that it had formerly been the seat of considerable wealth. It was
old-fashioned, large, and gloomy, surrounded by an old garden,
trellised in the French fashion of the time of Louis the Great; and
there were large ponds, a chapel and a small bastion,--monuments left
behind by the ancestors of the chief of squadron.
But all these ancient beauties were falling to ruin; the revenue of one
poor village was not sufficient to maintain so much splendor. The
monotonous life of the old man brought out all his peculiarities. It
may have been that he had naturally an ill temper; it may have been
that the sorrows of his long life or the sufferings of his long illness
had rendered him extremely irritable; but in his old age he had become
unusually violent and passionate.
His only son, who was about thirty years old, and a young relative of
his wife, who assisted in taking care of him, could not leave him for a
moment, and were condemned to a continual punishment by the constant
whims and endless persecutions of this despotic old man. But in spite
of his physical weakness, the chief of squadron retained such
remarkable activity and vigour of mind that he still exercised the
entire control of his affairs. He treated his son as a child of twelve
years old, his ward as a servant, and held his servants in the harshest
manner to the strictest performance of their duty. The keys of all the
granaries, the cellars, and cupboards were brought to him every day
after the distribution of necessary provisions, and were carefully
placed by him under his pillow. When he ordered corporal punishment to
be administered to his servants, he never prescribed less than fifty
lashes; the oldest received a hundred in compliment to their age. Every
one in the house trembled before him, and obeyed his slightest breath;
and each one was obliged to be ready to account for the smallest trifle
whenever he took it into his head to inquire about it.
Thus the blind old man, irritated by the gloom of his life, and by its
inaction, which was even more difficult for him to bear, endeavoured to
distract his mind by ruling his house and family as strictly as
possible and torturing every one by whom he was surrounded. Every one
who came near him was compelled to serve him; no one had the right to
live for himself. A skilfully organized system of constant watching
produced continual quarrels and anxieties, which had become the chronic
condition of this unfortunate household, where neither confidence, joy,
nor liberty existed.
Even the old man's son, Jan Druzyna, who was kept constantly beside the
sick bed, was losing all joy, hope, and love of life.
Nevertheless the old chief of squadron, so ill-natured and so harsh in
his manners toward his own family, was to strangers particularly
affable, kindly, and good-natured. He adopted one line of conduct for
outsiders and quite another for the bosom of his family. He gave hearty
welcome to the guests who sometimes visited him, was obliging to his
neighbours, and compassionate to the poor. He spoke kindly to every
one, smiled, often joked, and even rendered small services;
consequently those who did not know him, and only saw him at such
times, could scarcely believe the tales which were told of the old
soldier's cross and tyrannical conduct. It is certain that the
sufferings of disease, the long weary hours of blindness, the misery of
sleepless nights, had all contributed to sour his disposition; but his
heart had remained kind and sympathetic, though he had resolved to
disguise the fact from others by such constant and unusual severity of
manner. Moreover, the exaggerated ideas which he had conceived of
military discipline, and of holding a firm hand upon the reins of
domestic administration, had confirmed him in the practice of this
fussy and incessant despotism.
The young heir of the little domain and poor Marie, the far-off cousin,
both nailed to the side of his bed or his easy-chair, passed days
filled with bitter repinings. Their mutual attachment was their only
comfort. The old man had in some way or other discovered the affection
they bore each other,--these two young creatures so cruelly tried; he
had even by persuasion and cunning induced them to confess it to him,
but having done so, he at once forbade them under the severest
penalties, even under penalty of his curse, ever to think of marrying.
He, however, continued to keep them about him in the solitude of his
home, not seeing the necessity of separating them, for he thought his
word was all-powerful, and that no one would have the audacity to
resist his commands. The young people consequently were forced to keep
strict guard over themselves, and went on with their wearisome task
with sorrow and tears, carefully concealing in the old man's presence
their firm and constant affection.
