Jew, shrugging his shoulders.
"What did I tell you?" here put in Chwedko. "For a poor man like you a
cow is only a bother and nothing else."
"But she would give me nevertheless a calf and a few drops of milk."
"Yes, about milk; talk about that," answered the officious go-between.
"As for milk, I can assure you there is nothing so good as a goat.
Observe, a goat costs very little and lives upon anything it can
find,--branches, leaves, or stubble. Besides, a goat needs no care; and
when once you have tasted goat-milk, you can be sure you have had
something to drink, it is so sweet and nourishing."
"Really, to tell you the truth," said the innkeeper, in his turn, "I
can assure you there is nothing like a goat. If any people know how to
manage, it is our race, I believe; and you see that we almost
invariably have goats. But men have opportunities to observe, yet do
not comprehend; a goat is a treasure."
"Well, when I have thought the matter over, perhaps I shall buy a
goat," said Iermola.
"And you will do well," cried Chwedko,--"you will do well, I repeat.
Now suppose Mr. Szmula were to sell you his white goat?"
"What is it you are saying?" said the Jew, quickly, as though he had
heard by chance. "I would not sell my white goat for any price; do you
hear? It is the only pet of my wife and children, and moreover it is an
invaluable animal; it is worth more than a cow."
"I am sorry," answered Iermola, looking attentively at the white goat,
which was strolling around, "for the town is not here; my old legs will
scarcely carry me so far, and, dear me, I might have decided to buy
your goat."
"True, it is only a goat, but such a goat!" answered the Jew. "Have you
ever seen one like it? She has so much instinct, so much sense, upon my
word, one might almost talk to her; and as for her milk, it is all
cream. You might go twenty miles and not find her equal. It is not a
goat; it is a treasure, a rare possession."
"But it is old," observed old Iermola, respectfully.
"Old, old! Well, what does that matter? The older a goat grows, the
more it is worth. Besides, how could it be old? It has hardly begun to
live; it will live twenty years yet," cried Szmula, becoming more and
more excited.
"How much did it cost you?" asked Iermola.
"Oh, it has cost me-- I cannot tell you how much. First, when it was
just born, I paid two roubles for it. For you see this is no ordinary
goat; it is of a fine breed,--a very rare breed. I would not take six
roubles for it; she eats almost nothing, and she is always fat, and
every year she bears two kids."
After this speech there was a moment of silence. Iermola turned pale
and became agitated, not knowing what to say. He gazed at the goat,
which continued to walk around, stamping on the ground with her hoof,
and poking her head into every corner where she perceived the faintest
odour of food. She occupied herself in picking up scattered leaves,
bits of bark, and cabbage stalks; and in justice to her, it must be
said that she minded her own business and disturbed no one.
"She would suit you exactly," said Chwedko, resuming his role of
courtier. "She never would run away, because she is already accustomed
to the village. She knows where to go to graze; she is old, gentle, and
used to being milked."
"And she is not an ordinary goat," repeated the Jew, in a sententious
tone; "she is of a rare breed,--a good breed."
"But where should I find so much money?" sighed Iermola.
"Come, see here," answered Szmula, coming nearer and speaking
earnestly, "you are an honest man; I will have every consideration for
you. In the town people might cheat you; I will give you a good
bargain, and let you have the goat for three roubles. Now that is the
best I can do; make up your mind."
Chwedko, who had not expected such reasonable terms, hastened to
conclude the bargain, quite satisfied to find Szmula in such an
accommodating mood.
"Come, hold out your hand, neighbour, and thank my lord merchant; you
have made an excellent bargain. Pay for the animal and take her; I hope
you will be quite satisfied with her."
"Well, what shall we do?" sighed the old serving-man. "I will take it
at that price, since my lord merchant will not take less. Please give
me a bit of cord so I can lead the goat home."
Accordingly, the purchase was quickly made and satisfactorily beyond
all expectations. Iermola drew from a knot in the corner of his
handkerchief three roubles, which he gave to Szmula. The Jew examined
them, threw them on the ground, as was his custom, and then, dropped
them into his pocket.
"You will return the string to-morrow?" said he, as he slowly retired
to his chamber.
