Chapter I: E R M O L a (8)

But Radionek, who had been called Jules since his return to his parents' house, continued to grow weaker, and faded away in spite of the tenderest care; nothing interested or amused him. He did not complain, he even tried to smile; but he was silent and sad. It was evident that he was longing for something; an indefinable and unknown malady wore him away by degrees. He seemed to find a little pleasure only when allowed to wander alone in the garden or the woods, or when permitted to ride on horseback; but his parents, being anxious lest these airings were too lonely and tiresome for the child, kept him always near them.

XVIII.

THE LAST JOURNEY.

Iermola, after leaving the dwelling where he had lived so long, wandered from church to church, from village to village; he went, came, moved constantly from place to place, exposed to a thousand new privations, endeavouring to accustom himself to this wandering life, which nevertheless had its charm for the bereaved man, who had conceived a hatred and disgust for his little paternal corner. But the sorrow followed him,--a slow, ineradicable sorrow, the result of the remembrance of his joy, of his broken hopes and the sweet and bitter memory of Radionek, his dear child.

If only Radionek at least could be happy! But in the few moments when the old man had been permitted to be near him, the poor old fellow had not only caught sight of traces of grief and heart-heaviness on his child's face, but he also perceived his weariness and sorrow in the least word he spoke, referring to the dreams and memories of the past. Radionek's eyes always filled with tears whenever he spoke of Popielnia and the happy days spent in the old inn, around the kiln making pottery; more than once significant words such as, "Oh, if those times could only return!" escaped him.

A more intense agitation always disturbed the old man, whenever he thought of Radionek. He felt that his parents, while accustoming him to his new life, would weaken him by excess of care and tenderness or chill him by severity and coldness. His father and mother loved him doubtless, but their affection was very different from that of poor Iermola; accustomed as they were to the severe manner of their old father, they treated the child coldly and sternly, though loving him tenderly in the bottom of their hearts. Moreover, they did not know how to treat him, how to approach him, even what to say to him; for they had never been petted and cared for since they were born. Radionek did not understand them well, and feared them very much. In a word, his adoptive father was a real father to him; his own father seemed to him more like an adoptive one.

The farther the old man went from Popielnia and Malyczki, the more terrible became his sad forebodings and anxiety; so one day he turned aside from his route and went back nearer to his dear child, and resolved firmly to see him once more, if only at a distance, or at least to learn what he was doing and hear something about him. It seemed that his old limbs renewed their strength in order to make this journey; he had never felt so well, and though he had to go at least three leagues, he made them in one day, and at night reached the domain of Malyczki.

In order to reach the inn where he had to find lodging, even at the risk of being recognized he was obliged to go through the village. Doing so, he passed by Procope's cabin, and to his astonishment he found it ruined and deserted, the garden overgrown with wild grasses and brushwood, the old pear-tree which shaded the kiln, withered and broken, and the kiln itself fallen in and covered with briers, and looking like ruins after a fire. It was evident that no one lived any longer in the cabin, for the window had been taken out of it; a part of the roof was gone; but the door, still shut and bolted, prevented any one's entering.

It was easy to understand this desertion; Procope's daughter lived in a larger and better furnished cabin near by. His son-in-law, though he cultivated the old man's land, had not needed this dwelling; he had found no tenant to keep it up, and consequently the old house, abandoned by the servant shortly after the old man's death, soon went to ruin.

A strange, new thought then came into Iermola's mind.

"Suppose I rent this house; suppose I settle myself here," said he to himself. "In this way I might succeed in seeing my child. Who would know I was here? Perhaps they would not recognize me; perhaps they might not even see me; and if I did not see my Radionek often, I could at least go under his window at night."

As he thus spoke, his eyes filled with tears; he stopped and was thinking of and regretting Procope, when a female voice, coming from a neighbouring garden where they were gathering hemp, called out to him,--

"See here, old father, why do you stop there in the road? You will be run over; look, the wagons are coming down the mountain."

Iermola raised his eyes and recognized the village woman who was speaking to him; she was Nascia herself, Procope's daughter, who, with some young girls, was working in her garden. Evidently she had not recognized him; and judging by her kindly warning that she must be pleasant and good-natured, Iermola, after reflecting a few moments, approached her.

Nascia was a woman in the prime of life, pink, smiling, large, healthy, and well-built, having a handsome, regular face, somewhat too round perhaps, but even with this defect a perfect type of village beauty. Her colour was bright, her eyes black; her coral lips spoke of happiness, light-heartedness, and strength; and her white teeth, which showed plainly when she smiled, gleamed like mother-of-pearl beside her slightly brown cheeks. She was really good, energetic, charitable, and compassionate, though a little coquettish; a faithful wife and tender mother, though she was very fond of laughing and joking. Her husband, the son of Kolenick, the richest labouring-man in the village,--a short man, pale, slim, sickly, and languid,--respected her as he did his patron saint and feared her as he did the fire; yet he loved her dearly, and would have been ready to die for her always.

