the baby to Horpyna, for it would have been impossible to hold him in
his arms as he wandered about the vicinity with Procope; then he busied
himself sweeping and arranging his cabin, putting out a flask of
brandy, and roasting in his oven a good-sized piece of meat for
Procope's dinner, knowing he would not be content with a little, for he
was accustomed to living very abundantly.
The potter of Malyczki kept his promise faithfully; about eight o'clock
in the morning his little one-horse carriage stopped before the old
inn. They put up the mare as well as possible in a half-fallen angle of
the wall, and then, as Procope, after having taken two or three drinks
of brandy, asked to go first to see the baby, they immediately repaired
to the widow's cabin. They were probably expected, judging from the
sumptuous reception which was offered them.
The old woman, anxious to second Iermola's efforts, and urged on by her
vanity to appear liberal and magnificent in the presence of her guest,
had prepared an excellent soup of oatmeal and gruel, a large dish of
sausages,--the favourite meat of the inhabitants of Popielnia,--and
also a large and appetizing omelet, which greatly added to the luxury
of the reception, and at the same time gave the potter a great idea of
the widow's opulence.
Consequently the old artisan, overflowing with good-humour, thought the
baby pretty, interesting, and good; it is true that Iermola expatiated
upon all his virtues and precocious characteristics.
At last, a little later, as the poor foster-father was burning with
impatience, the two men left the cabin to go off on their search for
potter's clay, though Procope separated himself with evident regret
from the dishes and bottles, and would gladly have deferred the
expedition to another time.
Iermola sent up fervent prayers to God from the very bottom of his
heart, imploring Him to point out to him some good clay; for to tell
the truth, he had not the least idea where to go to look for any, and
had scarcely any hope of finding it. He, however, comforted himself by
saying that Providence often accomplished more than men dared hope for.
Having always heard that oak-trees grow best in clay soil, and knowing
that the peasants went to look at the foot of the trees around his
garden, in the very place where the baby had been put, for the clay
which they used to repair their cabins, he resolved, guided by some
vague instinct, to go first to that spot.
The two men took from Iermola's cabin a large strong spade, and went
together down the little slope which led to the bottom of the garden.
Procope, in order to appear important, walked slowly, with both hands
stuck through his belt.
"Why, there is nothing here but pure sand," said the old potter at
first. "The clay, if there is any, must be underneath it; and who knows
if it is good for anything? It seems to me we had better look somewhere
else."
They went on a few steps farther, and when they came to the big oak,
which Iermola had christened Radionek's tree, the old man took a notion
to dig in that place.
Procope, who, naturally listless, disliked exertion, seated himself
quietly on the ground; and Iermola, spitting upon his hands, went
bravely to work. The first spadefuls of earth he threw up were
absolutely worthless; it was only white sand, then gray sand, then
yellow sand, then gravel. Suddenly the spade encountered something
heavier, more compact, and offering greater resistance; and digging
down, Iermola found some clay. But this clay would not do: it was
yellow and full of small pebbles; it was thoroughly mixed with sand and
gravel.
Iermola offered a sample of it to Procope on the spade, but he
contented himself with giving it a scornful glance and shrugging his
shoulders.
"Dig deeper; dig somewhere else," he growled, red and breathless from
the effect of his recent good cheer; "and--see here, give me your
pipe."
Iermola at that moment would have given not only his pipe, but even his
last shirt, to conciliate the good graces of the old potter; so quickly
taking his clay pipe, which was already lighted, from his lips, he
handed it to his companion, and bending down, he silently went to work
again with his spade.
At the bottom of this layer of clay another appeared, thicker and
deeper, but Procope was not satisfied with that; it was not the real
potter's clay. Underneath the third layer suddenly appeared a sort of
green earth, very curious-looking, dense and compact as stone, of a
dirty cloud-colour and filled with fawn-coloured veins. As he saw this
strange, disgusting-looking earth, Iermola felt cold in his very heart;
he threw down his last spadeful of earth with a jerk, and almost
breathless, leaned upon his spade. At that moment Procope's eye caught
sight of a few pieces of earth which rolled to his feet; his face
lighted; he stooped, took a bit of it in his fingers, mashed it and
cracked it with his teeth.
