word, it seems absurd for you to take upon yourself such a useless
burden. However, I will undertake to make the report to the court; but
if you take my advice, you will get rid of the new-comer as soon as
possible. What necessity is there that you should have another mouth to
feed; and why should a child be brought to you? Ah, it must be a droll
story," he added, laughing again his coarse, wicked laugh.
Iermola, in his terror, kissed his knee and hand and elbow, and begged
that he would leave the baby with him with an expression so paternal
and tender that any one but the steward would have been deeply touched.
But thus Iermola escaped a disagreeable errand; he was not obliged to
go to the _dwor_, which would have been bad for him for two reasons:
first, because the sight of the dear old house awoke in him painful
memories; and secondly, because the steward and his wife, gentle and
fair-spoken to their superiors, were harsh, scornful, and unkind to the
common people. Thus he also had his whole day to himself, and could do
all that was needful for the baby.
At that moment the sun rose, glad, bright, and radiant, like a
messenger of hope and faith. Motion and labour began; a thousand noises
awoke along the river shore. As the news, the wonderful news, had
spread like lightning, all whose business led them along that road went
into Iermola's house to see the baby and hear how it had all happened.
The cossack's widow, more eloquent than her neighbour, undertook to
tell the story, which she constantly clothed in new colours, repeating
the smallest details with indefatigable delight. Meanwhile the old man
occupied himself in making the cradle, for which, fortunately, he found
a rush mat, perfectly woven and sufficiently light.
This mat, swung between the two feet which he had constructed as well
as he could, then filled with hay, and covered with the softest and
whitest cloth that Iermola could find among his rags, was ready about
midday. It would have been, indeed, much easier to suspend a basket by
a rope to one of the beams of the ceiling, as was the custom of the
peasants, and rock it with his foot. But Iermola was afraid of
everything where the baby was concerned,--the rope, the hook, the
basket, the beam; and he preferred to undertake a tiresome and
difficult task himself rather than to expose the innocent creature to
any danger.
The widow rallied him upon his anxieties and fears, but she could not
convince him. Then when the cradle was finished, he found it necessary
to rearrange the chamber,--that room in which nothing had been moved
for so many years. Now it must be arranged differently altogether,--so
that the light should not fall upon the baby's eyes; so that he should
not feel the draught from the door or the heat from the stove. And
after that, he had to build a little shelter in one corner for the
goat, with the help of an old door and a broken-down ladder. The
obstinate animal did not become at all more docile. She ate whatever
was thrown to her, but she would allow no one to come near her; and it
was necessary for the present to keep her tied.
When his various preparations were ended, Iermola came and seated
himself beside the widow, and listened attentively to all the precepts
she laid down to him on the subject of caring for the baby. By dint of
strict attention and numberless and exact questionings, he succeeded in
learning precisely what he should give him to eat, how many times and
in how much water he should bathe him, how he should amuse him, quiet
him, and put him to sleep.
The profound and inexpressible affection he felt for the innocent
new-comer was only equalled by the intensity of his hatred for the
horned and rebellious goat, who persisted in her disobedience, and
would not endeavour to appreciate the good fortune which was in store
for her. All the while that Iermola was listening to the widow, he cast
upon the Jewess a menacing glance, unable to boast sufficiently of the
baby's lovable qualities or sufficiently to deplore the goat's
unworthiness, her stupidity, and the detestable habits she had acquired
while frequenting the inn.
It was in such important occupations that the first day of poor old
Iermola's paternity was passed.
VII.
A NEW LIFE.
The fortunes of man are often very strange. He frequently passes
through long, barren, unemployed years, awaiting the one moment which
brings into relief and into activity all his faculties and all his
powers; it seems as though he had slept an age in order to awaken for
one hour. A new situation arouses in him unknown sentiments, enlightens
his mind, opens his heart, and changes the indolent dreamer into a
worker, an indefatigable athlete.
Thus it happened to Iermola, whom the mere presence of this unknown
child had regenerated and revived, and who, to the great astonishment
of the widow, the people of the village, and all who had formerly known
him, not only acquitted himself without difficulty of the care
necessary to be bestowed upon his nursling, but became quite another
man. He always had been considered one of the most good-for-nothing and
insignificant beings in the world, silent, humble, timid, and ignorant.
People had become accustomed to see him every day at the same hour in
the vicinity of the ruined inn, and to hear the same words of greeting
repeated by him every day. With his bowed head and stooping shoulders,
and his eyes fixed on the ground, and leaning on a cane, he might be
constantly seen, now on his way to the river shore, and now going
toward the _dwor_; he gathered grasses, kindling-wood, and fagots, and
cultivated in his garden a little tobacco and a few vegetables. On fine
summer evenings he repeated his chaplet sitting on his door-sill, and
sometimes, when his complete isolation did not weigh too heavily upon
him, he allowed several months to pass without appearing in the
village. He never went to the inn, never showed himself at weddings,
funerals, or baptisms; and when he went to them because he was invited,
he stayed only a very short time, and was in a hurry to return to his
den, where he squatted down and secluded himself as though there was
some sad mystery attached to his life.
