the hearts of the parents, who had been too slow to recognize their
error, and were beyond measure frightened by the tears and regrets of
the child, thunder-struck and desperate at the disappearance of his
father. Messengers were sent in every direction to bring Iermola back,
but they returned disappointed; all their efforts had been fruitless.
The parents, then going back to their first opinion, were not really
sorry; they said to themselves that in the end Radionek would forget.
But Radionek, who had been called Jules since his return to his
parents' house, continued to grow weaker, and faded away in spite of
the tenderest care; nothing interested or amused him. He did not
complain, he even tried to smile; but he was silent and sad. It was
evident that he was longing for something; an indefinable and unknown
malady wore him away by degrees. He seemed to find a little pleasure
only when allowed to wander alone in the garden or the woods, or when
permitted to ride on horseback; but his parents, being anxious lest
these airings were too lonely and tiresome for the child, kept him
always near them.
XVIII.
THE LAST JOURNEY.
Iermola, after leaving the dwelling where he had lived so long,
wandered from church to church, from village to village; he went, came,
moved constantly from place to place, exposed to a thousand new
privations, endeavouring to accustom himself to this wandering life,
which nevertheless had its charm for the bereaved man, who had
conceived a hatred and disgust for his little paternal corner. But the
sorrow followed him,--a slow, ineradicable sorrow, the result of the
remembrance of his joy, of his broken hopes and the sweet and bitter
memory of Radionek, his dear child.
If only Radionek at least could be happy! But in the few moments when
the old man had been permitted to be near him, the poor old fellow had
not only caught sight of traces of grief and heart-heaviness on his
child's face, but he also perceived his weariness and sorrow in the
least word he spoke, referring to the dreams and memories of the past.
Radionek's eyes always filled with tears whenever he spoke of Popielnia
and the happy days spent in the old inn, around the kiln making
pottery; more than once significant words such as, "Oh, if those times
could only return!" escaped him.
A more intense agitation always disturbed the old man, whenever he
thought of Radionek. He felt that his parents, while accustoming him to
his new life, would weaken him by excess of care and tenderness or
chill him by severity and coldness. His father and mother loved him
doubtless, but their affection was very different from that of poor
Iermola; accustomed as they were to the severe manner of their old
father, they treated the child coldly and sternly, though loving him
tenderly in the bottom of their hearts. Moreover, they did not know how
to treat him, how to approach him, even what to say to him; for they
had never been petted and cared for since they were born. Radionek did
not understand them well, and feared them very much. In a word, his
adoptive father was a real father to him; his own father seemed to him
more like an adoptive one.
The farther the old man went from Popielnia and Malyczki, the more
terrible became his sad forebodings and anxiety; so one day he turned
aside from his route and went back nearer to his dear child, and
resolved firmly to see him once more, if only at a distance, or at
least to learn what he was doing and hear something about him. It
seemed that his old limbs renewed their strength in order to make this
journey; he had never felt so well, and though he had to go at least
three leagues, he made them in one day, and at night reached the domain
of Malyczki.
In order to reach the inn where he had to find lodging, even at the
risk of being recognized he was obliged to go through the village.
Doing so, he passed by Procope's cabin, and to his astonishment he
found it ruined and deserted, the garden overgrown with wild grasses
and brushwood, the old pear-tree which shaded the kiln, withered and
broken, and the kiln itself fallen in and covered with briers, and
looking like ruins after a fire. It was evident that no one lived any
longer in the cabin, for the window had been taken out of it; a part of
the roof was gone; but the door, still shut and bolted, prevented any
one's entering.
It was easy to understand this desertion; Procope's daughter lived in a
larger and better furnished cabin near by. His son-in-law, though he
cultivated the old man's land, had not needed this dwelling; he had
found no tenant to keep it up, and consequently the old house,
abandoned by the servant shortly after the old man's death, soon went
to ruin.
A strange, new thought then came into Iermola's mind.
"Suppose I rent this house; suppose I settle myself here," said he to
himself. "In this way I might succeed in seeing my child. Who would
know I was here? Perhaps they would not recognize me; perhaps they
might not even see me; and if I did not see my Radionek often, I could
at least go under his window at night."