"You do not recognize me, Nascia Kolesnikowa," said the old man, in a low voice, as he approached her. "I am Iermola, whom you know very well; you remember the man who learned to make pottery under Procope, your father."

"What? Is this you carrying a beggar's sack? What can have happened to you? You had a trade and something laid by. But then old age--"

"Oh, there is a long story to tell you. You remember, of course, that I brought up your master's son?"

"I know all about it; people did nothing but talk about it."

"Well, they have taken him away from me."

"Bless me! what would you have them do? He was their child, not yours."

"But my good Nascia, wasn't he a little mine too? And now they will not even allow me to see him, as if I went there, God help me! to cast a spell over my poor dear boy. So I am tired of living. No one will receive me here; at Popielnia I am all alone,--no one is left to me; even my neighbour, the cossack's widow, has lately died. Now I have left, and I go wandering about the world."

"Poor old man, are you then so grieved at having lost your child?"

"Oh, Nascia, he was my all, my joy, my life; and they had no pity on me, they took him away from me. Then he began to droop and dwindle away; God only knows what will become of him. They will not let me go near him. Tell me, have those people the fear of God in their hearts? The lord drove me away himself, and forbade my putting foot on his estate."

"Is it possible?"

"I swear it to you by the wounds of Christ; he drove me away without pity."

"He has the blood of the old chief of squadron. He will be like his beloved father," said Nascia, in a low voice, looking behind her to be sure that no one heard her. "How could they be so unjust thus to drive away their friend, their benefactor!"

"Therefore as I have said to you, there was nothing left for me but to drag myself about from place to place. But when I began my wanderings, I was again seized with such an intense desire to see my child that I could not stand it, and I came back to get one more look at him."

"And have you seen him?"

"No, I have just gotten here; I do not know even where to find shelter."

"Come, come into our house!"

"God bless you, Nascia, and reward you by blessing your children! But I cannot accept your offer; some one would see me at your house and go and tell them. I do not want them to know at the _dwor_ that I am here; I will go away after I have seen the child, even if I only see him at a distance. But tell me, is Procope's cabin vacant?"

"Certainly it is; we have not repaired it, because after the servant went away, we could not find a tenant. When it falls down entirely, the garden will be much larger."

"But until it tumbles down?"

"Oh, well, it will remain as it is."

"If you will allow me to stay there only one week, I will pay you rent for it."

Nascia burst into a laugh.

"Why should you pay," said she, "for the pleasure of lodging in a hole, in a ruin? Why, you will on the contrary do my Sydor a service, for he has an idea of repairing the cabin. If he could have found some one to stay there and keep it up, it would have lasted much longer. If you think of staying in it, I will send you the window which we had taken out of the frame and laid aside for fear some one should steal it. Will that suit you?"

"Do you really mean it? You are not joking?" said Iermola, in a tone of glad surprise.

"Quite the contrary. I have not the slightest desire to joke."

"Then may God protect and bless you!" cried the old man, clasping his hands. "You will see that I shall take good care of the old house; I will clean it up and repair it, and in return I will wait upon you whenever you wish me to do so. Oh, I shall be much happier here! I shall at least be near my child; I shall hear from him."

"Come, then, it is all settled. Sydor will be pleased too; there is nothing more to be said. As for me, I shall be pleased if you will only look after the garden a little."

"I will not only look after it, I will take care of it myself; you will see, I will put a beautiful, strong enclosure round it, provided I can find enough small boughs near by."

"That will be nice, very nice," said Nascia, with a joyous smile; "now come, take supper with us. You can have a talk with my husband and bring back the window, and as I will give you a little dry wood to light a fire in the old fireplace and drive away the dampness, you can sleep to-night in your cabin."

As she spoke, Nascia began to gather up her bundles of hemp, then called a servant, and singing a village song in a loud clear voice, she walked slowly along toward her cabin, not taking the narrow path over the foot-bridge which led from one garden to the other, but the public road, because she was so loaded down with her hemp. Sydor Kolenick's cabin was situated just on the edge of the public road, at the entrance of the second lane, so that the farther ends of the two gardens touched; it was spacious, solid, and quite new.

At a glance one could see that the household was comfortable and flourishing. The principal room was large and handsome; great gilded images were hung in one corner; the table, large and clean, was covered with a perfectly white cloth, and there was on it a large golden loaf, well baked, and covered with a fine napkin. The pewter and earthen pitchers, pails, and tubs were whole, shining, and new as if they had just come from the market; everything, indeed, was clean, dainty, substantial, cheerful, and comfortable.

