Part 11

"Ah, mother, I would willingly do that; but it would not help me at all. It is not difficult to turn the dishes; but to glaze them is a very difficult matter, because several drugs must be mixed together for that purpose, and besides, one must know how long to bake them. My eyes are not very good now, and neither is my memory," sighed the old man. "But if you only knew, mother, how much I would like to please my child!"

"But how can you do it?"

"I do not know yet at all; but even if one cannot succeed, one can always try."

"Yes, I am sure of that," answered the widow, with a smile; "how can you possibly refuse your child anything? I know all about that, you see. I was just so about my Horpyna; we scold and fret, but we end by doing what they wish. Consequently you will go, my poor old man, to learn to make the fine glazed pottery."

"Yes, certainly I shall go," sighed Iermola. "Only I would not like the child to know about it. If I should not succeed, it would trouble him very much, but if I could only learn all by myself-- Good Lord, how glad I would be!"

"That's just the way I used to do,--just the way," cried the widow. "Ah, my God! I know all about it. But tell me, where would you go?"

"I would take a little money and go and look up one or two of the potters who sold the glazed ware at the fair; they might teach me if I paid them. If I did not succeed at once, I would take the child; he would understand at once. The only thing I fear is that they would drive me away. How could I propose such a thing to them,--to come to them to learn for the purpose of taking away their living?"

"Ah! you are right; you might not get along so easily perhaps as you did with Procope; but Nad syrotojn Boh z kalitojn,"[7] she added, "and with the help of Providence, you may be able to succeed."

"That is what I think," said Iermola, rising to take leave of the widow. "To-morrow I will pretend to have a little business, and will go to town; please, neighbour, while I am gone, have an eye upon Huluk and Radionek, and do not let them cut up any pranks. They would just as soon go out on the river in a leaky boat or do some other such silly thing."

"Oh, no; they are very quiet, reasonable boys."

"Yes, certainly they are, thank God; but they are so hot-blooded. If a notion strikes them, they are capable of getting lost in the forest, or jumping into the river. May God preserve us from any such misfortune!"

"But it will be hard to keep them near me."

"Certainly; but you can see what they do, and warn them, neighbour."

So saying, the two old people separated, and Iermola immediately announced to the boy that the Jews in the little town owed him some money for his pottery, and had told him to come for it after the fair was over; and that as he wished to collect all the little sums which were due him, he perhaps would be obliged to remain away some days.

He then enjoined upon both boys to be very good, and work well during his absence, and not to go near the river, or wander in the forest.

"Are you going to walk?" Radionek asked him.

"What do you mean? I surely shall not go in a carriage," answered the old man, smilingly.

"But couldn't you hire a wagon?"

"How could I? There is not a single horse in the whole village, except Chwedko's mare, which he would not lend for anything in the world; and as for being dragged along by oxen, I would rather walk. Besides, my legs swell when I sit all the time, and it will not do me any harm to stand up a while."

Poor old Iermola did not remember his age, and attributed the swelling of his limbs to his sedentary occupation, while it was really the effect of age and weakness. He was never willing to spend anything upon himself; and from the moment his business began to pay him anything, he put by all he could spare for Radionek, so that if he should die, the child would not be left penniless. He would certainly have preferred to use Chwedko's mare; but that would have cost him something, and Iermola was extremely economical in everything that concerned himself.

So Radionek was unable to persuade him to hire a wagon; but toward evening he sent Huluk to the village secretly, to learn whether any one was going to town. Then, as he had laid by a few coppers, the product of his work, he charged Huluk, if he found no other opportunity, to hire Chwedko's mare, enjoining it upon the old man to say that having himself some business in the town, he offered a seat gratis to his neighbour Iermola. Everything happened as fortunately as possible. Chwedko's wagon was not hired out for the next day; and the old man, having received two florins for his trouble, engaged positively to feign and lie. Accordingly, by the end of the evening Radionek had everything arranged; and when Huluk returned from the village Radionek went and kissed the old man's hand.