"How about the treat?" said Chwedko, timidly.
"That is Iermola's right," answered Szmula, "but since he did none of
the bargaining, you shall not pay for your little glass of brandy; I
will treat myself."
Then Marysia threw to the two friends a piece of cord with a buckle at
the end which was used to carry the fagots of kindling-wood. And
Chwedko, having shut the door, began to chase the goat, who, suspecting
some foul play, fled from the least approach of her two pursuers. The
Jew had already gone away to his own apartment.
"Well, upon my word, you have shown your sense," cried the servant when
she saw that her worthy master had disappeared. "What a shame to give
twenty florins for a miserable old beast! you might have bought three
young ones at the fair for that price."
The two old men kept silence; and having tied the string to the
animal's horns, they led their conquest away.
Iermola was trembling with pleasure; the tears filled his eyes; and he
embraced his neighbour.
"You have done me a great service; may God reward you!" he murmured.
"For the present, I shall not think of showing myself at Szmula's
house," sighed Chwedko, who recognized the full extent of the danger to
which he had exposed himself. "As soon as he hears about the baby, the
rascal will suspect some trick, and never will forgive me. He would
have fleeced you famously had he known that the goat was such a
necessity."
Talking thus in low tones, they reached the widow's hut, forcing the
goat to obedience by various means, more or less gentle, for she had
not the slightest desire to go away from the inn.
Meantime the storm began to mutter behind them, for Sara, greatly
enraged, had just rejoined her husband, and was relating to him the
story of the baby left at old Iermola's house, which news she had just
learned from Marysia, the bar-maid.
Szmula, who was not wanting in sagacity, understood at once why his
goat had suddenly become so necessary; he pulled his beard and bit his
finger-nails.
"Just wait a while, you rascal, you scoundrel of a Chwedko," muttered
he, shaking his head. "If I live only a little while longer, I will pay
you for it."
VI.
WHEN ONE LOVES.
In the life of a good and loving man,--one who, like Iermola, had led
an isolated existence and had preserved in full force all the strength
of his affections,--an event such as that which had just happened
produces a sudden and entire change. The old man became young again. He
felt the ties which bound him to the world renewed and strengthened; he
had henceforth an aim in life, a hope, a bond, an affection, a new
desire for work, the delights and anticipations of an unknown feeling.
The poor orphan, cast off by his parents, became the crowning treasure
of his old age.
A sort of excitement, such as he had not felt for years, took hold of
his entire being, and made him at once stronger and more tender. He was
disturbed; he wondered; he feared; he hoped; and he was anxious
concerning the morrow. Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt that he had
changed; he had become another man. He had forgotten the past, and he
was dreaming of the future. He felt himself blest, very happy, never
suspecting the weary moments, the cares and toil he was preparing for
the remainder of his existence. Like the bird in whose nest the cuckoo
lays her eggs, he was astonished, frightened, content. For the first
time he found, to his surprise, that he dreaded death; that he felt the
need and the desire to live. Chwedko no longer recognized him, he was
so utterly changed; the old man, usually so silent and indifferent, now
spoke with warmth and vivacity, so entirely did he resume the
attraction, the gestures, and thoughts of a young man.
He found it impossible to remain patiently any longer beside Chwedko,
for their stubborn companion never ceased for a moment to make every
effort in its power to get away from them and return to the alehouse.
He therefore confided the goat to the care of Chwedko, and hastened on
in advance.
He rushed into his old friend's hut and ran at once to the wooden bench
where the new-born baby was lying asleep, quieted and satisfied by the
good milk it had drunk. Beside it stood Horpyna, the little shepherd,
and the servant, who were watching in silence this unexpected guest.
Iermola made his way through the little group, and seated himself on
the floor so as to see the baby better.
"I think he is asleep," he whispered in the old widow's ear.
"Ah! to be sure, the poor innocent one," replied the old woman, nodding
her head.
"And did he drink the milk?"
"Oh, certainly he did, and stopped crying immediately. But about the
goat?"
"We have bought it; Chwedko is leading it hither."
Good old Iermola gazed with rapture upon his precious baby. "How
beautiful he is!" he cried after a moment. "It must be the child of
some nobleman."
