Chapter I: E R M O L a (7)

The young mother then drew near him and took him by the hand.

"My father, my brother," said she; "I understand your grief, I know what you lose in losing this child; but I, have I not swallowed my tears for twelve long years? Would you have the heart to refuse an unfortunate mother her dearest joy, her only treasure? Would you be so cruel as to force us to be ungrateful? No, you will come with us; you will rejoice when you see the child's happiness, and you will share ours."

These words of the mother went deeper into Iermola's heart; he became more like himself, dried his tears, and said in a low voice,--

"Oh, the hour has come before which I would rather have died! For so many years I have seen it in my dreams, I feared every shadow, I dreaded each stranger, thinking he came to take away from me the child of my old age. I trembled; I prayed God that He would let me die first, but He has purposely prolonged my days. May He receive the present hour as an expiation for all my sins!"

During this conversation, Radionek, agitated, troubled, and not knowing what to do, looked first at the old man and then at his parents. His father's eyes expressed great impatience, mingled with tenderness and a certain irritation; his mother wore a more quiet expression, more compassionate and gentle. Iermola felt his strength forsake him again; he once more fell into his seat, his head bent down, his hands clasped.

The conversation, thus abruptly disturbed, was resumed, but in a more peaceful and ordinary tone. Druzyna had evidently intended to take his son away at once; but an hour passed, night came on, and he still did not know what to do. Iermola, overcome, no longer offered any resistance; he kept silence, exhausted, and only questioned the child with his eyes.

"Come, let us go," said the young man at last, as he turned toward his wife. "We will come back to see him to-morrow."

"But the child?"

Radionek heard the words; frightened, he threw himself into the arms of his adoptive father, and Iermola, touched and grateful, pressed him to his breast.

"You are a good dear child," he cried. "You will not go away from me; you will not leave me alone; you will not forget your old father. You know I should die without you; you can do as you like when you have closed my eyes. And may God's eternal blessings follow you then!"

Druzyna, who was gazing in silence upon this scene, led, or rather dragged his wife away by force, carried her to the carriage, and ordered the coachman to return home. Chwedko set off for the village, where he spread this important piece of news.

After Druzyna's departure, there was no visible change in the old inn, but the peace and happiness which the day before had reigned beneath that thatched roof had flown away. Iermola, silent and motionless, remained seated on the door-sill; Radionek at times wept quietly, and at others gave himself up to dreamy meditation. Then they drew near each other and spoke a few sad, tender words in a low voice. The morning found them still in the door-sill, half asleep, and cowering in each other's arms as though they feared some one would come to separate them.

The broad daylight, as it opened their eyes to the sun, which dispels the terrors of night and revives the forces of life, brought back to them the remembrance of the events of the day before; but it presented them in another light, and awoke in them other sentiments, which gathered about each event, each serious thought, like mercenary servants grouped around a coffin. A thousand ideas, a thousand confused impressions crowded upon their minds, each struggling with the other to clear away the difficulty.

Neither the old man nor Radionek felt himself capable of working that morning. The ordinary course of their life had been interrupted; they did not know what to do with themselves. In the child's mind arose, now a thousand images of a brilliant, an unknown future, now regret for past days filled with so much happiness, and which would never return.

He tried to recall the features of his mother, those of his young father whom he had seen only in the dim twilight. Sometimes his heart leaned toward them; sometimes he trembled, agitated by a feeling of fear. What would become of him near them? Would he be better or worse than here? And in either case, he would be obliged to begin a new life, to leave his peaceful corner, go to a strange house, renounce all his old happiness, and bid adieu to what he had loved so well.

Iermola dreamed also; the new day had brought him new thoughts. According to his custom, he went to see the widow, as he always did when he felt in need of some one to talk to.

"Are you crazy?" cried the old woman as she saw him. "How could you yesterday evening have been so obstinate as to keep the child, just as if you had any sort of prospects for him? And besides, he is the son of a lord; he has his position already given him. And could it have done you any harm to go to the _dwor_ with Radionek and live peacefully, enjoying his good fortune?"

"Yes, yes! but how could I be to him there what I have been to him up to this hour? I should no longer be his father; I should become his serving-man. They would take his heart away from me little by little; they would spoil and ruin my child. Do I not know something about the life of lords and rich people? Food a little more delicate, clothes a little finer, words a little smoother; but are they happier? God knows we cannot tell anything about it. Ask them if they do not weep in secret, if there are no sad moments spent under their roofs, if their happiness is as great, as pure, as it appears from a distance."

"It is doubtless your great grief which causes you to talk in this way," cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "Their life is not like ours, that is certain. If our fate is the better of the two, why is it that all do not wish to live as we do? It is indeed a rare thing that a great lord is willing of his own accord to live as we do; while each one of us, on the contrary, would like to taste their bread. But the truth must be told."

