IX.
A VISIT TO THE DWOR
Next day the old man intrusted Radionek to the care of his friend Horpyna, and under some pretext or other started for Malyczki. A thousand projects were whirling in his head.
The village was of medium size, surrounded by deep marshes and immense forests, built upon barren soil composed principally of sand and peat-moss.
Nevertheless, the village was wealthy, for it was inhabited almost entirely by industrious mechanics. The peasants of this town were obliged to buy bread every year; the soil was like that of the district of Opoëzynsk, and perhaps even worse, and returned for one bushel of wheat sowed only sixty sheaves, which would scarcely yield a bushel of grain, making a gain of only the straw. They were therefore compelled to resort to other means of subsistence. They made charcoal; they sold bark; they dealt in staves, made tubs and casks, and turned out various other small household utensils; they constructed carriages and ploughs, or were carpenters, weavers, or clothiers; they even wove caps and red belts; and there was one potter among them. But this last trade was not very profitable, although the man made his living,--for his wares were considered of indifferent quality.
As a general thing, potters rarely set up a business in a place where no one has previously worked at the trade; in most cases the ovens have descended from father to son for a considerable length of time. Formerly, in the ancient times, when the potter's art was more necessary, because it was called on to furnish the sacred urns used at the sacrifices, the qualities of the different clays were better understood, and also the degrees of heat in the kiln; the situations for manufactories were better chosen, and a better standard of work prevailed among the men of the trade.
At the present time it is rare that any one attempts to build a kiln on a spot where no one has ever built before. Potteries are carried on just where they have been for ages, and the same clay is used which furnished the funeral urns of our ancestors.
The last descendant of the potters of Malyczki had sunk pretty low in his profession as artist and also in the social scale; he drank, lounged about most of the time, and cared very little about the quality of his clay, and still less about the quality or the beauty of his wares. His pots gave forth no sound to the touch; they were black, ugly, and so easily broken that the people in the village never bought them except when in extreme need. But during his expeditions to places at a distance he managed to get rid of them; and in his neighbourhood he passed for a rich man, for he put on proud airs and indulged himself in everything.
He ate bacon, drank brandy, wore a robe of lambskin with a collar of gray astrachan, a woollen cloak with a hood, and a big cap of black lambskin as high as that of any gentleman. He had never had a son, and only one daughter, recently married to the richest peasant in the village, to whom he had given such a handsome dowry that his neighbours could scarcely believe their eyes or their ears,--horses, cattle, three chests of clothing, and a cap full of silver roubles.
Iermola knew all about these matters, for formerly, when he was in the service of his good master, there was frequent intercourse between the dwor of Popielnia and the dwor of Malyczki, and also between the two villages. Consequently, from the first the idea suggested by the widow had taken possession of his mind. He did not wish to reveal his designs at first lest he should be laughed at; and under pretext of some business common to village people, he set out for the dwor of Malyczki.
For many years there had lived in this dwor a weak and decrepit old man, once a chief of squadron in the national cavalry, and an old friend of Iermola's good lord, whose name was Felicien Druzyna. He had once been rich, but had lived to see all his fortune melt away during the civil wars; and he had for a long time wandered about the world, travelling sometimes in the north and sometimes in the west. Finally he returned to Polesia, to live on the estate which was all that remained of his possessions. For several years his infirmities had so increased that he was now confined to his bed, and prayed for death, which seemed to refuse to put an end to his sufferings.
Even the exterior of the house in which he lived in Malyczki showed that it had formerly been the seat of considerable wealth. It was old-fashioned, large, and gloomy, surrounded by an old garden, trellised in the French fashion of the time of Louis the Great; and there were large ponds, a chapel and a small bastion,--monuments left behind by the ancestors of the chief of squadron.
But all these ancient beauties were falling to ruin; the revenue of one poor village was not sufficient to maintain so much splendor. The monotonous life of the old man brought out all his peculiarities. It may have been that he had naturally an ill temper; it may have been that the sorrows of his long life or the sufferings of his long illness had rendered him extremely irritable; but in his old age he had become unusually violent and passionate.
His only son, who was about thirty years old, and a young relative of his wife, who assisted in taking care of him, could not leave him for a moment, and were condemned to a continual punishment by the constant whims and endless persecutions of this despotic old man. But in spite of his physical weakness, the chief of squadron retained such remarkable activity and vigour of mind that he still exercised the entire control of his affairs. He treated his son as a child of twelve years old, his ward as a servant, and held his servants in the harshest manner to the strictest performance of their duty. The keys of all the granaries, the cellars, and cupboards were brought to him every day after the distribution of necessary provisions, and were carefully placed by him under his pillow. When he ordered corporal punishment to be administered to his servants, he never prescribed less than fifty lashes; the oldest received a hundred in compliment to their age. Every one in the house trembled before him, and obeyed his slightest breath; and each one was obliged to be ready to account for the smallest trifle whenever he took it into his head to inquire about it.
