village of Polesia, where the soil was cultivated almost entirely by
the aid of oxen; she was consequently well known, respected, and
depended upon to execute all pressing commissions, for which one was
obliged to hire Chwedko and his horse. The old man, thanks to his gray
mare, earned not less than three hundred florins a year; that is to
say, three times more than the animal was worth, by taking merchandise
to the town and hiring his wagon to the Jews. It might be said with
truth that it was Chwedko's mare who fed her master. As for the mare
herself, she ate very little. In summer she had no food but the fresh
green grass, on which she browsed along the roadsides; in winter a
little aftermath, straw from gleanings of grain, a handful of hay, very
rarely a small bag of oats, sufficed for the poor beast, which was
sober from necessity. Of medium size, old as the hills, healthy, and
inured to fatigue, with a sharp backbone and strong neck, the gray mare
possessed a bodily vigour which was only comparable to that of her
character. When moderately loaded, she would start off at her little
trotting pace, and continue the same indefatigably so long as she
caught no sight of a stick; but strike her with it once, and from that
moment no human power could force her to budge from the spot. Chwedko
consequently only carried his stick as a matter of form, and because no
villager ever left his cabin without one; but he took care never to
show it to his gray, and if when a little tipsy, he inadvertently gave
her a touch with it, he knew full well that he should be punished for
it by remaining for at least half an hour, nailed to the spot.
The mare's instinct, rendered perfect by long experience, had become
infallible; she always knew where her master was going, carried him,
guided him, avoided the ruts and muddy places, chose the best roads,
and stopped where it was necessary to stop, with a precision which was
marvellous,--for the reins, as well as the stick, well-worn, were
almost past use, and were there only as a matter of form. Chwedko
talked with his mare as if he were talking to a man, only employing at
such times a more sonorous voice, which the mare at once recognized as
being intended for her alone. He praised her, petted her, encouraged
her, and loved to talk to her so well that it had given rise to a
proverb in the village where he lived; whenever any one told the same
story frequently he would be jeered at and told, "Ah, that is Chwedko's
mare."
The gray mare, naturally very grateful, knew no one but her master, and
would not allow any one else to approach her, she was so obstinate and
cross; he only could drive her or manage her. All the village people
knew her as well as they had known Iermola's goat, which was now dead;
as they knew Hudny's chestnut horse and Madam Szmula's black cow. A
true type of the peasant horse, lean, small, bony, short and thickset,
with heavy well-built legs and a full set of teeth, like all September
colts, whose teeth always indicate youth, the gray, when starting out
on an expedition, invariably limped with her left foot; but this slight
infirmity disappeared when she became animated and warmed up.
She had a large head and one eye, slightly injured, and a rough coat;
in many places the hair had come off, from a habit she had of rubbing
herself against the stable wall. Her tail and mane were very thin, and
much tangled, and to look at her one would not have given three coppers
for her; yet nevertheless more than one fat nag, well-cared-for,
well-fed, and handsome in appearance, would not have been able to
compete with her in strength and endurance. She could go the whole day
without eating, contenting herself with drinking; for the peasants and
Jews water their horses six times a day, thinking thus to supply the
place of hay, which they use so sparingly. Hunger was for her a thing
usual and to be scorned; in the evening she satisfied her empty stomach
with a little hay and a handful of oat-straw. She was not dainty; she
did not care for bedding; she would find grass to browse upon in places
so dry and barren that a goose even would not pasture there; she only
insisted that no one should offend her.
When she scented a bag of oats anywhere, she invariably succeeded in
getting at it and eating it; she did not fail to eat up the bark
strings, finding them both pleasant and profitable. Whenever a strange
horse ate his oats in her presence, she always succeeded in getting
them away from him, even if it was necessary to fight for it; and she
knew equally well how to defend herself against men and dogs, either
with her teeth or her heels. Strangers could only approach her very
cautiously, for she was always ready to salute them with a kick. This
inestimable creature had already served Chwedko at least twenty years,
and could not have been less than five years old when she was first put
in harness; still up to this time, with the exception of a slight
blowing, she had no defects.
Chwedko and Iermola, being seated in the wagon, and having lighted
their pipes, began to talk together in a friendly fashion, without
paying the slightest attention to the gray mare, who took upon herself
the entire charge of keeping the road.
"Do you remember, neighbour, the day I made you buy the goat?" said the
former, smiling. "Ah, ha! that was a good bargain. Szmula has never yet
forgiven me for it."