Iermola remained silent for a few moments, leaning his head on his hand.

"Neighbour," said he, at last, "when we shall come to die, it will then matter very little to us whether during our lives we have eaten bread of fine wheat flour or coarse rye bread; no matter how a man has lived, it will be all the same to him, provided he has clean hands and a pure conscience to present before God. And as for knowing whether my child will then have been better off as lord of his father's house or with me, a potter in the old inn, upon my word, it is a serious question which I cannot take upon myself to answer."

"But you will nevertheless be obliged to give him up; there is no way of avoiding it."

"I shall not prevent him from following them if he will; but he must choose between us, because I myself wish to die as I have lived. I shall lay my bones in our old cemetery. I have already tasted the bread of servitude. I will not go in my last years to hold out my hand and bow down before young fools who would laugh at me,--not for any amount. I will remain in Popielnia; as for Radionek, if he wishes, he can go play the lord at Malyczki."

"And how will you be able to live without him, poor old man?"

"And you, how have you managed to live without Horpyna, without your grandchildren? Unless, indeed, you can see them by stealth."

"Ah! that is true, that is true," sighed the widow. "With pain and tears we rear our children, to see them, as soon as they have wings, fly out of the nest; as for us, we are left behind with broken wings to look at them far off."

"It is not for long, however," added Iermola, with a sad smile; "our days are numbered. A few more will pass, and then death will come knocking gently at our window; our eyes will close, and all will be over. We shall then have only to render our account to the Lord God."

"Ah, you speak sad words, neighbour."

"Because, as you see, my heart is not merry."

While this conversation was taking place in the widow's house, Radionek, who had not the heart to go to work, sat in the door-sill, thinking and dreaming. At one time his heart inclined him toward that unknown world; at another his tenderness for the old man called him back and held him.

Parents! a mother!--these are sweet words, which bring sweet thoughts and have great power over an orphan's heart; for no one can take the place of a father, no one can take the place of a mother.

The idea of living at the _dwor_, of being rich, of being a master, seemed very pleasant to the boy; but as he knew nothing of any other life than the one he had lived until that moment, he did not know what awaited him in that higher position. His ardent childish curiosity alone painted the unknown future for him. Then he said to himself that it would be very sad for the old man to be separated from him; he recalled all that he had done for him, how much he had loved him. He did not know whether even maternal tenderness, so powerful and God-inspired, could equal that love.

While he was thus reflecting, the carriage he had seen the day before drew near, arrived, and stopped. Radionek might have run away and hidden himself, but he had not the strength; his mother saw him from a distance, waved her hand to him, and he remained motionless. His parents hastened to him, embraced him, and wept.

"It is true,--it is true, is it not, that you are coming with us?" cried Marie Druzyna, gazing in agitation upon the handsome young fellow, whom it distressed her to see dressed in peasant's clothes and a coarse cloak. "You will see," said she, "how happy you will be with us; you have suffered, but all that will soon be forgotten."

"But I have not suffered," cried Radionek, who began to grow bold, "and I shall never forget my old father. I shall be very, very much grieved to leave him."

"I am your father," said Jan Druzyna, in a grieved and irritated tone; "call the old man what you will, but do not give him the name which belongs to me."

"Oh, he has been a father to me for a long time, and will be as long as he lives. He has loved me so dearly."

"And we? Shall not we love you also? Do you not know that you have cost us many tears?"

"I did not see you shed them; but I know that the old man has wept over me, and more than once I have seen his tears fall."

"We will take him away with us."

"He would not want to go," murmured Radionek.

At that moment, as though moved by some sad presentiment, Iermola arrived, having seen the carriage, and run till he was almost out of breath, trembling, half suffocated, fearing lest he should not find the child.

The husband and wife greeted him kindly, but with coldness and reserve; he returned them a glance of indifference.

"To-day," said Jan Druzyna, "you must make up your mind to give the child up to us. We cannot do without him; and he must be present at his grandfather's funeral."

"He can do as he pleases," answered the old man; "if he wishes to go with you, I shall not prevent him."

"You will come,--you will come!" cried the mother, rushing up to Radionek.

The child hesitated, turned pale, and burst into tears.

"No, no, I cannot," he murmured; "I cannot leave you, my father."

"You may come to see him as often as you wish," said Jan, restraining himself and speaking gently.

There was a moment's silence; the child, beside himself, turned first toward the thoughtful, sad old man, then toward his mother, who seemed to implore him with her eyes not to send her away.

"Do with me what you choose," said Radionek, at last. "I do not know what to do, I can't think; I am weak and sad. I do not want to leave you two; but at the same time I wish to stay here always. Why will you not live here with us?"

