Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Pages scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=ilpGAAAAYAAJ&dq
2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Jozef Ignacy Kraszewski
IERMOLA
IERMOLA
BY
JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI
Author Of "The Jew"
Translated
By MRS. M. CAREY
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD, AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1891_,
By Dodd, Mead, and Co.
* * *
_All rights reserved_.
CONTENTS.
I. The Land and the People.
II. The Background of the Picture.
III. What there was at the Foot of the Oaks.
IV. First Cares and First Happiness.
V. Set a Cheat to catch a Cheat.
VI. When One Loves.
VII. A New Life.
VIII. Happy Days.
IX. A Visit to the Door.
X. What a Strong Will can Accomplish.
XI. A Pottery at Popielnia.
XII. Paternal Happiness.
XIII. The Gray Mare.
XIV. Improvement and Deception
XV. The Other Father.
XVI. Alone!
XVII. In Bondage.
XVIII. The Last Journey.
XIX. The Drama in the Forest.
I E R M O L A.
I.
THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE.
_Amor omnia vincit_.
The events which are here related took place in Wolhynian Poland, in
that little corner of the earth, happily overlooked, where up to the
present time neither great highways nor roads frequented by carriages
are to be seen,--a land remote, almost lost, where the antique modesty,
simplicity, innocence, and poverty of past ages are still preserved. I
do not mean by this to say that all human vices with burdens of sins
upon their backs are always to be seen following in the footsteps of
civilization along the great highways; but unfortunately there is
always, between one social condition just ended and another which is
beginning, a period of transition during which the old life is
extinguished, and the new does not yet exist; and the result is
indecision and sad confusion. That hour, which has already chimed for
other nations and other provinces, has not yet sounded for this little
nook of our land. Here people live, particularly in the _dwors_[1] of
the lesser nobles, according to the traditions of the sixteenth and
seventeenth centuries, which have left upon the people the impress of
their thought, their faith, and their manners.
It is true that in those yellow-painted _dwors_ belonging to the richer
nobles certain reforms have been adopted and a few new customs are in
use; but the mass of the lesser nobility are astonished and scandalized
at these innovations. Can it be otherwise in this honest little corner
of the earth, where the newspapers arrive in bundles once a month;
where the sending and receiving of letters is managed only by means of
the Jews who come to pass the Sabbath in the neighbouring town; where
the whole business of the country, with the exception of some traffic
in building timber, of which we shall speak farther on, is the breeding
of livestock and the manufacture and sale of shoes made of bark? Some
persons perhaps will find it difficult to believe that there still
exists a spot on earth so remote and so behind the rest of the world;
but it is really true that in the district of Zarzecze, in the environs
of the marshes of Pinsk, not very long ago, there were still homes of
nobles, whose occupants sometimes inquired of travellers for news of
the health of King Stanislaus-Augustus, and were still in complete
ignorance of all events which had taken place since the days of
Kosciusko.
Soldiers are never seen there; officials are unknown. Even those of the
inhabitants who go to Pinsk to pay taxes never ask the names of those
to whom they pay them, and wrapping their receipts carefully in their
handkerchiefs, never dare to examine them closely, fearing lest this
might cost them dear.
The portion of country which will be the scene of our narrative was,
however, neither so remote nor so wild. The almanac of Berdyczew
regularly found its way there in the latter days of December, bringing
a far-off reflection of foreign civilization and a collection of the
facts most necessary to the inhabitants,--such as the name of the
dominant planet for the current year, the date of the feast of Easter,
the hour of the rising and setting of the sun, and the receipt for the
destruction of insects which had been brought over from England. The
post-office was only ten miles away, and the richer nobles sent a
messenger for their newspapers every month or six weeks; some of them
even received letters by this means still so little used.
The majority of the inhabitants preferred, in fact, to confide their
commissions to the hands of a messenger on foot, even when he had to go
as far as fifty miles, for the Polesian messenger is superior to all
others. None walk so rapidly; none are so discreet, so faithful; none
ask so few tormenting questions; and none so surely and so cleverly
escape all sorts of dangers. At first sight one would take this peasant
porter for a beggar or vagabond, with his torn and threadbare old gray
coat, and his wallet containing a few crusts of bread and a change of
shoes; but closer examination would reveal that in the folds of his
girdle or in the lining of his cap, wrapped in an old ragged
handkerchief or a scrap of paper, he carried titles, documents, and
papers representing hundreds of millions of francs, or interests of the
greatest importance. When God created the Polesian He made him a
messenger: he always finds the shortest road by instinct; he never
loses his way; and he goes through the most difficult places with
marvellous ease. Consequently a tradition concerning messengers is
current among the gentry; they hold that the promptest and surest post
never can replace them. And therefore each village possesses a certain
number of these hireling footmen, who tramp over the space of a hundred
miles like apostles, and who, provided the recompense were sufficient,
would not hesitate to carry a letter to Calcutta.
The portion of country of which we are speaking, whose geographical
position it is not necessary more exactly to determine, is not so
remote from Pinsk as Zarzecze, nor so near as Western Wolhynia; but it
touches both of these regions, and thus occupies an intermediate
position.