"He is a fine hearty boy," interrupted the widow; "but all children
look alike when they are small. It is only later on, my good old man,
that it is possible to distinguish those who have sprouted up under the
hedge like a bunch of nettles from those who have grown up in the
sunshine in the open fields. But at least this one is as lively as a
fish; so much the better for you,--you will have less trouble."
Iermola laughed, but at the same moment his eyes filled with tears.
"Mother," he replied, "never in all my life have I seen so beautiful a
baby."
"You have lost your senses, Iermola," cried the cossack's widow,
bursting into a loud laugh and shrugging her shoulders. "Are you really
thinking of bringing up the child yourself all alone?"
"And why not?" replied the astonished old man. "Do you suppose I would
turn him over to strangers?"
"But you will not be able to do it. It seems an easy thing to you; but
what will you do all alone, no woman near you at your age? Remember it
must be fed, bathed, put to bed, amused, and looked after; this will be
too great a task for you, all by yourself."
"Let me alone," answered Iermola, waving his hand. "It is not the
saints who boil the pots;[5] I will prove it to you. You shall tell me
what to do; and as true as there is a God in heaven, I never will be
separated from this baby."
"Has the old man gone crazy?" cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders.
"He thinks it is as easy to bring up a child as it is to raise a little
dog; and how much worry and fatigue he will have during two long
years!"
"The longer the better. Don't say anything to me, mother, don't say
anything; I will not listen to you, I will bring him up; I shall do it
well, you will see."
Every one laughed at old Iermola's enthusiasm. He was unable to jest on
the subject, and for a moment he even began to be doubtful of himself,
to hesitate.
"Good mother," said he, in a low voice, a little sadly, "help me, teach
me, advise me; you will find that I shall know how to show my
gratitude. When harvest-time comes, or when it is time to work your
garden, you will find that all that sort of work will cost you
nothing."
"Make yourself easy," answered the widow; "you know that I am not
stingy with my good advice. I will help you and this orphan; but tell
me this one thing, do you really believe that in your old age, and
knowing nothing about nursing or bringing up children, you will be able
to undertake to be its mother?"
At these words Iermola bowed his head and made no reply. Judging the
feelings of others by those of his own heart, he feared that under this
pretext some one would come and take his baby from him.
Then he rose, cautiously approached the bench, raised the coverings,
took the baby gently in his arms, and started toward the threshold. At
that moment the door opened, and Chwedko appeared, accompanied by the
goat. The white head and horns of the animal appeared in the dark space
of the half-open door, touched by the light of the flickering candle,
and began to move. Horpyna, at sight of it, was startled, and screamed.
"Well, well!" cried the widow, "here is a nurse."
"Let us go back to the house," whispered Iermola. "Good-evening,
mother; come to see me to-morrow, if you will be so good."
"I will, if only for the sake of curiosity," answered the old woman.
Then the good man, constantly fearing lest they should take his baby
from him, hastened to leave the house. His heart felt lighter when he
found himself in the street. Chwedko followed behind him, leading the
goat, and both went on in silence toward the old ruined inn.
Iermola, however, was communing with himself all along the way.
"Why should I not be able to do it?" said he to himself. "I
understand,--I understand; the old woman wanted to keep him herself,
the beautiful little angel. But I will not give him to her. No, indeed;
she shall not have the care of him. Once more I repeat, 'It is not the
saints who make the pots boil.' I will bring up the child! I shall have
a son!" he cried, with joyous pride. "My good Chwedko, take care of the
goat; I will give you a florin, for you helped me very kindly. May God
have in store for you a more abundant reward!"
The two, walking cautiously along, at last reached the door of the old
house. Iermola laid the baby, who was still fast asleep, upon his own
bed, and then undertook to light a fire; as for Chwedko, he even put
off going to see after his gray mare, the only possession he had in the
world. Seeing this, the old man gave a florin to his friend, embraced
him, and sent him off, remaining alone in the room with the goat and
the baby.