Thus pleadings, prayers, and promises continued to be exchanged till half the day had passed; and at last when the carriage drove away from the old inn, it bore in it poor Radionek, who was weeping and holding out his hands to Iermola and promising him to come back the next day and kiss him.

XVI.

ALONE!

He who rests and builds on the human heart should first look well into it and lay his foundations deep, lest the edifice of his hopes should tumble and fall for want of solid support. The human heart in its depths is only mire and mud; at moments this bottom thickens up and is condensed, but soon it becomes damp and dissolves under the flow of a thousand hidden brooks.

There are, however, some rare hearts formed of more lasting material, in which a furrow once ploughed is never effaced. Old Iermola, who had loved only once in his life, having found only one being upon whom he could lavish all the strength of his love, and to whom he had attached all the fibres of his soul, felt that nothing could replace to him this child whom he had loved, and whose loss he could not endure.

The grief he felt as he saw the carriage which contained Radionek drive away, it is impossible to describe. It was not a violent and passionate despair, nor a tempest of regrets, desires, and bitterness; but it was a feeling vast, deep, bitter, deadly as poison, slow and cold as the mountain ices. His weeping eyes dried suddenly, and became haggard, strange, constantly fixed in the same direction. He heard nothing, thought nothing. An indescribable confusion filled his brain, which seemed enveloped in the mazes of a black and tangled thread. He had lost all consciousness of self, all strength and will to act; he stood there petrified, half frozen, on the threshold, his hand extended, his lips parted, and remained there thus a long, very long time, without taking any account of the moments or the hours, letting the time go by without feeling it.

Huluk, who was a good boy, finding that he could not rouse Iermola from this stunned condition either by taking hold of his hand or calling him in a loud voice,--for the old man did not hear, and would not have understood him if he had heard,--ran to the widow's house for help.

The good woman came immediately, somewhat agitated, and severely blaming the old man for what she called his want of sense.

"You act like a child," she said. "How can you be so silly at your age? You ought to rejoice at Radionek's good fortune."

She began to lecture him in this way from a distance as soon as she could see him; but as she drew nearer, she perceived with fright that he could not hear her; he did not move his head, and gave no sign of life.

His eyes were turned toward the oak-trees, his mouth hanging open, his head bent down, his hands extended, stiff, and already almost benumbed.

The cossack's widow ran to him, began to rub him hard, and at the same time to talk to him, sparing him neither hard words nor reproaches, for she did not know what else to do.

"Have you really gone crazy, old idiot? Do you think they have taken him away to butcher him? For shame! for shame! Ask God's pardon; it is a real sin."

But she was obliged to scold and shake him a long time before she saw life or consciousness return. At last he burst into tears, began to sob, to murmur indistinct words, and finally his reason revived.

"It is all over," he said; "all my happiness is over. I no longer have my darling, my treasure, my Radionek. He is now a rich and powerful lord at Malyczki; but at my house there is no child, and there will never again be one there."

Then he began to break up his pitchers and porringers and his working implements, and threw them out of the door.

"What good will all this be to me? I want to return to my former life, to forget that the child was mine, that I had a son. I know what they will do with him; they will spoil him and turn his head. Radionek will be lost to me. The sweet child will never more speak to me and give me loving smiles as he used to do; he will always sigh for their handsome house, their plastered house. He will be cold in my hut; the fresh water and hard bread will not seem good to him; Iermola will be to him only a garrulous, insupportable old grumbler. Oh, I have been weak and mean-spirited! I have been crazy. I should have run away,--run far away with him to some place where they would not have been able to find us, and where they could not have taken him from me."

The cossack's widow listened and shrugged her shoulders; from time to time she tried to say a kind word to him, but she knew that it is necessary always to allow a great grief to vent and exhaust itself, so she let Iermola cry and groan. At every step the old man came upon something to remind him of the child, in the room which was still so full of mementos of him. Here was his drugget cloak; there a little painted pitcher which he had made himself, the first vase, glazed and ornamented with flowers, which he had so lovingly made, his square cap with a red border, of the Polesian fashion, and in a corner, the little bench upon which he loved to sit, the porringer from which he ate his meals, the goat he played with, and which was bleating because it did not see him.

"Oh, I must end it all by bursting my head against the wall!" cried Iermola. "How can I live without him? I feel as if my child were dead."

The widow, who now began to be frightened because she thought that Iermola's grief was not of the kind which would soon subside, sent Huluk to beg Chwedko to come immediately to the old inn. Chwedko, being warned of what was going on, and considering brandy as the greatest possible comforter, took care to take with him a bottle full of it. He began by talking pleasantly and even congratulating his old friend, then he compared in a melancholy way the old man's attachment for Radionek to that he bore his gray mare; then having exhausted all his eloquence, and not knowing what else to do, he drew the bottle from his pouch and set it on the table.