Thus the blind old man, irritated by the gloom of his life, and by its inaction, which was even more difficult for him to bear, endeavoured to distract his mind by ruling his house and family as strictly as possible and torturing every one by whom he was surrounded. Every one who came near him was compelled to serve him; no one had the right to live for himself. A skilfully organized system of constant watching produced continual quarrels and anxieties, which had become the chronic condition of this unfortunate household, where neither confidence, joy, nor liberty existed.
Even the old man's son, Jan Druzyna, who was kept constantly beside the sick bed, was losing all joy, hope, and love of life.
Nevertheless the old chief of squadron, so ill-natured and so harsh in his manners toward his own family, was to strangers particularly affable, kindly, and good-natured. He adopted one line of conduct for outsiders and quite another for the bosom of his family. He gave hearty welcome to the guests who sometimes visited him, was obliging to his neighbours, and compassionate to the poor. He spoke kindly to every one, smiled, often joked, and even rendered small services; consequently those who did not know him, and only saw him at such times, could scarcely believe the tales which were told of the old soldier's cross and tyrannical conduct. It is certain that the sufferings of disease, the long weary hours of blindness, the misery of sleepless nights, had all contributed to sour his disposition; but his heart had remained kind and sympathetic, though he had resolved to disguise the fact from others by such constant and unusual severity of manner. Moreover, the exaggerated ideas which he had conceived of military discipline, and of holding a firm hand upon the reins of domestic administration, had confirmed him in the practice of this fussy and incessant despotism.
The young heir of the little domain and poor Marie, the far-off cousin, both nailed to the side of his bed or his easy-chair, passed days filled with bitter repinings. Their mutual attachment was their only comfort. The old man had in some way or other discovered the affection they bore each other,--these two young creatures so cruelly tried; he had even by persuasion and cunning induced them to confess it to him, but having done so, he at once forbade them under the severest penalties, even under penalty of his curse, ever to think of marrying. He, however, continued to keep them about him in the solitude of his home, not seeing the necessity of separating them, for he thought his word was all-powerful, and that no one would have the audacity to resist his commands. The young people consequently were forced to keep strict guard over themselves, and went on with their wearisome task with sorrow and tears, carefully concealing in the old man's presence their firm and constant affection.
Some one was obliged to watch beside the old chief of squadron night and day, for he would have some one always by him, and generally preferred his son Jan or his ward Marie; and he rarely quitted his bed except to stretch his swollen limbs on the cushions of his big easy-chair, which was rolled around his chamber. He slept badly and with frequent interruptions. Usually he dozed until about ten o'clock, woke up about midnight, and slept again at daylight after he had taken his coffee; then until dinner-time he attended to his business, calling his son, his ward, and his servants by turns to his bedside. He would shut his eyes again for a moment after the midday meal, then rouse up again to worry, command, and torment his servants and entire family all the rest of the day till evening. The old officer took much less precaution in regard to his health than he ought to have done, considering his numerous infirmities; he drank brandy several times a day, ate tremendously, and paid no attention to the advice of the doctor, who constantly recommended temperance.
Beside his easy-chair or bed were discussed the most important affairs with regard to improving the lands and the most minute details of the household economy. He consulted, contradicted, judged, and finally condemned. The old man divined everything, and remembered so perfectly everything that was said to him that nothing could be kept concealed from him, although he was blind and helpless.
In former times, when he had good health, he was one of the best friends and most frequent visitors of the lord of Popielnia. Iermola at that time had seen him in private; and since then the old officer, out of respect for the memory of his friend, had sometimes assisted him. To his dwor, therefore, Iermola now directed his steps, relying upon the old officer's excellent judgment and the kindly interest which he had always manifested for him.
All the inhabitants of the dwor rejoiced at the unexpected visit, hoping it would have the effect of amusing the old officer, and so gain some respite for his slaves, or at least it would cheer him for the time, and force him to assume the affable and lively manner which he always had in reserve, not for his own family, but for his guests.
In fact, when Druzyna was informed that Iermola wished to see him, he began at once to abuse everybody, ordering them to bring him in immediately, and also to bring some brandy and a good breakfast,--in a word, he found means to scold and torment half his household in a sudden overflow of friendly welcome for his guest. Then hearing a timid little cough coming from the doorway, he greeted the new-comer in a pleasant and good-humoured voice,--
"How do you do, old man? What is the news from Popielnia?"
"Nothing, most gracious lord,--nothing but hunger and poverty."
"And you,--what have you been doing? Has anything new happened at your house?"
"Indeed, certainly," replied the old man, sighing; "something very new. Has my lord heard nothing about it?"
"Why how in the devil could I know anything?" cried the old officer. "You see how I am, shut up here with ghosts like Lazarus; and as for these people here, they take special pains not to tell me anything which could interest or distract me,--they prefer to be silent or else sigh and complain. But what has happened?"
"Oh, the strangest thing that I believe has ever been heard of within a hundred miles of us."