As he thus spoke, his eyes filled with tears; he stopped and was
thinking of and regretting Procope, when a female voice, coming
from a neighbouring garden where they were gathering hemp, called
out to him,--
"See here, old father, why do you stop there in the road? You will be
run over; look, the wagons are coming down the mountain."
Iermola raised his eyes and recognized the village woman who was
speaking to him; she was Nascia herself, Procope's daughter, who, with
some young girls, was working in her garden. Evidently she had not
recognized him; and judging by her kindly warning that she must be
pleasant and good-natured, Iermola, after reflecting a few moments,
approached her.
Nascia was a woman in the prime of life, pink, smiling, large, healthy,
and well-built, having a handsome, regular face, somewhat too round
perhaps, but even with this defect a perfect type of village beauty.
Her colour was bright, her eyes black; her coral lips spoke of
happiness, light-heartedness, and strength; and her white teeth, which
showed plainly when she smiled, gleamed like mother-of-pearl beside her
slightly brown cheeks. She was really good, energetic, charitable, and
compassionate, though a little coquettish; a faithful wife and tender
mother, though she was very fond of laughing and joking. Her husband,
the son of Kolenick, the richest labouring-man in the village,--a short
man, pale, slim, sickly, and languid,--respected her as he did his
patron saint and feared her as he did the fire; yet he loved her
dearly, and would have been ready to die for her always.
"You do not recognize me, Nascia Kolesnikowa," said the old man, in a
low voice, as he approached her. "I am Iermola, whom you know very
well; you remember the man who learned to make pottery under Procope,
your father."
"What? Is this you carrying a beggar's sack? What can have happened to
you? You had a trade and something laid by. But then old age--"
"Oh, there is a long story to tell you. You remember, of course, that I
brought up your master's son?"
"I know all about it; people did nothing but talk about it."
"Well, they have taken him away from me."
"Bless me! what would you have them do? He was their child, not yours."
"But my good Nascia, wasn't he a little mine too? And now they will not
even allow me to see him, as if I went there, God help me! to cast a
spell over my poor dear boy. So I am tired of living. No one will
receive me here; at Popielnia I am all alone,--no one is left to me;
even my neighbour, the cossack's widow, has lately died. Now I have
left, and I go wandering about the world."
"Poor old man, are you then so grieved at having lost your child?"
"Oh, Nascia, he was my all, my joy, my life; and they had no pity on
me, they took him away from me. Then he began to droop and dwindle
away; God only knows what will become of him. They will not let me go
near him. Tell me, have those people the fear of God in their hearts?
The lord drove me away himself, and forbade my putting foot on his
estate."
"Is it possible?"
"I swear it to you by the wounds of Christ; he drove me away without
pity."
"He has the blood of the old chief of squadron. He will be like his
beloved father," said Nascia, in a low voice, looking behind her to be
sure that no one heard her. "How could they be so unjust thus to drive
away their friend, their benefactor!"
"Therefore as I have said to you, there was nothing left for me but to
drag myself about from place to place. But when I began my wanderings,
I was again seized with such an intense desire to see my child that I
could not stand it, and I came back to get one more look at him."
"And have you seen him?"
"No, I have just gotten here; I do not know even where to find
shelter."
"Come, come into our house!"
"God bless you, Nascia, and reward you by blessing your children! But I
cannot accept your offer; some one would see me at your house and go
and tell them. I do not want them to know at the _dwor_ that I am here;
I will go away after I have seen the child, even if I only see him at a
distance. But tell me, is Procope's cabin vacant?"
"Certainly it is; we have not repaired it, because after the servant
went away, we could not find a tenant. When it falls down entirely, the
garden will be much larger."
"But until it tumbles down?"
"Oh, well, it will remain as it is."
"If you will allow me to stay there only one week, I will pay you rent
for it."
Nascia burst into a laugh.