"Oh, ho!" he cried, in a transport of delight, "You surely knew about
this bed of clay. Do you know what sort of earth this is? Why, it is a
kind of potter's clay which never has been found within twenty leagues
around; there is none known of nearer than Wlodzimiez. Ah, you old
raven, old rogue! I did not know you were so designing," continued
Procope, letting fall his pipe.
Iermola was struck dumb with astonishment at these words; but he
comprehended the necessity of appearing to have acted knowingly, while
in reality the hand of Providence alone had led him.
He smiled mysteriously and shook his head.
"And is the bed deep? Dig a little farther and see," said the potter.
"When I say that there is not such clay within twenty leagues from
here, so tender and strong, and as fat to eat as butter-- Unless you go
to Wlodzimiez-- Oh, such pots as we shall bake! Such pots!"
They both then began to dig, and soon discovered a thick and abundant
bed of clay. True, they again came upon some veins of whiter earth,
mixed with gravel and sand; but these slight layers soon disappeared,
and the precious clay, thick and greenish, was there alone, rich
and inexhaustible. They carried some of it away with them in an old
cloak,--a good big lump which they wanted to try; and having drunk
several bumpers to finish up the affair, Procope remounted his carriage
and took the road to Malyczki.
Thus it was that the discovery was made at Popielnia of clay, the
existence of which had until then never been suspected. That very
evening the future potter, the first of all the potters who have
rendered the village famous, knelt down in his chamber after Procope's
departure, his eyes wet with tears of joy, and prayed fervently.
"The child will have bread!" he cried, perfectly wild with delight. "I
thank Thee, my God! Thou hast heard my prayer. The child will have
bread!"
XI.
A POTTERY AT POPIELNIA.
"The Lord God feeds and clothes his servants," says the Slavic proverb;
and the servants of God are men of kindly hearts, throughout whose
lives the guiding hand and love of God is as clearly seen as in the
destiny of the children of darkness may be traced the result of sin and
evil.
This world is so wisely regulated and so skilfully directed that all
the good done here bears good fruit by reason of natural causes; while
evil carries with it not only its punishment, but in addition the
principles and germs of evil. Often the inevitable results of these two
great causes are for a time invisible to the eyes of men; a day comes,
however, when one sees appear upon the surface what has been fermenting
in the vast depths. Often too the great results of good and evil, done
here below, are not made manifest in this world; the justice of God,
hindering us from seeing them, allows us only to have a presentiment of
them. There is one thing certain,--that wherever in this life one meets
with faith, love, and devotion, he can be sure also of finding peace of
mind and heart, superhuman strength and power.
There is in this world nothing like this for directing the will and
making it a power. Love has insight, spiritual presentiments, an innate
intelligence, an instinctive knowledge, which amount to infallibility.
Wherever love is found, and under whatever form it appears, when one
meets it, one recognizes his king. The animal, raised and animated by
love, becomes human. Maternal tenderness, devotion, and fidelity
ennoble it. There is nothing sadder in this world, nothing more
repulsive, than a life blasted by selfishness and hatred, by the
voluntary separation of one being from the duties and interests of
others.
The world is framed and bound together by this great tie of love, which
makes it one, entire and lasting; and the heart in which no love exists
is excluded from the family of God.
Love had sufficed to transform, to strengthen, to rejuvenate Iermola,
this weak and poor old man; it had come to the brink of the tomb to
give him a new life and to give him more strength than he had had in
his youth. You ask me perhaps why I have chosen a being so small and so
weak as the representative of a feeling so sublime and generous. But he
who has love in his heart is never either small or weak. As for the
rest, I shall here repeat the Latin axiom, _Natura maxime miranda in
minimis_. This truth was not made to be perceived only by the
microscopic world of learned men and naturalists; in the moral world
there are very many opportunities to apply it.