"But what is it? Do not weary me, my brother."
"Well, it is this; the good God has sent me a child."
"What, the devil! have you been fool enough to get married?"
"No, no, gracious lord."
"Well, how then!" repeated the chief of squadron, contracting the gray brows upon his wrinkled forehead.
"My lord does not comprehend at all?"
"No; the devil! I do not comprehend at all; I am waiting for you to explain yourself more clearly."
"Some time ago--it was in the month of April--some one came and left a baby near my cabin."
"How? What? When?" exclaimed the chief of squadron, moving about anxiously.
"It was in the month of April."
"Come, go on; tell me quickly how it all happened."
Iermola then related every detail of the story concerning the baby, the goat, all his hopes and anxieties; the difficulties he had encountered in earning enough money, in learning to read, and the necessity which was now upon him to undertake some trade. The old officer listened attentively; and what was still more strange, his son Jan, who had started toward the door as the old man entered, glad of an opportunity to get some fresh air, was so interested in what Iermola was telling that he stood motionless in the doorway to hear the end.
"Truly, this is a strange thing!" cried the chief of squadron when the story was finished. "Unnatural parents abandon their child on the threshold of a poor cabin, and the Lord sends the orphan a father a hundred times better than the one Nature had bestowed. But my old friend, the blessing from Heaven comes to you rather late, it seems to me. Since the world began, no one ever heard of a man of your age taking it into his head to learn a trade and undertaking such rash business projects. How old are you?"
Iermola knew perfectly well that he had lived sixty good long years, but he dared not confess it, lest the chief of squadron should discourage him still more or laugh at him; he therefore replied without hesitation,--
"What does that matter? As soon as the hair turns gray, one is old. But it is weakness and poverty which make us feel our years; and God knows the number of them."
"Pshaw! pshaw! God knows, but man knows too; I can tell you pretty well how old you are," interrupted the chief of squadron, counting on his fingers. "You were six or seven years old when you were taken as shepherd boy at the dwor. I was not here then; but when I came to this country forty years ago, your late master told me you had then been living with him about seventeen years. So counting it all up, you are now past sixty, my brother."
"That may be; but since I feel well and strong--"
"Ah, that is a great blessing!" cried the chief of squadron. "You are not like me; I am wretched and infirm, tried sorely by God, despised by men, and cast down to the very earth itself, which should long since have swallowed me up."
"Gracious lord, you ought not to speak so."
"Come, come! we all know our own troubles. The ass must rub the place that hurts."
"Well, then," said Iermola, slowly, "to go back to my story: in order to rear my little one, I shall be obliged to work for him and for myself. I am not very strong, and I get along slowly working in the fields. I would like to find some other means of living,--to learn some trade or other."
"Why, you are crazy, my friend," cried Druzyna, laughing till he choked; "your apprenticeship would be a long one. And besides, how would you ever learn? You have now neither arms nor eyes nor strength."
"I cannot, however, go and beg."
"Bless me! of course you would not wish to do it."
"No, I am not willing to do it, neither for the child nor for myself. I should be ashamed to go wandering up and down the roads with a sack. No, no! a hundred times no!"
"Very good; but how will you be able to learn a trade at your age?"
"Why, it seems to me that I should learn now more easily than when I was young. A man is more attentive at my age; he knows the usefulness of things, and is not so easily distracted; and then he likes to keep his hands occupied,--it soothes him."
"Ah, my dear friend, you must be young indeed, to be able to speak in that way. Believe me, my good man, the young man has nothing in common with the old one. The old man has a different heart, a different body, a different head,--is another man, in fact, and a weaker and more unhappy one. As for you, you are fortunate indeed, if you can at your age feel the strength and courage to work."
"Truly, it seems to me that since I have succeeded in learning to read I could also learn a trade."
"Well, well, perhaps you can, but at least choose something easy," answered Druzyna, shaking his head.
"Some one advised me to learn weaving; but I should not have enough money to buy a loom, and I should not know where to find a place to put it. My own room is so small."
"Well, what are you thinking of doing?"
"Why, to tell you the truth, I came here to beg Procope--"
"Ah, ah! to make pots!" cried the chief of squadron. "Well, but if yours are no better than his, you will not make a fortune."
"Perhaps if he will only show me how to begin, in the end I may do better than he; but Procope is jealous of his knowledge and proud of his trade; he would not be willing to teach me."
"There is a way to remedy that difficulty," said the chief of squadron. "I will send for him and speak a few words to him. There are no secrets which he will refuse to share with you after he has received my orders."
Iermola shook his head sadly. "What one is forced to do, one never does well," he said.
"Well, see if he will do it of his own accord; and if you are not successful, I will come to your assistance."
Then after a few moments, the old man sent Iermola off much more tranquil and comfortable, and ordered him to present himself again in the evening and inform him of the result of his interview with Procope.
X.