The master of the house alone was unlike his wife and his surroundings; small, thin, withered, stunted, wretched-looking, with a red eye, a cloth tied round his jaws, and a beard unshaven for three weeks, he looked forty years old, though he had not yet reached thirty.

"Here is old Iermola from Popielnia," said Nascia to her husband, who, seated near the fire, was smoking his pipe to cure his toothache; "he offers to rent Procope's hut, and in addition to work the garden, if you will kindly agree to take him as a tenant."

"Iermola, ah, yes! I remember him. How do you do, old father, and what are you doing here?" said Sydor, his mouth full of saliva and speaking with difficulty.

Nascia did not allow the old man time to reply, for to all her other good qualities she added the gift of extraordinarily earnest and fluent eloquence. She began at once to relate Iermola's history; and as Sydor had a compassionate heart and was easily influenced by his wife's impressions, he was immediately filled with pity for the old man's forlorn situation, and sitting down beside him on the bench, began to chat with him.

"And what ails you?" said Iermola, suddenly, remembering that he had formerly dispensed remedies in the village. "Perhaps I could cure you."

"I do not know whether it is my teeth or my jawbone which gives me so much pain. At first one of my decayed teeth began to hurt me; and now my whole head and face burns and seems ready to burst, I suffer so."

"Have you never tried the remedy, rather disagreeable, but sometimes very good, of smoking a pipe of moss from the oak-trees instead of tobacco?"

"No, really."

"The only thing is to be careful about choosing the moss," said Iermola. "Are there any oak-trees near you?"

"Yes, indeed; the courtyard is full of them."

Iermola went out immediately to look for some; he had no trouble in finding a good handful, dried it, picked out the straws and fragments of bark, then filled a pipe with it, and presented it to the suffering Sydor. The pipe was scarcely lighted before a strong disagreeable odour filled the room and made Nascia sneeze violently; but either from this effect of the remedy or because the pain was coming to an end, Sydor soon ceased to suffer and moan, and the couple could not thank the old man sufficiently. Then the patient's face began to swell, but this was the natural consequence of the disease.

"Let it swell," said Sydor, "provided I have no more pain. A while ago I was ready to burst my head open against the wall."

Thus, thanks to a handful of moss, Iermola had been able to make a friend. Nascia gave him the window which had been taken out, some kindling-wood to light the fire in his stove, and bits of pine to burn instead of a torch. Then she made him eat his supper; and remembering that he would need something the next day, she filled a pot for him, after which Iermola went away, happy and well pleased, to occupy his new dwelling.

There is nothing so sad as an empty, solitary house after the dead owner has passed away; one seems to feel the presence of the corpse everywhere. Procope's cottage had been deserted for several months. Dampness and mildew had begun to invade it; small mushrooms had sprung up in the corners; a few grains of grass-seed and wheat, thrown by the wind into the cracks and crevices, sent up their frail stalks, yellow and pale for want of air and light; the moisture stood in drops upon the walls; the ground-floor was covered with gray mosses; and numberless insects had made their nests among the rubbish.

But it all seemed endurable and comfortable to Iermola; and he was ready to remedy everything, to find compensations and resources for himself, happy and comforted as he was by the fact of being near his child and the hope of seeing him again.

He put in the window, lighted the fire, swept and cleared the floor, opened the door, repaired and set up as well as he could two old benches, then having spread his bags on the floor, he laid down upon them, impatient to rest after the long tramp he had taken over an uneven, woody, and sandy road.

He spent the whole of the next day in repairing and cleaning up his room; he helped Nascia to work her garden; and in the evening he went in the direction of the _dwor_, the situation and extent of which he knew perfectly well. He had waited till the twilight came on, so that no one would recognize him, and he avoided going on the side next the great courtyard, where so often he had been so inhospitably received; but he took a foot-path winding round the orchard, and also took the further precaution to wear his beggar's costume and sack. From this narrow path, which separated the garden from the farm buildings, he could plainly see the broad garden walk, the _dwor_, and the lawn where Radionek walked oftenest. He was allowed to play here alone, because the orchard, not very large, was surrounded by a strong, high hedge, and consequently the child could not go out. But at this moment the garden was empty; and Iermola, looking anxiously through the openings in the hedges, could see no one but the gardener. There was a light, however, in Radionek's room; the old man gazed at the light, sighed, and went away.

His heart, however, felt much lighter since he had been near his child, and by consequence able to be of aid to him. He found he had regained sufficient strength to take an interest in his small household; and he now felt refreshed and went back to bed almost joyfully. On his return he saw that Nascia had not forgotten his supper, for he found on the stove a small pot, well covered up, full of oatmeal gruel, enough to last him two days.

The next day was passed in the same way; and Iermola took care to go to the _dwor_ every day, and at last had the happiness to see Radionek walking all alone in the garden just on the other side of the hedge.

"Radionek," he cried, "for the love of God, come and speak to me; say something, if only one word!"

