Part 15

Then they tried a change of treatment; cares and caresses were doubled, and physicians were sent for. One of them had the wisdom to recommend for the child frequent exercise in the sun and open air; the other, perceiving traces of grief, counselled them to try moral influences. And every time Radionek's ailments were enumerated, Iermola was always blamed for them.

At last, Jan Druzyna, anxious and unhappy, having had a long struggle with himself, resolved to get rid of the importunate old man once for all.

One morning, according to his custom, Iermola, who for three weeks had seen his dear child only on rare occasions, through the window, though he had dragged himself every day to Malyczki, had gained entrance to the door, and driven away with his stick the dogs which the grooms of the pack had set upon him.

The servants, previously instructed to worry him and rid the house of him, tried to drive him away; but the old man refused to allow them to do so. He remained there till toward noon, silent, gloomy, always expectant, like Lazarus at the rich man's gate. Then Jan Druzyna, weary and irritated by the sight of this sad-looking apparition, which seemed a living reproach to him, came out of the house and went himself to encounter Iermola.

"My dear fellow," said he to him in a short, dry tone, and seating himself on a bench midway of the stairway, "for several days now I have seen you here constantly; why are you so obstinate about staying here? Why do you wish to torment our child every moment for nothing? Tell me, what do you want? We will give you anything in our power, only do not disturb our peace. You say you love our child; then do not torment him. The sight of you agitates him, grieves him, and prevents his becoming attached to us; do you not think you ought to understand this, and be more reasonable? If you think by acting in this way that you will get the better of us, you are mistaken. Tell me now what you want, and put an end to this."

"But, my lord, I want nothing,--nothing but to see my child, to kiss him and bless him," answered Iermola, with still more humility and gentleness.

"You see, it is high time that you should give up these ideas, which are only follies. You brought him up; we have been willing to repay you for that. Now that is all over; the child has returned to us. Let him remain in peace. You love him, so you say, yet you make him unhappy."

"Who? I, my lord?"

"Yes, you, certainly. See how he is changed; he is withering away and consumed with fever."

"And it is I,--I,--who am the cause of it, my lord?"

"Assuredly it is not us."

"It is you,--it is you who are killing him," then cried the old man, his patience all exhausted. "I gave him back to you happy, vigorous, in good health; you have shut him up, destroyed his strength, and made him miserable and sad. The child loves me, and he has reason to love me. If he did not, he would be heartless; and you,--you do all you can to teach him ingratitude."

"Are you beside yourself, old man?" cried Jan Druzyna, in a rage. "What do you mean? How dare you answer? Go off; go off immediately, and never think of stepping your foot in this house again, for you will be driven out of it."

At these words Iermola turned pale, trembled, was seized with fright, and tried to speak; but words failed him.

"You drive me away," said he at last. "I shall go away, since you order me to do so; and my feet will never again cross your door-sill. Remember, remember, unjust man, that as you have taken the child from me, God, who judges and punishes, will take him away from you."

Having uttered this terrible imprecation, which the mother heard just as she was hastening to restrain her husband, and which caused her to recoil, frightened and fainting, Iermola, desperate and beside himself, making use of the remnant of his strength, fled down the stairway and crossed the great courtyard without turning his head to look behind him.

After a few moments Jan Druzyna recovered himself. He realized his wrong-doing; and the prophetic words of the old man began to weigh upon his heart. The sight of the old man, who was rapidly disappearing from sight in the distance, was a cruel reproach to him. Not knowing what to do, he rushed into the house and entered just in time to receive his fainting wife in his arms.

She wished to go for Radionek and send him after Iermola, to soothe his anger, and bring him back to her family, but when she entered the child's room she found him on the floor, cold and pale as marble, and before any one could revive him, Iermola was already far away.

When night came, the poor man dragged himself wearily to the house of his old friend the widow, to whom he wished to make his lament and tell everything. He had not seen her for a week, for every morning early he had started for Malyczki; he therefore did not know that the poor woman had been very ill for three days. He had scarcely put his foot inside the door when he saw that according to custom the glass had been taken out of the windows, a coffin placed in the middle of the room, and a little way off the brotherhood with their banners, the cross, and the priest with the book, were coming to the burial.

Then Iermola, like one waking from a dream, gazed a long, long time upon the coffin, knelt down, and began to pray.

"She too! she too!" he murmured. "Come, it is time for me to die." He felt the chill of evil foreboding run through his veins. "But first," said he, "we must go with her to the cemetery and throw a handful of dust on her coffin."

Silent and sad, he stood a moment near the door, leaning on his stick; then he joined the funeral procession, in which there was neither daughter nor son-in-law nor grandson, only the servants, the neighbours, and distant relatives of the deceased.

