Part 5

"No; since noon he has been down there with the neighbours. But if you wish, I can go and bring him here, though usually he does not like to come to the inn. But perhaps you do not wish to sell your old white goat? I merely thought of this for your interest; why should you let all the money of the people go out of the village? However, if the idea does not suit you, say nothing about it, and let him go on to the town."

"Wait a moment, wait," said the Jew, after a pause, seeing Chwedko with his hand on the knob of the door. "Why should he go to the town?"

Here he called Sara, who came in with a discontented countenance; they exchanged a few words in their own language, Szmula speaking in a low voice and his wife looking very cross. Chwedko tried to divine the intentions of the couple from their voices and their gestures, but in vain; the Jewess went out at last, and Szmula, turning to him and slapping him on the shoulder, said,--

"You are a good man when you want brandy on credit. I have told Sara to let you have a rouble's worth; do you hear? Bring Iermola here in the great hall. The goat is there; he can buy it. It is a good goat; he will like it. It is an excellent goat. How much money has he?"

"I do not know really," answered Chwedko. "He must have, I think, about fifteen florins; and the cossack's widow will probably lend him something more."

The Jew nodded his head silently, and having thus taken leave of the peasant, who hastened to rejoin his companion, he put on a warmer overcoat, for he took great care of his precious health; then he walked slowly into the great hall under pretext of going to look over some accounts with his servant, Marysia, who on the Sabbath as well as all other days served at the bar of the inn, besides which she took care of the children, milked the cow, in fact, rendered herself generally useful to the household.

The great hall, dark, dirty, and mean-looking, without any floor, dimly lighted by a torch of resinous wood which was smoking in one corner, was occupied at this moment only by Marysia (who was so very fat and short that the peasants compared her to one of the big-bellied barrels in which bacon is put up in brine), the white goat, who wandered around looking in all the corners for something to eat, and a Polesian peasant, who, after having taken a small glass of brandy and an onion, had stretched himself beside the wall with his money-bag and his shoes under his head, and was sleeping like a rock, and snoring like a chariot in need of greasing.

Szmula walked up and down for some time, looking first at the goat and then at Marysia, who was quite astonished at his sudden entrance. He yawned, sighed, and turned his thumbs over each other; then all at once hearing the sound of a footstep in the vestibule, he went to the window and began chalking figures on the shutter, keeping his eyes fixed on his calculations, and pretending to be very busy.

Just at that moment Chwedko appeared, followed by old Iermola, who was trembling like a leaf and blushing also at the thought of the farce he was obliged to play in order to get the white goat. His first glance fell upon the tall figure of the Jew; and this glance would doubtless have been sufficient to betray him if Szmula had seen it. But fortunately the Jew at that moment was entirely taken up with his own rôle; he seemed utterly absorbed in important business, and was standing with his back to the two friends.

"Good-evening, my lord merchant," began Chwedko.

"Good-evening," answered Szmula, half turning round, and muttering a few words through his beard.

"Well, what shall we do? Shall we take a drink of brandy?" continued Chwedko.

"For my part, I rarely drink; but to keep you company--Pour out something for us to drink, Marysia."

"You are going to the fair," resumed the first speaker; "you must strengthen yourself for the journey."

"Ah! so you are going to the fair, are you?" interrupted Szmula. "Perhaps you have something to sell. I shall be glad to buy it from you."

"No, I am going for another purpose."

"And what is it?" said the Jew. "This is the way all of you peasants do,--as soon as you have any business to transact, you run to the town. Are you thinking of buying anything?"

"See here, my lord merchant," answered Chwedko, interrupting, "my neighbour wants a cow; he is lonely, and for company's sake is willing to take on himself one more bother."

"But why get a cow?" asked the Jew, in a scornful tone.

"Well, it would give me some pleasure, and perhaps some profit."

"Pshaw, pshaw!" cried Szmula, waving his hand, "one can see plainly that you never have owned a cow, and that you do not know what it is to take care of one. First, you must pay the little herdsman, and God only knows how much the herdsman asks; besides, the cattle always come home hungry. Then you will be obliged to buy hay,--and hay costs as much now as pepper; and tailings,--and tailings are now ten coppers a bag; and buckwheat,--and I do not sell that for less than forty coppers a bag; that is what every one pays me. Besides, she must have grass and potatoes; and if you do not give her some of all these things, the animal will get poor. Then there are so many diseases and so much time when the creature gives no milk. Think of it! not a drop of milk for six months in the year!"