Some one was obliged to watch beside the old chief of squadron night
and day, for he would have some one always by him, and generally
preferred his son Jan or his ward Marie; and he rarely quitted his
bed except to stretch his swollen limbs on the cushions of his big
easy-chair, which was rolled around his chamber. He slept badly and
with frequent interruptions. Usually he dozed until about ten o'clock,
woke up about midnight, and slept again at daylight after he had taken
his coffee; then until dinner-time he attended to his business, calling
his son, his ward, and his servants by turns to his bedside. He would
shut his eyes again for a moment after the midday meal, then rouse up
again to worry, command, and torment his servants and entire family all
the rest of the day till evening. The old officer took much less
precaution in regard to his health than he ought to have done,
considering his numerous infirmities; he drank brandy several times a
day, ate tremendously, and paid no attention to the advice of the
doctor, who constantly recommended temperance.
Beside his easy-chair or bed were discussed the most important affairs
with regard to improving the lands and the most minute details of the
household economy. He consulted, contradicted, judged, and finally
condemned. The old man divined everything, and remembered so perfectly
everything that was said to him that nothing could be kept concealed
from him, although he was blind and helpless.
In former times, when he had good health, he was one of the best
friends and most frequent visitors of the lord of Popielnia. Iermola at
that time had seen him in private; and since then the old officer, out
of respect for the memory of his friend, had sometimes assisted him. To
his _dwor_, therefore, Iermola now directed his steps, relying upon the
old officer's excellent judgment and the kindly interest which he had
always manifested for him.
All the inhabitants of the _dwor_ rejoiced at the unexpected visit,
hoping it would have the effect of amusing the old officer, and so gain
some respite for his slaves, or at least it would cheer him for the
time, and force him to assume the affable and lively manner which he
always had in reserve, not for his own family, but for his guests.
In fact, when Druzyna was informed that Iermola wished to see him, he
began at once to abuse everybody, ordering them to bring him in
immediately, and also to bring some brandy and a good breakfast,--in a
word, he found means to scold and torment half his household in a
sudden overflow of friendly welcome for his guest. Then hearing a timid
little cough coming from the doorway, he greeted the new-comer in a
pleasant and good-humoured voice,--
"How do you do, old man? What is the news from Popielnia?"
"Nothing, most gracious lord,--nothing but hunger and poverty."
"And you,--what have you been doing? Has anything new happened at your
house?"
"Indeed, certainly," replied the old man, sighing; "something very new.
Has my lord heard nothing about it?"
"Why how in the devil could I know anything?" cried the old officer.
"You see how I am, shut up here with ghosts like Lazarus; and as for
these people here, they take special pains not to tell me anything
which could interest or distract me,--they prefer to be silent or else
sigh and complain. But what has happened?"
"Oh, the strangest thing that I believe has ever been heard of within a
hundred miles of us."
"But what is it? Do not weary me, my brother."
"Well, it is this; the good God has sent me a child."
"What, the devil! have you been fool enough to get married?"
"No, no, gracious lord."
"Well, how then!" repeated the chief of squadron, contracting the gray
brows upon his wrinkled forehead.
"My lord does not comprehend at all?"
"No; the devil! I do not comprehend at all; I am waiting for you to
explain yourself more clearly."
"Some time ago--it was in the month of April--some one came and left a
baby near my cabin."
"How? What? When?" exclaimed the chief of squadron, moving about
anxiously.
"It was in the month of April."
"Come, go on; tell me quickly how it all happened."
Iermola then related every detail of the story concerning the baby, the
goat, all his hopes and anxieties; the difficulties he had encountered
in earning enough money, in learning to read, and the necessity which
was now upon him to undertake some trade. The old officer listened
attentively; and what was still more strange, his son Jan, who had
started toward the door as the old man entered, glad of an opportunity
to get some fresh air, was so interested in what Iermola was telling
that he stood motionless in the doorway to hear the end.
"Truly, this is a strange thing!" cried the chief of squadron when the
story was finished. "Unnatural parents abandon their child on the
threshold of a poor cabin, and the Lord sends the orphan a father a
hundred times better than the one Nature had bestowed. But my old
friend, the blessing from Heaven comes to you rather late, it seems to
me. Since the world began, no one ever heard of a man of your age
taking it into his head to learn a trade and undertaking such rash
business projects. How old are you?"
