somewhat confused; "the rain would certainly catch me on the road."
Iermola and Siepak (that was the name of the newcomer) seated
themselves beside Chwedko on the wagon-box, and they returned together
to Popielnia, to the great despair of Iuk, who was not able to succeed
in getting at the matter, and who vaguely scented under it all a sum of
money which was beyond his reach.
Thus it was that the art of glazing pottery was introduced into
Popielnia; and Iermola thanked God for it as though a miracle had been
wrought.
XIV.
IMPROVEMENT AND DECEPTION.
It was about noon--for they had not hastened on the way and had stopped
a long time at the inn--when our travellers, having persuaded the gray
to beat a retreat, disappeared from the village and stopped with Siepak
before the entrance of the old inn.
In front of the door sat Radionek, rapidly turning an enormous
porringer, and Huluk, as he helped him, was talking with him in gay
tones.
As soon as he saw his father, Radionek, both surprised and alarmed,
sprang forward to assist him to descend.
"So here you are, father. Did anything happen on the way, that you have
come back so soon?"
"Nothing, nothing at all, my child; only I met this honest fellow, who
has worked a long time with the potters in Mrozowica, and he has
offered to teach me to glaze pottery."
Radionek, overcome with joy, jumped up and cried, "Is it really true?
Can it be possible?"
"Why, yes, I know how to glaze as truly as I stand here," cried the
merry Siepak; "and I shall be very glad indeed to play a good trick
upon my neighbours in Mrozowica, for I never shall forget the rascality
of those lazy fellows.
"'I'm not your brother; you're not my father.'"
Thus sang Siepak, with his hands on his hips, standing on top of the
wagon. Then jumping lightly to the ground, he began to examine with the
air of a connoisseur all the implements used in the manufacture of the
pottery; but it was easy to recognize in him one of those boastful
loungers, those village blusterers, who regard everything from the
height of their own grandeur, and make little of everything done by
others. The working implements which composed the stock of the poor
potter seemed very poor to him; as he looked over them, he shrugged his
shoulders so scornfully and seemed so amused that Iermola and Radionek
felt sad and confused.
Siepak manifested equal scorn in regard to their wares; he treated them
unceremoniously as so much trash and rubbish, threw them about, cracked
some of them, and stretching himself on the bench, began to boast
loudly of what he knew and what he could do, over and above what others
knew and what others could do.
This conduct was not pleasing to Iermola, who understood men; but he
endured Siepak's ridiculous bragging in silence, hoping at least to be
able to gain something from his teachings, though seeing him behave in
such a manner caused him to lose confidence in him.
Meanwhile the man from Mrozowica ordered them to fry him a bit of bacon
and give him a pint of brandy; then he lay down in the sun for a nap,
and toward evening he repaired to the inn.
The next day Iermola was to go to the town to buy some litharge,
colours, and other ingredients necessary for glazing the pottery; while
Radionek, under the direction of Siepak, who was always joking and
singing, should get ready the vessels which were to hold the mixtures
to be used in glazing.
When finally the preparation of the glazings began, Siepak showed
himself skilful and adept beyond all expectation, so much so that his
companions were more astonished than they had at first been at his
swaggering; but he had scarcely worked half an hour in the cabin, when
he could contain himself no longer, and ran off to the inn, where he
flattered the musicians, collected half the villagers, and ordering a
pailful of brandy to be placed in the midst of the assembly, he led the
carousal and dance until about midnight.
That night late, two of Siepak's comrades, as drunk as he, brought him
back, staggering, screaming, and singing, and laid him down on the
ground before Iermola's door; Huluk and Radionek regarded him with
astonishment mingled with deep pity.