It is a long strip of land still in great part covered with forests of
pine and oak. In the midst of it are to be found fields recently and
with great difficulty reclaimed, and miserable villages all smoked and
blackened by the resinous vapours from the forests.
The river Horyn flows through these forests, thus rendering them of
great commercial value, for the principal revenue of the country is
derived from the sale of timber transported to Dantzick in rafts.
Thanks to their simple habits, almost all the inhabitants become rich
in their old age. In fact, the Polesian, in spite of his wretched and
poverty-stricken appearance, in spite of the inconveniences of the
_plica_,[2] with which they are frequently afflicted, would not change
his condition for that of his cousin, the Wolhynian, who is apparently
much more robust and prosperous.
In this country the peasant does not depend for support entirely upon
the cultivation of the soil; there are varied means of subsistence
which prevent his entertaining too great a dread of the unproductive
seasons which are so terribly felt in other parts of the world. The
forests and the river, to which the nobles grant him access, are for
him an inexhaustible source of certain revenue and small industries.
Those forests particularly from which the proprietors draw no profit
after the trees suitable for sale have been cut down, furnish the
principal wealth of the peasants,--bark from the oak and linden trees,
barrel-hoops, bark slippers, osiers and rushes for the manufacture of
baskets, blocks of beech and box wood for making domestic utensils,
resinous torches, laths, and shavings. The dwellers in the _dwors_ do
not take the trouble to pick up all these refuse objects; but the
peasants gather them and gain both profit and pleasure. Then, too,
dried mushrooms, strawberries, mulberries, pears and wild apples, the
berries of the guelder-rose and hawthorn furnish the peasant so many
small harvests which yield him a modest and certain profit.
The working-men frequent the river shore. The young men of the
villages are employed as raftsmen to float the timber down the river;
they stretch nets and weirs, and hunt with the sparrow-hawk and
boar-spear,--in a word, no one dies of hunger, and although famine
sometimes threatens the poor people of the villages (and where does not
this stern benefactress show her face?), if only they can hold out till
harvest-time, they are sure to be able to live along together quite
comfortably during another year. There are, it is true, bad days,--dark
days, as the people call them. Sometimes they are obliged to make bread
of bark, hay, and buckwheat. But the world would not be the world if
one always enjoyed in it the peace and happiness of heaven.
The nobles who dwell in the _dwors_ lead a patriarchal life, toward the
maintenance of which the commercial relations with foreign countries
contribute so little that these might without much inconvenience be
altogether done away with. Everything is found, everything is
manufactured in the villages; the people buy only sugar and coffee, a
few bottles of Franconia wine, which is here called French wine, a few
pounds of tea, a little pepper, and that is all. In many instances
honey, which costs nothing, is substituted for sugar and chiccory for
coffee; camomile or balm and lime tree flowers, infinitely more
healthy, for tea, and horse-radish for pepper. Meat necessary for
household purposes is frequently butchered at home; at other times the
Jews bring it for sale at six and seven cents a pound, and tongues and
tripes for even less. The poultry-yard furnishes fowls and eggs;
candles are moulded in the old fashion; cloth is woven after an antique
method, admirable for its simplicity; linen also is equally well spun
and woven in the villages; and there are no trades necessary to daily
life which are not practised in the somewhat larger towns. Everywhere
one will find farriers, wheelwrights, carpenters, coopers, and masons,
usually very industrious, although it must be said not very skilful.
And besides, in urgent or difficult cases, when one is in a hurry, for
instance, and a workman is not just at hand, there is always some
Polesian who remembers having seen the thing made somewhere, and who
will undertake the needed job. He does it as well as he can, and
usually after several attempts becomes a tolerable workman.
I do not mean to say that trades and the arts are in a flourishing
condition in Polesia; in a country so simple, but little that is
artistic is required. When the shoemaker brings you a pair of boots, at
first sight they will certainly not seem to be made for a human foot,
they look so awkward, hard, large, rounded, and apparently moulded on a
block of iron. But try them, wear them for two years in water and mud,
and not a crack will be seen in the leather, not a peg will have come
out, they are so solid, strong, and conscientiously made. No one asks,
it is true, if his feet are more or less comfortable; has he not
something for which to thank God if a good piece of ox-hide covers them
and a thick sole protects them? And as for corns and bunions, he
considers them the natural consequence of years and hard work, and not
the effect of ill-made shoes.
It is in this way that everything is done there,--strongly, solidly,
roughly. If the epidermis suffers in consequence, so much the worse for
a skin which has been made tender by too much care, and for the eye
which has become too delicate and exacting from the effects of luxury
and studied refinement, I will only observe further that in this
fortunate country each mechanic, who is oftener an amateur, and
who has very few rivals professionally, thinks himself an artist, a
being of superior nature, uncomprehended and unappreciated by his
fellow-citizens. The frequent communications which he has with the
_dwors_, the efforts he makes to possess himself of the secrets of his
trade, the consciousness of being a necessary man,--a sort of axle in
the social mechanism which surrounds him,--contributes to arouse in him
feelings which, even if absurd, are manifested in other spheres and
under other skies than those of our Polesia.