At the sound of the well-known voice, though so low and stifled the tone, the boy trembled, stopped, and then with one bound leaped to the top of the hedge.

"My father," he cried, "is it you? What are you doing here?"

"Be still, be still; do not betray me! I came to see you."

"How long since you came?"

"A few days ago."

"Where are you staying?"

"In Procope's old hut. Oh, do not betray me! Be careful, my son; we shall see each other every evening." Radionek trembled and flushed with pleasure; but at that moment some one approached, a voice sounded in the garden. The old man disappeared; and Jules pretended to his parents that he had wandered there to look for birds' nests. They reproved him gently for having, by jumping, exposed himself to falling, and then took him back to the house, fearing for him the freshness of the evening air and the dew. No one, however, remarked the change which had come over the child; Radionek, extremely agitated, did not sleep the whole night.

The next day he would not play anywhere but in the walks of the garden. Iermola did not fail to come in the evening. They found a place where the hedge was not so thick, and they could talk more conveniently. But they could not talk long; and the old man went away discontented and troubled. His heart, full of a great joy, was having a struggle with his conscience; Radionek was begging and pleading with him to take him away with him, to fly with him far away from Malyczki, for the life he was leading had become insupportable to him. His parents' affection was becoming more and more weaned from him every day, and was bestowed instead upon his brother. He had ceased to be their pet, their darling; he was becoming almost a burden and a nuisance to them. They scolded him for his wild ways, his sadness, his weakness, and his ill health; they called him teasingly the peasant of the family.

He possessed everything, it is true, except sympathy, affection, and tenderness; but accustomed as he was to the deep love of his old father, it was this heart-penury which caused him so much suffering.

"But how can I take you away?" replied the old man. "They are your parents, after all; they will say I have stolen you away. You have been accustomed with them to have all sorts of dainties; how can I give them to you? Where shall we hide ourselves? They will follow us, and at last they will find us; then we shall both be more wretched than ever."

But the child had his answer for all these questions; and Iermola began to give way. His parents did not love him as his adoptive father had loved him; how could he live with them? He did not need dainties or choice and delicate food, for he would steal the servants' coarse, black bread, which reminded him of the simple meals of his early years; and several times he had been mocked at and punished because he preferred that coarse, common food. It would be easy to hide themselves, he added, by going far, far away into some unknown country. Who would recognize him if he wore the dress of a peasant,--a coarse drugget stable coat, for instance?

At the thought of this bold plan, this sudden deliverance, Iermola's soul was filled with hope and happiness; but he soon grew sad again as he thought of the impossibility of putting it into execution, and felt honest, conscientious scruples arise within him. Suppose he should happen to die on the way, to whose care should he leave the child? Was it wise or just to snatch him from his family and from a sure and peaceful future? The old man began to reproach himself for having come, for having disturbed poor Radionek; he thought of running away from the village, so as not to expose the child to further trial.

He meant to go away at once. He felt that Radionek exercised over him an influence more and more powerful; but that evening when they were talking together near the garden hedge, he must have betrayed himself entirely by some imprudent word or the trembling and tearful tone of his voice, for the boy took leave of him sadly and silently, and the old man did not suspect then that Radionek had taken a firm and definite resolve. The old vagabond had scarcely returned to his cabin when he began by the light of his pine torch to collect his clothes and bundle them into his sack. He was still occupied with this task when the door suddenly opened, and a young peasant of slight figure rushed into the room. The old man did not at first recognize him who had concealed himself under this humble garb; but his heart beat violently, and then he uttered a cry. It was Radionek, dressed in the clothes he had taken from one of the valets at the _dwor_. The poor old frightened father clasped his hands in terror and trembled all over as he saw his child.

"Do not be frightened, father, it is I; I have come back to you," cried Radionek, throwing himself on his neck. "Be quick, be quick! let us go before they find I have run away. Put some bread in your sack; we will plunge into the forest, and by to-morrow morning they will not be able to overtake us. Somewhere we will find a cottage, some kind people, a river shore, a bank of clay; and we will work and sing and turn pots once more, good father."

The old man's speech and breath failed him.

"Oh, my child, my child! what have you done?" he answered.

"What have I done? Yesterday my father and mother told me that I was not worthy of their care and love. Go, they said to me a hundred times; go back to your old potter whom you love so much, since you sigh so for your old life! We can easily do without you; we are satisfied with Wladzio. You see, they themselves have advised me to do it."

It must have been through strong love on the one hand and great weakness on the other that Iermola at last consented to an act which he considered only as a theft; but he had not the strength to resist his child's entreaties. Radionek begged him, kissed him, hugged him, fell on his knees to him. At last the old man lost all power over himself, and taking the child by the hand, rushed from the cabin.

XIX.

THE DRAMA IN THE FOREST.