"May God reward you, Chwedko! it was an excellent bargain. The goat is
now dead, it is true; but she brought up the child for me."
"Yes, and he is a very pretty boy now; God bless him!"
"I should say he is pretty,--pink and rosy and fresh, as fresh as a
strawberry. Ah, what a good child he is, what a dear child!" added
Iermola; "it would take a year's time to tell how intelligent he is,
and how prudent and honest and amiable."
"Just like my mare, if you'll excuse me," interrupted Chwedko; "my gray
is a real treasure. Come, get up, my old woman; gee, gee, my dove, get
up! And what an idea it was for you to become a potter in your old
age!"
"Bless me! I had to make bread for the child."
"Certainly; but do you not think his parents will come for him some
day?"
"And who would dare to come and take him from me?" cried Iermola, much
agitated. "If they are coming to take him away, why should they ever
have abandoned him?"
"One never can tell about these things," said Chwedko. "Sometimes
parents abandon their children forever; but sometimes they come back
and say, 'He is ours; you must give him back to us.'"
Iermola, still more agitated, trembled at these words.
"How is he theirs?" he cried. "How? The poor little innocent, did they
not cast him away, throw him down under a hedge? And who picked him up,
reared him, rocked, petted, and fed him? He is now more mine than
theirs."
"You think so? Bless me! I know nothing about it," said Chwedko. "But I
should figure it out another way. And have you ever told the little
fellow how he happened to come to you?"
"I have kept nothing secret from him; moreover, the whole matter is
known through the village. Some one would have told the child; what was
the good of keeping it from him? I told him the whole story as soon as
he could understand me; and he assured me at once that if his parents
should now come for him, he would not leave me."
"He has a good heart."
"A heart of gold, I tell you, my little eaglet, my Radionek."
"Now tell me why you are going to town," said Chwedko, after a moment's
pause.
"Must I tell you the real truth?" answered Iermola.
"Of course; but what notion have you taken up?"
"Well, I am not going to the next town; I am going farther."
"Really? Your little boy told me that you were going to collect your
money from the Jews."
"Yes, I told him that; but I have another plan."
And here Iermola heaved a deep sigh, and then related to his companion
the story of the glazed pottery, to which Chwedko only replied by a
scornful laugh and a shrug of his shoulders.
"Ah, ah! your little fellow wants the moon. And since you are contented
with your business, why not stick to it without running after new
ideas? Sometimes, neighbour, people turn fools with trying to be too
wise. You make simple, old-fashioned pottery, and you find purchasers,
because even the poorest creature cannot do without some of them, the
most wretched must have a pot to boil his vegetable stew. But it will
be altogether a different thing with your glazed ware; you will be
obliged to go to town to sell it, for no one will buy it in the
village. The Jews will buy it from you and pay you a poor price. At the
fair one makes little; it will be quite a different thing."
"But the child wishes to do it so very much."
"You will see that this will not help you at all."
"Perhaps it may be so; but how can I do it?"
"You may try, of course, for you will not mind the time. But do you
believe that these potters will be sufficiently tempted by your money
to give you the secrets of their art?"
"But I will pay them well."
"They are not so foolish as to give a florin for a penny. Do they not
know that you want to take the bread out of their mouths? You are not
going to learn for your amusement,--that is clear."
At these words, Iermola seemed troubled and bowed his head.
"All that is very true," said he; "but when once God has helped you, He
never abandons you till the end. I hesitated very much before, when I
went to see Procope; I did not even know where to go to find clay. Yet
it was found, and everything succeeded, and now--well, something will
turn up."
Something will turn up, is the great unanswerable argument of our poor
people, to which they have recourse when all others fail,--an argument
which answers for everything and puts an end to all difficulties, for
it tacitly expresses faith in Providence and confidence in the
intervention of God.
At this moment the gray mare, being accustomed always to eat her small
ration of hay in front of the inn, situated about a third of the way
and in the midst of the wood, did not go past the well-known place, but
stopped of her own accord. Chwedko also got down here regularly to
drink a small glass of brandy and light his pipe.
He felt, however, some confusion, seeing that the gray had stopped
without his permission; he dared not, in Iermola's presence, go and
take his dram without any excuse, but he got down from the wagon and
threw a handful of hay to the mare.
"How warm it is!" said he, as he shook his pipe.
