one is almost sixty years old; to sit quietly with fixed attention for
long hours; to keep eyes still which have been accustomed to wander
freely; to take an interest in those black, irregular, and excessively
small characters. It is an enormous undertaking, a real torment, which
can be endured only by remarkable perseverance, will, and strength of
affection. Iermola, indeed, groaned and was weary more than once; but
he did not abandon the task which he had so bravely begun, and at last
the time came when he could read. Fortunately, his sight was still
good, which helped him very much in his work; and he found less
difficulty, after all, than the chorister had feared. The old
instructor received as his pay a half-roll of linen containing fifty
yards, and very wide, which had been kept a long time, with a shiny
silver rouble in addition.
As for the care bestowed upon the baby, the old man acquitted himself
as if he had been a foster-father all his life. The cradle was placed
beside his bed; the goat slept in a corner near by. At the slightest
sound from the baby, the father was on his feet to see what the
innocent creature needed. He slept but little; but he never had needed
a great deal of sleep. During the day he took the little one in his
arms and wandered with him along the shore, in the woods, in the
fields, under the oaks; and when he grew weary he sat down on the
door-sill. This sight, which at first had appeared so strange and
ridiculous to the villagers, at last seemed pleasant and interesting.
They smiled at the orphan, and admired the perseverance and tenderness
of the foster-father; and on Sundays, a few old companions came out to
the ruined inn to see the baby and talk with their old neighbour.
Iermola was charmed when he found himself surrounded by this little
circle of friends, in whose presence he could show off the attractions
of his darling pet; and by his earnest praise and repeated recitals he
at last succeeded in persuading his neighbours that the pretty boy he
had found promised to be really an extraordinary child. What was indeed
very strange in all this was that in spite of his various cares and
constant fatigue Iermola grew visibly younger. His figure was more
erect than before, his step lighter, his countenance more smiling,
fresh, and fair; work, want of sleep, and fatigue did not overcome him
so much as hope soothed and strengthened him. It might really be said
that from the moment when he had found a hope and an aim he had begun a
new existence, a sweeter life. Nevertheless, his existence, as may well
be imagined, was not a succession of joys and ever-renewed delights;
the presence of the child, while sensibly increasing his wants and
expenses, forced upon him a formidable undertaking, a constant labour,
for henceforth he must supply not only the bread for to-day, but that
for the morrow also.
The poor usually require very little to satisfy their daily wants.
Iermola was particularly temperate and sober; he could easily do
without this or that thing when necessary, and he had never, up to the
moment when, by God's providence, the new-comer had appeared in his
cabin, suffered from hunger. He had indeed no certain income; but he
never begged, and he managed, by doing his best, to pay very regularly
a rent of twenty florins a year for his little garden and poor cottage.
It is very hard for us, who have been accustomed to a better style of
living, to understand how the poor can sustain themselves, and be
content upon so little. Old Iermola had saved up during his long years
of service only a few pieces of cloth, which he had laid by, one at a
time, together with about twenty roubles and some worthless rags. He
could have obtained for these enough to pay his rent in advance and buy
his daily food; but if he had not added to this little sum by his daily
earnings, it would soon have been exhausted. Iermola, it is true, spent
very little upon himself, for he got his meals at first one place and
then another in the village; the cossack's widow fed him oftenest, and
was not willing to receive anything from him in return. Moreover, he
was always content with a little bread and bacon and some potatoes; he
took great care of his old clothes, which fortunately had not yet given
out. But there was that dreadful rent, which had to be paid from the
profits of his garden, which formed the sole income of the good man.
This square bit of ground, surrounded by a paling of laths and situated
close to the old house, was almost as large as an ordinary peasant's
garden; besides this, there was, a few rods from the inn, about an acre
of good land on which oaks and pines grew. There Iermola sowed some
tobacco in the spots he thought most fertile; farther on he planted
potatoes, cabbages at the end of his garden, beets, peas, and other
vegetables in the rest of the enclosure. Sometimes his little crop
turned out well, and then, besides getting from his garden all that he
needed for his own subsistence, he sold enough to bring him the twenty
florins necessary to pay his rent. At other times the vegetables were a
failure; and the poor man was obliged to resort to other means of
procuring the sum.