"Father," said he, as he did so, "we have just met Chwedko; he is going to town to-morrow with his mare, and he says that he is lonely by himself and wants you to go with him. In this way it will cost you nothing, good father."

"Chwedko? Where? How?" asked Iermola, in great surprise, as he embraced Radionek. "You are joking, my child, aren't you?"

"No, indeed; ask Huluk," replied Radionek, who exercised over his young valet an authority born of intelligence and affection.

"Oh, certainly not," answered the boy. "I understood him plainly, I assure you; he even begged that you should not start till he comes, for to-morrow, before day, he will be at the door of your cabin."

Iermola bent his head in token of consent, and after that was anxious only concerning the purpose of his journey.

At the bottom of his heart he was quite content to go with Chwedko and so rest his old limbs. He embraced Radionek once more, and then went to bed, always thinking about the beautiful glazed pottery.

Radionek, who was now silent on the subject, thought of it as much. Although he no longer spoke about it, lest he should worry the old man, in his dreams he was constantly handling the large dishes and beautifully glazed pitchers, all painted red and green and white, black and yellow, so as to make them bright and beautiful and attractive. The poor child wearied his brain trying to discover the secret of those preparations which to him seemed like magic, but having no idea, no suggestions on the subject, it was impossible for him to come anywhere near the truth; he could only sigh and worry and grow weary.

XIII.

THE GRAY MARE.

The morning of the next day was clear and bright; from early dawn the sky had been perfectly clear and radiant, which is the sign of a storm. A few fleecy white clouds hung above the forest,--an indication that a shower of rain would fall toward evening; the sun was burning hot; there was not a breath of air. Chwedko was as good as his word, and appeared with his horse and wagon at the appointed hour; he did more than this,--he carefully kept Radionek's secret. He went into the cottage to announce his arrival and light his pipe, calling Iermola hurriedly, as if he had gone out of his way, and complained of being obliged to go on the journey.

"Come, father, come; be quick! Are you ready? When there are two of us, the road will not seem so long. The Devil has sent me on a trip to the city; and the road is very long, and it is so hot. What will it be at noon? We must hurry. Sit down, sit down; do not be ceremonious!"

Iermola took his little bag of money and hid it in his bosom, and was then ready to start.

"Come, let us be off, neighbour."

The two old men sat down in the wagon on a bundle of hay, and Chwedko's gray mare, fastened by her collar surmounted by a bow of wood ornamented with little bells, having cast a glance at her master, decided to start, and went trotting through the village.

In the ordinary life of our lower classes, the creatures which aid them in their work and supply their needs form a portion of their society; the pet lamb, goat, cow, calf, horse, even the goose and hen of the courtyard become companions and sincere friends. How many cares and regrets are had on their account, and how much trouble they give!

From time to time they quarrel, fight, and injure one another; but if one of the household animals falls sick or dies, there is lamentation and weeping. Chwedko's gray mare, of which we should here make mention, for it richly deserves it, belonged to the class of the elect, with whom it is difficult to live, but who, nevertheless, cannot be dispensed with. Gifted with numberless good qualities and terrible faults, she constituted the entire wealth of her master; she was at once his consolation and his perpetual torment, and played a most important part in his life.