"Why should you pay," said she, "for the pleasure of lodging in a hole,
in a ruin? Why, you will on the contrary do my Sydor a service, for he
has an idea of repairing the cabin. If he could have found some one to
stay there and keep it up, it would have lasted much longer. If you
think of staying in it, I will send you the window which we had taken
out of the frame and laid aside for fear some one should steal it. Will
that suit you?"
"Do you really mean it? You are not joking?" said Iermola, in a tone of
glad surprise.
"Quite the contrary. I have not the slightest desire to joke."
"Then may God protect and bless you!" cried the old man, clasping his
hands. "You will see that I shall take good care of the old house; I
will clean it up and repair it, and in return I will wait upon you
whenever you wish me to do so. Oh, I shall be much happier here! I
shall at least be near my child; I shall hear from him."
"Come, then, it is all settled. Sydor will be pleased too; there is
nothing more to be said. As for me, I shall be pleased if you will only
look after the garden a little."
"I will not only look after it, I will take care of it myself; you will
see, I will put a beautiful, strong enclosure round it, provided I can
find enough small boughs near by."
"That will be nice, very nice," said Nascia, with a joyous smile; "now
come, take supper with us. You can have a talk with my husband and
bring back the window, and as I will give you a little dry wood to
light a fire in the old fireplace and drive away the dampness, you can
sleep to-night in your cabin."
As she spoke, Nascia began to gather up her bundles of hemp, then
called a servant, and singing a village song in a loud clear voice, she
walked slowly along toward her cabin, not taking the narrow path over
the foot-bridge which led from one garden to the other, but the public
road, because she was so loaded down with her hemp. Sydor Kolenick's
cabin was situated just on the edge of the public road, at the entrance
of the second lane, so that the farther ends of the two gardens
touched; it was spacious, solid, and quite new.
At a glance one could see that the household was comfortable and
flourishing. The principal room was large and handsome; great gilded
images were hung in one corner; the table, large and clean, was covered
with a perfectly white cloth, and there was on it a large golden loaf,
well baked, and covered with a fine napkin. The pewter and earthen
pitchers, pails, and tubs were whole, shining, and new as if they had
just come from the market; everything, indeed, was clean, dainty,
substantial, cheerful, and comfortable.
The master of the house alone was unlike his wife and his surroundings;
small, thin, withered, stunted, wretched-looking, with a red eye, a
cloth tied round his jaws, and a beard unshaven for three weeks, he
looked forty years old, though he had not yet reached thirty.
"Here is old Iermola from Popielnia," said Nascia to her husband, who,
seated near the fire, was smoking his pipe to cure his toothache; "he
offers to rent Procope's hut, and in addition to work the garden, if
you will kindly agree to take him as a tenant."
"Iermola, ah, yes! I remember him. How do you do, old father, and what
are you doing here?" said Sydor, his mouth full of saliva and speaking
with difficulty.
Nascia did not allow the old man time to reply, for to all her other
good qualities she added the gift of extraordinarily earnest and fluent
eloquence. She began at once to relate Iermola's history; and as Sydor
had a compassionate heart and was easily influenced by his wife's
impressions, he was immediately filled with pity for the old man's
forlorn situation, and sitting down beside him on the bench, began to
chat with him.
"And what ails you?" said Iermola, suddenly, remembering that he had
formerly dispensed remedies in the village. "Perhaps I could cure you."
"I do not know whether it is my teeth or my jawbone which gives me so
much pain. At first one of my decayed teeth began to hurt me; and now
my whole head and face burns and seems ready to burst, I suffer so."
"Have you never tried the remedy, rather disagreeable, but sometimes
very good, of smoking a pipe of moss from the oak-trees instead of
tobacco?"
"No, really."
"The only thing is to be careful about choosing the moss," said
Iermola. "Are there any oak-trees near you?"
"Yes, indeed; the courtyard is full of them."
Iermola went out immediately to look for some; he had no trouble in
finding a good handful, dried it, picked out the straws and fragments
of bark, then filled a pipe with it, and presented it to the suffering
Sydor. The pipe was scarcely lighted before a strong disagreeable odour
filled the room and made Nascia sneeze violently; but either from this
effect of the remedy or because the pain was coming to an end, Sydor
soon ceased to suffer and moan, and the couple could not thank the old
man sufficiently. Then the patient's face began to swell, but this was
the natural consequence of the disease.