Iermola knew perfectly well that he had lived sixty good long years,
but he dared not confess it, lest the chief of squadron should
discourage him still more or laugh at him; he therefore replied without
hesitation,--
"What does that matter? As soon as the hair turns gray, one is old. But
it is weakness and poverty which make us feel our years; and God knows
the number of them."
"Pshaw! pshaw! God knows, but man knows too; I can tell you pretty well
how old you are," interrupted the chief of squadron, counting on his
fingers. "You were six or seven years old when you were taken as
shepherd boy at the _dwor_. I was not here then; but when I came to
this country forty years ago, your late master told me you had then
been living with him about seventeen years. So counting it all up, you
are now past sixty, my brother."
"That may be; but since I feel well and strong--"
"Ah, that is a great blessing!" cried the chief of squadron. "You are
not like me; I am wretched and infirm, tried sorely by God, despised by
men, and cast down to the very earth itself, which should long since
have swallowed me up."
"Gracious lord, you ought not to speak so."
"Come, come! we all know our own troubles. The ass must rub the place
that hurts."
"Well, then," said Iermola, slowly, "to go back to my story: in order
to rear my little one, I shall be obliged to work for him and for
myself. I am not very strong, and I get along slowly working in the
fields. I would like to find some other means of living,--to learn some
trade or other."
"Why, you are crazy, my friend," cried Druzyna, laughing till he
choked; "your apprenticeship would be a long one. And besides, how
would you ever learn? You have now neither arms nor eyes nor strength."
"I cannot, however, go and beg."
"Bless me! of course you would not wish to do it."
"No, I am not willing to do it, neither for the child nor for myself. I
should be ashamed to go wandering up and down the roads with a sack.
No, no! a hundred times no!"
"Very good; but how will you be able to learn a trade at your age?"
"Why, it seems to me that I should learn now more easily than when I
was young. A man is more attentive at my age; he knows the usefulness
of things, and is not so easily distracted; and then he likes to keep
his hands occupied,--it soothes him."
"Ah, my dear friend, you must be young indeed, to be able to speak in
that way. Believe me, my good man, the young man has nothing in common
with the old one. The old man has a different heart, a different body,
a different head,--is another man, in fact, and a weaker and more
unhappy one. As for you, you are fortunate indeed, if you can at your
age feel the strength and courage to work."
"Truly, it seems to me that since I have succeeded in learning to read
I could also learn a trade."
"Well, well, perhaps you can, but at least choose something easy,"
answered Druzyna, shaking his head.
"Some one advised me to learn weaving; but I should not have enough
money to buy a loom, and I should not know where to find a place to put
it. My own room is so small."
"Well, what are you thinking of doing?"
"Why, to tell you the truth, I came here to beg Procope--"
"Ah, ah! to make pots!" cried the chief of squadron. "Well, but if
yours are no better than his, you will not make a fortune."
"Perhaps if he will only show me how to begin, in the end I may do
better than he; but Procope is jealous of his knowledge and proud of
his trade; he would not be willing to teach me."
"There is a way to remedy that difficulty," said the chief of squadron.
"I will send for him and speak a few words to him. There are no secrets
which he will refuse to share with you after he has received my
orders."
Iermola shook his head sadly. "What one is forced to do, one never does
well," he said.
"Well, see if he will do it of his own accord; and if you are not
successful, I will come to your assistance."
Then after a few moments, the old man sent Iermola off much more
tranquil and comfortable, and ordered him to present himself again in
the evening and inform him of the result of his interview with Procope.
X.
WHAT A STRONG WILL CAN ACCOMPLISH.
On his way to the potter's house, which was situated on a little hill
where one could see the bright kiln surrounded by freshly moulded
pottery and shaded by an old pear-tree, Iermola gave himself up to
thought. It seemed to him that at last he had hit upon a wise and happy
idea. His wrinkled old face began to light up; he rubbed his hands and
walked on toward Procope's cabin with a firmer and lighter step.