"Yes; but one has the calf and a little milk."

"And who, pray, will take care of the animal for you?" interrupted the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.

"What did I tell you?" here put in Chwedko. "For a poor man like you a cow is only a bother and nothing else."

"But she would give me nevertheless a calf and a few drops of milk."

"Yes, about milk; talk about that," answered the officious go-between. "As for milk, I can assure you there is nothing so good as a goat. Observe, a goat costs very little and lives upon anything it can find,--branches, leaves, or stubble. Besides, a goat needs no care; and when once you have tasted goat-milk, you can be sure you have had something to drink, it is so sweet and nourishing."

"Really, to tell you the truth," said the innkeeper, in his turn, "I can assure you there is nothing like a goat. If any people know how to manage, it is our race, I believe; and you see that we almost invariably have goats. But men have opportunities to observe, yet do not comprehend; a goat is a treasure."

"Well, when I have thought the matter over, perhaps I shall buy a goat," said Iermola.

"And you will do well," cried Chwedko,--"you will do well, I repeat. Now suppose Mr. Szmula were to sell you his white goat?"

"What is it you are saying?" said the Jew, quickly, as though he had heard by chance. "I would not sell my white goat for any price; do you hear? It is the only pet of my wife and children, and moreover it is an invaluable animal; it is worth more than a cow."

"I am sorry," answered Iermola, looking attentively at the white goat, which was strolling around, "for the town is not here; my old legs will scarcely carry me so far, and, dear me, I might have decided to buy your goat."

"True, it is only a goat, but such a goat!" answered the Jew. "Have you ever seen one like it? She has so much instinct, so much sense, upon my word, one might almost talk to her; and as for her milk, it is all cream. You might go twenty miles and not find her equal. It is not a goat; it is a treasure, a rare possession."

"But it is old," observed old Iermola, respectfully.

"Old, old! Well, what does that matter? The older a goat grows, the more it is worth. Besides, how could it be old? It has hardly begun to live; it will live twenty years yet," cried Szmula, becoming more and more excited.

"How much did it cost you?" asked Iermola.

"Oh, it has cost me-- I cannot tell you how much. First, when it was just born, I paid two roubles for it. For you see this is no ordinary goat; it is of a fine breed,--a very rare breed. I would not take six roubles for it; she eats almost nothing, and she is always fat, and every year she bears two kids."

After this speech there was a moment of silence. Iermola turned pale and became agitated, not knowing what to say. He gazed at the goat, which continued to walk around, stamping on the ground with her hoof, and poking her head into every corner where she perceived the faintest odour of food. She occupied herself in picking up scattered leaves, bits of bark, and cabbage stalks; and in justice to her, it must be said that she minded her own business and disturbed no one.

"She would suit you exactly," said Chwedko, resuming his rôle of courtier. "She never would run away, because she is already accustomed to the village. She knows where to go to graze; she is old, gentle, and used to being milked."

"And she is not an ordinary goat," repeated the Jew, in a sententious tone; "she is of a rare breed,--a good breed."

"But where should I find so much money?" sighed Iermola.

"Come, see here," answered Szmula, coming nearer and speaking earnestly, "you are an honest man; I will have every consideration for you. In the town people might cheat you; I will give you a good bargain, and let you have the goat for three roubles. Now that is the best I can do; make up your mind."

Chwedko, who had not expected such reasonable terms, hastened to conclude the bargain, quite satisfied to find Szmula in such an accommodating mood.

"Come, hold out your hand, neighbour, and thank my lord merchant; you have made an excellent bargain. Pay for the animal and take her; I hope you will be quite satisfied with her."

"Well, what shall we do?" sighed the old serving-man. "I will take it at that price, since my lord merchant will not take less. Please give me a bit of cord so I can lead the goat home."

Accordingly, the purchase was quickly made and satisfactorily beyond all expectations. Iermola drew from a knot in the corner of his handkerchief three roubles, which he gave to Szmula. The Jew examined them, threw them on the ground, as was his custom, and then, dropped them into his pocket.

"You will return the string to-morrow?" said he, as he slowly retired to his chamber.

"How about the treat?" said Chwedko, timidly.

"That is Iermola's right," answered Szmula, "but since he did none of the bargaining, you shall not pay for your little glass of brandy; I will treat myself."