"Let it swell," said Sydor, "provided I have no more pain. A while ago
I was ready to burst my head open against the wall."
Thus, thanks to a handful of moss, Iermola had been able to make a
friend. Nascia gave him the window which had been taken out, some
kindling-wood to light the fire in his stove, and bits of pine to burn
instead of a torch. Then she made him eat his supper; and remembering
that he would need something the next day, she filled a pot for him,
after which Iermola went away, happy and well pleased, to occupy his
new dwelling.
There is nothing so sad as an empty, solitary house after the dead
owner has passed away; one seems to feel the presence of the corpse
everywhere. Procope's cottage had been deserted for several months.
Dampness and mildew had begun to invade it; small mushrooms had sprung
up in the corners; a few grains of grass-seed and wheat, thrown by the
wind into the cracks and crevices, sent up their frail stalks, yellow
and pale for want of air and light; the moisture stood in drops upon
the walls; the ground-floor was covered with gray mosses; and
numberless insects had made their nests among the rubbish.
But it all seemed endurable and comfortable to Iermola; and he was
ready to remedy everything, to find compensations and resources for
himself, happy and comforted as he was by the fact of being near his
child and the hope of seeing him again.
He put in the window, lighted the fire, swept and cleared the floor,
opened the door, repaired and set up as well as he could two old
benches, then having spread his bags on the floor, he laid down upon
them, impatient to rest after the long tramp he had taken over an
uneven, woody, and sandy road.
He spent the whole of the next day in repairing and cleaning up his
room; he helped Nascia to work her garden; and in the evening he went
in the direction of the _dwor_, the situation and extent of which he
knew perfectly well. He had waited till the twilight came on, so that
no one would recognize him, and he avoided going on the side next the
great courtyard, where so often he had been so inhospitably received;
but he took a foot-path winding round the orchard, and also took the
further precaution to wear his beggar's costume and sack. From this
narrow path, which separated the garden from the farm buildings, he
could plainly see the broad garden walk, the _dwor_, and the lawn where
Radionek walked oftenest. He was allowed to play here alone, because
the orchard, not very large, was surrounded by a strong, high hedge,
and consequently the child could not go out. But at this moment the
garden was empty; and Iermola, looking anxiously through the openings
in the hedges, could see no one but the gardener. There was a light,
however, in Radionek's room; the old man gazed at the light, sighed,
and went away.
His heart, however, felt much lighter since he had been near his child,
and by consequence able to be of aid to him. He found he had regained
sufficient strength to take an interest in his small household; and he
now felt refreshed and went back to bed almost joyfully. On his return
he saw that Nascia had not forgotten his supper, for he found on the
stove a small pot, well covered up, full of oatmeal gruel, enough to
last him two days.
The next day was passed in the same way; and Iermola took care to go to
the _dwor_ every day, and at last had the happiness to see Radionek
walking all alone in the garden just on the other side of the hedge.
"Radionek," he cried, "for the love of God, come and speak to me; say
something, if only one word!"
At the sound of the well-known voice, though so low and stifled the
tone, the boy trembled, stopped, and then with one bound leaped to the
top of the hedge.
"My father," he cried, "is it you? What are you doing here?"
"Be still, be still; do not betray me! I came to see you."
"How long since you came?"
"A few days ago."
"Where are you staying?"
"In Procope's old hut. Oh, do not betray me! Be careful, my son; we
shall see each other every evening." Radionek trembled and flushed with
pleasure; but at that moment some one approached, a voice sounded in
the garden. The old man disappeared; and Jules pretended to his parents
that he had wandered there to look for birds' nests. They reproved him
gently for having, by jumping, exposed himself to falling, and then
took him back to the house, fearing for him the freshness of the
evening air and the dew. No one, however, remarked the change which had
come over the child; Radionek, extremely agitated, did not sleep the
whole night.
The next day he would not play anywhere but in the walks of the garden.