In the first place, she was almost the only animal of her kind in this village of Polesia, where the soil was cultivated almost entirely by the aid of oxen; she was consequently well known, respected, and depended upon to execute all pressing commissions, for which one was obliged to hire Chwedko and his horse. The old man, thanks to his gray mare, earned not less than three hundred florins a year; that is to say, three times more than the animal was worth, by taking merchandise to the town and hiring his wagon to the Jews. It might be said with truth that it was Chwedko's mare who fed her master. As for the mare herself, she ate very little. In summer she had no food but the fresh green grass, on which she browsed along the roadsides; in winter a little aftermath, straw from gleanings of grain, a handful of hay, very rarely a small bag of oats, sufficed for the poor beast, which was sober from necessity. Of medium size, old as the hills, healthy, and inured to fatigue, with a sharp backbone and strong neck, the gray mare possessed a bodily vigour which was only comparable to that of her character. When moderately loaded, she would start off at her little trotting pace, and continue the same indefatigably so long as she caught no sight of a stick; but strike her with it once, and from that moment no human power could force her to budge from the spot. Chwedko consequently only carried his stick as a matter of form, and because no villager ever left his cabin without one; but he took care never to show it to his gray, and if when a little tipsy, he inadvertently gave her a touch with it, he knew full well that he should be punished for it by remaining for at least half an hour, nailed to the spot.

The mare's instinct, rendered perfect by long experience, had become infallible; she always knew where her master was going, carried him, guided him, avoided the ruts and muddy places, chose the best roads, and stopped where it was necessary to stop, with a precision which was marvellous,--for the reins, as well as the stick, well-worn, were almost past use, and were there only as a matter of form. Chwedko talked with his mare as if he were talking to a man, only employing at such times a more sonorous voice, which the mare at once recognized as being intended for her alone. He praised her, petted her, encouraged her, and loved to talk to her so well that it had given rise to a proverb in the village where he lived; whenever any one told the same story frequently he would be jeered at and told, "Ah, that is Chwedko's mare."

The gray mare, naturally very grateful, knew no one but her master, and would not allow any one else to approach her, she was so obstinate and cross; he only could drive her or manage her. All the village people knew her as well as they had known Iermola's goat, which was now dead; as they knew Hudny's chestnut horse and Madam Szmula's black cow. A true type of the peasant horse, lean, small, bony, short and thickset, with heavy well-built legs and a full set of teeth, like all September colts, whose teeth always indicate youth, the gray, when starting out on an expedition, invariably limped with her left foot; but this slight infirmity disappeared when she became animated and warmed up.

She had a large head and one eye, slightly injured, and a rough coat; in many places the hair had come off, from a habit she had of rubbing herself against the stable wall. Her tail and mane were very thin, and much tangled, and to look at her one would not have given three coppers for her; yet nevertheless more than one fat nag, well-cared-for, well-fed, and handsome in appearance, would not have been able to compete with her in strength and endurance. She could go the whole day without eating, contenting herself with drinking; for the peasants and Jews water their horses six times a day, thinking thus to supply the place of hay, which they use so sparingly. Hunger was for her a thing usual and to be scorned; in the evening she satisfied her empty stomach with a little hay and a handful of oat-straw. She was not dainty; she did not care for bedding; she would find grass to browse upon in places so dry and barren that a goose even would not pasture there; she only insisted that no one should offend her.

When she scented a bag of oats anywhere, she invariably succeeded in getting at it and eating it; she did not fail to eat up the bark strings, finding them both pleasant and profitable. Whenever a strange horse ate his oats in her presence, she always succeeded in getting them away from him, even if it was necessary to fight for it; and she knew equally well how to defend herself against men and dogs, either with her teeth or her heels. Strangers could only approach her very cautiously, for she was always ready to salute them with a kick. This inestimable creature had already served Chwedko at least twenty years, and could not have been less than five years old when she was first put in harness; still up to this time, with the exception of a slight blowing, she had no defects.

Chwedko and Iermola, being seated in the wagon, and having lighted their pipes, began to talk together in a friendly fashion, without paying the slightest attention to the gray mare, who took upon herself the entire charge of keeping the road.

"Do you remember, neighbour, the day I made you buy the goat?" said the former, smiling. "Ah, ha! that was a good bargain. Szmula has never yet forgiven me for it."

"May God reward you, Chwedko! it was an excellent bargain. The goat is now dead, it is true; but she brought up the child for me."

"Yes, and he is a very pretty boy now; God bless him!"

