. The young mother wrung her hands in despair; her grief increased, and she became beside herself. At last she threw herself upon her child, ardent and strong as a lioness, and strained him in her maternal arms.

"You are mine!" she cried, choked by her tears; "you are mine!"

And already Radionek no longer sought to avoid her caresses; he had just received his mother's first kiss,--a kiss so sweet, so penetrating, so long awaited.

The father also tremblingly approached his child, and kissed him through his tears.

Iermola watched them with a glance now sad and despairing, now bright and burning with jealousy; one single moment, one single word, had been sufficient to deprive him of his treasure.

"It was happiness enough for me," murmured the old man. "God takes it all from me. I must give him up; fate had only lent him to me. And I shall doubtless not live long. Sir," said he then, in a voice full of tears and emotion, "you see it is I who now supplicate you. I am old; I shall not live long; leave me my child until I die. I shall die soon, I am very old; then you will drag him away from my coffin. How could I live without him? Ah, do not leave me alone for the last days I have to live in this world; do not punish me; do not kill me, if for no other reason but because I have welcomed and reared your child!"

"We will take you away with the little fellow," cried Jan. "Come with him; we are more grateful to you than any words can express."

The old man interrupted him by sobbing violently; and Radionek hastened to run to Iermola as soon as he heard him crying. He knelt down beside him and hid his weeping face on his lap.

"My father, my father!" he cried, "do not weep; I will never leave you. We will not go away from your cabin; we will stay here together. I am so happy with you, I want nothing more."

Then the mother, seeing herself still forsaken, began to sob again, and nearly fainted. The neighbours, attracted by the noise, gathered on the spot and were witnesses of the scene. The cossack's widow, Chwedko, Huluk, and others shed the tears of compassion which the poor have always ready even for the griefs and miseries which they cannot comprehend, for the tears of others always suffice to move them to pity.

At last the father aroused from the momentary state of stupefaction into which his wife's words had thrown him; he sighed, and going up to his wife, spoke to her for a moment in a low voice.

"Whether you are willing or not," said he, aloud, in a stern voice, "you will be obliged to give the child up to us; he is ours, and we have witnesses of the fact. But you may ask anything you desire in exchange."

Iermola trembled and rose quickly to his feet.

"The child does not know you," he cried; "you will be obliged to take him by force. I will not give him up to you of my own free will, for he is not your child. I will bring witnesses to contradict yours. This is not the child of a gentleman; he is a villager, a working boy, an orphan. Call him; you do not even know his name; and he will not listen to you, for he does not know your voice."

"Why, the old man is insane," cried Jan Druzyna, trembling with rage. "Very well; we shall be compelled to resort to other means,--to those which our rights grant us. Do you, then, wish to deprive the child of the advantages and benefits of the position to which he was destined?"

"What position? What destiny?" replied the old man, proudly. "Ask him if he has ever been unhappy with me,--if he wants anything more, if he needs anything. I know the sort of life which is lived in the _dwors_ where I have been. Do not destroy my peace; do not desolate my old age; do not take away my child."