Moreover, he visited at none of the houses in the village with the
exception of the widow's hut, whither he was drawn by memories of old
friendship and also the need of assistance, for there he had his linen
washed and mended, and took some of his meals. Some said that he was
sulky and cross; but those who knew him best rarely spoke of him
otherwise than in terms of kindest friendship. And indeed under his
cold, rough exterior was concealed a rare heart, a heart of gold, one
of those hearts to be met with among the poor and simple more often
than one believes.
Nowadays a goodly number of thinkers interested in such matters, and
who judge quite erroneously, have succeeded in discovering in the
peasant far more bad qualities than good ones. But considering the
influences to which the lower classes are subjected, the examples they
have before them, their surroundings, the poverty which enervates them,
and the want of moral education which brutalizes them, one can only be
astonished at the treasures of honesty which God puts into their
hearts.
Under such a condition as theirs, the greatest faults are pardonable;
for which of our reformers proposes to inculcate either moral or
religious principles? Therefore the virtues they possess really seem
miraculous. In order to know the lower classes, it is necessary to
observe them closely, and to study them, and not allow ourselves to be
led astray by the prejudices and false ideas which we may have imbibed
from the speeches of interested persons and from books. Virtue, with
them, is the more to be respected, because it is indigenous, like pure
native gold. As for us, we are inoculated with it; it is preached to
us, taught us from our infancy. It is very easy for us to be honest.
Our own interest, our self-love, the aid which circumstances give us,
the advantageous emulation with which the social struggle inspires us,
our conception of duty,--all help to clear the way for us; and in spite
of this, all are not virtuous, or at least as virtuous as they ought to
be. It is not at all astonishing, therefore, considering all that we
have on our side, and all that makes against the lower classes, that
good, equitable, and strict judges have discerned more worth and virtue
in the lower than in the higher classes, and have invited the fortunate
ones of this world to follow the example which by a sort of miracle is
presented by those who enjoy fewer comforts.
We, who are in constant and active communication with our country
people, do not hesitate to recognize that they are better by nature and
by instinct than the people in other classes of society, than the
people of other European races, especially the Western races. Let us
examine, compare, and number their vices; and we shall be astonished to
find still so much morality among a populace so miserable and entirely
abandoned, who must have received the strength to be virtuous simply
from the air which surrounds them, from the blood which flows in their
veins. It is easy for us to understand and excuse their faults if we
will only be just.
Iermola was precisely one of those men, gifted with a marvellous
instinct of virtue and feelings naturally affectionate and just, whose
nobleness servitude had not been able to stifle, possessing a heart
which coarse and imperfect civilization had not been able to make cold,
and earnest moral strength which old age had not withered or destroyed.
I can find no other word than "instinct" to express that rare and
powerful faculty; and I would willingly admit, if I were writing a
treatise on psychology, that by the side of the coarse, egotistical,
material instinct exists a second one, noble, generous, sublime,
different in every respect from the other, which elevates often to the
highest plane of virtue the weakest and simplest natures. Those who
possess it usually act contrary to their most evident interests; they
listen only to their hearts, which never breathe the voice of violence
and passion, but rather that of pure love, which longs for perfection,
and action, which reveals the need of devotion and tenderness.
The old man of whom we are speaking never had deplored the miseries of
his useless and suffering life. He never had cursed his past; he
neither scorned nor complained of men. He found a sufficiency in
himself, suffered, was silent, and did not succumb, because he accepted
everything with a humble and thankful spirit. No one ever saw him spare
himself; he was always ready to help others, though he could do but
little for himself. Every one knew him in the village; and strangers,
as well as old friends, knew to whom to apply when they needed help or
sympathy,--for poor old Iermola had nothing else to give. To watch and
care for a sick person, to harvest a widow's field of barley, to take
care of a houseful of children when the mother of the family was away,
to collect herbs and recipes for curing wounds and diseases, were the
things that Iermola knew how to do best, and that he did with most
pleasure. People made use of him the more willingly because he would
not accept any pay, and because he never drank brandy.
Among the lower classes it is customary in such cases to recognize by
some gift or other even the smallest service rendered; the good
villagers would be offended if these slight marks of their gratitude
should not be accepted. They therefore slipped into Iermola's hands a
few presents which he took, lest he should wound his friends; some
eggs, a little butter, a small loaf of bread, seemed to him more than
sufficient return for his services.