At the sight of it Iermola's eyes sparkled; he seized the bottle and emptied it at one draught. But man has moments of internal upheaval, so deep and so intense that the effect of things with which he comes in contact is no longer manifested according to the general laws of nature. The human being who has reached such a state of excessive excitement and agony no longer feels either hunger or cold, and will even be proof against poison; as, for instance, in the heat of battle, a soldier will take, without becoming intoxicated, an enormous quantity of liquor, which ordinarily would certainly have laid him on the ground. Just so it was with Iermola, who wished to get drunk and could not succeed, for he felt no inconvenience or stupefaction, in spite of the large quantity of brandy he had swallowed.

"What a head he must have to stand a pint of strong gin!" murmured Chwedko, with a sort of respect.

"It is not his head which is strong; it is his grief," said the widow, in a low voice. "Give him a bucketful of it now, and you would not make him tipsy; grief keeps him awake."

As the evening came on, they made every effort to induce him to spend the night at the widow's cottage, but they could not persuade him to do so. The old man seated himself again on the door-sill, and began to muse and sigh with his eyes fixed on the oaks. The two neighbours were compelled by urgent business to return home, Chwedko remembering that it was time to water his mare, and the widow having to prepare her supper and milk her cow. They were both obliged to leave him; and Huluk, the poor orphan, was left alone with him, weeping.

The evening advanced; night came on, and still Iermola did not move from the spot. He slept there a few moments, for sorrow had overcome him. Then he wakened suddenly and remained so, still motionless. Huluk, suffering for the want of sleep, watched over him and kept up a low wailing.

It was about the first cock-crowing when a shadow of some one moving fell suddenly upon the threshold of the cabin. Huluk, who had the eyes of a lynx, immediately recognized Radionek, who was running along the road leading from Malyczki. The old man had not seen him, but he had felt his coming; he trembled, looked around, and cried, "Radionek!"

"Yes, it is I, my father."

"It is you, my good child; ah, the Lord be praised! I was dying without you, do you see, and you have come to bring me back to life. But how did you come? On foot?"

"On foot, father. Did I not know the road? And why should I be afraid to walk at night?"

"Did you come alone?"

"With my stick."

"And did they give you permission to come?"

"Bah! I did not ask it. They put me to bed, but I was so troubled I could not close my eyes. I cannot tell you how anxious I was; I felt obliged to come back to you. And when the morning comes and they do not find me, they will know well enough where to look for me."

Iermola, as he embraced him, felt his strength and presence of mind return, and he quickly revived.

"Huluk," he cried in a glad, strong voice, "the poor child is doubtless cold; he is hungry too. Surely they could not have given him anything to eat. Light the fire. Is there anything to eat? I also feel as if my stomach was empty."

"How astonishing!" murmured the boy; "yesterday neither of them ate one mouthful."

"Ah, that is true, upon my word."

"I will light the fire myself, father, and get your breakfast ready," said Radionek. "Let me wait upon you as I used to do."

"Ah, no, no, my child! sit down beside me; tomorrow they will take you away again. Do not leave me, I beg you. But you are cold out here; the dew is falling. Come inside, my child."

When the fire kindled by Huluk began to light up the room with its bright red flames, the old man, as he looked at Radionek, perceived that his parents, although they had not had time to change his dress entirely, had nevertheless considerably altered his costume. His mother had found for him in her closet a fine white shirt, had tied a pretty cravat around his neck, had washed, combed, and curled his beautiful golden hair, had fastened a girdle round his waist, put one of his father's caps on his head, and poured over his clothing a perfumed essence. These changes in the child's dress seemed to Iermola so many signs of abjuration, of bondage, so many new fetters belonging to his new position; he sighed as he examined them, though the child was charming to look at in this half-altered costume. They were silent for a moment, for the old man had grown sad again; he gazed at the child, and was troubled as he thought of the future.

"To-morrow," said he to himself, "they will come for him, and take him away again; the poor child will not be able to come back to me any more,--they will keep a strict watch over him. Who knows, perhaps they may punish him for having returned to comfort his old father.--Are you happier with them?" he asked after a moment. "Give me at least the comfort of knowing that you are happy."

"I was comfortable; but I was sad," answered the boy. "My grandfather's body is laid out on a bed; the priests are chanting in the great hall. My mother kept me by her side all day and asked me all about what I did here. She made me tell her all about our life; she clasped her hands and cried, and every moment she thanked you and thanked God. They gave me something to eat, petted me, and kissed me. They wanted to change my clothes entirely, but I begged them so hard not to do it that at last they let me alone; but they have sent for a tailor to make me some new clothes. My father said"--that name, given by Radionek to the lord Jan Druzyna, struck sadly on the poor man's ears--"my father said that he should get a tutor to instruct me; and he has given me a pretty horse."