He did not think of going to sleep; he felt no need of sleep, he had so
much to do, so many preparations to make. At first he seated himself
near the stove, not knowing what to do first, his eyes fixed on the
baby as one gazes on a rainbow after a storm. The old goat wandered
restlessly about the room, butting against the door with her horns, and
mousing around in the corners, picking up whatever she could find to
eat.
The noise at last woke the baby; and Iermola sprang forward to hush it,
when it occurred to him that the best plan would be to tie the Jewess
(that was the name Chwedko had given to Iermola's new possession).
Accordingly he threw her a little straw, and she became quiet,
resigning herself to her fate. The baby slept on sweetly and soundly.
Iermola had now no bed for himself, but he did not care for it; he sat
down upon the piece of a tree-trunk, cut flat off at both ends, which
served him as a stool whenever he wished to sit near the stove.
His bed was well filled; and he had so many things to think about and
so many things to do before to-morrow morning!
He had already been warned that he would have to announce the discovery
of the baby to the steward Hudny, who represented the estate, and tell
him that he, Iermola, would undertake the charge of the poor little
one. In addition to this disagreeable duty, which he would have given
anything to escape, he had to make a cradle for the baby and to attend
to a number of other small matters. Then the creature might waken and
cry; he must soothe it lest it should shed tears. However, he felt that
he could do all this, for strength did not fail him now,--that strength
which comes from the heart.
The whole of this bright, short spring night was passed by him full of
anxiety and care; the first gray light of morning which shone through
the window found him still disturbed and embarrassed, but feeling no
need of sleep or rest. Finally he thought he would like to go and cut
some feet for the cradle from the old logs which were in his other
room; but he feared to leave the child, and besides, the goat might
disturb him. The creaking of the door even might waken the little
creature; and what if, when he was busy at work, he should not hear him
cry!
But the sense of these difficulties and apparent impossibilities
overwhelmed him only momentarily; at other times he told himself that
it would be easy to surmount it all, and he strengthened himself by
hope, forgetful of hunger, fatigue, and want of sleep. The sun was just
about to rise when he undertook the task of milking the goat, so that
he might have some milk ready when his dear little one wakened; but the
old Jewess was not in a kindly and accommodating humour. She was
stubborn as a goat; that describes her temper. Moreover, she was
accustomed to obey only her old master and mistress, and absolutely
refused to submit to the will of her new owner. At first Iermola
treated her with great gentleness. He patted her, spoke to her, and
endeavoured to convince her of the necessity there was for her to be
docile; but all was of no avail, and he was finally compelled to resort
to violent measures. Then the goat boldly raised the standard of
revolt; she broke her rope and rushed toward the door of the chamber,
butting it with her horns. The baby, at this noise, woke; the old man
tore his hair.
Fortunately, at this moment the cossack's widow arrived, the curiosity
which had consumed her since she wakened having led her to Iermola's
hut. Seeing him in such a state of bewilderment, she burst into a loud
laugh, but she also set to work and succeeded in milking the goat with
the most surprising ease. It might have been because the Jewess was
accustomed to allow herself to be milked by women, or perhaps seeing
herself alone against two, she doubted the expediency of opposition;
but she voluntarily submitted to the widow. As for Iermola, he was
already rocking the baby.
"Well," asked the old woman, "how did you pass the night?"
"I did not go to bed," answered Iermola; "but the baby slept sweetly.
Only that miserable goat--"
"Oh, you will not have much trouble with her; she will become
accustomed to you in a day or two if you feed her well. And so the
little one slept?"
"Like a little angel! I am sure that there is not a baby in the world
who sleeps better than he. You should see how intelligent he is! I
believe he almost knows me, neighbour."
The orphan's adopted father was greatly astonished when the widow burst
into a hearty laugh on hearing him say this. After that he kept silent,
quite abashed.
"I really do not know why God did not give you a wife and children,"
said she, a moment later; "or rather, why He did not make you a woman."
She stopped suddenly; just outside the door a loud voice was heard,
saying, "Ha, Iermola! old idiot, come here; you know very well that I
expect you." It was the voice and the signal of the steward Hudny, who,
having been already informed of the event of the evening before,
desired by visiting the hut to see with his own eyes what had happened,
so that he could relate the whole affair to his wife. The old man
trembled at the approach of this stern master, whom he feared
exceedingly, and whom he usually carefully avoided; but leaving the
baby in the hands of his old friend, he hastened out of the hut.