Under such circumstances, the woods and the river were a great resource
for the peasants; and as the inhabitants of Popielnia were not
forbidden access to them, they all found there some means of existence.
So long as Iermola had lived alone, he had engaged in fishing; for this
purpose he stretched nets and set weirs. In fishing at night with a
lance he was at times not unsuccessful, and he sold the fruit of his
labour at the neighbouring _dwor_ or in the town. In addition to this,
he gathered and dried mushrooms, which were a still more profitable
commodity, as the price of them had for some time been going up. But
after he had little Radionek almost constantly in his arms, these two
employments became impossible. He could not leave the child alone, and
spend the night fishing or pass the day in the woods.
And meantime the expenses increased; the small supply of money had been
used at first to buy the goat and several trifles the baby was obliged
to have. It was necessary for the poor man to do something new.
Formerly he had worked gratis in the fields of his friends and the
poor; now his time became dear and precious to him. He resolved to work
for hire. Soon he might be seen, like those women who at times when
work is pressing join the reapers in the fields, starting out every day
with the goat, the baby, three stakes, a basket, and a tent. He put the
baby in the basket between two furrows under the shade of the piece of
coarse linen, stretched on top of the stakes; the old goat watched the
little one, and he meantime cut down, gathered, and bound the wheat. In
this way he earned his food and about twenty coppers a day in addition;
for it is rare that a labourer is paid more than that in Polesia. He
had to work three days, and work hard too, in order to earn two
florins, which elsewhere is given for sixty sheaves. He had to cut
sixty sheaves of thin, scattering wheat, and stoop over them, sweating
and breathless, then carry them; and they make them heavy in Polesia,
although in order to form them, one has to gather the straws one by
one.
Often, returning to his deserted home from the distant harvest field,
carrying the basket and the baby, the old man felt overcome with the
weight of his years and the heat of the day, worn out and sleepy and
almost sad; but one single glance at little Radionek, who was always
smiling, sufficed to restore his strength, and the night's sleep
refreshed him and prepared him for the next day's work. In fact,
Iermola never had worked so hard or been so fatigued before; the
villagers regarded with respect his perseverance, his earnestness, and
his faithful devotion. Not daring to touch the gold found in the baby's
clothes, because he considered it the orphan's property, he undertook
to supply everything himself; and this became more and more difficult,
for he scarcely had time to work his garden. He bravely devoted all his
mornings and evenings to this work; the rest of the day he occupied
himself in working in the fields.
But the heart can conceive and work out miracles as soon as it is
warmed and animated by a ray of affection. It is a unique and sovereign
talisman. Without it everything is full of thorns, everything is
difficult; with it all obstacles melt away, and dangers disappear.
At the end of a few months of brave and constant effort, field labour
began to be unsatisfactory to Iermola. The baby grew, and the earnings
were very small; besides, the chorister had charged a rouble for his
lessons, and God knows how much time the study-hours occupied each day.
The poor man became at times very sad; then his one resource was to
seek his old friend, the widow, to whose house he was in the habit of
going for consolation and advice. He was always welcomed cordially and
joyously there. The widow was perhaps a little sour and cross
occasionally; but she was always really good and affectionate. When at
his old friend's house, Iermola was never troublesome, never
inconvenienced any one; on the contrary, he often made himself very
useful,--for however weary or anxious he might be, if the widow asked
him to her table, or even to warm himself by her fire, he felt obliged
to cut up her wood, or go to the well for water, in fact, to take the
place of old Chwedor, who usually took himself off to the inn for the
evening, and could scarcely be moved from there, even if one drove him
with a stick.
