who could it have been?"
"And who could have been willing to desert such a pretty baby?"
answered the old man, indignantly. "How could such a thing be
possible?"
"Oh, oh! There are many people capable of such a thing," replied the
widow, shaking her head sententiously. "This is not the only instance
which might be related of human depravity. Did you never hear of the
unnatural mother who had the atrocity to give her sweet little baby to
be devoured by swine?"
Old Iermola, not being able to comprehend what he heard, kept silence,
opening wide his eyes and shaking his head. Meanwhile the two women had
been kneeling on the floor that they might see the baby better.
"How fine and white his long-clothes are!"
"And how delicate it is!"
"It must be the child of some lord, for no one in the village would
have dared to do such a thing."
"And was it really brought and placed near your hut?"
"Yes, yes! but advise me; tell me what I ought to do with it."
"Do what you like best," answered the widow. "You can take it to the
steward, who will have it sent to the chief of police; and then it will
be taken to the hospital."
"Take it--and send it--to the hospital!" cried the old man, in a voice
choking with tears. "Ah, do you call that good advice? Would any one
there pity it; would any one take care of it? How could I be sure they
would not leave it to die?"
"Well, but what are you going to do with it," replied the old woman,
shrugging her shoulders.
"Ah, I do not know; advise me, neighbour."
"Well, what do you think of doing?"
"How can I tell what to think?" answered the old man. "My head is going
round like a crank. I would not for anything in the world abandon a
child whom God had intrusted to me; and when I think of rearing it
myself, I fear I am not capable of doing it. But I feel almost sure I
could; why should I not?"
"But you would have to put it out to be nursed; you could give it to
Jurck's wife."
"No, no! not for anything in the world!" cried the old man. "Jurck's
wife is too wicked; she treats her own poor child badly; and besides,
she would ask God knows how much for taking care of it, and I always
have a hard time making both ends meet. Could you give it a little
milk? See how it is crying; perhaps it would drink it. I will buy some
milk from you every day."
At this the cossack's widow burst into a loud laugh.
"Well, well! So you are the one who is to rock its cradle, amuse it,
and make its broth? But if you do, you must remember that you will not
be able to do anything else. A little baby is a constant occupation and
care. I remember very well what I suffered with my little Vymoszek, who
only lived one year, and with my Horpyna too. I had not a moment day or
night without anxiety."
"But I do not need much sleep, and I have not much to do," replied the
bewildered old man, who felt himself drawn more and more to the poor
little foundling. "Three or four hours' sleep is quite sufficient for
me; and a little baby sleeps almost all the time, provided his stomach
is not empty. I should find plenty of time to rest myself, take care of
my garden, and roast my potatoes."
"But what would you give it to eat?"
"Why, milk, to be sure."
"Suppose it should not be able to drink, it is so young and so weak."
At this Iermola heaved a deep sigh. "It may not be able to drink at
first," he said; "but it will learn after a while. But what shall we do
for it now?"
Then the cossack's widow took the baby in her arms so as to examine it
closely. Her daughter ran to get some new milk, and the neighbours,
attracted by curiosity and by the few words which had fallen from
Horpyna as she passed, began to assemble, first by twos and threes, and
then in large numbers.
Since the village had been in existence, in the memory of the oldest
inhabitant nothing like this had ever occurred, so there was no end to
their observations, exclamations, and conjectures.
The oldest inhabitant gave his advice; the counsellors counselled; the
young and the old gave their ideas on the subject,--women and men and
even the servants. But no one could suggest any very acceptable plan;
each repeated the same opinions, each differing a little from his
neighbour in particulars, but in the end coming to the same
conclusions, and all recommending the wife of Jurck to Iermola as
nurse.
There were numberless conjectures, wild suppositions, jokes, and
accusations with regard to the wicked parties. But no one had the
slightest suspicion who the authors of the scandalous act could be.
No one had seen any strange person about nightfall either in the
village or its vicinity; the roads and foot-paths had been deserted; at
the ford, at the mill, at the inn, no stranger had appeared. After
discussing the matter a long time, the villagers gradually dispersed,
spreading the strange story as they went along; at last no one remained
but old Chwedko, the illustrious proprietor of a gray mare, who stood
leaning on his stick, and after a few moments of thoughtful silence
addressed his friend Iermola as follows:--
"There comes to my mind at this moment something which happened twenty
years ago. A farmer of Malyczki, who was a friend of mine, had the
misfortune to become a widower; his wife left him a poor little orphan
who had scarcely drawn a breath.
