body is laid out on a bed; the priests are chanting in the great hall.
My mother kept me by her side all day and asked me all about what I did
here. She made me tell her all about our life; she clasped her hands
and cried, and every moment she thanked you and thanked God. They gave
me something to eat, petted me, and kissed me. They wanted to change my
clothes entirely, but I begged them so hard not to do it that at last
they let me alone; but they have sent for a tailor to make me some new
clothes. My father said"--that name, given by Radionek to the lord Jan
Druzyna, struck sadly on the poor man's ears--"my father said that he
should get a tutor to instruct me; and he has given me a pretty horse."
"God grant that you may always be happy there!" sighed the old man. "I
am sure they will love you; but I am also sure that you will more than
once long for our cabin and the peaceful days you spent in it."
They would thus have passed the rest of the night, talking and without
sleeping, if Iermola, fearing Radionek might be sick, had not made him
go to bed; he then sat down beside him to watch over him and see him
sleep. In the morning the anxious father came; and though he did not
scold the child, he told him in a gentle voice of the dreadful fright
his imprudence had caused his mother. This made Radionek sad; he looked
down and made no reply.
"To prevent the recurrence of such an adventure," said Druzyna, "we
will take Iermola to Malyczki; there is a vacant room in the house, and
we will care for him as he has cared for you."
"No, no!" answered the old man, shaking his head, "I will not go to
live with you; I love my child dearly, but I will not go. I am now
accustomed to being my own master; it would be hard for me to eat the
bread of dependence in my old age. I should soon repent of the change
and get tired of it. Some one or other would laugh at me, would say
something to wound me; that would cause me suffering, and trouble the
child too. Your servants have no respect for strangers; they would
think they were doing me a favour. No, a thousand times no! I will stay
here."
It was in vain that Radionek's father begged, supplicated, and
endeavoured to persuade the old man. Iermola kissed his child and
pressed him in his arms, kept him by his side, wept over him, blessed
him, and at last sat down on the door-sill as though awaiting death.
Very strange indeed are often the destinies of men and the decrees of
God. In some cases the thread of life breaks, though spun of pure gold
and shining silk; in others, neither pain nor sorrow can succeed in
breaking the black, shadowy thread which they shake with their cruel
hands. Iermola survived the separation, and could not die. He was sick;
he grew old again; he stooped, and became gloomy and taciturn; he
entered upon another phase of life; but his vital forces, which he had
not squandered, still sustained him. Fate had deprived him of
everything but seeing the child at a distance, the power of tormenting
himself, of longing, and of comforting himself with memories.
After Radionek was gone, he gave up his trade of potter, giving up all
his implements and materials to Huluk, who had learned something from
watching him work. For his part, he contented himself henceforth in his
garden and in the little home he had made for himself, spending his
days sometimes dreaming and musing in the room where he had reared his
child, sometimes in making long visits and holding long talks with his
friend, the widow.
She was the only person, in fact, who really understood him and would
listen to him patiently. The similarity of their positions had
established a real sympathy between them. He was filled with compassion
for her, because she was deprived of the presence of Horpyna, who since
she had become a great lady no longer came to see her mother; and she
mourned and longed for Radionek almost as much as he did himself.
They spent long hours talking together before the fire, recalling happy
times, and though they had a hundred times repeated the same story,
each of them knew how to listen patiently when the same chain of
remembrances fell again from their lips.
"Do you remember how pretty my Horpyna was when she dressed herself on
Sunday to go to the _cerkiew?_ You would not recognize her now, since
she has nursed her five children, she is so thin and changed, though
she eats fine white bread and leads the life of a great lady. Oh, it is
not a healthy life; the body and the soul perish together."
"And my Radionek," answered the old man, "wasn't he much prettier with
his little _sukmane_ and his shaved head, than in the fine clothes they
make him wear now?"