Some time passed before any positive proof of the work could be
attained; but during that time Iermola's adopted son, gifted with a
mind as quick as it was retentive, had profited so well by the lessons
of the cunning young journeyman, and having seen some of the
manipulation, had so well divined the rest, that the work of preparing
the pottery was no longer unknown to him. He was equal to the
emergency; it was sufficient to give him a few suggestions, to put him
in the way, to explain some of the processes, and the child's ingenious
mind and practical sense supplied what his instructor wanted. Iermola
was extremely anxious to get rid of the Mrozowica man's presence as
soon as possible, for he feared the effect of it upon Radionek; but in
fact, it seemed that the light-headed Siepak was chosen expressly for
the purpose of disgusting the child with a life of the frightful
emptiness and wretched pleasures of which he had a daily proof. Siepak,
it must be said, was an example of a curious moral type,--a type
frequently met with among the lower classes, in all its strange
ingenuousness; intelligent, adroit, active, and variously gifted, he
got but little good out of either pleasure or labour, soon wearying of
the one, and never being satisfied with the other.
Sometimes, exhausted by his dissipations, he would lie all day long
upon his back in the hay, half tipsy, singing with all his might, or
else uttering heart-rending sighs as though he were about to die. Then
he would go to work with earnestness for an hour, and his hand, which
at first would tremble and refuse to serve him, would in a few moments
acquire astonishing skill and dexterity; but he would scarcely begin to
do well, when he would get tired and give it all up, call in the first
passer-by, talk and joke with him, and most frequently end by going off
to the inn, where behind the table he spent most of his time.
After some attempts which were not altogether unsuccessful, Radionek,
under his direction, had begun to use the glazing on his pottery
without much difficulty, when Siepak, who was already tired of his
sojourn in Popielnia, of Szmula, of the old inn and the quiet which
reigned in the village, finding no companions whose tastes suited his
own, demanded of the old potter the remainder of the sum which would be
due him, and furnished with this, set himself up at Szmula's house,
where for three days he kept up a ceaseless orgy accompanied by silly
music.
The fourth day, taking his valise on his shoulder and his travelling
stick in his hand, Siepak started off and disappeared, without bidding
any one good-by,--to the great regret of the Jew innkeeper and a few
dissipated companions who had every evening passed some pleasant hours
at his expense. From that moment he was never again seen in Popielnia.
Then the old peacefulness, which had been for a while disturbed,
returned to the modest dwelling. Radionek went to work earnestly, and
at first wanted to glaze all the pottery; but the old man restrained
him by wise observations.
"Remember," said he, "that the manufacturing of them is not all; we
must sell them in order to succeed. We cannot tell how our new wares
will be received in the market. If no one wishes to buy our glazed
pitchers and dishes; if we get badly paid for them,--we should have
done better with our common pottery, which sells perfectly well. God
only knows whether we shall succeed in selling our finest plates and
dishes; and if we make no more dark dishes and coarse pots, the people
will get in the habit of going somewhere else to get them."
Iermola succeeded in persuading the child, who resigned himself to
glazing only half the burning. Up to that time their trade had been
very good. The old man feared lest this change of affairs should injure
it, but Radionek wanted to do something new, and did not count the
cost; his father's fears seemed to him silly and groundless. With the
lower classes, nothing is accepted and adopted at once. It is necessary
to proceed slowly and carefully in order to introduce any new custom;
for, obedient to their conservative instinct, our peasants hold with a
firm grasp to the habits and even the prejudices bequeathed them by
their ancestors.
This is what happened after the burning, which was half of common
pottery and half glazed ware, was fired. The day of the great _pardon_
arrived, and also the week of the town fair. The stock of pots and
plates and dishes was all completed. Chwedko's mare was hired for the
day; the wagon was carefully packed; and the old man and the child,
leaving Popielnia at midnight, reached the little town about daybreak.
They were accustomed to display their wares always on the same spot,
under the pent-house of the largest Jewish inn on the square, where all
the people attending the fair, accustomed to see them there, could come
and find them with their eyes shut. From morning till night the crowd
used to gather round them; and generally the sale was enormous. Our
potters made haste to unpack their wares as soon as they reached their
favourite corner, and separated the common pottery from the glazed.
Radionek, as he waited for customers, palpitated with hope; Iermola
trembled with fear. When day broke, the crowd began to assemble, and at
once pressed around the goods exposed for sale.