In this country vast green forests form the frame and horizon of each
landscape. As we pass along we come to an occasional clearing; there a
pond glitters, or a slow, deep river runs; there damp marshes stagnate
eternally, and meadows grow green, half buried under rushes. Farther on
rise the roofs of huts blackened by the everlasting smoke. The Horyn,
like a rich silver girdle, surrounds this sleeping country with its
sparkling waters, which enrich and fertilize it; almost all the small
towns of this region are grouped along the river shore.
In other countries the name of town is not given to such miserable,
straggling villages; but in Polesia any assemblage of houses among
which may be found an inn, a Catholic chapel, a _cerkiew_ (Russian
church), a market-place, and above all two or three Jews, is called a
town.
The number of Israelites dwelling in a small town constitutes its
wealth; the more of them, the richer it is considered. In each of these
little capitals one encounters a Boruch, a Zelman, an Abram, or a
Majorko, who trades in everything; who furnishes to each person
whatever he desires, from a coat of lamb-skin to a gold watch; who buys
wheat and grists of corn, keeps an inn, sells rum, tobacco, pipes,
and sugar, and is acquainted with the whole history and condition of
all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, numbers of whose notes and
receipts he has in his portfolio. The great storehouse situated on the
market-place supplies the general needs of the poor villagers, who find
there pots, girdles, bonnets, iron, salt, tar, etc.; besides, there are
two or three little shops containing stuffs and haberdashery and a few
groceries, and that is all. The entire little town is nourished,
clothed, and subsists by means of the activity of the Jews who are its
soul. The cultivation of the soil, it is true, which is carried on by
the inhabitants of the towns, according to the ancient Slavic custom,
also furnishes other supplies.
A few poor gentlemen, one or two functionaries poorer still, the
curate, the Russian priest, and the employees of the _dwor_ compose
almost all the population. During the week the town seems deserted;
only the Jewish children run about the streets playing at quoits and
skittles. The chickens, goats, and cows wander peaceably through the
market-place. But on Sunday it is almost impossible to pass on the
square, there are so many riding horses, so many wagons laden with wood
and fodder, and so brisk is the trade going on in all sorts of produce.
And when once a year the day of the town holiday comes, then there are
all sorts of noises, and a crowd, and a fair. Then the pedlers arrive
with their little wagons, and display their bundles of merchandise upon
the square. The Jew hatter hangs from long poles planted along the wall
the bonnets and hats of his own manufacture; the Gypsy horse-doctor
appears; hand-organs abound; and the crowd increases every moment. All
the land-holders of the neighbouring parishes also come with their
wives; the stewards and managers, the poor gentry who own only one
field, the villagers who wish to get rid of any surplus commodity or
useless provision, such as leather, wool, cloth, or linen,--all are
there.
It is a pleasure to see, and a delight to hear, the noise and commotion
with which business is carried on. On the square every few moments some
of the men conclude a bargain and go off to the inn to confirm the
agreement by emptying a pint mug; the old women venders of onions,
garlic, tobacco, girdles, and red ribbons pick up as many big coppers
as they want. The day after the fair, and even for many succeeding
days, unless a good rain storm washes out the numberless traces, one
would divine at first glance what had taken place. Possibly the pools
of the blood of slaughtered goats and sheep which are drying and
blackening on the ground might even suggest that some dark crime had
been enacted.
But with the exception of this one day of bustle and gayety, the whole
country reposes during the entire year in that state of sweet torpor
and melancholy silence which is the normal condition of its daily life.
Man always absorbs, more or less voluntarily, the external influences
to which he is exposed. We are, in the scale of universal order, like
the caterpillar who clothes himself with a green robe while living on
the leaves of a tree, and with gorgeous attire when his food is the
heart of its purple fruit.
In a country fast asleep, like Polesia, where the murmur of the
venerable trees lulls the thin grass and the rushes on the marshes,
where peace and torpor is inhaled with the heavy air,--damp, and filled
with resinous vapours,--the inhabitants, with their growth, feel the
blood flow more and more slowly in their veins; thoughts arise more and
more slowly in their minds, and man, thus quieted and softened, desires
only repose, trembles at the idea of a sterner and more active destiny,
and clings like a mushroom to the soft, damp earth.
The peasants at about forty years of age have long beards like old men;
the nobles at that age cease to wear coats, wrap themselves in
dressing-gowns, allow their mustaches to grow at will, and to the end
of their lives, if they have wives and children, never again go out of
their houses. As for the old bachelors of the same age, they begin then
to consider that the sole result of marriage is inconvenience and
useless subjection.