The steward was mounted on a fat little horse, with a well-kept and
glossy coat; he wore a gray cloak lined with lambskin, long boots,
carried a whip in his hand, and had a cap pulled over his ears. One
could see at a glance that he had not left his home fasting; and it was
easy to perceive that he had fortified himself against the fog with the
usual quantity of brandy. He was one of those stewards of the new
regime, who had taken the place of the loyal and faithful servants of
the old. To the defects of his predecessors, which he had preserved
intact, he had taken care to add others peculiar to himself, and which
were the penalty he paid to the advance of the times. The worthy Mr.
Hudny, as former managers had done, treated the peasants as clowns and
clodhoppers. He beat them, oppressed them, and rendered them miserable;
moreover, he outrageously robbed and abused those who called him by the
old title of manager, enjoining it upon his subordinates to address him
as my lord the steward, and announcing to all who would listen to him
that he should soon rent a large estate.
He and his wife lived like bugs in a rug, on this fine old deserted
domain; they seized upon everything they could possibly take, and
sought by every means in their power to escape from a position which
was distasteful to them. Neither of them had any heart; but they
possessed a revolting pride and an absolute want of principle, such as
is manifested only in the ranks of a half-disorganized and deeply
corrupted society. Two small bright eyes, a little crossed, which
sparkled above a round red face, partly concealed by two enormous
eyebrows, on account of their uncertain and conflicting expression, at
once threatening and cowardly, gave at the first glance some idea of
the character of the man. The rest of his rough and irregular features
were partly concealed by his abundant beard and by the enormous
whiskers which met under his chin.
Iermola bowed till his hands touched the ground.
"What are the orders of my lord the steward?" he asked.
"What is the news at your house? I hear some talk of a cast-off baby."
"Ah, yes, most illustrious master," answered the old man, adding the
word "illustrious" if possible to secure a favourable hearing for his
story. "Yesterday evening I heard a moaning sound under the oaks. I
thought at first it was an owl; but, no, indeed, it was a baby, please
your lordship."
"A boy?"
"Yes, a fine boy."
"And you found nothing else at the same time,--nothing but the baby,
eh?" said the steward, fixing upon the old man his piercing, avaricious
glance,--a glance which was almost terrifying. "No explanation
whatever? No papers, no medal? For everything of that sort, you
understand, must be turned over to the police; and the baby must be
taken to the hospital."
At these words Iermola began to tremble and wring his hands. "No, my
lord," he cried, "there was no sign of an explanation; the baby was
wrapped only in a piece of coarse white cambric. I swear to this, my
lord; but I do not wish--I will not give this little one to anybody,
for God Himself gave him to me."
"Oh, oh! there must be something at the bottom of all this," replied
the steward, laughing his wicked laugh. "A child is left at your door,
and you wish to keep it? But an inquest may be held, some difficulties
may arise, and some expenses be incurred. It is best that you should
take the brat to the court or to the chief of the police, so that they
can decide the matter; and as for the piece of cambric, send it at once
to my wife, do you hear?"
So saying, the steward dismounted and gave his horse to the good man.
Then he entered the hut, and Iermola's heart began to beat very fast.
The poor old man dreaded for his child the presence and the gaze of
this man, particularly as he could not go and protect the baby, for he
could not leave the horse. He would have liked exceedingly to be
present at the interview, but that was impossible; he listened
intently, however, so as to hear as much as he could of the
conversation which took place between the steward and the cossack's
widow. This mental strain and anxiety agitated him to such a degree
that when Hudny came out of the lowly mansion, Iermola was wiping away
great drops of sweat as large as tears, which were running down his
cheeks.
Fortunately the cossack's widow, for whom the steward entertained a
sort of respect, had resolved to purchase peace at a moneyed price, and
had taken care to buy her supply of butter from the Hudny dairy, and in
some way or other succeeded in persuading him; and the result was that
he did not persecute Iermola further on the subject of the baby, nor
did he again order him to deliver it over to the police.