But it was in vain that the two merchants offered to purchasers their
most successful dishes, their best glazed and newest-shaped pitchers,
at very moderate prices. Most of the housekeepers gravely shook their
heads without saying anything; others frankly declared that they
preferred to supply themselves from the potters in Mrozowica.
In fact, custom prevailed, and neither the beauty of the wares nor the
cheapness of the prices could induce any one to buy; in vain Iermola
and Radionek sounded their praises and boasted of their good quality.
The customers listened with a mocking and incredulous air, and went off
to supply themselves from the merchants long known. Radionek wept in
silence; and the old man tried to console him by representing to him
that it must be so at first, and that they must resign themselves to be
patient and learn to wait.
Toward evening they sold part of the glazed ware to some strangers; and
there was no common pottery left in Iermola's collection.
But as for the other vessels, many were left on hand; and a Jew in the
little town bought them all at half price because the old man did not
want to take them home.
When Iermola and Radionek had counted up their expenses, they found
that they had lost. The child was very sad as they went along; but the
old man comforted him as well as he could, thus endeavouring to prepare
him for the future great disappointments of life, which, though bitter,
should not destroy either a man's hope or his courage.
XV.
THE OTHER FATHER.
We have carefully described the life of these simple poor people, and
the most important events which had happened to them,--the changes in
their employments, the acquisition of new acquaintances, the least
increase of their comfort. Their days passed in perfect uniformity and
an equally profound peacefulness; Radionek at least conceived of no
existence happier than this which had fallen to his lot. His father
loved him and as far as he possibly could gratified his wishes; he
succeeded in his undertakings; he had something to occupy him,
something to amuse him; and the distant and unknown future seemed
smiling and peaceful.
Sometimes, it is true, the child sat dreamily on the door-sill of the
cabin with his eyes fixed on the waters of the river Horyn, on the
woods and fields, paying by a moment of inexpressible sadness his debt
to the vague and infinite desires and aspirations which arise in the
heart of man through the whole course of his life. Then would recur to
his mind the remembrance of things his father had told him,--the
strange manner of his being found under the oak-tree, his mysterious
origin, and the singular and incomprehensible fate which had cast him
into the old man's arms. Radionek could not comprehend why he had been
forgotten and abandoned; something told him that he would be remembered
some day. Sometimes it seemed to him in the silence that he heard the
sound of wheels and horses coming to announce the arrival of guests
whom he was expecting,--strange, terrible, unknown guests.
In his imagination he often pictured to himself under various forms
those parents whom he had never known; but whenever he thought of the
grief that his departure would be to Iermola, the bitterness of the
separation from him, his constant solitude, he burst into tears and
resolved never to leave him. In him as in all other young and ardent
beings awoke the desire to see new things, to do something different
from the old life; but he felt in the bottom of his heart that whatever
he might gain by a change of position, he would surely lose some
portion of his real happiness. Where could he be better off? Where
happier or freer? He worked only as much as he wished to do, varying
his occupations; and the old man rarely had anything to say. It is true
that Iermola had reared the boy from the first in such a manner as to
be able to control him by encouragement and reason; and he had no need
of threats. The old man had made himself a child so as to understand
Radionek; the child had endeavoured to attain the maturity of the old
man. They shared time and years as they shared all the other things of
life.
The days and months were passing in this perfect peace, which at any
moment a sudden change might disturb, when one evening Chwedko,
returning from Malyczki, passed by the old inn, because the little
bridge had been carried away on the other road, and wishing to light
his pipe, went into Iermola's house. The gray, who was not at all
anxious thus to extend her circuit, had made, it is true, some signs of
stopping; but feeling that the stable was not far off, she had allowed
herself to be persuaded.
The old potter and the child were seated on the threshold,--the former
smoking his pipe, and the latter talking aloud of his hopes for the
future,--when Chwedko stopped in front of them with his wagon, and
greeted them in his usual fashion, saying,--
"Glory to God!"
"World without end! Where do you come from?"
"From Malyczki."
"Did you go there alone?"
"I carried Mikita the potatoes I had sold him."
"What is the news down there?"