"It is indeed; the sun burns one."
"Would you like to go into the dining-room for a moment? Sometimes,
when I feel as if there was something heavy on my stomach, I take a
little dram."
"How about the heat?"
"Oh, a little brandy is refreshing."
"Very well, neighbour, let's take a drink; I will pay for it," said
Iermola, as he got down from the wagon.
The inn in question was one among others where the Jew was constantly
on the watch for the peasant, his poor dupe.
The Israelite who lived here did not hesitate to avow that he made his
living by selling brandy. There was no courtyard in front of the inn
and no stable for horses.
The house was crooked and broken-down, half in ruins and considerably
sunken in the ground; but the narrow space in front of it showed at a
glance that it was much frequented.
It was situated at a cross-road where three ways met, in the midst of
an old forest of oak and undergrowth of alder, visibly damaged by the
wheels of wagons, and offering a sight to travellers which at once
explained the history of Dubowka (this was the name of the inn hidden
among the brush-wood). All around there was nothing but remains of
straw, hay, grain, bark, bones, bits of bread, egg-shells, fragments of
broken china,--to say nothing of the different spots which showed
plainly that many of the teams which stopped in front of the inn of Iuk
remained there longer than they had intended.
Upon these remains of hay, straw, millings, and sometimes grain, the
Jew's cow and goats, accustomed to live by plunder, grew fat, for as
soon as a wagon appeared, one could be sure to see one of these animals
steal from behind the house, with the step of a wolf, and retire
quietly with the straw or hay upon which they proposed to feed. It was
useless to try to drive them away even with a stick; in fact, they ran
off whenever the door was opened, but returned again immediately with
the double persistency of hunger and gluttony.
The old labourers, being well acquainted with the habits of the place,
never left their wagons in front of the inn without leaving their wives
or children standing, whip in hand, to drive off the bold invaders. But
these impertinent creatures were so sly! if for a moment the children
would turn their heads or the mothers begin to scold, one of the goats
would jump up on his hind-feet at the back of the wagon and do much
damage. Iuk, the owner of the inn, was a little Jew of the very worst
kind; lame and quarrelsome, a fool, but a fool after the manner of
Sologne, avaricious and mean, in every sense of the words, he cheated
and stole from the peasants, without the slightest consideration or
shame, and often ended his quarrels with them by fighting with his
fists, knowing very well that he would make them repay him in money for
every bruise or blow he might receive; and whether beaten or beating,
he would always manage to get the advantage.
How he succeeded in living night and day in such endless tumult and
turmoil, in constant fuss and noise, never closing his doors, and only
lying down to sleep about daybreak on an empty bench, is something that
never will be understood.
Iuk knew every one, having studied carefully not only each individual
in his own community, but also each one of those belonging to the small
neighbouring towns. As soon as the wagons of the peasants of the
vicinity stopped before his door, he knew at the first glance whether
he must be ready to receive them with a smile, a blow of his fist, a
low bow, or a scornful expression.
"Those from Popielnia," said he, "are all great lords; they must always
have an onion or a clove of garlic to eat with their bit of bread, and
almost every one of them buys a buttered roll. Those from Malyczki are
good workmen, but better drunkards; and from Wiezbera they are all
Bohemians, all thieves."
The Jew, having seen from his window the gray head of Chwedko's mare,
recognized at once the custom which was coming to him; and as there was
at that moment no one in the inn, he came out upon the door-sill.
"Ha! ha! ha!" said he, stretching his limbs, "here is Chwedko going to
the city again. What business have you there, my good fellow, that you
go there so often? And you also, old potter? This is not market-day.
You have some engagement down there, doubtless."
"Yes, you are right; an engagement."
"Meantime, give us a glass of good brandy."
"Why do you say good?" returned Iuk, bridling up. "Do I ever have any
bad at my house? There is none at the house of Szmula, your great lord,
like mine, you well know; and he pours it out half water, at that."
"That is all true; Iuk's brandy is real good, pure gin," said Chwedko,
spitting as he spoke, for his mouth began to water.
"I tell you there is none in all the neighbourhood like it. Do me the
favor to taste it; you will see that only the nobility drink better.
Old, fragrant, clear, strong, it is more than twelve years old; I
bought it at Bebnow. It cost me dear; but I love what is good, I
do,--that is my way."