The potter of Malyczki, after having married off his daughter, had
established himself, with a very young servant and a little apprentice,
in this cottage then vacant, where he for the greater part of his time
led the idle life of a village epicurean.
Generally he did but little work, for he relied upon the half-rusty
roubles which he had earned in his youth; he was seldom seen seated at
his wheel or busy with his kiln, but could be found frequently at the
inn, or seated at his own table before a well-supplied plate and a
brimming goblet which his servant had just brought to him.
Iermola therefore found the man he was seeking, at table, in front of a
pint of brandy and a great bowl of fresh milk thick with cream.
Procope's hair was quite gray, but he was still erect and vigorous. He
was a peasant of tall and massive figure, with broad shoulders, strong
as an oak, and had a white beard which reached to his girdle. One
glance at him was sufficient to tell that he had strength to struggle
with a bear. When he was tipsy at the inn, every one was afraid of him;
for he would shake the village boys with his long arms as though he
were shaking a pear-tree to make the pears fall off. He could put his
broad shoulders to the axle and move a loaded wagon; and with one hand
he could lift a bag of wheat as easily as any one else would a handful
of straw.
The potter wore a pair of well-tarred leather boots, large white
pantaloons, cut after the cossack fashion, and a shirt of gray cloth,
fastened at the neck by a large red button, and lower down by a broad
belt of the same colour, and was stirring his spoon in his porringer
while watching the servant, who was seated in front of him, showing her
white teeth and covering her face with her hands as she laughed. At
this moment Iermola appeared in the doorway, and saluted the
inhabitants of the potter's house in the following pious fashion,--
"Slawa Bohn! Glory to God!"
The two old men had long known each other; and besides, Procope was
generally pleasant and hospitable to every one so long as he was not
intoxicated; when he was, he was terrible. But just then he was
perfectly sober, and he immediately rose from his table. The servant
disappeared, and the two men embraced each other cordially.
"Well, what is it that the Lord God sends you to say to us?" was the
potter's first remark. "You will drink one good glass, won't you?"
"I will take one glass," said Iermola, "though it is not my custom to
drink at all."
"Ah, ah! a good drink of brandy never did anybody any harm. After that,
we will talk over your business, if you have any."
"Ah, yes! I have something very important to talk about," replied the
new-comer; "but it is a long story."
"Then begin at once."
"Wait a while, till I recover my breath."
"As long as you like."
As he spoke, the servant reappeared; she removed the bowl and spoon,
leaving the brandy on the table. The two old men began by complaining
of the weather and the high prices of provisions. Procope lamented
considerably over the inconveniences of his trade; and gradually they
conversed with frank cordiality.
"You must know," said Iermola, suddenly, not without much internal
agitation, "that I am myself the son of a potter. From time immemorial
my ancestors owned kilns and made pottery."
"Ah, indeed! really?" answered Procope, with visible astonishment.
"Yes, truly, as I have told you; but my father and mother died when I
was quite an infant, and I can barely remember the fact that they
worked in pottery. But to-day there is still in our old garden a fine
potter's kiln, which is overgrown with grass. As for my paternal
property, it has passed into other hands."
"But never in the world was there a potter found among the people of
Popielnia."
"My father was from Wolhynia, and he lived only a very short time after
coming here."
"Ah! that is a different matter," replied the potter, slowly sipping
his brandy.
"And, you see, in my old age, I have taken it into my head to take up
my old trade again," stammered Iermola, blushing and looking down.
Procope stared at him, then began rubbing his head and speaking in
broken sentences.
"You want to take the bread out of my mouth, you wicked old man," he
muttered in a menacing tone.
"Only listen to me," continued Iermola, much agitated; "instead of
injuring your trade, perhaps it may be that I can help you to gain
something. Do not be frightened without reason."
"All right, let me hear; tell me."
"You have no son; your daughter is married; and you have laid by a nice
little pile of money. It seems to me that it is high time for you to
take some rest. The clay you find about here is good for nothing. You
are obliged to go a long distance to sell your pottery, for no one will
buy it here; the quality is too poor."
"Come, come! look out; mind what you are saying," growled the angry
potter, striking the table with his fist.