At first Radionek came every day to see his foster-father, sometimes
alone, sometimes with a servant, or with either his father or mother;
after a while he only came to Popielnia in a carriage on Sunday. At
last he came no longer; and the old man about once a month, when his
desire to see his child became insupportable, would drag himself along
with the aid of his stick to the places frequented by his beloved
charge, hoping to see him, if only for a moment at a distance.
At first also, Radionek would rush to the old man as soon as he saw
him; no one could stop him, so intense was his feeling and so swift his
motion.
Then when Iermola would send in his name, he would be obliged to wait a
moment; gradually he would have to wait sometimes an hour; and it
happened once that after having waited all day long at the door, he did
not see his child, and went away in tears.
They took him to the farm and gave him something to eat; but it was not
bodily nourishment which the old man needed, it was the pleasure of
seeing and having his child once more, of feasting and living in his
presence, which alone could satisfy him and restore peace and comfort
to his home.
Iermola did not complain; he knew very well that his child, his dear
child, was not to blame for this neglect and desertion; that Radionek's
parents and tutors endeavoured by every means in their power to make
him forget the existence of his adoptive father; and that the child,
whenever he could see him, would whisper to him with tears that he
would like to run away and go back to Popielnia.
XVII.
IN BONDAGE.
Iermola's pupil was soon scarcely to be recognized; the hearty village
child when dressed in the costume of the nobility, fed on choice and
delicate food, and shut up between four walls quickly began to grow
pale and dwindle away.
And although he had grown rapidly tall and slender, he was like a tall
frail plant which the least breath of wind could overturn.
His mother mourned over him; even his father became anxious. They
redoubled their care and attention to him and endeavoured to amuse him;
but the more they surrounded him with care and assiduous precautions,
the sadder and weaker the boy became. Often during his lesson hours, or
when receiving the tenderest caresses, he would seem dreamy and absent;
tears would fill his eyes, and when asked what he wanted, he would only
smile to hide his tears.
The memory of his former life, of the early years of his childhood
spent in the sweet freedom of the fields, in independent work and
careless pleasure, now weighed upon the child's heart like a mountain
of stone; the change in his existence, so violent and grievous, crushed
this frail child as a plant which is roughly transplanted. At night, in
his dreams, he saw again the hut, the happy mornings he spent turning
his pottery, the walks on the river shore and in the woods, those bold
excursions, those paths and avenues so constantly frequented in the
vicinity and in other villages, in that small world where he felt
strong, independent, active, and living his own life. At his father's
house he was bound by ties sweet, it is true, but strict and tenacious;
he had been, as it were, carried back to his infancy, surrounded by
minute recommendations and useless cares. Fears and anxiety were
entertained for him; he was not allowed to develop his powers or
exercise his will.
Deprived as he was of Nature, of the open air and the sunshine to which
he had been accustomed, he longed for all of these things as he longed
for his old Iermola. He was doubtless comfortable with his father and
mother, but he sighed for his old life, his sweet orphan life; and at
last these longings and continual struggles affected him seriously, and
he fell ill.
His parents, not understanding the child's real state of mind,
irritated the wound, instead of healing it; attributing his sad,
languid condition to the old man's influence, they endeavoured to keep
him away from Radionek, thus making a great mistake and doing a great
injustice. But the more they sought to detach the child from old
Iermola, the more he clung to him with all the strength of his
affection; indignation at the injustice which was done him, the
ingratitude which was shown him, was added to his feelings of pity and
affection, and oppressed his heart.
He dared not say anything in the presence of his father, whose severity
resembled that of the grandfather; and he saw plainly that his love for
the old man grieved his mother, who was jealous of it, reproaching her
son on this account as though it were a weakness and a sin.
A very important event soon made a change in Radionek's life; a little
brother was added to the family, who was named Wladzio, on whom the
father and mother lavished most of the tenderness they had formerly
bestowed upon their first-born, soon allowing him to see their changed
feelings toward him, and frequently rallying him about Iermola. All
these influences united quickly sufficed to break down the strength of
this child, who had once developed so freely and so happily, and who
was now oppressed by his dependent and miserable position.