WHAT A STRONG WILL CAN ACCOMPLISH
On his way to the potter's house, which was situated on a little hill where one could see the bright kiln surrounded by freshly moulded pottery and shaded by an old pear-tree, Iermola gave himself up to thought. It seemed to him that at last he had hit upon a wise and happy idea. His wrinkled old face began to light up; he rubbed his hands and walked on toward Procope's cabin with a firmer and lighter step.
The potter of Malyczki, after having married off his daughter, had established himself, with a very young servant and a little apprentice, in this cottage then vacant, where he for the greater part of his time led the idle life of a village epicurean.
Generally he did but little work, for he relied upon the half-rusty roubles which he had earned in his youth; he was seldom seen seated at his wheel or busy with his kiln, but could be found frequently at the inn, or seated at his own table before a well-supplied plate and a brimming goblet which his servant had just brought to him.
Iermola therefore found the man he was seeking, at table, in front of a pint of brandy and a great bowl of fresh milk thick with cream. Procope's hair was quite gray, but he was still erect and vigorous. He was a peasant of tall and massive figure, with broad shoulders, strong as an oak, and had a white beard which reached to his girdle. One glance at him was sufficient to tell that he had strength to struggle with a bear. When he was tipsy at the inn, every one was afraid of him; for he would shake the village boys with his long arms as though he were shaking a pear-tree to make the pears fall off. He could put his broad shoulders to the axle and move a loaded wagon; and with one hand he could lift a bag of wheat as easily as any one else would a handful of straw.
The potter wore a pair of well-tarred leather boots, large white pantaloons, cut after the cossack fashion, and a shirt of gray cloth, fastened at the neck by a large red button, and lower down by a broad belt of the same colour, and was stirring his spoon in his porringer while watching the servant, who was seated in front of him, showing her white teeth and covering her face with her hands as she laughed. At this moment Iermola appeared in the doorway, and saluted the inhabitants of the potter's house in the following pious fashion,--
"Slawa Bohn! Glory to God!"
The two old men had long known each other; and besides, Procope was generally pleasant and hospitable to every one so long as he was not intoxicated; when he was, he was terrible. But just then he was perfectly sober, and he immediately rose from his table. The servant disappeared, and the two men embraced each other cordially.
"Well, what is it that the Lord God sends you to say to us?" was the potter's first remark. "You will drink one good glass, won't you?"
"I will take one glass," said Iermola, "though it is not my custom to drink at all."
"Ah, ah! a good drink of brandy never did anybody any harm. After that, we will talk over your business, if you have any."
"Ah, yes! I have something very important to talk about," replied the new-comer; "but it is a long story."
"Then begin at once."
"Wait a while, till I recover my breath."
"As long as you like."
As he spoke, the servant reappeared; she removed the bowl and spoon, leaving the brandy on the table. The two old men began by complaining of the weather and the high prices of provisions. Procope lamented considerably over the inconveniences of his trade; and gradually they conversed with frank cordiality.
"You must know," said Iermola, suddenly, not without much internal agitation, "that I am myself the son of a potter. From time immemorial my ancestors owned kilns and made pottery."
"Ah, indeed! really?" answered Procope, with visible astonishment.
"Yes, truly, as I have told you; but my father and mother died when I was quite an infant, and I can barely remember the fact that they worked in pottery. But to-day there is still in our old garden a fine potter's kiln, which is overgrown with grass. As for my paternal property, it has passed into other hands."
"But never in the world was there a potter found among the people of Popielnia."
"My father was from Wolhynia, and he lived only a very short time after coming here."
"Ah! that is a different matter," replied the potter, slowly sipping his brandy.
"And, you see, in my old age, I have taken it into my head to take up my old trade again," stammered Iermola, blushing and looking down.
Procope stared at him, then began rubbing his head and speaking in broken sentences.
"You want to take the bread out of my mouth, you wicked old man," he muttered in a menacing tone.
"Only listen to me," continued Iermola, much agitated; "instead of injuring your trade, perhaps it may be that I can help you to gain something. Do not be frightened without reason."
"All right, let me hear; tell me."
"You have no son; your daughter is married; and you have laid by a nice little pile of money. It seems to me that it is high time for you to take some rest. The clay you find about here is good for nothing. You are obliged to go a long distance to sell your pottery, for no one will buy it here; the quality is too poor."
"Come, come! look out; mind what you are saying," growled the angry potter, striking the table with his fist.
"Do not be angry, Procope; remember that I can do nothing without your assistance."
"You want to rob me."
"Not at all; you will see that my plan will bring you quite a neat little income."
"All right, let me hear it, then; and the devil take you!"
"Well, it is this: if you would only just help me a little at first, I am sure I could succeed; it seems to me that it runs in the blood to do it. Let us build, in partnership, a kiln at Popielnia. We will both attend to the firing of the pottery; and as a compensation for your trouble, half of my profits shall belong to you as long as you live, and you need do nothing all day long but lie down with your feet in the sun and your head in the shade."
At this Procope shook his head gravely.