There is but little visiting, although generally there is much
cordiality between the land-holders; but in summer it is too warm, in
winter it is too cold; in the autumn the mud and wind are disagreeable,
and in the spring there are the gnats. If ever one of them determines
to overcome his laziness, it is only on the occasion of a feast at the
house of an esteemed neighbour or in case of inevitable necessity. As,
however, it is not possible to live without some news, and some
intellectual intercourse, the Jew who owns the inn of the town
undertakes to retail the one and furnish the other. He comes at the
slightest call, or naturally in virtue of his ordinary occupations; he
stops at the door and begins at once to give an account of what he has
heard during the week, either in his excursions through the
neighbourhood or from the peasants who come to the mill or to the
blacksmith's shop. Generally the amount of his information consists in
being able to tell who has sown, who has harvested, who has sold, who
has gone on a journey, how much money the one has received and why the
other has departed. But this scanty supply of news feeds the curiosity
of the noble for a time, amuses him or wearies him, makes him gloomy,
irritates him, and sometimes even suffices to drag him out of his
house.
Let us not therefore seek in this country any modern innovations,
any enterprise or invention of the day; they would be greeted here
only by incredulity, distrust, and dislike. Everything is done in an
old-fashioned way; and if one should seek for the living tradition,
perfect and entire, of the life of past times, he will find it nowhere
in such perfection as here. The noble has the same respect for old
customs as the peasant; and if outwardly he laughs at them, in the
bottom of his heart he renders them homage, because with his blood and
his milk, with his eyes and his ears, he has absorbed them from his
infancy.
Thus it happens that in places where once rose a castle, and where now
a new _dwor_ stands in its place, the site of the new edifice retains
the old name, and the peasants who haul wood for the proprietor still
say that they are taking it to the castle. The spot once occupied by an
ancient _cerkiew_ is perhaps now a potato field, but the gardens of the
proprietor are none the less called the monastery. At the cross-roads
in the forest, where the foot-paths meet, a grave dug ages ago has
disappeared under the grass so that no trace of it remains; the wooden
cross has fallen and rotted in the sod, and may be traced in the thick
green grass which alone marks the spot where the soil has been enriched
by the decayed body. Still, not a peasant passes that way without
throwing, according to Pagan custom, a stone or a broken branch upon
the spot. Everything that has lived in this country lives there still.
The legend of the founding of a colony whose limits were traced by a
pair of black bulls whose privilege it was to preserve the future city
from infection and diseases common to cattle; the story of the prince
who drowned himself in a pond; the narrative of the Tartar invasion;
the sad fate of the two brothers in love with the same young girl, on
whose account they killed each other in single combat, and who
afterward, in despair, hung herself on their tomb,--all these survive.
The same songs have been sung for a thousand years; the same customs
continue to prevail; and all are faithful to them as to an engagement
sacredly entered into with their ancestors.
II.
THE BACKGROUND OF THE PICTURE.
Let us now imagine ourselves transported to the banks of the Horyn.
On the shore, close to the water's edge, there was a pretty little
_skarborwka_[3] painted a light yellow. Some planks, piled one upon
another and closely pressed together, extended so far out into the
water that one could not only walk with dry feet up to the little
cabin, but almost out into the middle of the river. Every preparation
had apparently been made for a voyage; nothing seemed wanting but the
signal for departure; the men alone had not arrived. But at this very
moment boatmen were being collected, more provisions supplied, and so
day by day the hour for setting sail was deferred.
The country along the shores, though sterile and bare, was not devoid
of a certain sweetly melancholy attraction. Beyond the broad spreading
sheet of water, a little back to the right of the ploughed fields,
might be seen a large Polesian village with its gray chimneys and the
great clumps of trees which in summer crown it with verdure, its
ancient Russian church surrounded by embattled walls and surmounted
by a clock-tower, and its cemetery situated in the midst of a pine
wood through which gleamed here and there the silver bark of a few
birch-trees. On the other side of the river a dark forest stretched
like a great wall as far as the eye could reach; upon the plain invaded
by the waters, the long rows of damp osiers marked the place where the
ponds and marshes usually ended. The village, which stretched in length
for a great distance, must have been founded ages ago, and once was of
considerable size, as one might see by the height and number of the
trees which surrounded it.
The eye which seeks among the huts of the village for the roofs and
walls of the _dwor_, which ought to be its crowning ornament, would
expect to find it on the top of the hill overlooking the river; but on
closer examination it would discover, in the midst of an abandoned
orchard and brush-wood scattered over with rubbish and old tree-trunks,
only the blackened ruins of an old wooden building which gives to the
spot a sad and savage aspect. Three fourths of the dwelling-house had
tumbled down; one of the chimneys opened to view its dark depths; and
not far off, the farmhouse, very old and miserable looking, but still
inhabited, sent up a little gray smoke from its roof. It was easy to
see that for a long time the proprietor had not lived there; even the
wooden cross which once stood at the courtyard gate had fallen and
rotted on the ground. The broken-down hedges gave foot-passengers and
flocks access to the orchard, while near at hand, the great gate, by an
ironical stroke of fate, was still standing as though to defend the
entrance.
The broad road which formerly extended between the _dwor_ and the
village was now deserted and overgrown with grass. One could scarcely
even distinguish the narrow foot-paths trodden by the cattle which the
villagers took there to pasture.