Radionek, formerly so frank, jovial, and gay, had become dreamy, timid,
and sad; he passed whole nights weeping over his lost happiness,--the
happiness of the days spent with the old man he so dearly loved. His
heart felt like breaking when he would see Iermola come dragging
himself along on foot, leaning on his stick, all the way from Popielnia
to Malyczki, then stop at the stairway, and wait like a beggar for the
favour of seeing his child.
If he was allowed to come in, servants were there to see that Radionek
was not moved to pity, did not talk too much, did not stay too long,
and did not complain of any one; and often, very often, the poor child
was forced to content himself with seeing the old man through the
window. The old man spent long hours leaning against the columns of the
stairway. The servants pushed him away or teased him, then sent him off
without pity; and finally at twilight he would go away toward his own
house, his head bowed, and looking behind him every moment.
Then Radionek would weep, tremble, and become feverish; and the
increase of his ailments was attributed to Iermola's importunate
conduct, since even without communicating with him, he agitated and
grieved him by his presence.
Humiliating and bitter as it was to have been tutor and father, and now
to be only a wretched and famished beggar, waiting at the door for a
little pity and tenderness, the old man complained of nothing. He
uttered no bitter reproaches, no abuse, though well-merited; he kept
silence and concealed his grief so as to avoid, if possible, being sent
away entirely. But when they had driven him away two or three times in
succession without allowing him to see his child, he returned oftener,
was obstinate in his purpose and in his sad patience, until he would
finally succeed in catching Radionek as he passed by. And when he saw
the pretty face grow paler and paler, the beautiful eyes more and more
weary, when he heard the languid, plaintive voice,--he felt his
indignation boil over and rage like a tempest.
But the knowledge of his feeble old age, his weakness, and the poverty
and contempt which were crushing him, did not allow him even to dream
of making any resistance.
And so things went from bad to worse.
The young mother, delighted with her little Wladzio, grew more and more
weary of the faults and weaknesses of his brother; the father
threatened and scolded in vain.
Then they tried a change of treatment; cares and caresses were doubled,
and physicians were sent for. One of them had the wisdom to recommend
for the child frequent exercise in the sun and open air; the other,
perceiving traces of grief, counselled them to try moral influences.
And every time Radionek's ailments were enumerated, Iermola was always
blamed for them.
At last, Jan Druzyna, anxious and unhappy, having had a long struggle
with himself, resolved to get rid of the importunate old man once for
all.
One morning, according to his custom, Iermola, who for three weeks had
seen his dear child only on rare occasions, through the window, though
he had dragged himself every day to Malyczki, had gained entrance to
the door, and driven away with his stick the dogs which the grooms of
the pack had set upon him.
The servants, previously instructed to worry him and rid the house of
him, tried to drive him away; but the old man refused to allow them to
do so. He remained there till toward noon, silent, gloomy, always
expectant, like Lazarus at the rich man's gate. Then Jan Druzyna, weary
and irritated by the sight of this sad-looking apparition, which seemed
a living reproach to him, came out of the house and went himself to
encounter Iermola.
"My dear fellow," said he to him in a short, dry tone, and seating
himself on a bench midway of the stairway, "for several days now I have
seen you here constantly; why are you so obstinate about staying here?
Why do you wish to torment our child every moment for nothing? Tell me,
what do you want? We will give you anything in our power, only do not
disturb our peace. You say you love our child; then do not torment him.
The sight of you agitates him, grieves him, and prevents his becoming
attached to us; do you not think you ought to understand this, and be
more reasonable? If you think by acting in this way that you will get
the better of us, you are mistaken. Tell me now what you want, and put
an end to this."
"But, my lord, I want nothing,--nothing but to see my child, to kiss
him and bless him," answered Iermola, with still more humility and
gentleness.
"You see, it is high time that you should give up these ideas, which
are only follies. You brought him up; we have been willing to repay you
for that. Now that is all over; the child has returned to us. Let him
remain in peace. You love him, so you say, yet you make him unhappy."
"Who? I, my lord?"