"That would not be a bad thing; but who will go security for you?"
"Your lord."
"The old officer, the wicked old scoundrel?" cried Procope.
"Yes, he himself; he has seen and pitied the trying situation in which I am placed in my old age, and has advised me to do this to remedy it."
Procope was confounded, and for a moment made no reply. He looked puzzled, and pulled his beard.
"Is it really the chief of squadron who advises you to do this? What does he know about the business? You all seem to think that it is as easy to turn pots as to plough a furrow, and that one can light a kiln as easily as he can make soup. Now, I have worked at making pottery all my life, and still I do not always succeed."
"Because you do not take the trouble to do it. You have money enough, food, and a cottage; why should you worry yourself when there is no need of it?"
"That is true enough; but do you really believe, my old friend, that you can learn easily? Mind, I tell you that this thing needs a young head."
"Only try me; your lord will be pleased if you will."
"The devil take him with his lord!" muttered Procope. "Do you suppose the lord cares for the needs of one man?"
"But suppose we should find at Popielnia some good clay for making white pottery? You only make dark things which are ugly and good for nothing."
At these words, Procope rose up in a perfect rage, his fists clinched and his eyes bloodshot.
"They are good for nothing?" he cried in a voice like thunder. "Just wait till I get hold of you, old scoundrel, and you will see that your lord himself will not be able to help you."
"And will you be any better off after you have killed an orphan child and a poor old man?" answered Iermola, humbly, looking down.
His gentleness and submission disarmed the old potter; and he began to smile.
"What orphan are you talking about?" said he.
"Ah! so you know nothing about it all?"
"Nothing at all; I have been travelling for a long time. Tell me about the orphan."
Then the old man, quite satisfied with having appeased the terrible potter, who, though violent and passionate, was really good-hearted, set to work to narrate his adventure, without omitting the least incident or smallest detail, as peasants always do when they tell a story; and fortunately he succeeded in telling it in such a way as to interest and touch Procope. The old potter called his servant that she might hear it also; and thanks to Iermola's touching recital, a whole hour passed without their knowledge. True feeling called forth true feeling; and pity arose in their hearts.
Procope continued to swear and grumble, now, however, no longer at his visitor, but at those unworthy, miserable, wretched creatures who had been so hard-hearted as to abandon a poor child to all the chances of fate and the miseries of an orphan's life. Iermola's situation consequently interested him and excited his pity; perhaps also the remembrance of the dreaded lord, so well known to all his serfs, contributed to increase this favourable impression. To make a long story short, when the little company rose from the table, after having talked for several hours, the potter promised Iermola to come to Popielnia the next day to see the child and look for clay.
Having obtained this promise, which was sealed in a good bumper of brandy, Iermola returned to the dwor to inform his protector of the fortunate result of his day's visit; then hastening through the woods by an unfrequented path, he reached Popielnia, anxious about his little charge and fearful lest Horpyna had hindered him from sleeping by too much petting, or made him sick by stuffing him with sweets.
Tired and dusty, his lips parched, his brow damp with perspiration, full of anxiety concerning the next day's interview with Procope, and trembling lest he had entertained vain hopes and lost precious time, Iermola at last reached the widow's cabin. He immediately seized his dear little Radionek and devoured him with kisses as though he had not seen him for a year; then not desiring to confess to his neighbour the proceedings of the day, he hastened to return to his own cabin.
The next morning he was up at daybreak. He was obliged again to intrust the baby to Horpyna, for it would have been impossible to hold him in his arms as he wandered about the vicinity with Procope; then he busied himself sweeping and arranging his cabin, putting out a flask of brandy, and roasting in his oven a good-sized piece of meat for Procope's dinner, knowing he would not be content with a little, for he was accustomed to living very abundantly.
The potter of Malyczki kept his promise faithfully; about eight o'clock in the morning his little one-horse carriage stopped before the old inn. They put up the mare as well as possible in a half-fallen angle of the wall, and then, as Procope, after having taken two or three drinks of brandy, asked to go first to see the baby, they immediately repaired to the widow's cabin. They were probably expected, judging from the sumptuous reception which was offered them.
The old woman, anxious to second Iermola's efforts, and urged on by her vanity to appear liberal and magnificent in the presence of her guest, had prepared an excellent soup of oatmeal and gruel, a large dish of sausages,--the favourite meat of the inhabitants of Popielnia,--and also a large and appetizing omelet, which greatly added to the luxury of the reception, and at the same time gave the potter a great idea of the widow's opulence.
Consequently the old artisan, overflowing with good-humour, thought the baby pretty, interesting, and good; it is true that Iermola expatiated upon all his virtues and precocious characteristics.
At last, a little later, as the poor foster-father was burning with impatience, the two men left the cabin to go off on their search for potter's clay, though Procope separated himself with evident regret from the dishes and bottles, and would gladly have deferred the expedition to another time.