"Oh, there is some news; there is a great deal of news," answered
Chwedko, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree. "The old chief
of squadron is dead."
"The old man is dead!" replied Iermola. "Peace to his soul! he has
suffered a long time."
"And he knew pretty well how to make others suffer."
"So he is really dead!" repeated Iermola. "You see old men must look
out; death may call them any time. I trust he will not come for us very
soon."
"He was very sick," said Chwedko; "and I do not see how he held out so
many years. But there is a regular upturning at the _dwor_."
"And how about his son?"
"His son and his people and every one whom he has tormented so much
shed fountains of tears over him. All the people from the village are
in the courtyard; it is a pitiful scene of desolation."
"It is the destiny of us all," replied Iermola, with a sigh.
"Yes, truly," continued Chwedko; "but to tell the truth, the chief of
squadron was a perfect tyrant over his family. Sick, helpless, and
infirm as he was, to the hour of his death he never gave up his keys
nor the management of his household, never confided in either his son
or his young ward. His son has grown old in his service without
enjoying his fortune and without being able to attempt to direct his
household; he never would allow him to marry, nor would he permit him
to go away from him. He kept the young lady in equal bondage; and
though he knew they loved each other, he always forbade them to marry
under penalty of his curse."
"Ah, well, they will marry now," said Iermola.
"So you do not know about it, then? They have already been married for
a long time; no one knew it at the _dwor_ except the old housekeeper.
The parish curate married them. There were witnesses; but what good did
that do them? They could not live together, because the old father kept
them both always by his bedside night and day; he would have one or
other of them always by him. In addition to this, matters were so
arranged at the _dwor_ that the stewards and servants were obliged to
tell the master everything the young lord did, or else he would scold
and abuse them all; and he had assured his son of his curse if he ever
dared to think of such a marriage."
"The old man was a little stern, it is true," said Iermola, "but he had
his good side. And besides, he suffered a great deal,--so much that
during the long hours of the night, one might hear him crying out
almost every moment, 'Good Lord, have mercy on me and take me out of
this world!' Toward strangers his manner was gentle as a lamb. It was
he who managed so nicely to get Procope to teach me how to make
pottery; and when I went to see him, he talked with me and told me
stories of old times, and joked and laughed. But that was because he
was an old friend of my master."
The old men continued to talk a long time about the chief of squadron,
relating in turn various small events of his life, mourning and
regretting the dead man as people generally do, for each one of us on
leaving this world leaves behind a certain measure of regret and
remembrance. They were still talking when the sound of carriage-wheels
was heard at a distance on the road from Malyczki; and they could hear
that the vehicle which was coming was not the wagon of a peasant.
"That must certainly be Hudny going home," said Iermola. "Let us go
inside the cabin; it is best that he should not see us."
"Oh, no, it is not he," answered Chwedko; "it must be a stranger. From
the sound of the wheels I should say it was a covered carriage. Some
one has lost his way, surely."
Curious to know who it could be, they stood still with their eyes fixed
on that side of the plain which extended beyond the oaks and which was
crossed by a narrow pathway. Soon, sure enough, a covered carriage
appeared, a very neat and almost elegant one, which was coming at a
brisk trot toward the village. "Who can it be, I wonder," murmured
Iermola.
"Those are the chief of squadron's horses. And that is the young lord
and his wife, I am sure. But why are they coming here?"
The carriage approached rapidly; and instead of going past the old inn,
where the child and the two old men were standing gazing at it with
astonished faces, it stopped suddenly in front of them.
A man of somewhat more than thirty years, and a woman who was still
young, got out of it together and hastened up to Iermola; but before
reaching him, they stopped. Then a startled cry, sobs, and tears were
heard. The young woman rushed to Radionek; the strange man also stepped
toward the boy, who drew back frightened.
Iermola understood the whole matter at once. He turned pale, stumbled,
and was obliged to sit down, he felt so faint and overcome; for him had
sounded that fatal hour, the very thought of which he had always
dismissed from his mind with mortal terror.
"My son! my dear child!" cried the lady.
"Marie, be calm, for the love of God, and let us speak to them first!"