"The poor man, who was blind in one eye, lame, and poor, had nothing to
pay a nurse. He went in vain from cottage to cottage trying to find a
woman compassionate enough to be willing to nurse his child; and he had
no cow even to furnish him milk. Do you know what he did? He bought a
goat with the last half-rouble which remained after the funeral
expenses had been paid; and that goat nursed and reared for him the
little daughter, who afterward became the loveliest girl in the
village."
At these words Iermola trembled and rose.
"Somebody find me a goat!" he cried aloud. "Where is there a goat? I
will buy one at once."
"The Jew innkeeper has one."
"Then I shall go and buy it."
He had already started for the door when Chwedko and the cossack's
widow stopped him.
"Take care what you do, good man," said his old companion. "The Jew
will fleece you if he knows that you really need the goat very much."
"Ah, well, let him ask what he will, provided I get the animal."
"He will take your last shirt from you, old fool," said the cossack's
widow, in her turn. "You know Szmula; he is a regular thief, the most
miserable rascal that ever lived, even among the Jews of his class. Do
not be in too great a hurry, for God's sake! Use a little deception at
least, and say that you want the goat to raise a little flock, or else
he will make you pay more than you would have to give for a cow."
"I will go with you," said Chwedko, "see if I don't; between us we
shall be a match for the Jew."
"But what shall we do with the baby?"
"Never mind about it; I will keep it here. No harm shall happen to it."
"I pray you, good mother," said Iermola, trembling, "take special care
of it."
"Ha, ha! he undertakes to give me lessons, do you see? Just as if it
was the first baby I ever had in my arms. I shall rock it, and feed it
with some milk, and perhaps I shall let it suck the end of my finger.
Do not be at all anxious."
"I shall be back again in a moment," continued Iermola; "do take care
that nothing happens to the baby."
The old woman burst into peals of laughter as she listened to him, he
looked so anxious. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, he
remembered that he had not smoked for some time; he drew from his bosom
his old wooden pipe, which was his constant companion, went up to the
tinder, lighted it, and then started off with Chwedko through the
darkness in the direction of the new inn situated in the centre of the
village.
V.
SET A CHEAT TO CATCH A CHEAT.
In a small town where, by reason of its trade in wood and its rafting,
the number and the means of the transient inhabitants is considerable;
where the boatmen, the merchants, and their employees constantly come
and go,--it would not be possible for a Jew, without money and without
credit, to keep the principal hotel. Consequently the illustrious
Szmula, who owned the inn of Popielnia, whence he reigned over the
village and its vicinity, was not a mere innkeeper going from time to
time a distance of three miles to purchase a little barrel of brandy.
He was a Jew who had grown rich upon the profit of his trade in wood,
timber, tar, and ashes,--in fact, all the products of the Polesian
forests, including dried mushrooms and conserved berries.
His inn also, particularly in the springtime, brought him gain which
was not to be despised; and Mr. Szmula, justly valuing the rotundity of
his girth and the dignity of his position, began to set himself up for
a great lord. The new inn, from which he lorded it, was different in
appearance from the old-fashioned inns whose architecture had been
perpetuated according to Slavic custom because they were intended to be
used for public assemblies and councils. It was without the traditional
vestibule, projecting and supported by pillars, for the practical
Israelite cared but little to entertain the poor and infrequent
travellers who usually passed through that secluded region; but there
was a stable and coach-house sheltering the great carriage which was
used in going to the fairs, and the house had externally very much the
appearance of a gentleman's _dwor_. On one side was a large apartment,
which was in fact the dining-hall of the inn, where heavy benches were
placed all about the wall, with an enormous table in front of them. In
one corner there was a sort of staging which was shut up during the
night by means of several window shutters, and where during the day
brandy was retailed from the counter. In the other part of the house,
which was furnished with some elegance, lived Szmula Popielauski and
his family; and there was a pretty unoccupied room kept for the
merchants of his religion who might stop in the neighbourhood.