The widow had a great deal of trouble with the drunken Chwedor, but it
was a difficult matter to find servants in the village who were willing
to live on a farm, the strong, hearty men greatly preferring to take
their axes and go to work in the woods; she was compelled, therefore,
to put up with this good-for-nothing creature, who, if he had not had
the assistance of the young orphan servant, would scarcely have
accomplished the feeding and caring for the cows. Chwedor was truly a
singular being; he seemed to be two men in one. In the morning, before
he had taken anything to drink, he was industrious, obedient, diligent,
and silent,--he even sometimes did things of his own accord which his
mistress had not commanded; but when he returned from the fields,
although he had solemnly sworn never to drink again, he would scarcely
have driven the cattle into the courtyard before he would suddenly
disappear, and installing himself at the big table in the hall of the
inn, would drink, swear, scream, and give himself up to the most noisy
and ridiculous behaviour. With his cap pulled down over his ears, and
his hands on his hips, he would grow excited, scream, swear, abuse the
innkeeper, sing, dance, stick up his mustache, and strut about as
though he were neither more nor less than a _waiwode_.
On his return to the cottage he went regularly to bid his mistress
good-night, and after that went to bed, still singing and swearing,
then fell asleep and snored; and when he awoke in the morning, he was
as pleasant and obedient as the previous evening he had been brutal and
blustering. After having shirked the widow's service, using most
abusive language to her, the evening before, he would be eager next
morning to reinstate himself in her good graces by all sorts of kind
attentions and ingenious devices. She herself had several times
discharged him; but as it was almost impossible to procure another
servant, and as Chwedor was thoroughly well acquainted with the duties
of a farm, the noises and rows of the evening were invariably followed
by reconciliation and peace in the morning.
But in consequence of Chwedor, Iermola was particularly welcome at the
widow's cottage whenever he came in the evening, first, because he
helped a little, and then because she found in him a willing listener
to whom she could relate all her gossip and make all her complaints.
Horpyna also loved the old serving-man, especially for the sake of the
baby, who always smiled for her so sweetly.
One day as Iermola was returning late from the fields, having spent the
whole day without being able to gather his task of sheaves from the
scattering and ill-grown barley, his heart sad and anxious, and very
weary from stooping so long, he turned in the direction of the widow's
cottage. As soon as Horpyna saw him, she took the little boy in her
arms and began to jump about the room with him; and the old man sat
down by the fire and gazed at the flames dreamily. The sun had given
him the headache; fatigue had stiffened and bent his back; the weight
of the reaping-hook had bruised his wrinkled hands, although he had
carefully wrapped the handle with a piece of coarse cloth.
This temporary weakness, by which he was for the moment overcome,
frightened him on the child's account and not on his own; he began to
sigh heavily, and his old friend, as she busied herself with her
cooking, understood very well that he was in need of counsel and
comfort.
"Now, you see, good man," said she to him, "I told you how it would be;
when you took the baby, I knew you would not be able to raise it. But
perhaps you are over-anxious and have been unfortunate today, for you
sigh so sadly."
"Yes, yes, it is true,--all true, neighbour. I realize now that I am no
longer twenty years old; for when I return from the fields, I am good
for nothing but to lie down in my grave, I am so sick and weary. But
what is to be done? I must work or die of hunger. And Hudny would drive
me out of my poor den if I did not give him his twenty florins at
Michaelmas; and I must eat and take care of the baby. Think of it, I
can earn only twenty coppers a day, and I have a broken back."
"But I tell you now, as I have often told you before, that you must
find some other means of earning your bread. You have spent your whole
life seated by a table in an office, with little work to do, and
suddenly you take a notion to handle the reaping-hook and the scythe
just as those do who have been accustomed to it all their lives. Why do
you not try to find some other sort of work?"
"Because, really I do not know how to do anything else."
"But you did not know how to read a while ago, and now you tell me you
have learned. Can't you learn how to do something else?"
"Do you think I could?"
"Indeed?" answered the old woman, in that interrogative formula which
often in the language of peasants takes the place of affirmation.
"What?"
"How do I know? Any sort of trade. You do not want for sense; you have
seen and observed a great many things; you would learn much faster than
any number of young giddy-heads."
"I should not like the shoemaker's trade, though I sometimes mend
shoes," replied Iermola, shaking his head with a thoughtful air. "There
are plenty of tailors who come from Kolkiow with their measuring sticks
on their shoulders; and no one would be willing to trust a piece of
cloth to me, lest I should spoil it. As for cloak merchants, there are
already three."