He bore no grudge against those of his old friends whom he had obliged,
who in times of sickness and need had come to him for help, and
afterward deserted and forgotten him. He never complained of their
indifference, never called their neglect ingratitude or coldness of
heart; he knew the villagers had but little time at their disposal in
which to pay debts of affection or gratitude; that generally it was not
the will which was wanting, but the possibility; and their indifference
was often feigned and very frequently forced. It is necessary to know
thoroughly their life of labour and weariness, to feel the effect of
fatigue and its consequent lassitude, in order to comprehend it and not
be surprised by it. And if with regard to matters of the heart Iermola
was superior to his neighbours, in other respects he was still a child
of the village, retaining its tastes, habits, inclinations, and
prejudices.
The day following that upon which the event we have related took place,
nothing was talked of all over Popielnia but the baby found under the
oaks by old Iermola, and the goat bought from Szmula,--for Chwedko
boasted as much of this good bargain as he usually did of his famous
mare.
There were a thousand conjectures concerning the inexplicable
appearance of the new-born baby,--an event the like of which was
unheard of and unknown in the village; this miserable act was laid to
the door, not of the peasants very naturally, for they would not have
been able to commit such a deed, since they had no such habits, but
rather to some unknown father and mother belonging to the nobility.
Suspicions fell first upon one and then another neighbouring lord; but
nothing confirmed them, and they contradicted each other. Effort was
made to recall exactly everything which had taken place on the two
previous days; unfortunately, the tracks of the person who had brought
the baby and placed it in the garden had been entirely effaced. One of
the villagers had indeed seen, about nightfall, a carriage driving
rapidly away in the direction of Malyczki; but this proved to have been
only the _briczka_ of the young secretary, who had been to pay a visit
to Horpyna and her mother. Another remembered having seen, from a
distance on the river shore, a man on horseback, holding under his arm
a bundle wrapped in a white cloth; but he learned that it was the
manager Hudny, who was taking a ride, and who, on account of the cold,
had wrapped a towel round his neck. Marysia, the servant at the inn,
also recalled the unknown Polesian who the previous evening had snored
so loudly on one of the benches at the inn, and had disappeared when
the cocks began to crow; but could he have slept so quietly if he had
been the one who undertook to abandon to fate such an innocent
creature?
At the inn, in the fields, in the woods, on the river shore,
everywhere, in fact, nothing was talked of but the foundling baby; but
no person knew any more about the matter than another. All were,
however, astonished at Iermola's determination and laughed at the old
man, shrugging their shoulders. Meanwhile, in the good man's hut the
cossack's widow was preparing a bath for the little one. As she was
unwrapping it from the piece of coarse percale which was to be sent to
the steward's wife, she examined the child more closely, and began to
share the convictions of his adoptive father. The baby was surely the
offspring of some noble family, he was so delicate, so fresh-looking,
so charming. There was no mark on his clothing, but around his neck was
a silk cord from which hung a small medal of gilded brass which Iermola
supposed to be gold, and put carefully away. Because of this the two
old people began to wonder if the baby had been baptized; and the widow
told her neighbour that when there was any doubt on the subject, it was
always prudent to have the infant sprinkled with the waters of holy
baptism. That very evening the baby took the name of Irydion, which was
that of the saint the church invokes on the day it was found.
In the dialect of the lower class, this name assumes a Slavic sound,
and is transformed into Radion or Radiwon; the little one was therefore
called Radionek, as a sort of pet name. Iermola wept with joy as he
took him in his arms and covered him with caresses, saying over and
over a hundred times that at last he had a son, and that this son would
make him so happy.
Our good man got a little tipsy for the first time in his life, on the
occasion of the baptism. He treated Chwedko and the widow to bountiful
drinks, embraced them both, pressed their hands, and showered
affectionate words upon them. As for the unfortunate goat, who regarded
all these joyful demonstrations with angry eyes, he shook his fist at
her threateningly.
"Listen, wretched Jewess," said he to her, as he stood before her with
flaming eyes and uplifted hand. "Listen, vile descendant of a horned
and bearded race: if you are not gentle and obedient, if you are not
willing to be an honest and affectionate nurse for this dear little
baby, I will immediately find another to take your place. But as for
you, I will cut you in two with a wood-saw, as truly as there is a God
in heaven."
To these menacing words the goat replied by stamping her feet, shaking
and throwing her head up proudly, and all the people present burst into
peals of laughter; but it was observed that from that time forth she
conducted herself with much more gentleness and docility, as though
Iermola's violent harangue had finally triumphed over her indomitable
obstinacy.
VIII.
HAPPY DAYS.
Such was the beginning of this self-imposed paternity; in spite of the
difficulties at the outset, the good man was so successful that at the
expiration of three months he had become perfectly acquainted with all
the duties and requirements of his new occupation. The village people
never tired of seeing the old man with the baby in his arms, walking
with him in the fields or on the river shore; they would immediately
surround the pair so strangely but so entirely united, and overwhelm
Iermola with questions and the baby with caresses.