The front room in this portion of the house made some pretence to the
name of drawing-room, for it contained a wooden sofa polished and
varnished, and covered with a sort of damask studded with gold stars,
two chairs with arrows of black wood on their backs, a mirror suspended
on the wall, the framed portraits of two illustrious Israelites,--the
rabbis of Hamburg and Wilna,--a cupboard filled with china cups, cut
glass, and bottles of rum, and a somewhat rickety table supported by a
lyre and covered with a bright cloth.
The floor of this room had once been painted white, but the colour
having been rubbed off in many places, it was now variegated; the stove
was closed by a small iron door with a brass knob; and Szmula, having
done all this _proprio sumptu et cura_, to satisfy his taste for
elegance, congratulated himself upon the effect. In the second room the
Jewish dirt began to assert itself, but did not exclude attempts and
pretensions to elegance. Above the bed was placed a fringed canopy with
curtains covered with enormous flowers. Near this might be seen a
cupboard of black wood, full of books and papers, and a small rickety
bureau; also a pile of potatoes, one or two buckets of kindling-wood,
some cakes of dough drying on a plate, a large earthen pan full of
dish-water, and a white turkey, walking composedly about surrounded by
her brood.
Szmula was no longer in his early youth. He was about fifty years old,
and was married a second time, his late spouse having left him only one
son, who kept a shop of his own in the next town. Not being satisfied
with this only scion, Szmula had taken to wife a young Jewess, very
poor but extremely beautiful, who had borne him three children during
the three years of their marriage. His gray hairs were honoured by this
blessing from the Lord. At first sight, this grave descendant of Israel
was very pleasing, with his long beard and hair, his regular features,
his serious and winning expression. One had a desire to study him
closely, and to believe in his honesty. Nevertheless, his beauty and
the sweet expression of his eyes were, as is so often the case,
deceptive.
In fact, there could be no more insatiable vampire, no more greedy
blood-sucker, than the worthy Szmula of the village of Popielnia. The
constantly increasing profits earned by his deceit and tact did not
render him above turning to account the smallest opportunities. Besides
his bills of a thousand roubles and his coupons of government bonds, he
deposited without shame in his chests the big copper money bathed with
the sweat of the wretched peasants; and puffed up by his position and
his wealth, he treated the poor villagers as though they were mere
beasts of burden, and fleeced them without mercy.
The result was that when the villagers had any business to transact,
they preferred to do so secretly with the poorer Jews who lived in the
little town; and this aroused the deepest resentment in Szmula. He
could not forgive them for being unwilling to allow him to cheat them.
He considered their conduct a daring revolt; and as an old tradition,
founded upon some unknown basis, gave him the right to claim one pint
of flour when a peasant took his corn to the mill, he thought therefore
he had the right to fly into a rage and make a terrible fuss when a
peasant took his cow to the market or sold a bag of corn without his
royal permission. Gifted with indefatigable energy, Szmula neglected
nothing, for all gain was acceptable to him, and he always had time for
everything. His presence of mind and dexterity never forsook him.
Such was the all-powerful autocrat to whom the simple-hearted Iermola
was about to apply in the hope of buying his white goat. Fortunately,
he had with him old Chwedko, who was infinitely better acquainted than
he with all the subtleties of human rascality; who, experienced,
cunning, and prudent, spared neither time nor words nor pains when the
question was to economize or to earn a little money. As they went
along, therefore, Chwedko gave all sorts of advice to Iermola, but the
latter heard little of it, so absorbed was he with his own plans for
obtaining the goat.
Unfortunately this old animal was the pet of Sara, Szmula's second
wife, and also of her eldest son, who often amused himself by pulling
the goat's beard, although she had more than once mercilessly trampled
upon him. The goat in question was not worth more than twelve florins;
but Iermola was quite willing to give twenty rather than not get it,
and even Chwedko thought this a not unreasonable price considering the
circumstances. But how were they to approach the subject and make this
proposition to Szmula? If the Jew for a moment suspected how
exceedingly necessary the animal was to poor Iermola, he would take
advantage of the situation and fleece him unmercifully.
The question therefore was, if possible, to deceive the Jew, so that he
should not have the opportunity to rob the unfortunate Iermola.