The same neglect was noticeable in those houses in the village
depending for repairs entirely upon the proprietor; but in spite of
this apparently poverty-stricken condition, the rafting, the work in
the forest, and the various small trades of the inhabitants were
productive of employment and competence.
At the moment when this story begins, not a single person remained on
the rafts which were ready to depart; twilight was coming on; the
breeze from the water became brisker and more chilling. On the trunk of
a fallen tree, near the river shore, was seated an old man, already
bent with age, holding between his lips a small wooden pipe; near him
came and went a little boy, who from his dress and exterior seemed to
belong to a position between that of peasant and servant in a
gentleman's family. It would have been difficult to determine precisely
the exact age of the old man. Are there not faces which, having reached
a certain age, change so entirely and so rapidly that the years which
pass afterward seem to leave no trace upon them?
He was small in stature, a little bent, his head almost bald and
slightly gray, his beard and mustaches short, though allowed to grow at
will. His cheeks were wrinkled as an apple withered by the winter's
cold, but retaining some fresh and healthy color. His eyes still had
much vivacity and some brilliancy; and his features were remarkable for
their regularity even under the yellow and furrowed skin which covered
them. His face, at once quiet and slightly sad, wore an expression of
peace and tranquillity of mind which is rarely met with in the
countenances of the poor; one would say on seeing him that he had
peaceably settled all his affairs in this world and that henceforth he
would await quietly the reward which he might receive in a better one.
It would be equally difficult to form any positive idea of his
condition or position from his dress. According to all appearance, he
was not a simple peasant, although he wore the costume of one. The
threadbare coat which covered him was shorter than the _sukmane_ of
the Polesian, and it was gathered about his waist by a leather belt
with a metal clasp; he wore besides dark cloth pantaloons, an old
neck-handkerchief, and on his head an old brimmed cap considerably
faded and worn.
But even in this dress, so simple and so worn, there was something
which showed that the old man had still a certain care for his
appearance: the coarse shirt which showed below his cravat was very
white; the _sukmane_ spotless and whole; the shoes of linden bark which
covered his feet were tied carefully with narrow strips of linen.
The youth who was standing beside him and who was neither peasant nor
servant, but who looked like a boatman's apprentice newly enlisted, had
the features of the Polesian race, small, very bright brown eyes, long
brown hair falling over his neck, a face almost square, a rather large
mouth, a well-shaped turned-up nose, and a low but intelligent brow.
His entire countenance was expressive of cheerful good-humour
heightened by the natural gayety of youth and utter carelessness of the
future.
"There are three brothers of us at home," he was saying to the old man.
"My lord has allowed me to hire myself as a boatman on the rafts; and I
assure you I like such a life much better than the one I spend at home,
doing all sorts of drudgery and melting behind the stove."
The old man shook his head gently.
"I see very well," he replied, "that you will no longer listen to my
advice since you have got the desire to go on a voyage into your head.
When youth wishes for anything, nothing but want can dissuade him from
it. Go, then, and may God guide you, but this shall not prevent my
telling you--"
The young man burst into a merry laugh.
"Let me first tell you what I think," said he, "and then I will listen
to what you have to say. First, it is not a bad thing for a young man
like me to see something more of the world than may be viewed from his
window; secondly, I shall certainly be much more comfortable here with
this Jew, who, though he cannot tell why, is always afraid, than with
our lord and master, the steward; and last, but by no means least, I
shall pick up during the voyage enough money to pay the taxes."
"All that is very true," replied the other, "and there are other things
you may gain besides; but an old man looks at it in a different light.
During these voyages, or rather, these wanderings, one becomes weaned
from one's old home and unaccustomed to regular work, one gets into the
habit of roaming about; and there is nothing so sad as to become
dissatisfied with one's birthplace. When, after that, one returns to
one's old home, everything seems strange and distasteful: the bread
tastes bitter; the soup is poor; the neighbours are wearisome, and the
daily work is a burden. At first one goes to the inn to talk with the
Jew for some sort of distraction; then one grows accustomed to drinking
brandy, and ruin surely follows. If I had a son, I never would allow
him to go wandering about the world in company with a Jew. Let him whom
God has appointed to live peacefully in his cottage take care never to
stray away from its threshold."
The young boatman became thoughtful. "But," he replied, after a
moment's pause, "do you believe that one so easily forgets all that has
been about him from infancy, all his former life? No, no; surely not,
my father. Can it be any harm to go and see the world so as to have
something to talk about to one's children when old age comes? Would you
not be constantly sighing for home and the good friends left behind,
rather than forgetting them and laughing at them? Would not home food
taste better after you had eaten the bread of strangers?"