The night, so dark that one could not see a step before him, was fortunately very mild and perfectly still; there was not a breath of wind. The inhabitants of the village had been asleep a long time; now and then there was the noise of the barking of a dog tied to the door-sill of some cabin, the hoarse song of the cocks who kept watch over the village, and in the distance the cry of the night birds,--owls and screech-owls,--as they answered each other like vigilant guards on sentry duty. The old man and the child passed through the village in silence; they reached the crossroads, crossed themselves before the great crucifix set up on the spot, and took by chance the road which crossed a vast region of marshes and bare brush-wood, beyond which one entered the wood leading to Lithuania. Prudence obliged them to avoid open roads; nevertheless, it was important to go in some certain direction. Iermola, who formerly had been an excellent hunter, easily succeeded in finding his way in the midst of a forest, guiding himself now by the light of the sky and now by the mosses on the trees. In the daytime he knew that he could easily succeed in not getting lost; but he scarcely thought it possible during the night, and not on the beaten road,--to keep the same direction. He therefore turned into a narrow pathway leading to a pitch-kiln situated about a mile off, in a clearing called Smolna, and resolved to follow it until daylight, when he would leave it and turn to the north through the coppices and bogs.

The two walked on in silence, each praying in a low voice. Radionek seemed born again. He held his head up joyfully; he supported Iermola; and when they reached the protecting forest which surrounded them with its undergrowth and concealed them with its shadows, they both began to breathe more freely.

"Oh, good father," said the young refugee, "two, three, five days more perhaps, of patience, fatigue, and effort, and we shall come to some place in the open fields where we can settle down and be quiet. No one will know us; no one will hunt for us. We shall have enough bread; I saw that you put it in your sack. We shall not be obliged to go into the villages; there is water in the woods, and we shall not die of thirst even if we have to suck the leaves on the trees. During the day we will rest, we will sleep on the thick brakes; and we will walk all night and early in the morning."

The old man sighed as he listened to him, for he knew very well that all this was neither so simple nor so easy; he did not wish to frighten the child, but he said to himself that the strength of both of them would doubtless give out, and that in the woods they were exposed to face a thousand dangers, and meet with a thousand obstacles. Some one passing, meeting the two fugitives, might arrest them and turn them over to justice. Thoughts like this, and others still more sad, crushed the old man's spirit; but he forced himself to smile and say nothing, and listened to the joyous babble and tender outpourings of the child, who had been so long deprived of such enjoyment that now he could not be satisfied, and his old father had not the strength to undeceive him or tell him to be silent.

The fear of being surprised had doubtless quickened their pace, for long before daylight they reached the clearing of Smolna, where the path stopped. From there no beaten road could be seen through the undergrowth, which was literally ploughed down in every direction by the wheels of the wagons of the peasants who came there for wood and resin torches.

Day had scarcely dawned; the road became more and more rugged and difficult. The old man determined to make a halt, knowing very well that no one would come to look for them in that place. They lighted a fire with boughs and some coal picked up near the kiln; and Radionek, full of joy, stretched himself at the old man's feet.

"No, no," said he, "they will not look for me; they are not even sorry I am gone. Do you suppose I am at all necessary to them? They never have understood me; and I never have been able to comprehend them. My mother has Wladzio; my father has Wladzio. They will be happier without me in the house."

Here, however, he could not help sighing.

"However, some day," he continued, "after a while,--after a long while,--I shall go to see my mother again. But now I should suffer too much, living with them; I do not like to think of it even. I should surely die of grief. There I was shut up all alone; no one ever talked to me as you used to talk to me, father. They were always telling me, whatever I did, that I had the manners of a peasant; that peasants did so and so. Yes, it is true, I am a peasant; they,--they are masters and lords. My little brother Wladzio is the only one I regret; he already began to know me, and smiled so sweetly on me as he would hold out his arms for me."

"My dear child," said Iermola, "do not talk in that way. Perhaps at this moment they are weeping over there and cursing me. You break my heart; you make me remember that I have betrayed them."

"Ah, well! let us talk about our happy life in Popielnia, father. Do you remember the time when we used to make our porringers, our little dishes, and when we went with Chwedko to the fair, and how astonished and pleased you were when we succeeded with our first glazed pitchers?"

"Ah, those days will never come again," sighed the old man.

"Why should they never return? I have forgotten nothing,--nothing at all. It was useless for them to forbid me over there; I used, in secret, to make little pots and porringers of the clay Iwaneck would bring me, and I know still how to glaze dishes and other things. We will build a kiln; you will see how we will work."

Talking thus, they both fell asleep; and when the song of the oriole which was warbling above their heads aroused them from their slumber, it was broad day, but under the trees hung a thick, damp fog.

The old man rose quickly; the child followed him; and they began to travel northward, guiding themselves by the thick mosses which grew on the trunks of the trees.