"Yes, you, certainly. See how he is changed; he is withering away and
consumed with fever."
"And it is I,--I,--who am the cause of it, my lord?"
"Assuredly it is not us."
"It is you,--it is you who are killing him," then cried the old man,
his patience all exhausted. "I gave him back to you happy, vigorous, in
good health; you have shut him up, destroyed his strength, and made him
miserable and sad. The child loves me, and he has reason to love me. If
he did not, he would be heartless; and you,--you do all you can to
teach him ingratitude."
"Are you beside yourself, old man?" cried Jan Druzyna, in a rage. "What
do you mean? How dare you answer? Go off; go off immediately, and never
think of stepping your foot in this house again, for you will be driven
out of it."
At these words Iermola turned pale, trembled, was seized with fright,
and tried to speak; but words failed him.
"You drive me away," said he at last. "I shall go away, since you order
me to do so; and my feet will never again cross your door-sill.
Remember, remember, unjust man, that as you have taken the child from
me, God, who judges and punishes, will take him away from you."
Having uttered this terrible imprecation, which the mother heard just
as she was hastening to restrain her husband, and which caused her to
recoil, frightened and fainting, Iermola, desperate and beside himself,
making use of the remnant of his strength, fled down the stairway and
crossed the great courtyard without turning his head to look behind
him.
After a few moments Jan Druzyna recovered himself. He realized his
wrong-doing; and the prophetic words of the old man began to weigh upon
his heart. The sight of the old man, who was rapidly disappearing from
sight in the distance, was a cruel reproach to him. Not knowing what to
do, he rushed into the house and entered just in time to receive his
fainting wife in his arms.
She wished to go for Radionek and send him after Iermola, to soothe his
anger, and bring him back to her family, but when she entered the
child's room she found him on the floor, cold and pale as marble, and
before any one could revive him, Iermola was already far away.
When night came, the poor man dragged himself wearily to the house of
his old friend the widow, to whom he wished to make his lament and tell
everything. He had not seen her for a week, for every morning early he
had started for Malyczki; he therefore did not know that the poor woman
had been very ill for three days. He had scarcely put his foot inside
the door when he saw that according to custom the glass had been taken
out of the windows, a coffin placed in the middle of the room, and a
little way off the brotherhood with their banners, the cross, and the
priest with the book, were coming to the burial.
Then Iermola, like one waking from a dream, gazed a long, long time
upon the coffin, knelt down, and began to pray.
"She too! she too!" he murmured. "Come, it is time for me to die." He
felt the chill of evil foreboding run through his veins. "But first,"
said he, "we must go with her to the cemetery and throw a handful of
dust on her coffin."
Silent and sad, he stood a moment near the door, leaning on his stick;
then he joined the funeral procession, in which there was neither
daughter nor son-in-law nor grandson, only the servants, the
neighbours, and distant relatives of the deceased.
The cemetery was situated about halfway between the _dwor_ and
Iermola's dwelling; toward this spot, therefore, the funeral procession
moved. In the dim twilight the long line of tapers borne in the hands
of the brotherhood were reflected above on the moving folds of the
banners. Chwedor had already dug the grave; a great heap of yellow clay
was piled up on the edge of it. The priest blessed it and made a sign
to lay the body of the widow within it; then each of those present
threw in a handful of sand and murmured a last farewell. Iermola paid
this last duty with much feeling; then, half beside himself, he slowly
took the road back to his hut. There was no longer any reason why he
should hasten there now.
Huluk, who considered himself already quite the master of the house and
the little business, and who, although good-hearted, really began to
find Iermola somewhat in his way, was at this moment leaning against
the doorway, dreaming of a future full of glad, ambitious hopes. It
seemed to him that if Iermola were no longer there, he could so easily
take possession of the pottery kiln and the little garden, marry little
Pryska, and become a master-workman in every sense of the word. His old
master at first seemed useless to him, then troublesome and in the way.
"What news have you for me? Did not the cossack's widow send for me
when she was taken sick?" said the old man as he came near.