"That is perhaps all true, if one continues honest and discreet,--if
one lives in the fear of God; and then the voyages on the rafts might
be of some service," answered the old man. "But it is so easy to grow
dissipated, to get in the habit of seeing and desiring new things, and
then grow weary and lounge about with arms folded. On the raft there
are so many occasions for drinking: the unbelieving Jew does not spare
the brandy at every mill, at every lock; and the men, from continually
tasting it, soon go to the devil. What matters it to the Jew merchant
what becomes of the souls of his boatmen, provided his wood arrives
safely in Germany, and the thalers flow into his purse? As for me, I am
an old man now, as you see, yet never in all my life have I had any
desire to see what is going on far away in the rest of the world. I
never have gone far from the threshold of the house in which I was
born, and I have now only one prayer to offer to my God, and that is
that I may be allowed to lie here in peace when I die."
"Bless me! And are you satisfied?"
"Perfectly, perfectly! And I ought to be, because I am no longer fit
for the world, and I ought to be content to have in my old age all that
is necessary to life,--a little corner and a bowl of soup. But I have
had many sad moments too, and I am persuaded that it is much easier to
endure poverty, weariness, and misfortune when one is among one's own
people."
"Is this, then, your native land?" said the young man.
"Yes, here I was born, here I have dragged out my pitiful existence,
and here I shall end it in peace," replied the old man, a little sadly.
"It is not for the mushrooms to grow big like the oaks."
"It must be a strange story."
"What?"
"Your own, to be sure."
"Mine? Have I a history? Poverty was born, and poverty is dead."
"Ah, please! We have nothing to do this evening; I dare not go to the
inn. I beg you, good father, do tell me something of your life. It is
so lonely there all by myself on the raft; in this way we can while
away an hour or two, and I shall have learned something from you."
The old man smiled sweetly.
"But what can I tell you? There has been nothing unusual in my life;
there are a great many lives like mine in this world. I have lived all
alone, without friends, without brothers. Not even one being calls me
cousin; not a living soul bears my name. Moreover, my child, you know
that what gives an old man most pleasure is to talk about the days of
his youth; therefore, if you are wise you will not call the wolf from
the forest, for you never will be able to get rid of him again."
"Never mind; only talk to me, talk to me! I shall always be glad to
listen."
"Well," began the old man, "I remember that when I was a very little
boy I used to run about here in this very spot, on the shores of the
Horyn, with other little villagers of my age. Ah, it mattered not then
whether my head was bare or my shirt torn; no other days that I can
recall seem so joyous and so sweetly happy as those."
"And your parents?"
"I do not remember them. I was six years old when they died of
a terrible fever; and as they had come from Wolhynia, I had no
relatives here, and was entirely alone. I see as through a mist the
village watchman leading me away, as we came out of the cemetery
to a neighbouring hut, where an old woman who called herself my
foster-mother gave me a large plate of soup which I devoured greedily.
I had eaten nothing for two days except a crust of dry bread which I
had concealed in the bosom of my shirt. The next day I was sent into
the fields to mind the geese; after that I was made to take care of the
pigs; and finally, when it was found that I was not awkward, and that I
knew how to take care of cattle, I was appointed to take the village
cows to the meadow. Oh, how sweet a herdsman's life is! It is true that
we had to go off with the cows at daybreak through the long grass all
wet with dew; but to make up for it, we had a good nap in the middle of
the day under the trees, when the cattle were at a safe distance from
the wheat, and when our happy band of shepherds were frolicking in the
furrows or in the great clearings. Cattle are not much trouble: they
are quiet and intelligent; when once they are accustomed to their
pastures, they will not go out of them even though beaten with a stick.
If they are driven away once or twice from the oat or wheat fields,
they never will go back there again; the boy has only to look at them
and call to them from time to time, and then amuse himself as he
pleases."
"But what pleasure can he have when he has no companions?"
"I told you that we went out in companies. And when we lighted a fire
on a little rising ground among the rushes, or in the forest against
the trunk of an old fallen tree; when we roasted potatoes, fried some
mushrooms and morels, or a little bacon which we had brought with
us,--what a feast we had, and what a good time! Then we would sing till
the woods resounded; and our hearts beat fast for joy, the far-away
echo of our song seemed so beautiful to us. So when it happened that
the proprietor of the village, our old lord (God rest his soul!),
chanced to meet me one day as he was hunting, took a fancy to me and
ordered that I should be taken to the _dwor_ where I should serve as a
cossack, God only knows how sad this made me, and how I longed to be
able to refuse to go."
"Ah! So you have been in service at the _dwor_?"
"All my life, my child, all my life."
"And you have not been able to lay by anything for your old age?"
"Wait a moment, my child. Surely I do not complain, though labour has
not been so profitable to me as to many others. But if I had more than
I have, what good would it do me? I should not eat with a better
appetite; I should not sleep more peacefully. Listen now, and you will
learn what I gained by such service. They carried me by force to the
_dwor_. I was washed, combed, dressed, whether I would or not. I was
obliged to stay where I was put, although my heart was ready to break.
But after three or four days I began to acquire a fondness for work.