But to return to the moment when that fine potter's clay was found at
Popielnia,--a great event in the life of our old man,--everything came
to him abundantly and without trouble; everything appeared easy to him,
although neither the village people nor strangers could understand how
an old and almost decrepit man had been able to learn a trade of which
until then he had been entirely ignorant. But with man, will is
everything; and when a powerful feeling directs it, to what elevated
aim may not the two attain?
The clay was tried at Malyczki, where Procope's pottery kiln was all
ready for use; and when Procope had turned a couple of pots out of the
new clay, after marking them, he put them in among his others. As soon
as the kiln was cold, they hastened to take out the pots and examine
them, and found two which were white, pretty, light, and resonant,
quite different from those made of the Malyczki clay; the sight of them
alone threw Procope and all who were present into ecstasies of delight.
Neither of them had cracked during the firing, and when they were both
taken to Popielnia and put in the widow's cottage, every one in the
village came to see the wonderful things; and Iermola, perfectly beside
himself, hugged the two jugs and wept.
After this it was easy enough to come to an understanding with Procope
with regard to the apprenticeship to the trade, the construction of the
kiln, setting up the wheel, and other necessary implements; the most
difficult part of the business was conciliating the terrible steward
Hudny, whose permission was indispensable before digging the clay or
building the kiln in the garden. Fortunately, the steward's wife
proposed to make something by this new industry. One of the new pots
was given her to try; and after that Hudny put no more insurmountable
obstacles in the way of the manufacturers. Not being willing, however,
to depart from his long-established custom, he gave Iermola to
understand that he would be obliged to pay him cash if he expected to
obtain permission to work at his trade. So many obligations, so many
necessary expenses now overwhelmed the future potter,--who was still
unacquainted with his future trade,--that he scarcely knew how he
should be able to undertake it. Procope was not willing to give him his
time for nothing; the establishment, the tiles, the different
instruments, and the digging of the clay were all sources of expense.
The poor man's room was now too small; he had to repair, as well as he
could, another one, which was next to it. All these preparations caused
much loss of time; and the little supply of money was diminished and
exhausted with frightful rapidity.
So before the poor man could be in a condition to make anything by his
new business, he was compelled to go considerably into debt. Once he
thought of using Radionek's money, which he had put away so carefully;
but he could not make up his mind to resort to that means. He feared,
moreover, and not without reason, lest he should be annoyed by
disagreeable conjectures, and exposed perhaps to painful persecutions,
if he chanced to allow even one ducat to be seen in his hands.
Fortunately, the widow, while she scratched her ear and shook her head,
decided from time to time to open one of her sacks in order to help her
old friend, for she was sincerely attached to him as well as to
Radionek, the beautiful adopted child. Nevertheless, as the expenses
increased, she grew more and more afraid that the whole pottery
business would be a failure; and she frequently reproached herself for
having encouraged the old man to choose that trade.
Procope, whom the old chief of squadron had ordered into his presence,
telling him in plain terms that he expected Iermola's business to be
successful, had set himself bravely to work, hoping, however, secretly
to derive considerable profit for himself.
As for Mr. Steward Hudny, Iermola paid him twenty florins for
permission to dig clay and build a kiln. Then he was obliged to hire
two workmen to fit up and plaster another room. A fortnight from that
time old Iermola hauled, mixed, and prepared the clay, turned and dried
his pots, and was at last ready to fire the first pottery which had
ever been manufactured in Popielnia. Procope undertook to watch the
fire; and the first burning succeeded so well that on the whole there
were very few pots injured.
Then when all the pots had been carried in and ranged round the room,
the eyes of the two old men sparkled with delight, their handiwork
looked so good and so pretty, was so resonant, so round, and so neat,
and promised to be so good and solid. The pots stood the second firing
splendidly, and as novelties are the rage even in a village, at the
expiration of a few days they were all sold out,--not one jug or dish
was left. The profits of the sales, it is true, were not sufficient to
pay off all the debts; but the cossack's widow received a part of what
was due her, the old man kept some for himself, Procope made a feast
with the portion which came to him, the steward's wife pocketed her
share, and Iermola, justly proud, entertained brilliant hopes for the
future.