"I should say he is pretty,--pink and rosy and fresh, as fresh as a strawberry. Ah, what a good child he is, what a dear child!" added Iermola; "it would take a year's time to tell how intelligent he is, and how prudent and honest and amiable."

"Just like my mare, if you'll excuse me," interrupted Chwedko; "my gray is a real treasure. Come, get up, my old woman; gee, gee, my dove, get up! And what an idea it was for you to become a potter in your old age!"

"Bless me! I had to make bread for the child."

"Certainly; but do you not think his parents will come for him some day?"

"And who would dare to come and take him from me?" cried Iermola, much agitated. "If they are coming to take him away, why should they ever have abandoned him?"

"One never can tell about these things," said Chwedko. "Sometimes parents abandon their children forever; but sometimes they come back and say, 'He is ours; you must give him back to us.'"

Iermola, still more agitated, trembled at these words.

"How is he theirs?" he cried. "How? The poor little innocent, did they not cast him away, throw him down under a hedge? And who picked him up, reared him, rocked, petted, and fed him? He is now more mine than theirs."

"You think so? Bless me! I know nothing about it," said Chwedko. "But I should figure it out another way. And have you ever told the little fellow how he happened to come to you?"

"I have kept nothing secret from him; moreover, the whole matter is known through the village. Some one would have told the child; what was the good of keeping it from him? I told him the whole story as soon as he could understand me; and he assured me at once that if his parents should now come for him, he would not leave me."

"He has a good heart."

"A heart of gold, I tell you, my little eaglet, my Radionek."

"Now tell me why you are going to town," said Chwedko, after a moment's pause.

"Must I tell you the real truth?" answered Iermola.

"Of course; but what notion have you taken up?"

"Well, I am not going to the next town; I am going farther."

"Really? Your little boy told me that you were going to collect your money from the Jews."

"Yes, I told him that; but I have another plan."

And here Iermola heaved a deep sigh, and then related to his companion the story of the glazed pottery, to which Chwedko only replied by a scornful laugh and a shrug of his shoulders.

"Ah, ah! your little fellow wants the moon. And since you are contented with your business, why not stick to it without running after new ideas? Sometimes, neighbour, people turn fools with trying to be too wise. You make simple, old-fashioned pottery, and you find purchasers, because even the poorest creature cannot do without some of them, the most wretched must have a pot to boil his vegetable stew. But it will be altogether a different thing with your glazed ware; you will be obliged to go to town to sell it, for no one will buy it in the village. The Jews will buy it from you and pay you a poor price. At the fair one makes little; it will be quite a different thing."

"But the child wishes to do it so very much."

"You will see that this will not help you at all."

"Perhaps it may be so; but how can I do it?"

"You may try, of course, for you will not mind the time. But do you believe that these potters will be sufficiently tempted by your money to give you the secrets of their art?"

"But I will pay them well."

"They are not so foolish as to give a florin for a penny. Do they not know that you want to take the bread out of their mouths? You are not going to learn for your amusement,--that is clear."

At these words, Iermola seemed troubled and bowed his head.

"All that is very true," said he; "but when once God has helped you, He never abandons you till the end. I hesitated very much before, when I went to see Procope; I did not even know where to go to find clay. Yet it was found, and everything succeeded, and now--well, something will turn up."

Something will turn up, is the great unanswerable argument of our poor people, to which they have recourse when all others fail,--an argument which answers for everything and puts an end to all difficulties, for it tacitly expresses faith in Providence and confidence in the intervention of God.

At this moment the gray mare, being accustomed always to eat her small ration of hay in front of the inn, situated about a third of the way and in the midst of the wood, did not go past the well-known place, but stopped of her own accord. Chwedko also got down here regularly to drink a small glass of brandy and light his pipe.

He felt, however, some confusion, seeing that the gray had stopped without his permission; he dared not, in Iermola's presence, go and take his dram without any excuse, but he got down from the wagon and threw a handful of hay to the mare.

"How warm it is!" said he, as he shook his pipe.