As they spoke, they entered the room, to which one had to descend as
into a cellar, for the wretched building had sunk considerably into the
ground. The ceiling almost rested on the heads of the inhabitants; and
the well-trodden dirt floor, which took the place of a plank one, had
sunk so low that the windows of the inn were, on the outside, on a
level with the ground.
The peculiar situation of this old building; the elevation of the small
place in front, where the vehicles stopped; the entire absence of
paving or any drainage,--all contributed to form before the door a deep
black-looking pond which never dried up and which one had to cross by
means of stones. The Jewish innkeeper's ducks and geese paddled here at
will; and the travellers who frequented the place, as they stooped to
pass under the low door, were obliged to cross very cautiously this
offensive Black Sea lest they should get soaked above their calves. The
Jew had never felt the necessity of remedying this inconvenience. In
times of great drought it often happened that the pond thickened up and
was transformed into a gluey and almost solid mud-hole; but the first
rain that came would dilute it again, and it would extend half over the
room. Iuk did not find this the least obstacle to the comfort of
domestic life.
In the inner room there were the Jew's wife (a fat, dirty matron with
her breast uncovered), his six children of different sizes, a servant,
a few goats, some pet chickens and geese, and only one traveller,--a
stranger, who wore a coarse woollen cap, and was asleep, sitting on a
bench with his head resting on the table. Chwedko, as he entered,
slipped upon one of the stones in the mud-hole, splashed the black
water all over himself, and swore a terrible oath which wakened the
stranger.
The latter wore a costume closely resembling that of the
towns-people,--a cloak with lappets turned back and faced, a green
belt, a large hat; and he had an iron-shod stick which he laid down
beside him, with his small bundle tied up in a handkerchief. He was
still young, apparently scarcely thirty years old, and had a tall,
robust figure, and a round red face. He seemed to know nothing of
poverty, for gay life and good cheer had left their traces on his brow
and eyes; and it was easy to see that he was tipsy, thanks to the good
old brandy of Bebnow, for he had scarcely raised his head when he
pulled up his mustache and began to sing a tavern song. At this moment
Chwedko was plunging and splashing in the mud-hole, which caused the
stranger to burst into a loud laugh and shout,--
"Help! help! The gentlemen from Popielnia are drowning!"
Iuk and his people at this also laughed; and the merry fellow, putting
his hands on his hips, began to stare impertinently at the two
new-comers.
"And how do you know that we are from Popielnia?" asked Iermola.
"Bah! it is not hard to tell that. All the people of Popielnia wear a
mark."
"What do you mean? A mark? Do they mark us like sheep with a red cross
on our backs?"
"Is it possible that you do not know," answered the stranger, "that the
tailors in your village make hoods for you different from any which are
made anywhere else in the world?"
From time immemorial, in fact, the hooded _sukmanes_ of the inhabitants
of Popielnia had been cut and made in a peculiar fashion, which fact
Chwedko and Iermola had for the moment forgotten. They also, desiring
to preserve the old custom, would never have bought or worn any hood
which was not of the exact shape worn by their ancestors.
"And you,--where do you come from?" asked Chwedko of the young man.
"From a country which is beyond the seventh sea of the seventh river,
and the seventh mountain," answered the merry joker.
"Ah, ah! Even in that distant country it seems, then, that they know
about the people of Popielnia; that is very complimentary to us. But
without joking, my brother, tell us from what land the Lord God has led
you."
"From Mrozowica, neighbour."
Mrozowica was a large colony of freemen of the lower class, who paid
taxes to the Government instead of doing service; it was just there
that the potters lived to whom Iermola wished to apply, and the old man
felt his heart beat as he heard the name pronounced.
"From Mrozowica?" he repeated eagerly. "And where are you going, if I
may ask?"
"I am going over the world as far as my legs will carry me."
"All over the world? Oh, that is very far!"
"Well, yes; but I am tired of staying forever in the same place,
sitting on the ground with my legs crossed. I have started out to look
for poverty along the road."
"Why seek for it?" said Chwedko. "It comes soon enough of its own
accord."
"Let it come. I do not fear it; we will quarrel together," answered the
merry stranger.
"Do you happen to be a tailor?" asked Iermola, timidly. "You noticed
the shape of our hoods so quickly."
"Why not? Why shouldn't I be a tailor?" answered the fellow, putting
his hands on his hips. "Rather ask me what I have not been. I have been
a farmer; I have been a blacksmith; I have been a carpenter; I have
been a tailor; I have been a dyer, a musician, and a shoemaker. Ta, ta!