Although our great forests have been in some places greatly diminished, frequently cleared, and often half cut down and partly destroyed, the heart of them still recalls the majesty of the early ages of the world; here the coppices are so thick and the brakes so impenetrable that one finds the greatest difficulty in going through them.

Here the wild beast has his lair, where he hears no murmur but that of the giant trees which shelter him at their feet. The great waving branches, broken down by the winds, are thrown up in heaps and rot in great mounds, overgrown with mosses and pale grasses; the wild hop-vine crowns them, and running plants cover them with their interlacing tendrils.

Here and there, under a thick bed of dry, half-rotten leaves, flows a black-looking brook, bearing with it dead grasses and the remains of other plants.

Sometimes it spreads itself and forms a large pond of stagnant water and moving mud, in the midst of which grow water-lilies and rushes; farther on, it again contracts and runs in a narrow, miry bed, interrupted by unevenness of the land, hummocks of turf, and trunks of trees.

These gloomy coppices are succeeded by rude clearings and fields of small extent. Here, the opening seems wider and less savage; there young shrubs grow thickly; farther on, marshes and thickets appear; and at last you see the open fields.

The gloomiest places in these wild forests are those where fire has devastated them, leaving deep traces of its ravages. Great trunks still stand, dry and blackened; the branches of the pine-trees put out sad, yellow-looking leaves; scanty, miserable grass begins to cover the ground.

Sometimes the flight of a bird breaks this awful silence; a squirrel leaps and makes the boughs of an oak-tree bend; a hungry raven goes by cawing; a black swan darts into the thickest part of the forest, or a startled deer bounds over the tall grasses. Then the woods fall again into their majestic, eternal sleep.

The deeper you penetrate, the fewer traces you find of man's passage. At first there is a road, then a path, and farther on broken bushes, trodden grass, a tree cut down, trails of yellow chips in places where beams have been hewn, a hut where hunters have been on the watch, the cabin of a sentinel, the trench of a charcoal-burner, the ashes of a shepherd's fire; then one sees only the traces of animals, then no traces of anything, for the wild animal leaves few traces behind him when he has passed by.

On the second day of their journey, when they began to go deeper into the heart of the forest, which stretched toward the north like a great green sea, they only at rare intervals came upon any indications of the passage of man. The silence was universal and profound; and it was rare that the noise of the woodman's axe, resounding in the distance, obliged them to withdraw rapidly from the direction whence the sound came.

The old man, guiding himself by inspecting the mosses and the part of the sky whence the light came, continued to go northward. They neither saw nor encountered any one; and toward evening they stopped on a little rising ground, shadowed by such thickly growing pine-trees and hazel-nut bushes that they could allow themselves boldly to light a fire without fear of being betrayed by the smoke or by the crackling of the flames.

Iermola then declared that they were too far from Malyczki for any one to discover any trace of them. Their feet, in fact, had left no impression upon the slippery, moss-covered ground under the sombre dome of the pines; chance alone could put the pursuers on their track.

The two travellers were extremely tired; so after having eaten a bit of dry bread and drank out of the hollow of their hands some water from the brook in the forest, they stretched themselves on the ground near their fire, which sent up a clear red flame. Iermola roasted a few potatoes which he had brought with him; and this was their evening meal.

Radionek appeared happy all the time, but now he scarcely talked at all. His breath seemed to fail him sometimes; for having been a long time accustomed to an indoor life, he could with difficulty endure such a rapid march.

A wandering blackbird, roused by the crackling of the flames, wished them good-evening; a light breeze, passing over the summits of the pines, awoke vague murmurs in the depths of the forest. Then all was hushed; and a solemn silence began to reign again over the immense and gloomy forest.

The third day they came to woods less thick, where the trees grew smaller; low, tangled brush-wood took the place of the old trees of pine and oak; the earth was damper, softer, and more thickly covered with verdure.

They comprehended that they were coming to the low and often inundated regions; they would have to go along the edge of some vast marshes, for here and there they perceived at a distance large tracts covered with mud, interspersed with salt-water ponds.

It became impossible to follow the direction they had at first chosen; but as they had still some bread, and as their strength seemed not yet in danger of giving out, Iermola determined to turn a little to the left so as to avoid encountering the marshes. Radionek, quite restored, proposed to seek a frequented road, follow it, stop in the nearest village, and afterward go on fearlessly into the interior of the country; but Iermola did not yet dare thus to tempt fortune. Choosing, therefore, the more elevated land, across the clearings of brakes and brush-wood, they walked on in the solitude three more days, when at the end of the last day the old man, as they stopped for rest, remarked such a change in the child's face that he was seriously alarmed, and resolved to run the risk and look for the public road himself.