"In fact, my work was not too hard; occupation was given me in the
office until I should become sufficiently polished up to wait in the
dining-room. The lord at that time was not an old man; he was tall and
very handsome, had a fine mind and the best heart in the world. After
hearing him speak only a few words, one could not help feeling that he
was a man to be loved and respected; his appearance, his gestures, and
his voice all bespoke the lord and master. If he were dressed in a
cassock and a _sukmane_, one would recognize at once, though one should
meet him in the dark, that God had created him to command others. But
his commands were neither rough nor offensive to any one; he never
spoke an angry word to his servants. When he was angry, he always kept
silence, and his servants had the terrible punishment of seeing him
refuse to speak to them and turn his face away from them. The home was
like the master; not only the old cossack whose business it was to
instruct me, but the other servants at the _dwor_ were quiet, affable,
and kind, and I soon grew accustomed to them.
"It is true they put upon me a good deal of their drudgery; but only my
legs suffered from the errands they sent me on, and I cannot recall
ever being injured or maltreated. The old cossack often said in a low
voice, 'He is a poor little boy, an orphan, and it would be too bad to
hurt him.' Thus little by little I forgot the open-air life; and a few
weeks after, meeting on the dam old Hindra, the shepherd, and my old
companions, I contented myself with smiling at them from a distance and
showing them my wide pantaloons with red bands, and I did not feel the
least desire to rejoin them in the woods. My task was not at all
severe. The lord wished to have me take care of his apartment, and it
was for this duty that I was first trained. As for his own wants, he
gave but little trouble to any one; usually he waited on himself, and
showed the kindness of a father to those whose business it was to serve
him. His old cossack was like a brother to him, and often scolded him
for one thing or another."
"Upon my word, he must have been a good lord."
"Yes, he was, God bless him!" answered the old man, wiping his eyes,
which were full of tears; "there are no more like him in this world. He
was brother and father and everything to me. He lived over there, do
you see, in the place where that great gray chimney still stands; but
in his time things were not as they are now. In his household there was
neatness and order in every little corner as well as in the great
courtyard; not a useless straw could be found lying about, and now
there is nothing but brush-wood, briers, and rubbish."
Here the old man heaved a deep sigh and then resumed.
"He rarely quitted the estate, and seldom received visitors. However,
now and then a guest did arrive; and although the house was ordinarily
as quiet as a cloister, it was not dull,--for all of us, and especially
the master, took part in cultivating the fields and garden, we went
hunting, and we never had a moment of idleness or weariness. The lord
loved the horses, the dogs, the trees, and the chase. Sometimes he
delighted in fishing; and thus the days passed so pleasantly that we
scarcely knew how the years rolled by. The master never married, and he
seemed to have no relatives. It was said that he came from a distance,
and had bought this estate; but though he was a new-comer, the country
people were as much attached to him as if they had served his ancestors
for generations, and he was beloved as a father throughout the
neighbourhood.
"It was indeed an easy matter to become attached to him, he was so
good, so frank, so cordial and honest; he had such pity for human
sorrow that the most wretched being who came to his house was sure to
receive help and go away comforted. I loved him at first sight; and
before a year had passed, I took the place of the old cossack, who was
beginning to grow infirm. He wished to give up work, for thanks to his
master's goodness he owned a thatched cottage with a field, and had an
annuity; so after having taught me all about his business, he asked
permission to retire and rest. But how strong is the effect of habit!
He thought he should be happy doing nothing in his own house, but at
the end of three weeks he began to be so tired of it that he came every
day to the _dwor_; there, leaning against the garden hedge, he smoked
his pipe with us, or sat on the porch from morning till night. If it
happened that for a single day he did not see his master, it had the
same effect upon him as going without his food, his heart hungered so.
"As for me, no one could have forced me to leave my master, even though
I should have been beaten, for he was indeed such a lord as is not
often found in this world. I will give you an instance of his goodness,
though it is only a little thing: whenever anything better than usual
was served for him, whether good fruit from the gardens or a dish well
prepared, he never failed to leave a bit of it for his servants.
Gradually, as I came to know him well, I loved him more and more; and
like all the others who surrounded him, I would have given my life for
him. I saw more of him than any of the other servants did; together we
went to the chase, of which he was passionately fond, we fished, we
rowed on the river, we worked in the garden. We often rose in high
spirits at daybreak; and old Bekas, my lord's spaniel, as if divining
what we were going to do, would jump and bark and wag his tail. Then we
would throw our game-bags over our shoulders, and away we would go to
the marshes through the mud and the brush-wood, frequently spending the
whole day without any other refreshment than a little brandy and bread
and cheese.
"I was at first astonished that so good a man should live so alone; but
after I knew him better I saw plainly that although he did his best to
be calm and happy, and smiling toward others, there was something which
he concealed which had embittered his life. Sometimes, even in his most
joyous moments, he would stop suddenly, sigh, and turn pale; tears like
large pearls would flow down his cheeks; but as soon as he became
conscious of them, he would put his gun on his shoulder and go off to
the woods or go to work in the garden or occupy himself in some way so
that no one should see that he had been weeping.