Iermola sent up fervent prayers to God from the very bottom of his heart, imploring Him to point out to him some good clay; for to tell the truth, he had not the least idea where to go to look for any, and had scarcely any hope of finding it. He, however, comforted himself by saying that Providence often accomplished more than men dared hope for. Having always heard that oak-trees grow best in clay soil, and knowing that the peasants went to look at the foot of the trees around his garden, in the very place where the baby had been put, for the clay which they used to repair their cabins, he resolved, guided by some vague instinct, to go first to that spot.
The two men took from Iermola's cabin a large strong spade, and went together down the little slope which led to the bottom of the garden. Procope, in order to appear important, walked slowly, with both hands stuck through his belt.
"Why, there is nothing here but pure sand," said the old potter at first. "The clay, if there is any, must be underneath it; and who knows if it is good for anything? It seems to me we had better look somewhere else."
They went on a few steps farther, and when they came to the big oak, which Iermola had christened Radionek's tree, the old man took a notion to dig in that place.
Procope, who, naturally listless, disliked exertion, seated himself quietly on the ground; and Iermola, spitting upon his hands, went bravely to work. The first spadefuls of earth he threw up were absolutely worthless; it was only white sand, then gray sand, then yellow sand, then gravel. Suddenly the spade encountered something heavier, more compact, and offering greater resistance; and digging down, Iermola found some clay. But this clay would not do: it was yellow and full of small pebbles; it was thoroughly mixed with sand and gravel.
Iermola offered a sample of it to Procope on the spade, but he contented himself with giving it a scornful glance and shrugging his shoulders.
"Dig deeper; dig somewhere else," he growled, red and breathless from the effect of his recent good cheer; "and--see here, give me your pipe."
Iermola at that moment would have given not only his pipe, but even his last shirt, to conciliate the good graces of the old potter; so quickly taking his clay pipe, which was already lighted, from his lips, he handed it to his companion, and bending down, he silently went to work again with his spade.
At the bottom of this layer of clay another appeared, thicker and deeper, but Procope was not satisfied with that; it was not the real potter's clay. Underneath the third layer suddenly appeared a sort of green earth, very curious-looking, dense and compact as stone, of a dirty cloud-colour and filled with fawn-coloured veins. As he saw this strange, disgusting-looking earth, Iermola felt cold in his very heart; he threw down his last spadeful of earth with a jerk, and almost breathless, leaned upon his spade. At that moment Procope's eye caught sight of a few pieces of earth which rolled to his feet; his face lighted; he stooped, took a bit of it in his fingers, mashed it and cracked it with his teeth.
"Oh, ho!" he cried, in a transport of delight, "You surely knew about this bed of clay. Do you know what sort of earth this is? Why, it is a kind of potter's clay which never has been found within twenty leagues around; there is none known of nearer than Wlodzimiez. Ah, you old raven, old rogue! I did not know you were so designing," continued Procope, letting fall his pipe.
Iermola was struck dumb with astonishment at these words; but he comprehended the necessity of appearing to have acted knowingly, while in reality the hand of Providence alone had led him.
He smiled mysteriously and shook his head.
"And is the bed deep? Dig a little farther and see," said the potter. "When I say that there is not such clay within twenty leagues from here, so tender and strong, and as fat to eat as butter-- Unless you go to Wlodzimiez-- Oh, such pots as we shall bake! Such pots!"
They both then began to dig, and soon discovered a thick and abundant bed of clay. True, they again came upon some veins of whiter earth, mixed with gravel and sand; but these slight layers soon disappeared, and the precious clay, thick and greenish, was there alone, rich and inexhaustible. They carried some of it away with them in an old cloak,--a good big lump which they wanted to try; and having drunk several bumpers to finish up the affair, Procope remounted his carriage and took the road to Malyczki.
Thus it was that the discovery was made at Popielnia of clay, the existence of which had until then never been suspected. That very evening the future potter, the first of all the potters who have rendered the village famous, knelt down in his chamber after Procope's departure, his eyes wet with tears of joy, and prayed fervently.
"The child will have bread!" he cried, perfectly wild with delight. "I thank Thee, my God! Thou hast heard my prayer. The child will have bread!"
XI.
A POTTERY AT POPIELNIA
"The Lord God feeds and clothes his servants," says the Slavic proverb; and the servants of God are men of kindly hearts, throughout whose lives the guiding hand and love of God is as clearly seen as in the destiny of the children of darkness may be traced the result of sin and evil.
This world is so wisely regulated and so skilfully directed that all the good done here bears good fruit by reason of natural causes; while evil carries with it not only its punishment, but in addition the principles and germs of evil. Often the inevitable results of these two great causes are for a time invisible to the eyes of men; a day comes, however, when one sees appear upon the surface what has been fermenting in the vast depths. Often too the great results of good and evil, done here below, are not made manifest in this world; the justice of God, hindering us from seeing them, allows us only to have a presentiment of them. There is one thing certain,--that wherever in this life one meets with faith, love, and devotion, he can be sure also of finding peace of mind and heart, superhuman strength and power.