"Do not be angry, Procope; remember that I can do nothing without your
assistance."
"You want to rob me."
"Not at all; you will see that my plan will bring you quite a neat
little income."
"All right, let me hear it, then; and the devil take you!"
"Well, it is this: if you would only just help me a little at first, I
am sure I could succeed; it seems to me that it runs in the blood to do
it. Let us build, in partnership, a kiln at Popielnia. We will both
attend to the firing of the pottery; and as a compensation for your
trouble, half of my profits shall belong to you as long as you live,
and you need do nothing all day long but lie down with your feet in the
sun and your head in the shade."
At this Procope shook his head gravely.
"That would not be a bad thing; but who will go security for you?"
"Your lord."
"The old officer, the wicked old scoundrel?" cried Procope.
"Yes, he himself; he has seen and pitied the trying situation in which
I am placed in my old age, and has advised me to do this to remedy it."
Procope was confounded, and for a moment made no reply. He looked
puzzled, and pulled his beard.
"Is it really the chief of squadron who advises you to do this? What
does he know about the business? You all seem to think that it is as
easy to turn pots as to plough a furrow, and that one can light a kiln
as easily as he can make soup. Now, I have worked at making pottery all
my life, and still I do not always succeed."
"Because you do not take the trouble to do it. You have money enough,
food, and a cottage; why should you worry yourself when there is no
need of it?"
"That is true enough; but do you really believe, my old friend, that
you can learn easily? Mind, I tell you that this thing needs a young
head."
"Only try me; your lord will be pleased if you will."
"The devil take him with his lord!" muttered Procope. "Do you suppose
the lord cares for the needs of one man?"
"But suppose we should find at Popielnia some good clay for making
white pottery? You only make dark things which are ugly and good for
nothing."
At these words, Procope rose up in a perfect rage, his fists clinched
and his eyes bloodshot.
"They are good for nothing?" he cried in a voice like thunder. "Just
wait till I get hold of you, old scoundrel, and you will see that your
lord himself will not be able to help you."
"And will you be any better off after you have killed an orphan child
and a poor old man?" answered Iermola, humbly, looking down.
His gentleness and submission disarmed the old potter; and he began to
smile.
"What orphan are you talking about?" said he.
"Ah! so you know nothing about it all?"
"Nothing at all; I have been travelling for a long time. Tell me about
the orphan."
Then the old man, quite satisfied with having appeased the terrible
potter, who, though violent and passionate, was really good-hearted,
set to work to narrate his adventure, without omitting the least
incident or smallest detail, as peasants always do when they tell a
story; and fortunately he succeeded in telling it in such a way as to
interest and touch Procope. The old potter called his servant that she
might hear it also; and thanks to Iermola's touching recital, a whole
hour passed without their knowledge. True feeling called forth true
feeling; and pity arose in their hearts.
Procope continued to swear and grumble, now, however, no longer at his
visitor, but at those unworthy, miserable, wretched creatures who had
been so hard-hearted as to abandon a poor child to all the chances of
fate and the miseries of an orphan's life. Iermola's situation
consequently interested him and excited his pity; perhaps also the
remembrance of the dreaded lord, so well known to all his serfs,
contributed to increase this favourable impression. To make a long
story short, when the little company rose from the table, after having
talked for several hours, the potter promised Iermola to come to
Popielnia the next day to see the child and look for clay.
Having obtained this promise, which was sealed in a good bumper of
brandy, Iermola returned to the _dwor_ to inform his protector of the
fortunate result of his day's visit; then hastening through the woods
by an unfrequented path, he reached Popielnia, anxious about his little
charge and fearful lest Horpyna had hindered him from sleeping by too
much petting, or made him sick by stuffing him with sweets.
Tired and dusty, his lips parched, his brow damp with perspiration,
full of anxiety concerning the next day's interview with Procope, and
trembling lest he had entertained vain hopes and lost precious time,
Iermola at last reached the widow's cabin. He immediately seized his
dear little Radionek and devoured him with kisses as though he had not
seen him for a year; then not desiring to confess to his neighbour the
proceedings of the day, he hastened to return to his own cabin.