In fact, poor Radionek could hardly walk any longer; his courage alone kept him on his feet and supplied his strength. Unaccustomed to fatigue and labour, exposed thus to constant exertion just after a long illness, he was every moment in danger of fainting away and never rising again.

He was pale and oppressed, and complained of a great heaviness in his head. Soon he fell into a deep, heavy sleep, from which Iermola could scarcely rouse him.

It was then necessary to seek for help, to find men, a shelter, a village; and in the mean time, as our travellers had just come across a wood-cutter's hut on the road, Iermola pretended to be weary, and proposed to stop, although the day was not nearly ended.

The portion of the forest where they then were was much less wild than that which they had crossed some days before, when they plunged through the brakes.

Here and there was an old forgotten beam, bits of wood chips, a trunk recently deprived of its branches, attesting that some villages must be quite near; the air, moreover, impregnated with the odour of smoke and fragrance of the fields, gave evidence of the existence of some inhabited place in the vicinity.

These various indications contributed to restore the old man somewhat; but on the other hand, seeing the child so sadly weakened, he did not know what to do, how to be able to go, or where to look for help for Radionek.

Their terrible and threatening position rose before him in all its horrors. Nevertheless the poor old man, recommending himself to the all-powerful mercy of God, employed his remaining strength in preparing a bed of leaves in one corner of the hut, and determined to go in search of a village as soon as poor Radionek should go to sleep. The fainting child, having taken a few swallows of water, had scarcely stretched himself on his bed before he was sleeping like a rock.

The old man's limbs also trembled under him, and his head swam; he was greatly in need of rest and sleep, but he could not think of either one or the other. Leaning on his stick, he plunged into the forest in search of the village, which from all indications could not be far away.

Sure enough, in the distance, behind a long stretch of bushes and brush-wood he soon perceived quite a large village, whose blackened houses were ranged in a half-circle along the edge of the lake. It was surrounded by gardens full of large pear-trees; wells with sweeps and with cranks could be seen in the distance; two old _cerkiews_ with cupolas rose at the two extremities, but there was no _dwor_ to be seen; in the centre, however, on a little hill surrounded by the rains of ramparts and old fallen walls, there was a small plank house, which could not be the residence of the lord, but must be that of the steward.

The old man, after making these observations, concluded that the village he saw before him was not one of the little towns of Wolhynian Polesia.

The country around him, though somewhat resembling his native land, was more marshy, flatter, and more dreary-looking. He was convinced, upon examining the different style of the dwellings, the sandy hills, the clear water of the lake, and the larch-trees growing near the Russian church, that according to appearances he must be in a corner of Dobrynian Russia, or else in the vicinity of Pinsk.

But the village was too far off for him to go there for assistance, to leave the child all alone in that hut just at nightfall. Accordingly the old man after a moment retraced his steps; he sat down on the sill of the door, leaned against the doorway, and fell into an anxious and disturbed sleep, with his eyes always fixed on Radionek, whose face in the half-light was pale and motionless as that of a marble statue. For some moments he listened to his breathing; he watched his sleep. Then again, broken down by fatigue, he returned and sat down; and in this position, thoroughly overcome by sleep and weariness, he at last unwillingly closed his tired eyes.

Near them a bright fire, built of branches and dry leaves, burned and sparkled until daylight; and in the morning, the old man, feeling a little more quiet, slept two or three hours much more peaceably.

When he woke, he saw with astonishment the great bright, glad sun shining above his head, the sweet morning light smiling at him through the trees, and a woman, still young and beautiful, though very pale, regarding him in silence mingled with surprise, doubt, and sorrow.

This new-comer, who had very black eyes and hair, was tall and slender; she was dressed in a gown of coloured calico and wore on her head a handkerchief arranged after the fashion of the women belonging to the lesser nobility. She held in her hand a closed knife, a basket in which to put mushrooms, and some provisions wrapped in a white linen bag.

Iermola, when he saw her, was as much surprised as she was; he opened his mouth, was about to exclaim, to pronounce a name, then stopped, hesitated in doubt, and looked again.

But the stranger, starting back a few steps, cried at the same time,--

"Are you old Iermola?"

"Is it you, Horpyna? Is it you, my dear lady?" answered the old man, correcting himself quickly.

"What are you doing here?"

The unhappy creature, full of trouble, was silent, not knowing what to reply.

"You are here alone?"

"No, madame, with Radionek."

"You have run away from Popielnia? Tell me, then, what has happened to you?"

Iermola had no need of dissimulation in the presence of one whom he knew so well, and whom he esteemed so highly; he therefore in a few words told her his whole story.

She listened attentively, grieved, and somewhat indignant, but above all filled with astonishment, and in the bottom of her heart a little displeased at the coming of this old friend who could reveal to every one her real origin (for since she had lived in that country, she had pretended to belong to the lesser nobility). But she did not wish to refuse the unfortunate man either her assistance or her advice, for she had been very fond of the child, and besides, she was really sympathetic and charitable.