"It is indeed; the sun burns one."

"Would you like to go into the dining-room for a moment? Sometimes, when I feel as if there was something heavy on my stomach, I take a little dram."

"How about the heat?"

"Oh, a little brandy is refreshing."

"Very well, neighbour, let's take a drink; I will pay for it," said Iermola, as he got down from the wagon.

The inn in question was one among others where the Jew was constantly on the watch for the peasant, his poor dupe.

The Israelite who lived here did not hesitate to avow that he made his living by selling brandy. There was no courtyard in front of the inn and no stable for horses.

The house was crooked and broken-down, half in ruins and considerably sunken in the ground; but the narrow space in front of it showed at a glance that it was much frequented.

It was situated at a cross-road where three ways met, in the midst of an old forest of oak and undergrowth of alder, visibly damaged by the wheels of wagons, and offering a sight to travellers which at once explained the history of Dubowka (this was the name of the inn hidden among the brush-wood). All around there was nothing but remains of straw, hay, grain, bark, bones, bits of bread, egg-shells, fragments of broken china,--to say nothing of the different spots which showed plainly that many of the teams which stopped in front of the inn of Iuk remained there longer than they had intended.

Upon these remains of hay, straw, millings, and sometimes grain, the Jew's cow and goats, accustomed to live by plunder, grew fat, for as soon as a wagon appeared, one could be sure to see one of these animals steal from behind the house, with the step of a wolf, and retire quietly with the straw or hay upon which they proposed to feed. It was useless to try to drive them away even with a stick; in fact, they ran off whenever the door was opened, but returned again immediately with the double persistency of hunger and gluttony.

The old labourers, being well acquainted with the habits of the place, never left their wagons in front of the inn without leaving their wives or children standing, whip in hand, to drive off the bold invaders. But these impertinent creatures were so sly! if for a moment the children would turn their heads or the mothers begin to scold, one of the goats would jump up on his hind-feet at the back of the wagon and do much damage. Iuk, the owner of the inn, was a little Jew of the very worst kind; lame and quarrelsome, a fool, but a fool after the manner of Sologne, avaricious and mean, in every sense of the words, he cheated and stole from the peasants, without the slightest consideration or shame, and often ended his quarrels with them by fighting with his fists, knowing very well that he would make them repay him in money for every bruise or blow he might receive; and whether beaten or beating, he would always manage to get the advantage.

How he succeeded in living night and day in such endless tumult and turmoil, in constant fuss and noise, never closing his doors, and only lying down to sleep about daybreak on an empty bench, is something that never will be understood.

Iuk knew every one, having studied carefully not only each individual in his own community, but also each one of those belonging to the small neighbouring towns. As soon as the wagons of the peasants of the vicinity stopped before his door, he knew at the first glance whether he must be ready to receive them with a smile, a blow of his fist, a low bow, or a scornful expression.

"Those from Popielnia," said he, "are all great lords; they must always have an onion or a clove of garlic to eat with their bit of bread, and almost every one of them buys a buttered roll. Those from Malyczki are good workmen, but better drunkards; and from Wiezbera they are all Bohemians, all thieves."

The Jew, having seen from his window the gray head of Chwedko's mare, recognized at once the custom which was coming to him; and as there was at that moment no one in the inn, he came out upon the door-sill.

"Ha! ha! ha!" said he, stretching his limbs, "here is Chwedko going to the city again. What business have you there, my good fellow, that you go there so often? And you also, old potter? This is not market-day. You have some engagement down there, doubtless."

"Yes, you are right; an engagement."

"Meantime, give us a glass of good brandy."

"Why do you say good?" returned Iuk, bridling up. "Do I ever have any bad at my house? There is none at the house of Szmula, your great lord, like mine, you well know; and he pours it out half water, at that."

"That is all true; Iuk's brandy is real good, pure gin," said Chwedko, spitting as he spoke, for his mouth began to water.