"God grant that you may always be happy there!" sighed the old man. "I am sure they will love you; but I am also sure that you will more than once long for our cabin and the peaceful days you spent in it."

They would thus have passed the rest of the night, talking and without sleeping, if Iermola, fearing Radionek might be sick, had not made him go to bed; he then sat down beside him to watch over him and see him sleep. In the morning the anxious father came; and though he did not scold the child, he told him in a gentle voice of the dreadful fright his imprudence had caused his mother. This made Radionek sad; he looked down and made no reply.

"To prevent the recurrence of such an adventure," said Druzyna, "we will take Iermola to Malyczki; there is a vacant room in the house, and we will care for him as he has cared for you."

"No, no!" answered the old man, shaking his head, "I will not go to live with you; I love my child dearly, but I will not go. I am now accustomed to being my own master; it would be hard for me to eat the bread of dependence in my old age. I should soon repent of the change and get tired of it. Some one or other would laugh at me, would say something to wound me; that would cause me suffering, and trouble the child too. Your servants have no respect for strangers; they would think they were doing me a favour. No, a thousand times no! I will stay here."

It was in vain that Radionek's father begged, supplicated, and endeavoured to persuade the old man. Iermola kissed his child and pressed him in his arms, kept him by his side, wept over him, blessed him, and at last sat down on the door-sill as though awaiting death.

Very strange indeed are often the destinies of men and the decrees of God. In some cases the thread of life breaks, though spun of pure gold and shining silk; in others, neither pain nor sorrow can succeed in breaking the black, shadowy thread which they shake with their cruel hands. Iermola survived the separation, and could not die. He was sick; he grew old again; he stooped, and became gloomy and taciturn; he entered upon another phase of life; but his vital forces, which he had not squandered, still sustained him. Fate had deprived him of everything but seeing the child at a distance, the power of tormenting himself, of longing, and of comforting himself with memories.

After Radionek was gone, he gave up his trade of potter, giving up all his implements and materials to Huluk, who had learned something from watching him work. For his part, he contented himself henceforth in his garden and in the little home he had made for himself, spending his days sometimes dreaming and musing in the room where he had reared his child, sometimes in making long visits and holding long talks with his friend, the widow.

She was the only person, in fact, who really understood him and would listen to him patiently. The similarity of their positions had established a real sympathy between them. He was filled with compassion for her, because she was deprived of the presence of Horpyna, who since she had become a great lady no longer came to see her mother; and she mourned and longed for Radionek almost as much as he did himself.

They spent long hours talking together before the fire, recalling happy times, and though they had a hundred times repeated the same story, each of them knew how to listen patiently when the same chain of remembrances fell again from their lips.

"Do you remember how pretty my Horpyna was when she dressed herself on Sunday to go to the _cerkiew?_ You would not recognize her now, since she has nursed her five children, she is so thin and changed, though she eats fine white bread and leads the life of a great lady. Oh, it is not a healthy life; the body and the soul perish together."

"And my Radionek," answered the old man, "wasn't he much prettier with his little _sukmane_ and his shaved head, than in the fine clothes they make him wear now?"

At first Radionek came every day to see his foster-father, sometimes alone, sometimes with a servant, or with either his father or mother; after a while he only came to Popielnia in a carriage on Sunday. At last he came no longer; and the old man about once a month, when his desire to see his child became insupportable, would drag himself along with the aid of his stick to the places frequented by his beloved charge, hoping to see him, if only for a moment at a distance.

At first also, Radionek would rush to the old man as soon as he saw him; no one could stop him, so intense was his feeling and so swift his motion.

Then when Iermola would send in his name, he would be obliged to wait a moment; gradually he would have to wait sometimes an hour; and it happened once that after having waited all day long at the door, he did not see his child, and went away in tears.

They took him to the farm and gave him something to eat; but it was not bodily nourishment which the old man needed, it was the pleasure of seeing and having his child once more, of feasting and living in his presence, which alone could satisfy him and restore peace and comfort to his home.

Iermola did not complain; he knew very well that his child, his dear child, was not to blame for this neglect and desertion; that Radionek's parents and tutors endeavoured by every means in their power to make him forget the existence of his adoptive father; and that the child, whenever he could see him, would whisper to him with tears that he would like to run away and go back to Popielnia.

XVII.

IN BONDAGE.

Iermola's pupil was soon scarcely to be recognized; the hearty village child when dressed in the costume of the nobility, fed on choice and delicate food, and shut up between four walls quickly began to grow pale and dwindle away.

And although he had grown rapidly tall and slender, he was like a tall frail plant which the least breath of wind could overturn.