In the midst of all these worries Iermola never lost sight of little
Radionek, and always kept him in his arms as much as possible. The
child gave less trouble every day; one could almost see him grow. His
intelligence developed; and it was evident already that he would one
day be a charming frolicsome child. In his busiest moments Iermola
intrusted him to Horpyna, who was always glad to have him; but he never
allowed him to spend the night under a strange roof, for he was too
lonely without him. When the baby was away, the poor goat did not know
what to do with herself. If she stayed with the baby, she missed the
old man; if she followed Iermola, she would bleat sadly as if calling
for Radionek.
Fortunately, the first hours spent in the stupid lessons of his
apprenticeship passed so rapidly that Iermola became convinced of the
truth of the proverb, "It is not the saints who make the pots boil."
Thanks to his quick mind, he learned rapidly the first principles of
his art; but the turning and sizing of pots, the manipulation and
preparation of the clay, were far more easy to comprehend than the
manner of arranging the pottery in the kiln and managing the fire. The
care necessary to keep the fire moderate, to prevent its going out, and
to extinguish it at the proper time, so that the pots should not be
burned too much, was the greatest difficulty of all for him,--a
difficulty which could only be overcome by long habit and experience.
Procope, who was anxious to make himself very necessary to the old man,
only half revealed to him the secrets of his art, which in great
measure Iermola was therefore obliged to guess at, and only learned the
truth after long groping in the dark. His strong and tenacious will
enabled him to concentrate all the faculties of his mind on this one
object; and this was a great help to him.
By the time the winter was over, and spring once more clothed in
verdure and flooded with water the shores of the river Horyn, when the
mariners again appeared on its banks with their rafts, Iermola had
really, in every sense of the word, become a potter; his whole stock of
pottery was sold at once to the carpenters and woodcutters in the
forest. They literally grabbed for them; and the steward's wife was
seriously angry because none were left for her, and the old man was
obliged to give up even the small dishes he had kept for himself.
Meantime little Radionek grew and developed every day, and possessed
every grace and beauty which were necessary to delight a father's
heart.
He already began to call Iermola by that dear name, and this brought
the tears to the old man's eyes; the child was learning to walk alone,
and no longer needed the old goat, for he could now manage to eat a
crust of bread, and the good Jewess was only needed to amuse him.
At the end of the year a little kid was added to the family; Iermola
was not vexed at this, although he was sometimes much displeased to see
that the Jewess bestowed her attention upon her young offspring to the
neglect of his adopted son. Radionek played with his innocent,
frolicsome little brother in such a pretty, sportive fashion that the
old man, as he watched them, often held his sides for laughter, and
this furnished him excellent reasons for going and embracing his child
and being grateful to the kid.
Thus into this solitary ruin, which a year before had been dreary and
almost deserted, hope, joy, and life had entered with the foundling
child. One would scarcely have recognized Iermola, he seemed so much
younger, and was so active, contented, and clever. The portion of the
inn which he inhabited had been repaired and carefully covered, and
another room furnished next his; the garden where the kiln stood was
shut in by a small, very solid gate and by carefully trimmed hedges; it
was evident that the good man was gradually acquiring comfort and
competency. Iermola had employed a servant to help him and to take care
of the goats; he was a little orphan about ten years old named Huluk.
It was impossible for Iermola to do everything by himself; and now he
had enough to pay for the child's services.
He really needed a woman in the cabin; but the widow came often and
overlooked the household. Besides, his bread was baked, and his linen
washed and mended at her house; and it was she also who prepared most
of his dishes and undertook to make provision for the winter.
Every time that Iermola boasted to her of the results of his trade, she
reminded him of her broken pot, which had first suggested the idea to
him; and there is no telling how many times she told the story over,
and commented on the accident. Providence had also granted her what she
desired most; for her Horpyna had at last made a very brilliant
marriage.
The young secretary who had for so long been attentive to Horpyna and
made her frequent visits, after much hesitation, reflection, and a
great struggle with his feelings, had concluded to listen only to the
voice of his heart and asked her mother's consent to their marriage.