"Yes, and there is not even one honest weaver, who would not steal a
third of your package of warp," cried the widow. "The old man who
steals least will keep you three months waiting for your roll of cloth;
and if you pay any of them in advance, they will sell it to the Jews. I
can truly say no one here really understands weaving, though it is a
trade which pays well. Now, couldn't you undertake to learn it?"
"But how about the weaving-room and the loom? How could I put it in my
house? The room is small; the goat occupies one half of it, and the
baby the other; all my furniture is already piled up one piece on top
of another. It is impossible to think of such a thing. If you want to
give me helping counsel, think of something else."
"Bless me! I should have been very glad if you would have learned the
weaver's trade, as I should then have been able to find some use for my
thread, which is rotting here, and I do not know what to do with it."
At this Iermola laughed, but he also sighed.
"Ah! you are advising yourself, then, and not me. Think of something
else, neighbour."
"Can't you think of anything?" cried Horpyna. "I know of something.
Haven't you told me that at the _dwor_, when you had nothing else to
do, you used to amuse yourself by playing on the violin?"
"Yes, that is so; I used to play sometimes all the evening."
"Very well; why not be a musician?"
"Pshaw, for shame!" cried Iermola, spitting on the ground. "It is not
right, Horpyna, for you to give me such advice. Suppose I should take
to drinking from playing at weddings and balls? And then how could I
take the baby with me to all the inns?"
"Ah! that is very true. I have advised you as my mother did. But why
couldn't you leave the baby with us?"
Iermola smiled and shook his head.
Just at that moment the two large pots which the widow had on the fire
knocked together; one of them, which was probably already cracked,
burst wide open and broke in pieces. The boiling water dashed all over
the fireplace, on the coals, and spilled upon the floor, and would have
gone upon the widow's feet if she had not jumped aside.
There was a moment of confusion. Horpyna gave the baby to the old man
and ran to her mother's assistance; the widow began to cry; the servant
screamed with fright; the half-cooked potatoes rolled upon the floor;
the dog, which was asleep upon the door-sill, was startled, and began
to bark loudly.
Some minutes passed before order was restored. Fortunately, no harm was
done, except to the pot, for the boiling water was all over the floor.
The young girls set to work to pick up their supper; and the widow,
having cursed the decrees of fate, seated herself on the bench to
collect her wits.
But when they came to put the potatoes again on the fire, and went to
the loft for another pot, it was found that there was not another there
so large as the one which had just been broken; and they were obliged
to use in its stead two small ones which were like small pennies in
comparison.
"There never was such a pot as that," cried the widow, recommencing her
mournful wail. "I remember perfectly the day I bought it. It was at the
fair at Janowka. It was as white as milk, and so strong and solid. One
might have cracked nuts on it. We came back home at night, that drunken
Chwedor and I. As we were passing by Malyczki, he let the wagon run
into a rut; Chwedor and I and everything that was in the wagon were
thrown into a ditch. There were five pots and a sifter. 'Confound you
and your brandy!' said I; and I began to grope about for the utensils.
"The sifter was ruined,--the wagon-wheel had broken it in half; two of
the smaller pots were broken all to pieces; but my big white pot had
rolled two fathoms away down the road. I ran after it; it was perfectly
whole, and had not even the slightest crack. I could scarcely believe
my eyes. I have used it for two years, and I never shall find another
like it. Ah, that is what we need,--some good potters. To get another
set, I must wait till a pedler takes pity on us and comes this way. But
as the roads are bad and the merchandise easily broken, they come
seldom; and they cheat us--oh, the way they cheat us is a caution! Now
there is Procope, the potter at Malyczki; he makes such indifferent,
ugly black pots. They are really good for nothing but to hold ashes. He
is compelled to go away to sell them because we know them so well; no
one here would buy them. Suppose you learn to be a potter; what do you
think of that? It is an honest and quiet trade, and it is not hard
work."
"Do you think I could?" said Iermola, shaking his head. "But who would
teach me? And the clay? Is it good about here? And how could I build an
oven? Besides, even supposing I could do all that, I should need a
wagon and horse to carry my wares about; and suppose I should happen to
upset them?"
"Well, really, what is the matter with you to-day, old man?" cried the
widow. "Everything seems disagreeable and difficult to you. I repeat to
you your own proverb, 'It is not the saints who make the pots boil.'"