His mother mourned over him; even his father became anxious. They redoubled their care and attention to him and endeavoured to amuse him; but the more they surrounded him with care and assiduous precautions, the sadder and weaker the boy became. Often during his lesson hours, or when receiving the tenderest caresses, he would seem dreamy and absent; tears would fill his eyes, and when asked what he wanted, he would only smile to hide his tears.

The memory of his former life, of the early years of his childhood spent in the sweet freedom of the fields, in independent work and careless pleasure, now weighed upon the child's heart like a mountain of stone; the change in his existence, so violent and grievous, crushed this frail child as a plant which is roughly transplanted. At night, in his dreams, he saw again the hut, the happy mornings he spent turning his pottery, the walks on the river shore and in the woods, those bold excursions, those paths and avenues so constantly frequented in the vicinity and in other villages, in that small world where he felt strong, independent, active, and living his own life. At his father's house he was bound by ties sweet, it is true, but strict and tenacious; he had been, as it were, carried back to his infancy, surrounded by minute recommendations and useless cares. Fears and anxiety were entertained for him; he was not allowed to develop his powers or exercise his will.

Deprived as he was of Nature, of the open air and the sunshine to which he had been accustomed, he longed for all of these things as he longed for his old Iermola. He was doubtless comfortable with his father and mother, but he sighed for his old life, his sweet orphan life; and at last these longings and continual struggles affected him seriously, and he fell ill.

His parents, not understanding the child's real state of mind, irritated the wound, instead of healing it; attributing his sad, languid condition to the old man's influence, they endeavoured to keep him away from Radionek, thus making a great mistake and doing a great injustice. But the more they sought to detach the child from old Iermola, the more he clung to him with all the strength of his affection; indignation at the injustice which was done him, the ingratitude which was shown him, was added to his feelings of pity and affection, and oppressed his heart.

He dared not say anything in the presence of his father, whose severity resembled that of the grandfather; and he saw plainly that his love for the old man grieved his mother, who was jealous of it, reproaching her son on this account as though it were a weakness and a sin.

A very important event soon made a change in Radionek's life; a little brother was added to the family, who was named Wladzio, on whom the father and mother lavished most of the tenderness they had formerly bestowed upon their first-born, soon allowing him to see their changed feelings toward him, and frequently rallying him about Iermola. All these influences united quickly sufficed to break down the strength of this child, who had once developed so freely and so happily, and who was now oppressed by his dependent and miserable position.

Radionek, formerly so frank, jovial, and gay, had become dreamy, timid, and sad; he passed whole nights weeping over his lost happiness,--the happiness of the days spent with the old man he so dearly loved. His heart felt like breaking when he would see Iermola come dragging himself along on foot, leaning on his stick, all the way from Popielnia to Malyczki, then stop at the stairway, and wait like a beggar for the favour of seeing his child.

If he was allowed to come in, servants were there to see that Radionek was not moved to pity, did not talk too much, did not stay too long, and did not complain of any one; and often, very often, the poor child was forced to content himself with seeing the old man through the window. The old man spent long hours leaning against the columns of the stairway. The servants pushed him away or teased him, then sent him off without pity; and finally at twilight he would go away toward his own house, his head bowed, and looking behind him every moment.

Then Radionek would weep, tremble, and become feverish; and the increase of his ailments was attributed to Iermola's importunate conduct, since even without communicating with him, he agitated and grieved him by his presence.

Humiliating and bitter as it was to have been tutor and father, and now to be only a wretched and famished beggar, waiting at the door for a little pity and tenderness, the old man complained of nothing. He uttered no bitter reproaches, no abuse, though well-merited; he kept silence and concealed his grief so as to avoid, if possible, being sent away entirely. But when they had driven him away two or three times in succession without allowing him to see his child, he returned oftener, was obstinate in his purpose and in his sad patience, until he would finally succeed in catching Radionek as he passed by. And when he saw the pretty face grow paler and paler, the beautiful eyes more and more weary, when he heard the languid, plaintive voice,--he felt his indignation boil over and rage like a tempest.

But the knowledge of his feeble old age, his weakness, and the poverty and contempt which were crushing him, did not allow him even to dream of making any resistance.

And so things went from bad to worse.

The young mother, delighted with her little Wladzio, grew more and more weary of the faults and weaknesses of his brother; the father threatened and scolded in vain.

Then they tried a change of treatment; cares and caresses were doubled, and physicians were sent for. One of them had the wisdom to recommend for the child frequent exercise in the sun and open air; the other, perceiving traces of grief, counselled them to try moral influences. And every time Radionek's ailments were enumerated, Iermola was always blamed for them.

At last, Jan Druzyna, anxious and unhappy, having had a long struggle with himself, resolved to get rid of the importunate old man once for all.