"It is useless to think of mushrooms to-day," said she, shutting up her knife; "come to the village. My husband is the steward there; there is a vacant cabin,--one formerly occupied by the blacksmith. We will put you in it for the present."

At this Iermola threw himself at her feet and embraced them, then went to rouse the child.

But all night Radionek had been in a burning fever; he had talked in his sleep of things the old man could not understand. He seemed disturbed and in pain; and when it was necessary to waken him, it was impossible to do so. He sat up on his bed, trembled, looked round bewildered, did not recognize Iermola, and fell back upon his bed, complaining first of being very cold and then of a burning heat. It was impossible to be mistaken any longer; the child was in the early stage of some terrible illness. Iermola, exhausted and in despair, wrung his hands and sobbed aloud.

"He is cold and tired; he must have drunk some bad water when he was in a perspiration," cried Horpyna. "Do not be so anxious; that is not so bad, only the poor child may be sick for a few days."

"But how can I carry him to the village? Perhaps it would be better to let him be quiet here."

"Certainly, do not rouse him; the fever will soon pass off," said the steward's wife. "I will go back home and send you something to eat, for hunger alone is enough to cause illness. Light a fire in the fireplace; stop up the cracks in the door as well as you can; cover the child up well, and do not move from here. I will send you some herb tea."

Iermola took off all of his own clothes except his shirt, to cover his child, then sat down weeping beside his bed. Horpyna hastened to return, for she loved Radionek, whom she had cared for when he was a baby; and she felt a sincere pity for him.

After a few hours, the messenger whom she sent from her house arrived, bringing some fresh bread, some water, some herbs good in sickness, and some brandy for Iermola; a boy also accompanied him, who was to remain at the hut to assist the old man.

But it was still impossible to rouse Radionek sufficiently to make him take the refreshing tea which Horpyna had prepared.

His face burned like fire; his eyes, half open, shone with a strange light. The fever and delirium were evidently increasing.

In the silent forest, under the sombre branches of the old pine-trees, was about to be enacted the last scene of this drama of love,--this rustic drama, which would perhaps be improbable, if it were not strictly true in every detail, true in its sad simplicity.

The day after the one on which he had gone to sleep in the forester's hut, Radionek opened his eyes for a moment, recognized and smiled upon the old man, who rejoiced and began to hope; but this smile was like the last flicker of a dying lamp.

The child began to amuse himself, to talk in a low voice, telling of all he meant to do when he should get rested and well again; he proposed to go to work immediately, spoke in turn of Popielnia, Huluk, the widow, the happy days of the past, Malyczki, and the sorrowful days of trial. He tried especially to reassure and cheer the old man, who wept bitterly; but while he was speaking, he grew weaker and fell again into a doze, then a violent fever came on, during which he threw himself about, cried, trembled, as though he thought himself pursued by some invisible enemy, and so he died in the arms of Iermola, upon whose breast he sought shelter, and who held him tightly in his embrace.

The old man strained to his bosom a long while the beautiful, pure young form, now still and cold, which he could not make up his mind to surrender to the grave; he did not utter a word, but the big tears fell from her eyes,--silent, bitter tears. At last his breast heaved, and a great sorrowful cry escaped him.

"My child! my child!" Then he buried his hands in his gray hair, and fled like a madman into the depths of the forest.

In the cemetery of Horodyszcz may still be seen the tomb of Radionek, whose history the people relate, embellishing it with a thousand wonderful, almost superhuman circumstances. Not even a poor cross of black wood marks this neglected tomb; but the white and pink thorn gives it the fragrance of its flowers and the velvety verdure of its leaves.

At the door of a neighbouring church there has stood for a long time a little old man, bent, decrepit, called by the people of the vicinity old Father Skin-and-Bones, because it seems that his skin, yellow, wrinkled, and sadly withered, alone holds his bones together.

On Sundays the villagers gather round him to laugh at and tease him; for who would not laugh to see him constantly hugging in his arms an old doll, wrapped in rags like a baby swaddled in its long clothes? He rocks it on his heart, and sings it to sleep, now and then kissing it, talking to it in a low voice, and often weeping over it. He thinks he is still caring for, rocking and petting his darling child, the poor old beggar, skin and bones, Iermola, the poor old father.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: The name given to the dwellings of the nobility.]

[Footnote 2: A disease of the hair peculiar to Poland.]

[Footnote 3: A sort of boat or raft.]

[Footnote 4: Presents usually made by a young peasant of these countries to a young girl whom he asks in marriage.]

[Footnote 5: Popular proverb, signifying that nothing is impossible.]

[Footnote 6: A sort of cake thrown into warm water and then baked in the oven.]

[Footnote 7: God has pity on the orphan.]

THE END.

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