Iermola did not fail to come in the evening. They found a place where
the hedge was not so thick, and they could talk more conveniently. But
they could not talk long; and the old man went away discontented and
troubled. His heart, full of a great joy, was having a struggle with
his conscience; Radionek was begging and pleading with him to take him
away with him, to fly with him far away from Malyczki, for the life he
was leading had become insupportable to him. His parents' affection was
becoming more and more weaned from him every day, and was bestowed
instead upon his brother. He had ceased to be their pet, their darling;
he was becoming almost a burden and a nuisance to them. They scolded
him for his wild ways, his sadness, his weakness, and his ill health;
they called him teasingly the peasant of the family.
He possessed everything, it is true, except sympathy, affection, and
tenderness; but accustomed as he was to the deep love of his old
father, it was this heart-penury which caused him so much suffering.
"But how can I take you away?" replied the old man. "They are your
parents, after all; they will say I have stolen you away. You have been
accustomed with them to have all sorts of dainties; how can I give them
to you? Where shall we hide ourselves? They will follow us, and at last
they will find us; then we shall both be more wretched than ever."
But the child had his answer for all these questions; and Iermola began
to give way. His parents did not love him as his adoptive father had
loved him; how could he live with them? He did not need dainties or
choice and delicate food, for he would steal the servants' coarse,
black bread, which reminded him of the simple meals of his early years;
and several times he had been mocked at and punished because he
preferred that coarse, common food. It would be easy to hide
themselves, he added, by going far, far away into some unknown country.
Who would recognize him if he wore the dress of a peasant,--a coarse
drugget stable coat, for instance?
At the thought of this bold plan, this sudden deliverance, Iermola's
soul was filled with hope and happiness; but he soon grew sad again as
he thought of the impossibility of putting it into execution, and felt
honest, conscientious scruples arise within him. Suppose he should
happen to die on the way, to whose care should he leave the child? Was
it wise or just to snatch him from his family and from a sure and
peaceful future? The old man began to reproach himself for having come,
for having disturbed poor Radionek; he thought of running away from the
village, so as not to expose the child to further trial.
He meant to go away at once. He felt that Radionek exercised over him
an influence more and more powerful; but that evening when they were
talking together near the garden hedge, he must have betrayed himself
entirely by some imprudent word or the trembling and tearful tone of
his voice, for the boy took leave of him sadly and silently, and the
old man did not suspect then that Radionek had taken a firm and
definite resolve. The old vagabond had scarcely returned to his cabin
when he began by the light of his pine torch to collect his clothes and
bundle them into his sack. He was still occupied with this task when
the door suddenly opened, and a young peasant of slight figure rushed
into the room. The old man did not at first recognize him who had
concealed himself under this humble garb; but his heart beat violently,
and then he uttered a cry. It was Radionek, dressed in the clothes he
had taken from one of the valets at the _dwor_. The poor old frightened
father clasped his hands in terror and trembled all over as he saw his
child.
"Do not be frightened, father, it is I; I have come back to you," cried
Radionek, throwing himself on his neck. "Be quick, be quick! let us go
before they find I have run away. Put some bread in your sack; we will
plunge into the forest, and by to-morrow morning they will not be able
to overtake us. Somewhere we will find a cottage, some kind people, a
river shore, a bank of clay; and we will work and sing and turn pots
once more, good father."
The old man's speech and breath failed him.
"Oh, my child, my child! what have you done?" he answered.
"What have I done? Yesterday my father and mother told me that I was
not worthy of their care and love. Go, they said to me a hundred times;
go back to your old potter whom you love so much, since you sigh so for
your old life! We can easily do without you; we are satisfied with
Wladzio. You see, they themselves have advised me to do it."
It must have been through strong love on the one hand and great
weakness on the other that Iermola at last consented to an act which he
considered only as a theft; but he had not the strength to resist his
child's entreaties. Radionek begged him, kissed him, hugged him, fell
on his knees to him. At last the old man lost all power over himself,
and taking the child by the hand, rushed from the cabin.
XIX.
THE DRAMA IN THE FOREST.