The cemetery was situated about halfway between the _dwor_ and Iermola's dwelling; toward this spot, therefore, the funeral procession moved. In the dim twilight the long line of tapers borne in the hands of the brotherhood were reflected above on the moving folds of the banners. Chwedor had already dug the grave; a great heap of yellow clay was piled up on the edge of it. The priest blessed it and made a sign to lay the body of the widow within it; then each of those present threw in a handful of sand and murmured a last farewell. Iermola paid this last duty with much feeling; then, half beside himself, he slowly took the road back to his hut. There was no longer any reason why he should hasten there now.

Huluk, who considered himself already quite the master of the house and the little business, and who, although good-hearted, really began to find Iermola somewhat in his way, was at this moment leaning against the doorway, dreaming of a future full of glad, ambitious hopes. It seemed to him that if Iermola were no longer there, he could so easily take possession of the pottery kiln and the little garden, marry little Pryska, and become a master-workman in every sense of the word. His old master at first seemed useless to him, then troublesome and in the way.

"What news have you for me? Did not the cossack's widow send for me when she was taken sick?" said the old man as he came near.

"Yes, certainly, Chwedor came three times of his own accord; she had something to say to you, but you were not here."

"Ah, now she can speak no more," replied Iermola, in a mournful, almost indifferent voice, as he entered the house. "What is the use of talking about it? It is all over now. Everything in this world must come to an end."

He repeated these words as he walked up and down the room; then he seated himself on one of the benches and began to doze. Huluk then went out, shrugging his shoulders.

"What is the old man thinking of?" said he. "Wouldn't it be better for him to go off with a sack and beg? Then I could marry Pryska, and all would go well; but so long as he stays here, how can I think of it? Oh, what a bother!"

Confusion and discord now reigned in the chamber which formerly was so clean and well kept; it was easy to see that no one cared for it any longer. Huluk had taken some of the furniture into the next room; the old man had distributed some among his old friends; the rest was scattered here and there and covered with dust. There had been no fire in the stove for a long time; there was no pile of wood in the woodshed, no provisions in the house; a few cooking utensils lay in the corners, dusty and half broken. The old man had no longer any heart to notice all this. When he woke in the morning, he felt as if he could take courage and do something; but after a little while everything seemed so sad, so bitter, so grievous, the hut itself, with all its memories, became so hateful to him, that for the first time he thought of leaving it forever. He could not sit on the door-sill without looking at the clump of oaks under which he had seen, wrapped in his long white clothes, the child who had been the hope and comfort of his old age. These memories were still so fresh and heart-breaking that the old man could not endure them while surrounded by them, and, as it were, fed upon them.

"I will go away,--yes, I will; may God pardon them! I will go and wander about the world, grieving and praying," said he; "I will go from church to church praying for my child. What else can I do here? Here there is no longer any place for me; there are no friends for me. With a sack on my back and a stick in my hand I will start out. I can do no good by staying here."

He took from his usual hiding-place some silver and copper money, so that in case death should come suddenly on the road or among strangers, enough would be found on his person to bury him decently and pay for a Mass for the repose of his soul; he made up a bundle of clothing and put it on his shoulder, put some linen in two bags which he tied together with cords and threw over his back after the fashion of a beggar's sack, and when thus ready to start, he called Huluk. The latter, as he came out of his room and saw his old master dressed as a beggar, trembled and felt confused, as though his thought had been divined. His heart beat violently; he began to pity Iermola sincerely, to be disgusted with his favourite project for the future and the business.

"You see I am going to wander about the world, my child," said the old man, gently. "I leave you all I have; live for God and according to God's command. May God grant you happiness here, a longer happiness than mine! Everything here is yours; if some day I should return, you will not refuse me shelter and a piece of bread. But no one need fear; I shall not trouble any one long."

Huluk then burst into tears, and fell at the old man's feet, for this generous gift was a great thing for the poor orphan; and Iermola felt touched when he saw him weeping.

"Are you going now?" cried the young man.

"What should I do here?" sighed the old man. "They have just buried the widow; Chwedko is ill, and perhaps may never get up again. I have not a single friend now in the whole village, and worse than all, I no longer have my child, my child!"

As he spoke, he wiped away his tears, which filled his eyes and flowed over his cheeks; he went forward, stepped over the threshold, and started off, feeling as though he saw everything moving around him,--the fields, the cottages, the hedges, the trees. Huluk watched him go slowly through the village; the dogs that knew him barked around him; then he plunged into the forest and disappeared, taking the road leading to the town.

Three days later, when the child, ill in bed, was found to be in real danger; when a physician, wiser than the others and better acquainted with his past life, told his parents plainly that old Iermola must be sent for, that the child must be sent back to his old life, to the work and food to which he had been accustomed,--then the father and mother hastened with him to Popielnia. But what was their astonishment and Radionek's despair when they found that the old man was no longer there, and learned that he had gone away, begging his bread and seeking to forget the past and his sad memories.

The terrible and touching grief of the poor foster-father at last moved 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.