When the two men were within a short distance of the inn, Chwedko, who
had reflected for some time, made a sign to Iermola to stop.
"Stay here a moment, near this cottage," said he, pointing to the spot.
"Wait here a moment for me; I will go and feel the Jew's pulse. Do not
fear; I will find some good way to arrange the matter. If we go and ask
him for his goat outright, he will make us pay as much for it as the
price of a cow. We must manage to have him offer it to us; leave it all
to me."
"But what are you going to do?"
"You shall see; you shall see," answered good old Chwedko, deeply
interested in Iermola's project. "Only be careful to do just what I
tell you."
Then Iermola, making a great effort to be quiet, seated himself on the
ground beside the wall of the hut, for he was in great need of rest for
mind and body. He leaned his head on his hand and fell into deep
thought. For the first time in his life he was obliged to think of the
future.
As for Chwedko, he went straight to the great dining hall of the inn,
but Szmula was not there,--no one was there, only the goat. Partly
opening the door of the chamber, carefully wiping his feet, and humbly
asking permission to enter, he stepped inside with a low bow and
holding his cap under his arm. He took special care not to step off the
door-mat, for the Jew flew into a rage if any one soiled the floor of
his chamber. Having established himself firmly in his position, Chwedko
dropped his hand down to his knees and made another low bow to the
dreaded Szmula.
In order to be favourably received by the innkeeper, it was really
necessary to go through with all these formalities, as the far-seeing
Chwedko well knew,--first to wipe one's feet, then stop at the
threshold, and above all, not to call the worthy man Mr. Innkeeper, but
instead, Mr. Merchant, for our Szmula maintained that if he kept an inn
it was for his own entertainment, and that it was for his pleasure
alone that he lived in the country.
"Well, what do you want, Chwedko?" asked the Jew, without rising from
his easy-chair, where he was bending his head, with his long nose over
a book, yet ready without hesitation to interrupt his devotions
whenever his interests required it, for he knew very well that God is
more patient than man.
"Mr. Merchant--I want to tell you--there is an occasion."
Thus the lower classes speak of every unexpected event which may serve
as a pretext for feasting or drinking.
"An occasion! What is it? A baptism? A betrothal? A wedding or a
funeral? Is any one dead, any accident? I'll venture you have come to
ask for some brandy on credit."
"No, indeed, sir; but I chanced to hear something, and I wanted to tell
my lord the merchant about it. It is perhaps an opportunity to make
something."
"Let me hear; what is there to be made?" said Szmula, rising, thrusting
his hands into his girdle, and approaching Chwedko.
"Your Honour" (this title was specially flattering to the Jew's
vanity),--"your Honour knows Iermola, the old man who lives in the old
ruined inn."
"Certainly I know him; but he is only a poor devil, a beggar."
"That is true, but it does not prevent his having gained a few
roubles."
"Well, what? He wants to drink them up?"
"No, no! he does not drink brandy, but he has taken it into his head to
buy a cow, paying half the amount down and asking credit for the
balance."
"A cow! and what will he do with it?"
"He was going to the town to look for one; but I stopped him because I
thought of a plan for him."
"To the town! always to the town!" repeated the Jew, shrugging his
shoulders. "The fools! That is their first thought. But tell me,
Chwedko, what is your plan?"
"I have tried to make him think that it is not a good idea for him to
have a cow and be in debt; that it would be better for him to buy a
goat with his money. He would have milk immediately, and in a little
while a flock. Perhaps you would sell him your white goat?" Just here
the Jew fixed his piercing eye on Chwedko's face, but he fortunately
was not disturbed thereby. It was scarcely possible, in fact, to
suspect any design in so simple a proposition. The innkeeper, however,
tried to sound the intentions of the good man by a sudden question.
"Is Iermola here at the inn?"
"No; since noon he has been down there with the neighbours. But if you
wish, I can go and bring him here, though usually he does not like to
come to the inn. But perhaps you do not wish to sell your old white
goat? I merely thought of this for your interest; why should you let
all the money of the people go out of the village? However, if the idea
does not suit you, say nothing about it, and let him go on to the
town."
"Wait a moment, wait," said the Jew, after a pause, seeing Chwedko with
his hand on the knob of the door. "Why should he go to the town?"