This was not exactly the person the widow would have chosen, though her
daughter was marrying an officer and making a brilliant match. She
would have greatly preferred that she should have married a rich
peasant, a farmer, who would probably have lived near her. But the
young man would not hear of such a plan; he was preparing himself to be
a surveyor, and was ambitious. The widow therefore was obliged to give
up her daughter, and live alone at Popielnia on the small estate which
the old lord had given her. The wedding was very elegant; and the next
day after, when the young man, impatient to be settled in his own
house, had carried off his bride, the widow, not being able to remain
all alone in her deserted cottage, where everything reminded her of her
daughter, went and spent the whole day with her friend Iermola. From
that time she rarely passed a day without going to his house, for she
could talk freely with him about her dear Horpyna, of her utter
loneliness and her sad old age; and as Radionek at such times touched
her heart and distracted her mind, she gradually became very fond of
him.
XII.
PATERNAL HAPPINESS.
We now pass over an interval of ten years before we again seek the
child and old man whom we left growing and working, and dreaming
hopefully of the future.
Everything in the neighbourhood had changed very much, and nothing more
than Radionek, whom no one would have recognized, he had grown so tall
and handsome.
The peasants, whose children, early accustomed to rough work, grow
slowly and seem with difficulty to get away from the earth, looked upon
Iermola's adopted son with astonishment, and shook their heads, saying
that he must owe all his strength, elegance, and beauty to the vigorous
blood and strong constitution which he inherited by birth. None of his
little companions in the village could be compared to him; and it was
certain that none of them had such a father as his, or had been, like
him, surrounded from the cradle by constant care and tender love.
Radionek's appearance attracted every one at once; his features were
fine and remarkably regular, his face rather too oval, his nose
straight, his mouth small and expressive, his eyes brown and full of
fire and life, and his whole countenance full of pride and happiness,
sensibility and strength. His hair was cut close above his forehead
after the Polesian fashion, thus revealing still more the nobility of
his expression by exposing his brow; his beautiful, fine long hair,
which had been allowed to grow on the back of his head, fell in golden
curls upon his shoulders. Seeing the elegance of his vigorous and
supple body, one could scarcely believe that he had been deprived of
his natural nourishment when an infant. The breadth of his shoulders
foretold a figure of unusual height and strength; the simplicity of his
education, which had early accustomed him to rough work, inconveniences
of all sorts, and the inclemency of the seasons, had gifted him with
the agility, vigour, and elasticity of a young wild animal.
The expression of Radionek's eyes betokened a bright clear mind; he had
a firm, frank glance, as though he knew nothing about the struggles and
burdens of life, or at least, if he knew of them, did not fear them.
The child, young and full of curiosity, lively and tender, animated by
pure and ardent sentiments, owed his amiable qualities and his uncommon
development to the affectionate heart and tender love of his excellent
father. Thus it is that the love of one being is shed upon all who
surround him, elevates and ennobles them, and bestows upon them
intelligence and strength,--unique and precious gifts which no other
power on earth can bring them. Radionek, who felt himself surrounded by
Iermola's care and protection, and who from his infancy had seen about
him only what was cordial and tender, was accustomed to sweet
sentiments, and had imbibed them; he loved all things,--and loving, he
was happy. All the inhabitants of the village considered him their
nursling; and with the exception of the steward Hudny, who was still at
Popielnia, though each year he made preparations to take a large farm,
there was not a single person who did not take great pleasure in
welcoming and petting the little boy.
In all their plays, in all their undertakings, the children of the
village, both girls and boys, obeyed the slightest sign from Radionek;
and although he was a little better clothed and was handsomer than any
of them, and though he knew more than they did, he never took advantage
of his superiority, or even overestimated it. He was pleasant and
affable to all, and never wounded any one. It is rare that any real
father ever watches over and teaches his child as Iermola watched over
and taught Radionek. During his earliest years, he had cared for his
body; later, when his ears and his eyes were opened, he began to awaken
his soul and to prepare him for the struggles of life.