One morning, according to his custom, Iermola, who for three weeks had seen his dear child only on rare occasions, through the window, though he had dragged himself every day to Malyczki, had gained entrance to the door, and driven away with his stick the dogs which the grooms of the pack had set upon him.

The servants, previously instructed to worry him and rid the house of him, tried to drive him away; but the old man refused to allow them to do so. He remained there till toward noon, silent, gloomy, always expectant, like Lazarus at the rich man's gate. Then Jan Druzyna, weary and irritated by the sight of this sad-looking apparition, which seemed a living reproach to him, came out of the house and went himself to encounter Iermola.

"My dear fellow," said he to him in a short, dry tone, and seating himself on a bench midway of the stairway, "for several days now I have seen you here constantly; why are you so obstinate about staying here? Why do you wish to torment our child every moment for nothing? Tell me, what do you want? We will give you anything in our power, only do not disturb our peace. You say you love our child; then do not torment him. The sight of you agitates him, grieves him, and prevents his becoming attached to us; do you not think you ought to understand this, and be more reasonable? If you think by acting in this way that you will get the better of us, you are mistaken. Tell me now what you want, and put an end to this."

"But, my lord, I want nothing,--nothing but to see my child, to kiss him and bless him," answered Iermola, with still more humility and gentleness.

"You see, it is high time that you should give up these ideas, which are only follies. You brought him up; we have been willing to repay you for that. Now that is all over; the child has returned to us. Let him remain in peace. You love him, so you say, yet you make him unhappy."

"Who? I, my lord?"

"Yes, you, certainly. See how he is changed; he is withering away and consumed with fever."

"And it is I,--I,--who am the cause of it, my lord?"

"Assuredly it is not us."

"It is you,--it is you who are killing him," then cried the old man, his patience all exhausted. "I gave him back to you happy, vigorous, in good health; you have shut him up, destroyed his strength, and made him miserable and sad. The child loves me, and he has reason to love me. If he did not, he would be heartless; and you,--you do all you can to teach him ingratitude."

"Are you beside yourself, old man?" cried Jan Druzyna, in a rage. "What do you mean? How dare you answer? Go off; go off immediately, and never think of stepping your foot in this house again, for you will be driven out of it."

At these words Iermola turned pale, trembled, was seized with fright, and tried to speak; but words failed him.

"You drive me away," said he at last. "I shall go away, since you order me to do so; and my feet will never again cross your door-sill. Remember, remember, unjust man, that as you have taken the child from me, God, who judges and punishes, will take him away from you."

Having uttered this terrible imprecation, which the mother heard just as she was hastening to restrain her husband, and which caused her to recoil, frightened and fainting, Iermola, desperate and beside himself, making use of the remnant of his strength, fled down the stairway and crossed the great courtyard without turning his head to look behind him.

After a few moments Jan Druzyna recovered himself. He realized his wrong-doing; and the prophetic words of the old man began to weigh upon his heart. The sight of the old man, who was rapidly disappearing from sight in the distance, was a cruel reproach to him. Not knowing what to do, he rushed into the house and entered just in time to receive his fainting wife in his arms.

She wished to go for Radionek and send him after Iermola, to soothe his anger, and bring him back to her family, but when she entered the child's room she found him on the floor, cold and pale as marble, and before any one could revive him, Iermola was already far away.

When night came, the poor man dragged himself wearily to the house of his old friend the widow, to whom he wished to make his lament and tell everything. He had not seen her for a week, for every morning early he had started for Malyczki; he therefore did not know that the poor woman had been very ill for three days. He had scarcely put his foot inside the door when he saw that according to custom the glass had been taken out of the windows, a coffin placed in the middle of the room, and a little way off the brotherhood with their banners, the cross, and the priest with the book, were coming to the burial.

Then Iermola, like one waking from a dream, gazed a long, long time upon the coffin, knelt down, and began to pray.

"She too! she too!" he murmured. "Come, it is time for me to die." He felt the chill of evil foreboding run through his veins. "But first," said he, "we must go with her to the cemetery and throw a handful of dust on her coffin."

Silent and sad, he stood a moment near the door, leaning on his stick; then he joined the funeral procession, in which there was neither daughter nor son-in-law nor grandson, only the servants, the neighbours, and distant relatives of the deceased.

The cemetery was situated about halfway between the _dwor_ and Iermola's dwelling; toward this spot, therefore, the funeral procession moved. In the dim twilight the long line of tapers borne in the hands of the brotherhood were reflected above on the moving folds of the banners. Chwedor had already dug the grave; a great heap of yellow clay was piled up on the edge of it. The priest blessed it and made a sign to lay the body of the widow within it; then each of those present threw in a handful of sand and murmured a last farewell. Iermola paid this last duty with much feeling; then, half beside himself, he slowly took the road back to his hut. There was no longer any reason why he should hasten there now.