At this, all present burst into a laugh; Iermola alone remained silent
and thoughtful.
Thus passed this memorable evening, which was to bear so many fruits;
for although Iermola did not then make up his mind clearly, he
nevertheless, on returning to his home, begin to think seriously what
there was for him to do, and gradually he recovered hope and courage.
"Since I have succeeded in learning to read," said he to himself at
last,--"which is much the most difficult thing in the world,--I ought
to be able also to learn a trade. I am old, it is true; but do arms and
thought and will belong to youth alone? We shall see."
IX.
A VISIT TO THE DWOR.
Next day the old man intrusted Radionek to the care of his friend
Horpyna, and under some pretext or other started for Malyczki. A
thousand projects were whirling in his head.
The village was of medium size, surrounded by deep marshes and immense
forests, built upon barren soil composed principally of sand and
peat-moss.
Nevertheless, the village was wealthy, for it was inhabited almost
entirely by industrious mechanics. The peasants of this town were
obliged to buy bread every year; the soil was like that of the district
of Opoezynsk, and perhaps even worse, and returned for one bushel of
wheat sowed only sixty sheaves, which would scarcely yield a bushel of
grain, making a gain of only the straw. They were therefore compelled
to resort to other means of subsistence. They made charcoal; they sold
bark; they dealt in staves, made tubs and casks, and turned out various
other small household utensils; they constructed carriages and ploughs,
or were carpenters, weavers, or clothiers; they even wove caps and red
belts; and there was one potter among them. But this last trade was not
very profitable, although the man made his living,--for his wares were
considered of indifferent quality.
As a general thing, potters rarely set up a business in a place where
no one has previously worked at the trade; in most cases the ovens have
descended from father to son for a considerable length of time.
Formerly, in the ancient times, when the potter's art was more
necessary, because it was called on to furnish the sacred urns used at
the sacrifices, the qualities of the different clays were better
understood, and also the degrees of heat in the kiln; the situations
for manufactories were better chosen, and a better standard of work
prevailed among the men of the trade.
At the present time it is rare that any one attempts to build a kiln on
a spot where no one has ever built before. Potteries are carried on
just where they have been for ages, and the same clay is used which
furnished the funeral urns of our ancestors.
The last descendant of the potters of Malyczki had sunk pretty low in
his profession as artist and also in the social scale; he drank,
lounged about most of the time, and cared very little about the quality
of his clay, and still less about the quality or the beauty of his
wares. His pots gave forth no sound to the touch; they were black,
ugly, and so easily broken that the people in the village never bought
them except when in extreme need. But during his expeditions to places
at a distance he managed to get rid of them; and in his neighbourhood
he passed for a rich man, for he put on proud airs and indulged himself
in everything.
He ate bacon, drank brandy, wore a robe of lambskin with a collar of
gray astrachan, a woollen cloak with a hood, and a big cap of black
lambskin as high as that of any gentleman. He had never had a son, and
only one daughter, recently married to the richest peasant in the
village, to whom he had given such a handsome dowry that his neighbours
could scarcely believe their eyes or their ears,--horses, cattle, three
chests of clothing, and a cap full of silver roubles.
Iermola knew all about these matters, for formerly, when he was in the
service of his good master, there was frequent intercourse between the
_dwor_ of Popielnia and the _dwor_ of Malyczki, and also between the
two villages. Consequently, from the first the idea suggested by the
widow had taken possession of his mind. He did not wish to reveal his
designs at first lest he should be laughed at; and under pretext of
some business common to village people, he set out for the _dwor_ of
Malyczki.
For many years there had lived in this _dwor_ a weak and decrepit old
man, once a chief of squadron in the national cavalry, and an old
friend of Iermola's good lord, whose name was Felicien Druzyna. He had
once been rich, but had lived to see all his fortune melt away during
the civil wars; and he had for a long time wandered about the world,
travelling sometimes in the north and sometimes in the west. Finally he
returned to Polesia, to live on the estate which was all that remained
of his possessions. For several years his infirmities had so increased
that he was now confined to his bed, and prayed for death, which seemed
to refuse to put an end to his sufferings.