All those are miserable trades, starving occupations. Now I am no
longer so silly; I am going to be a lord."
"That is your idea, is it? Upon my word, you have not made a bad
choice," said Chwedko, bursting into a laugh. "Not a bad thought, my
brother. I salute you, my lord." And taking off his hat, he bowed down
to the ground.
"But it seems to me," said Iermola, "that since you have so soon grown
weary of all your different occupations, perhaps you will quickly tire
of being a lord."
"Oh, well, then I will turn beggar; it is a fine trade, and I had as
soon be one thing as another," answered the fellow as he sang,--
"'My stick, it is my friend;
My wallet is my wife.'"
"Upon my word, this is a merry, pleasant fellow; and we have met him
just at the right moment," muttered Iermola. "While the gray is eating
her hay, and Chwedko is finishing his onion and his glass of brandy, I
can easily learn something about the potters in Mrozowica.--See here,
brother," said he, drawing nearer the stranger, "won't you take a glass
of brandy?"
"If you will pay for it, why shouldn't I? A Bohemian will hang himself
for the sake of company."
"Iuk, give us a good drink of your best Bebnow brandy."
"Give it to us, Iuk, you pagan dog, do you hear?" said the young fellow
from Mrozowica.
"You see," said Iermola, drawing nearer, "I am just going to Mrozowica
to--"
"Well, take care to take two sticks with you, and sew up your pockets;
for they are all thieves and rascals there."
"Ah, you must be joking."
"It is true; ask any one who has ever been there. There is not one
honest man there."
"But how about the potters?"
"Bah! they are the worst of all."
"Dear me! I am greatly disappointed."
"Why?"
"Ah! there are a great many reasons which you would not care to hear."
"I really would not advise you to go there," continued the young man.
"If you want a cracked pot, you will be sure to find it there."
"But you see that is not what I want."
"What is it you do want, then?"
"I want-I want--" said Iermola, scratching his head.
At this moment Chwedko, who had fortified himself with a good drink of
brandy, and who had resolved to serve as interpreter, interrupted the
conversation without ceremony.
A sober man always finds it extremely difficult to talk with a man who
has been drinking; but nothing is easier than for a tipsy man to come
to an understanding with another who is also half intoxicated.
"He wants--you see," murmured Chwedko, in the young fellow's
ear--"this Iermola here--is a sort of potter. But he knows nothing--not
at all--about glazed pottery; and he would like to learn how to glaze, you
see."
"Ta, ta! And why does he go to Mrozowica to learn that?"
"Bless me! where should he go?"
"Why, I can teach him myself. How much will he pay me to do it?"
Iermola and Chwedko, filled with astonishment, stared at each other in
silence.
"You are joking, aren't you? Are you a potter yourself?"
"I am the son of a potter, and I worked six years in glazed pottery.
But it is a foolish trade; I am tired of it," answered the man from
Mrozowica. "Daub yourself with the glazing, black yourself up with the
mixtures, roast yourself in the fire,--that is all the pleasure to be
found in it. I spit upon it and left; but that does not prevent my
having worked a long time with Father Martin, or hinder me from knowing
all about glazing, no matter what colour you wish to use. And my
pottery was always bright and polished like glass."
"Really?"
"Bless my heart! if you wish it, I will prove it to you."
"How much will you charge me?" said Iermola, with a bright smile.
"How much will you give me?"
Iuk, comprehending that some sort of bargaining was going on in his
presence without his being able to know just what it was about,
hastened to join the group, planting his snout between the two faces,
and fearing lest an opportunity to sell something should slip from
under his nose.
"What are you bargaining over there?" he muttered.
"A cat in a sack," answered the fellow from Mrozowica.
"Come, come! why do you joke so?" replied the innkeeper. "What is there
for sale? I will buy it."
"They are haggling over the price of glazing pitchers," answered
Chwedko.
The Jew, not being able to comprehend, shrugged his shoulders and
withdrew a few steps, keeping a watch from his seat by the stove over
the traders, who would be obliged to come to him for the drink which
would clinch the bargain.
After having haggled sufficiently, they ended the matter by the payment
of five roubles. They shook hands, drank a bumper of Bebnow brandy, and
Iermola, accompanied by the man from Mrozowica, prepared to return to
the village.