"Yes, certainly, Chwedor came three times of his own accord; she had
something to say to you, but you were not here."
"Ah, now she can speak no more," replied Iermola, in a mournful, almost
indifferent voice, as he entered the house. "What is the use of talking
about it? It is all over now. Everything in this world must come to an
end."
He repeated these words as he walked up and down the room; then he
seated himself on one of the benches and began to doze. Huluk then went
out, shrugging his shoulders.
"What is the old man thinking of?" said he. "Wouldn't it be better for
him to go off with a sack and beg? Then I could marry Pryska, and all
would go well; but so long as he stays here, how can I think of it? Oh,
what a bother!"
Confusion and discord now reigned in the chamber which formerly was so
clean and well kept; it was easy to see that no one cared for it any
longer. Huluk had taken some of the furniture into the next room; the
old man had distributed some among his old friends; the rest was
scattered here and there and covered with dust. There had been no fire
in the stove for a long time; there was no pile of wood in the
woodshed, no provisions in the house; a few cooking utensils lay in the
corners, dusty and half broken. The old man had no longer any heart to
notice all this. When he woke in the morning, he felt as if he could
take courage and do something; but after a little while everything
seemed so sad, so bitter, so grievous, the hut itself, with all its
memories, became so hateful to him, that for the first time he thought
of leaving it forever. He could not sit on the door-sill without
looking at the clump of oaks under which he had seen, wrapped in his
long white clothes, the child who had been the hope and comfort of his
old age. These memories were still so fresh and heart-breaking that the
old man could not endure them while surrounded by them, and, as it
were, fed upon them.
"I will go away,--yes, I will; may God pardon them! I will go and
wander about the world, grieving and praying," said he; "I will go from
church to church praying for my child. What else can I do here? Here
there is no longer any place for me; there are no friends for me. With
a sack on my back and a stick in my hand I will start out. I can do no
good by staying here."
He took from his usual hiding-place some silver and copper money, so
that in case death should come suddenly on the road or among strangers,
enough would be found on his person to bury him decently and pay for a
Mass for the repose of his soul; he made up a bundle of clothing and
put it on his shoulder, put some linen in two bags which he tied
together with cords and threw over his back after the fashion of a
beggar's sack, and when thus ready to start, he called Huluk. The
latter, as he came out of his room and saw his old master dressed as a
beggar, trembled and felt confused, as though his thought had been
divined. His heart beat violently; he began to pity Iermola sincerely,
to be disgusted with his favourite project for the future and the
business.
"You see I am going to wander about the world, my child," said the old
man, gently. "I leave you all I have; live for God and according to
God's command. May God grant you happiness here, a longer happiness
than mine! Everything here is yours; if some day I should return, you
will not refuse me shelter and a piece of bread. But no one need fear;
I shall not trouble any one long."
Huluk then burst into tears, and fell at the old man's feet, for this
generous gift was a great thing for the poor orphan; and Iermola felt
touched when he saw him weeping.
"Are you going now?" cried the young man.
"What should I do here?" sighed the old man. "They have just buried the
widow; Chwedko is ill, and perhaps may never get up again. I have not a
single friend now in the whole village, and worse than all, I no longer
have my child, my child!"
As he spoke, he wiped away his tears, which filled his eyes and
flowed over his cheeks; he went forward, stepped over the threshold,
and started off, feeling as though he saw everything moving around
him,--the fields, the cottages, the hedges, the trees. Huluk watched
him go slowly through the village; the dogs that knew him barked around
him; then he plunged into the forest and disappeared, taking the road
leading to the town.
Three days later, when the child, ill in bed, was found to be in real
danger; when a physician, wiser than the others and better acquainted
with his past life, told his parents plainly that old Iermola must be
sent for, that the child must be sent back to his old life, to the work
and food to which he had been accustomed,--then the father and mother
hastened with him to Popielnia. But what was their astonishment and
Radionek's despair when they found that the old man was no longer
there, and learned that he had gone away, begging his bread and seeking
to forget the past and his sad memories.