The child, who was gazing at his mother with his large, brilliant, and
astonished eyes, threw himself into Iermola's arms as though he wished
to call upon him to help him.
"He does not know me," cried the young woman, in a sad tone. "He does
not know me, and he cannot know me; he runs away from me and repulses
me. He cannot do otherwise. Oh, it would have been better to give up
everything, to bring down upon our heads your father's curse, rather
than abandon our child. He is ours no longer; we have lost him!" As she
said this, she wept bitterly and wrung her hands.
"Marie, be calm, I beg you!" repeated the young man.
In the midst of this scene of grief and trouble, Iermola had time to
become less agitated, and his face now wore a grave, sad expression.
"This child," said the father, in a choking and deeply agitated
voice,--"this child, whom you found twelve years ago under the
oak-trees, is our son. In order to escape the curse with which our
father threatened us, and the watchfulness of the people who would have
accused us before him if they had known of our secret marriage, we were
compelled to send him away from us, to abandon him for a time, and to
forget him. But the priest who married us, and who baptized the child,
will be our witness; the man who placed him here--"
"He may indeed have been your son," slowly answered the old man, to
whom strength had returned at this critical moment, "but now he is mine
alone; he is my child. You see he does not know his mother, that when
his father calls him he runs to me. I have reared him by the labour of
my old age, by taking the bread from my own mouth. No one shall take
him from me; Radionek will never leave me."
The mother, as she heard this, sobbed aloud. Jan Druzyna held her; but
he himself blushed, trembled, and various expressions passed over his
countenance.
"Listen, old man," he cried, "whether you will or no, you will be
obliged to give up this child, whose caresses we have longed for so
many years."
"If I should give him up to you, he would not go with you," answered
Iermola; "he does not know you. He would not abandon the old man who
has brought him up."
Radionek stood motionless, pale, and troubled. His mother held out her
hands to him; her eyes sought his; her lips sought his lips. The
mysterious power of maternal feeling roused itself to draw him to her;
and the boy's eyes filled with tears.
"Anything for your son, anything you can ask!" cried Jan Druzyna.
"And what should I take from you?" replied the old man, indignantly.
"What could you give me which would supply the place of my beloved, my
only child? I ask nothing of you,--nothing but permission to die near
him and to die in peace."
As he spoke, the old man burst into tears; his limbs shook, and he
leaned against the wall to keep from falling. Radionek held him up, and
helped him to sit down again on the door-sill; and Iermola, laying his
hand on the child's fair head, kissed him passionately. The young
mother wrung her hands in despair; her grief increased, and she became
beside herself. At last she threw herself upon her child, ardent and
strong as a lioness, and strained him in her maternal arms.
"You are mine!" she cried, choked by her tears; "you are mine!"
And already Radionek no longer sought to avoid her caresses; he had
just received his mother's first kiss,--a kiss so sweet, so
penetrating, so long awaited.
The father also tremblingly approached his child, and kissed him
through his tears.
Iermola watched them with a glance now sad and despairing, now bright
and burning with jealousy; one single moment, one single word, had been
sufficient to deprive him of his treasure.
"It was happiness enough for me," murmured the old man. "God takes it
all from me. I must give him up; fate had only lent him to me. And I
shall doubtless not live long. Sir," said he then, in a voice full of
tears and emotion, "you see it is I who now supplicate you. I am old; I
shall not live long; leave me my child until I die. I shall die soon, I
am very old; then you will drag him away from my coffin. How could I
live without him? Ah, do not leave me alone for the last days I have to
live in this world; do not punish me; do not kill me, if for no other
reason but because I have welcomed and reared your child!"
"We will take you away with the little fellow," cried Jan. "Come with
him; we are more grateful to you than any words can express."
The old man interrupted him by sobbing violently; and Radionek hastened
to run to Iermola as soon as he heard him crying. He knelt down beside
him and hid his weeping face on his lap.
"My father, my father!" he cried, "do not weep; I will never leave you.
We will not go away from your cabin; we will stay here together. I am
so happy with you, I want nothing more."