Huluk, who considered himself already quite the master of the house and the little business, and who, although good-hearted, really began to find Iermola somewhat in his way, was at this moment leaning against the doorway, dreaming of a future full of glad, ambitious hopes. It seemed to him that if Iermola were no longer there, he could so easily take possession of the pottery kiln and the little garden, marry little Pryska, and become a master-workman in every sense of the word. His old master at first seemed useless to him, then troublesome and in the way.

"What news have you for me? Did not the cossack's widow send for me when she was taken sick?" said the old man as he came near.

"Yes, certainly, Chwedor came three times of his own accord; she had something to say to you, but you were not here."

"Ah, now she can speak no more," replied Iermola, in a mournful, almost indifferent voice, as he entered the house. "What is the use of talking about it? It is all over now. Everything in this world must come to an end."

He repeated these words as he walked up and down the room; then he seated himself on one of the benches and began to doze. Huluk then went out, shrugging his shoulders.

"What is the old man thinking of?" said he. "Wouldn't it be better for him to go off with a sack and beg? Then I could marry Pryska, and all would go well; but so long as he stays here, how can I think of it? Oh, what a bother!"

Confusion and discord now reigned in the chamber which formerly was so clean and well kept; it was easy to see that no one cared for it any longer. Huluk had taken some of the furniture into the next room; the old man had distributed some among his old friends; the rest was scattered here and there and covered with dust. There had been no fire in the stove for a long time; there was no pile of wood in the woodshed, no provisions in the house; a few cooking utensils lay in the corners, dusty and half broken. The old man had no longer any heart to notice all this. When he woke in the morning, he felt as if he could take courage and do something; but after a little while everything seemed so sad, so bitter, so grievous, the hut itself, with all its memories, became so hateful to him, that for the first time he thought of leaving it forever. He could not sit on the door-sill without looking at the clump of oaks under which he had seen, wrapped in his long white clothes, the child who had been the hope and comfort of his old age. These memories were still so fresh and heart-breaking that the old man could not endure them while surrounded by them, and, as it were, fed upon them.

"I will go away,--yes, I will; may God pardon them! I will go and wander about the world, grieving and praying," said he; "I will go from church to church praying for my child. What else can I do here? Here there is no longer any place for me; there are no friends for me. With a sack on my back and a stick in my hand I will start out. I can do no good by staying here."

He took from his usual hiding-place some silver and copper money, so that in case death should come suddenly on the road or among strangers, enough would be found on his person to bury him decently and pay for a Mass for the repose of his soul; he made up a bundle of clothing and put it on his shoulder, put some linen in two bags which he tied together with cords and threw over his back after the fashion of a beggar's sack, and when thus ready to start, he called Huluk. The latter, as he came out of his room and saw his old master dressed as a beggar, trembled and felt confused, as though his thought had been divined. His heart beat violently; he began to pity Iermola sincerely, to be disgusted with his favourite project for the future and the business.

"You see I am going to wander about the world, my child," said the old man, gently. "I leave you all I have; live for God and according to God's command. May God grant you happiness here, a longer happiness than mine! Everything here is yours; if some day I should return, you will not refuse me shelter and a piece of bread. But no one need fear; I shall not trouble any one long."

Huluk then burst into tears, and fell at the old man's feet, for this generous gift was a great thing for the poor orphan; and Iermola felt touched when he saw him weeping.

"Are you going now?" cried the young man.

"What should I do here?" sighed the old man. "They have just buried the widow; Chwedko is ill, and perhaps may never get up again. I have not a single friend now in the whole village, and worse than all, I no longer have my child, my child!"

As he spoke, he wiped away his tears, which filled his eyes and flowed over his cheeks; he went forward, stepped over the threshold, and started off, feeling as though he saw everything moving around him,--the fields, the cottages, the hedges, the trees. Huluk watched him go slowly through the village; the dogs that knew him barked around him; then he plunged into the forest and disappeared, taking the road leading to the town.

Three days later, when the child, ill in bed, was found to be in real danger; when a physician, wiser than the others and better acquainted with his past life, told his parents plainly that old Iermola must be sent for, that the child must be sent back to his old life, to the work and food to which he had been accustomed,--then the father and mother hastened with him to Popielnia. But what was their astonishment and Radionek's despair when they found that the old man was no longer there, and learned that he had gone away, begging his bread and seeking to forget the past and his sad memories.

The terrible and touching grief of the poor foster-father at last moved the hearts of the parents, who had been too slow to recognize their error, and were beyond measure frightened by the tears and regrets of the child, thunder-struck and desperate at the disappearance of his father. Messengers were sent in every direction to bring Iermola back, but they returned disappointed; all their efforts had been fruitless. The parents, then going back to their first opinion, were not really sorry; they said to themselves that in the end Radionek would forget.