Here he called Sara, who came in with a discontented countenance; they
exchanged a few words in their own language, Szmula speaking in a low
voice and his wife looking very cross. Chwedko tried to divine the
intentions of the couple from their voices and their gestures, but in
vain; the Jewess went out at last, and Szmula, turning to him and
slapping him on the shoulder, said,--
"You are a good man when you want brandy on credit. I have told Sara to
let you have a rouble's worth; do you hear? Bring Iermola here in the
great hall. The goat is there; he can buy it. It is a good goat; he
will like it. It is an excellent goat. How much money has he?"
"I do not know really," answered Chwedko. "He must have, I think, about
fifteen florins; and the cossack's widow will probably lend him
something more."
The Jew nodded his head silently, and having thus taken leave of the
peasant, who hastened to rejoin his companion, he put on a warmer
overcoat, for he took great care of his precious health; then he walked
slowly into the great hall under pretext of going to look over some
accounts with his servant, Marysia, who on the Sabbath as well as all
other days served at the bar of the inn, besides which she took care of
the children, milked the cow, in fact, rendered herself generally
useful to the household.
The great hall, dark, dirty, and mean-looking, without any floor, dimly
lighted by a torch of resinous wood which was smoking in one corner,
was occupied at this moment only by Marysia (who was so very fat and
short that the peasants compared her to one of the big-bellied barrels
in which bacon is put up in brine), the white goat, who wandered around
looking in all the corners for something to eat, and a Polesian
peasant, who, after having taken a small glass of brandy and an onion,
had stretched himself beside the wall with his money-bag and his shoes
under his head, and was sleeping like a rock, and snoring like a
chariot in need of greasing.
Szmula walked up and down for some time, looking first at the goat and
then at Marysia, who was quite astonished at his sudden entrance. He
yawned, sighed, and turned his thumbs over each other; then all at once
hearing the sound of a footstep in the vestibule, he went to the window
and began chalking figures on the shutter, keeping his eyes fixed on
his calculations, and pretending to be very busy.
Just at that moment Chwedko appeared, followed by old Iermola, who was
trembling like a leaf and blushing also at the thought of the farce he
was obliged to play in order to get the white goat. His first glance
fell upon the tall figure of the Jew; and this glance would doubtless
have been sufficient to betray him if Szmula had seen it. But
fortunately the Jew at that moment was entirely taken up with his own
role; he seemed utterly absorbed in important business, and was
standing with his back to the two friends.
"Good-evening, my lord merchant," began Chwedko.
"Good-evening," answered Szmula, half turning round, and muttering a
few words through his beard.
"Well, what shall we do? Shall we take a drink of brandy?" continued
Chwedko.
"For my part, I rarely drink; but to keep you company--Pour out
something for us to drink, Marysia."
"You are going to the fair," resumed the first speaker; "you must
strengthen yourself for the journey."
"Ah! so you are going to the fair, are you?" interrupted Szmula.
"Perhaps you have something to sell. I shall be glad to buy it from
you."
"No, I am going for another purpose."
"And what is it?" said the Jew. "This is the way all of you peasants
do,--as soon as you have any business to transact, you run to the town.
Are you thinking of buying anything?"
"See here, my lord merchant," answered Chwedko, interrupting, "my
neighbour wants a cow; he is lonely, and for company's sake is willing
to take on himself one more bother."
"But why get a cow?" asked the Jew, in a scornful tone.
"Well, it would give me some pleasure, and perhaps some profit."
"Pshaw, pshaw!" cried Szmula, waving his hand, "one can see plainly
that you never have owned a cow, and that you do not know what it is to
take care of one. First, you must pay the little herdsman, and God only
knows how much the herdsman asks; besides, the cattle always come home
hungry. Then you will be obliged to buy hay,--and hay costs as much now
as pepper; and tailings,--and tailings are now ten coppers a bag; and
buckwheat,--and I do not sell that for less than forty coppers a bag;
that is what every one pays me. Besides, she must have grass and
potatoes; and if you do not give her some of all these things, the
animal will get poor. Then there are so many diseases and so much time
when the creature gives no milk. Think of it! not a drop of milk for
six months in the year!"
"Yes; but one has the calf and a little milk."