What may not love, will, and patience overcome? The old goat, which had
shown such obstinacy of character in the first days after her
separation from Szmula at last grew so attached to her new master that
she followed the old man and the baby everywhere. At first she ran away
several times and went back to the inn. Szmula had even given secret
orders to have her killed, intending to put her four quarters into the
pot, but Iermola, divining his intentions even at that distance, gave
the baby for a few moments to the widow, and found the goat concealed
behind a pile of straw in the pig-sty; whereupon he, by his cries and
threats, frightened Szmula so terribly that the Jew never again had any
desire to face such an adversary. As a finishing stroke to his
misfortunes, Szmula was obliged to bestow gratuitous drinks upon the
village men who had been attracted to the inn by Iermola's cries and
uproar, and whom he naturally wished to get rid of as soon as possible.
Finally, the goat, well cared for and well fed, began to understand
that she could henceforth expect no good from Szmula. She therefore
regarded him with supreme indifference; and serving her new owner with
fidelity, she would not even turn her head when she happened to pass by
the inn. Consequently she became a great favourite with Iermola, the
thing he loved best in the world, except the well-beloved baby, of
course; and as the child jabbered to her constantly, and she was always
with him, she became not only his nourisher, but almost his nurse. The
baby knew well her black fierce eyes and her long beard, which he
pulled with his little fingers; the Jewess would come at his slightest
call and stand over his cradle with wonderful intelligence and
precaution. She became, in fact, one of the family; and Iermola,
rendering her full justice, was utterly astonished that he had not been
able at first to recognize her excellent qualities.
But the satisfaction which the old goat gave him--and he would not now
have given her up at any price--was nothing in comparison with the
infinite and ever-increasing joy the baby was to him, as he grew and
developed day by day. Little Radionek had a peculiarly gentle
disposition and uncommon strength and health, as is usually the case
with poor little orphans.
It seems as though God in His providence bestows earlier and more
abundantly upon those who have no mother the faculties and forces
necessary to existence. But however lovely and well-developed Radionek
may have been, Iermola doubtless saw in him many more virtues and
charms than he really possessed. The widow rallied him on the subject,
but this did no good, and only irritated him; he called her wicked,
jealous, and blind, and would go away, low-spirited, carrying his
treasure with him. The old woman, however, was also sincerely attached
to the child, who certainly owed much to her. Indeed, without her
counsels and assistance, the adoptive father would have found it very
difficult to acquit himself in his new, strange, and hard position. All
his neighbours were good to him, and helped him in time of need, for
the baby became the pet, the darling, and the wonder of the village.
After several months of watchfulness and continual care, Iermola at
last found time to ask himself what he would do in the future, and even
spoke frequently of the projects he had formed for himself and the
baby. Ah, he had so many dreams, and built so many castles in the air!
First of all, he did not wish the child to be a simple villager; he
desired for him a better condition and more brilliant and noble career.
But the choice of a career seemed very difficult to him; for his dear
Radionek everything seemed too humble and too pitiful. What he would
have liked best would have been to buy an estate and see him some day
manage it as he chose; but poor as they were, it was foolish even to
think of that. He was of course obliged to think of something else.
During his long seasons of thought Iermola reviewed a number of trades
and different occupations; but he always found some fault with them.
The shoemaker from sitting so constantly must have bent limbs and
stooping shoulders; the miller was obliged to stand all day; the
blacksmith was exposed to being burned by his hot fire; the mason was
tired with carrying tiles and climbing ladders and suffering from the
cold and the wind and the heat. Iermola did not wish to expose his dear
child to any of these dangers and troubles.
He always firmly intended to have his dear Radionek learn to read and
write, but it was necessary to wait a few years before doing that; and
the chorister in the church, the only man in the village who had dived
into the mysteries of the alphabet, and who would have been able to
take charge of his pupil's education, was already very old. If he
should die, would his successor be as accommodating or as learned as
he? This was a sadly perplexing subject for the old man. He conceived
the idea of settling the matter by asking the chorister to teach him,
so that when the time came he would be able to teach the child to read
and write without any one's assistance. With this intention he bought a
primer from a Jew pedler; and soon every day the old man might be seen
with the baby in his arms and the goat following him, going along the
one street of the village on his way to the farther end of it, where he
took his daily lesson from old Andrej Prosforowiez. It was beautiful to
see the old man perspiring and growing red in the face, studying and
working over the pages of his primer, holding the baby with one hand,
and with the other the iron needle which he used to point to his
letters. One consoling idea sustained him through all this hard task.
At least, in this way the old chorister, who was not very patient,
would not be made to torment Radionek, whom he would doubtless have
caused to pass some unhappy half-hours. Iermola knew very well that
when he should undertake the task of paternal education, he would
succeed by means of gentleness and perseverance in imparting all he
knew to his child, without either trouble or contention.