There is in this world nothing like this for directing the will and making it a power. Love has insight, spiritual presentiments, an innate intelligence, an instinctive knowledge, which amount to infallibility.
Wherever love is found, and under whatever form it appears, when one meets it, one recognizes his king. The animal, raised and animated by love, becomes human. Maternal tenderness, devotion, and fidelity ennoble it. There is nothing sadder in this world, nothing more repulsive, than a life blasted by selfishness and hatred, by the voluntary separation of one being from the duties and interests of others.
The world is framed and bound together by this great tie of love, which makes it one, entire and lasting; and the heart in which no love exists is excluded from the family of God.
Love had sufficed to transform, to strengthen, to rejuvenate Iermola, this weak and poor old man; it had come to the brink of the tomb to give him a new life and to give him more strength than he had had in his youth. You ask me perhaps why I have chosen a being so small and so weak as the representative of a feeling so sublime and generous. But he who has love in his heart is never either small or weak. As for the rest, I shall here repeat the Latin axiom, Natura maxime miranda in minimis. This truth was not made to be perceived only by the microscopic world of learned men and naturalists; in the moral world there are very many opportunities to apply it.
But to return to the moment when that fine potter's clay was found at Popielnia,--a great event in the life of our old man,--everything came to him abundantly and without trouble; everything appeared easy to him, although neither the village people nor strangers could understand how an old and almost decrepit man had been able to learn a trade of which until then he had been entirely ignorant. But with man, will is everything; and when a powerful feeling directs it, to what elevated aim may not the two attain?
The clay was tried at Malyczki, where Procope's pottery kiln was all ready for use; and when Procope had turned a couple of pots out of the new clay, after marking them, he put them in among his others. As soon as the kiln was cold, they hastened to take out the pots and examine them, and found two which were white, pretty, light, and resonant, quite different from those made of the Malyczki clay; the sight of them alone threw Procope and all who were present into ecstasies of delight.
Neither of them had cracked during the firing, and when they were both taken to Popielnia and put in the widow's cottage, every one in the village came to see the wonderful things; and Iermola, perfectly beside himself, hugged the two jugs and wept.
After this it was easy enough to come to an understanding with Procope with regard to the apprenticeship to the trade, the construction of the kiln, setting up the wheel, and other necessary implements; the most difficult part of the business was conciliating the terrible steward Hudny, whose permission was indispensable before digging the clay or building the kiln in the garden. Fortunately, the steward's wife proposed to make something by this new industry. One of the new pots was given her to try; and after that Hudny put no more insurmountable obstacles in the way of the manufacturers. Not being willing, however, to depart from his long-established custom, he gave Iermola to understand that he would be obliged to pay him cash if he expected to obtain permission to work at his trade. So many obligations, so many necessary expenses now overwhelmed the future potter,--who was still unacquainted with his future trade,--that he scarcely knew how he should be able to undertake it. Procope was not willing to give him his time for nothing; the establishment, the tiles, the different instruments, and the digging of the clay were all sources of expense. The poor man's room was now too small; he had to repair, as well as he could, another one, which was next to it. All these preparations caused much loss of time; and the little supply of money was diminished and exhausted with frightful rapidity.
So before the poor man could be in a condition to make anything by his new business, he was compelled to go considerably into debt. Once he thought of using Radionek's money, which he had put away so carefully; but he could not make up his mind to resort to that means. He feared, moreover, and not without reason, lest he should be annoyed by disagreeable conjectures, and exposed perhaps to painful persecutions, if he chanced to allow even one ducat to be seen in his hands.
Fortunately, the widow, while she scratched her ear and shook her head, decided from time to time to open one of her sacks in order to help her old friend, for she was sincerely attached to him as well as to Radionek, the beautiful adopted child. Nevertheless, as the expenses increased, she grew more and more afraid that the whole pottery business would be a failure; and she frequently reproached herself for having encouraged the old man to choose that trade.
Procope, whom the old chief of squadron had ordered into his presence, telling him in plain terms that he expected Iermola's business to be successful, had set himself bravely to work, hoping, however, secretly to derive considerable profit for himself.
As for Mr. Steward Hudny, Iermola paid him twenty florins for permission to dig clay and build a kiln. Then he was obliged to hire two workmen to fit up and plaster another room. A fortnight from that time old Iermola hauled, mixed, and prepared the clay, turned and dried his pots, and was at last ready to fire the first pottery which had ever been manufactured in Popielnia. Procope undertook to watch the fire; and the first burning succeeded so well that on the whole there were very few pots injured.
Then when all the pots had been carried in and ranged round the room, the eyes of the two old men sparkled with delight, their handiwork looked so good and so pretty, was so resonant, so round, and so neat, and promised to be so good and solid. The pots stood the second firing splendidly, and as novelties are the rage even in a village, at the expiration of a few days they were all sold out,--not one jug or dish was left. The profits of the sales, it is true, were not sufficient to pay off all the debts; but the cossack's widow received a part of what was due her, the old man kept some for himself, Procope made a feast with the portion which came to him, the steward's wife pocketed her share, and Iermola, justly proud, entertained brilliant hopes for the future.