"In the service of such a master I was so happy that I forgot to think
of myself. I was beginning to be advanced in age; he himself undertook
to make a marriage settlement for me, and to establish me in the
village, but how could I bear to leave him? Besides, at the _dwor_ we
had become so accustomed to doing without women that we almost forgot
there were any in the world. We learned by experience that it was very
possible to get on without them; and the old cossack was of the opinion
that they were good for nothing but to make a fuss, and cause disorder
and waste in the household. Nevertheless, he married after a while.
"Our master never spoke to any woman; he never even cast a glance upon
those who came in his way; and as for us servants, it never even
occurred to us to marry. Our master grew old, and so did we. Some of us
died; others grew gray-headed, and I sooner than any of them, for I was
scarcely thirty years old when my head, God only knows why, began to
turn white. Our life at the _dwor_ underwent no change; the master
continued erect and vigorous, and went hunting constantly, but he
showed less enthusiasm for it, and preferred to work in the garden, for
his legs began to refuse to obey him. Probably they had grown stiff, in
consequence of his having tramped so much through the water and the
snows of winter, for he walked a great deal and very rapidly.
"When he felt himself growing feeble and infirm, he became sadder. As
it was thenceforth difficult for him to engage in any sort of labour,
he buried himself in his books and sighed frequently, muttering
mournfully to himself; and at night he prayed aloud, calling upon the
name of God in a plaintive, tender voice which brought the tears to my
eyes. We tried to amuse him, now in one way, now in another, but this
became a more difficult task every day. I raised some birds for him,
and this appeared to distract him; but he grew more feeble constantly,
and began to be indifferent to everything.
"As soon as he took to his bed, some fine people, until then unknown to
us, arrived. First came a lady, who, it was said, was our lord's
sister-in-law; then came her husband, who, it appeared, was our lord's
brother; and after that a horde of cousins, nephews, and other
relatives, who formerly had not known him, and who now seemed to spring
up from the ground.
"But all these people were so different from him that one never would
have supposed that they belonged to the same family. They were polished
and elegant in their manners, cordial in their greeting, and spoke in
gentle voices; but we learned from their servants that all this was put
on, for in their own homes they conducted themselves quite differently.
I do not know what good reason our master found for sending them away,
but they all suddenly departed in great anger; and after that we were
left alone, thank God!
"We continued to lead a more and more gloomy existence. Thirty odd
years had passed, and I had scarcely perceived the lapse of them; the
last of these I spent constantly near the bedside of my good lord.
There were moments when he still amused himself, sometimes with me,
sometimes with old Bekas or some of his tame birds; at other times a
book would please him; then he read night and day, and seemed more
tranquil. It was easy to perceive that for him the end was near; but we
loved him so much that we thought only of him, and never asked
ourselves what would become of us afterward. We dared not think of the
moment when he should be taken from us. I was almost forty when my good
master died. I had passed my whole life near him; I was as devoted to
him as if I had been his dog; consequently when we had laid him in his
coffin, I felt as if it was a great misfortune to survive him, I was so
sad and lonely and out of heart.
"I sat down at his feet and wept a long time. The lawyers came and
wrote papers and sealed them; one of his cousins took charge of the
funeral. I know nothing of what happened after that, for I was like
one stunned. The next day I entered his room, swept it, and arranged it
as if he still lived, and then sat there, bewildered, waiting for I
knew not what. At times all seemed a terrible dream. But soon the
sister-in-law, the brother, the cousins, and other relatives arrived,
and turned everything upside down, searching everywhere for the will.
They went through the house from top to bottom; and as they found no
will, the brother and sister-in-law took possession of everything,
sending the rest of the family abruptly away.
"They then undertook to manage everything after their own liking, to
sell, to rent, collect money, and rule the village people. For my part,
I begged them only to allow me to remain in service at the _dwor_; but
what did they care for the _dwor_, when they did not wish to live
there? They ordered me to go and live in a hut in the village; but
there was not a vacant one, and our deceased master had made no
arrangement for me. There seemed therefore nothing left for me but to
take old Hindra's place as shepherd. But when they became convinced
that I had given up faithfully to them all that my deceased master had
confided to my care, they had sufficient consideration for me to allow
me to end my days here. As I have told you, there was no vacant
cottage, and I had no relatives. Do you see that old ruined inn down
there near the clump of trees behind the cemetery? It was there that
they gave me a small lodging and a bit of garden ground, which rented
for three roubles a year. I have now lived there over twenty years,
giving thanks to God. Each day I go to the old _dwor_; I recall the
days of the past, I weep, and then I return to my hole--"
"And you live all alone?"
"Just as you see me. It is my fate doubtless to die alone also, without
ever having had any one to live near me. Since the death of my good
master, I never have been able to become attached to any man, and no
man has ever seemed to care for me. I do not complain, for no one in
the village seeks to do me any injury; they would, on the contrary,
rather help me, but I am alone, always alone."
"At your age, that is very sad--"
"Oh, yes, it is sad," sighed the old man, "that is very true; but what
is there to do? When one is gray-headed and walks with a stick, it is
too late to marry. Besides, no woman would have me, except perhaps some
one I would not have myself. God gave me neither relatives, friends,
nor brethren. What can I do? I must die alone, as I have lived."
"And do you never murmur?"