In the midst of all these worries Iermola never lost sight of little Radionek, and always kept him in his arms as much as possible. The child gave less trouble every day; one could almost see him grow. His intelligence developed; and it was evident already that he would one day be a charming frolicsome child. In his busiest moments Iermola intrusted him to Horpyna, who was always glad to have him; but he never allowed him to spend the night under a strange roof, for he was too lonely without him. When the baby was away, the poor goat did not know what to do with herself. If she stayed with the baby, she missed the old man; if she followed Iermola, she would bleat sadly as if calling for Radionek.
Fortunately, the first hours spent in the stupid lessons of his apprenticeship passed so rapidly that Iermola became convinced of the truth of the proverb, "It is not the saints who make the pots boil." Thanks to his quick mind, he learned rapidly the first principles of his art; but the turning and sizing of pots, the manipulation and preparation of the clay, were far more easy to comprehend than the manner of arranging the pottery in the kiln and managing the fire. The care necessary to keep the fire moderate, to prevent its going out, and to extinguish it at the proper time, so that the pots should not be burned too much, was the greatest difficulty of all for him,--a difficulty which could only be overcome by long habit and experience.
Procope, who was anxious to make himself very necessary to the old man, only half revealed to him the secrets of his art, which in great measure Iermola was therefore obliged to guess at, and only learned the truth after long groping in the dark. His strong and tenacious will enabled him to concentrate all the faculties of his mind on this one object; and this was a great help to him.
By the time the winter was over, and spring once more clothed in verdure and flooded with water the shores of the river Horyn, when the mariners again appeared on its banks with their rafts, Iermola had really, in every sense of the word, become a potter; his whole stock of pottery was sold at once to the carpenters and woodcutters in the forest. They literally grabbed for them; and the steward's wife was seriously angry because none were left for her, and the old man was obliged to give up even the small dishes he had kept for himself.
Meantime little Radionek grew and developed every day, and possessed every grace and beauty which were necessary to delight a father's heart.
He already began to call Iermola by that dear name, and this brought the tears to the old man's eyes; the child was learning to walk alone, and no longer needed the old goat, for he could now manage to eat a crust of bread, and the good Jewess was only needed to amuse him.
At the end of the year a little kid was added to the family; Iermola was not vexed at this, although he was sometimes much displeased to see that the Jewess bestowed her attention upon her young offspring to the neglect of his adopted son. Radionek played with his innocent, frolicsome little brother in such a pretty, sportive fashion that the old man, as he watched them, often held his sides for laughter, and this furnished him excellent reasons for going and embracing his child and being grateful to the kid.
Thus into this solitary ruin, which a year before had been dreary and almost deserted, hope, joy, and life had entered with the foundling child. One would scarcely have recognized Iermola, he seemed so much younger, and was so active, contented, and clever. The portion of the inn which he inhabited had been repaired and carefully covered, and another room furnished next his; the garden where the kiln stood was shut in by a small, very solid gate and by carefully trimmed hedges; it was evident that the good man was gradually acquiring comfort and competency. Iermola had employed a servant to help him and to take care of the goats; he was a little orphan about ten years old named Huluk. It was impossible for Iermola to do everything by himself; and now he had enough to pay for the child's services.
He really needed a woman in the cabin; but the widow came often and overlooked the household. Besides, his bread was baked, and his linen washed and mended at her house; and it was she also who prepared most of his dishes and undertook to make provision for the winter.
Every time that Iermola boasted to her of the results of his trade, she reminded him of her broken pot, which had first suggested the idea to him; and there is no telling how many times she told the story over, and commented on the accident. Providence had also granted her what she desired most; for her Horpyna had at last made a very brilliant marriage.
The young secretary who had for so long been attentive to Horpyna and made her frequent visits, after much hesitation, reflection, and a great struggle with his feelings, had concluded to listen only to the voice of his heart and asked her mother's consent to their marriage. This was not exactly the person the widow would have chosen, though her daughter was marrying an officer and making a brilliant match. She would have greatly preferred that she should have married a rich peasant, a farmer, who would probably have lived near her. But the young man would not hear of such a plan; he was preparing himself to be a surveyor, and was ambitious. The widow therefore was obliged to give up her daughter, and live alone at Popielnia on the small estate which the old lord had given her. The wedding was very elegant; and the next day after, when the young man, impatient to be settled in his own house, had carried off his bride, the widow, not being able to remain all alone in her deserted cottage, where everything reminded her of her daughter, went and spent the whole day with her friend Iermola. From that time she rarely passed a day without going to his house, for she could talk freely with him about her dear Horpyna, of her utter loneliness and her sad old age; and as Radionek at such times touched her heart and distracted her mind, she gradually became very fond of him.