Then Marysia threw to the two friends a piece of cord with a buckle at the end which was used to carry the fagots of kindling-wood. And Chwedko, having shut the door, began to chase the goat, who, suspecting some foul play, fled from the least approach of her two pursuers. The Jew had already gone away to his own apartment.

"Well, upon my word, you have shown your sense," cried the servant when she saw that her worthy master had disappeared. "What a shame to give twenty florins for a miserable old beast! you might have bought three young ones at the fair for that price."

The two old men kept silence; and having tied the string to the animal's horns, they led their conquest away.

Iermola was trembling with pleasure; the tears filled his eyes; and he embraced his neighbour.

"You have done me a great service; may God reward you!" he murmured.

"For the present, I shall not think of showing myself at Szmula's house," sighed Chwedko, who recognized the full extent of the danger to which he had exposed himself. "As soon as he hears about the baby, the rascal will suspect some trick, and never will forgive me. He would have fleeced you famously had he known that the goat was such a necessity."

Talking thus in low tones, they reached the widow's hut, forcing the goat to obedience by various means, more or less gentle, for she had not the slightest desire to go away from the inn.

Meantime the storm began to mutter behind them, for Sara, greatly enraged, had just rejoined her husband, and was relating to him the story of the baby left at old Iermola's house, which news she had just learned from Marysia, the bar-maid.

Szmula, who was not wanting in sagacity, understood at once why his goat had suddenly become so necessary; he pulled his beard and bit his finger-nails.

"Just wait a while, you rascal, you scoundrel of a Chwedko," muttered he, shaking his head. "If I live only a little while longer, I will pay you for it."

VI.

WHEN ONE LOVES.

In the life of a good and loving man,--one who, like Iermola, had led an isolated existence and had preserved in full force all the strength of his affections,--an event such as that which had just happened produces a sudden and entire change. The old man became young again. He felt the ties which bound him to the world renewed and strengthened; he had henceforth an aim in life, a hope, a bond, an affection, a new desire for work, the delights and anticipations of an unknown feeling. The poor orphan, cast off by his parents, became the crowning treasure of his old age.

A sort of excitement, such as he had not felt for years, took hold of his entire being, and made him at once stronger and more tender. He was disturbed; he wondered; he feared; he hoped; and he was anxious concerning the morrow. Tears sprang to his eyes. He felt that he had changed; he had become another man. He had forgotten the past, and he was dreaming of the future. He felt himself blest, very happy, never suspecting the weary moments, the cares and toil he was preparing for the remainder of his existence. Like the bird in whose nest the cuckoo lays her eggs, he was astonished, frightened, content. For the first time he found, to his surprise, that he dreaded death; that he felt the need and the desire to live. Chwedko no longer recognized him, he was so utterly changed; the old man, usually so silent and indifferent, now spoke with warmth and vivacity, so entirely did he resume the attraction, the gestures, and thoughts of a young man.

He found it impossible to remain patiently any longer beside Chwedko, for their stubborn companion never ceased for a moment to make every effort in its power to get away from them and return to the alehouse. He therefore confided the goat to the care of Chwedko, and hastened on in advance.

He rushed into his old friend's hut and ran at once to the wooden bench where the new-born baby was lying asleep, quieted and satisfied by the good milk it had drunk. Beside it stood Horpyna, the little shepherd, and the servant, who were watching in silence this unexpected guest. Iermola made his way through the little group, and seated himself on the floor so as to see the baby better.

"I think he is asleep," he whispered in the old widow's ear.

"Ah! to be sure, the poor innocent one," replied the old woman, nodding her head.

"And did he drink the milk?"

"Oh, certainly he did, and stopped crying immediately. But about the goat?"

"We have bought it; Chwedko is leading it hither."

Good old Iermola gazed with rapture upon his precious baby. "How beautiful he is!" he cried after a moment. "It must be the child of some nobleman."

"He is a fine hearty boy," interrupted the widow; "but all children look alike when they are small. It is only later on, my good old man, that it is possible to distinguish those who have sprouted up under the hedge like a bunch of nettles from those who have grown up in the sunshine in the open fields. But at least this one is as lively as a fish; so much the better for you,--you will have less trouble."

Iermola laughed, but at the same moment his eyes filled with tears.

"Mother," he replied, "never in all my life have I seen so beautiful a baby."

"You have lost your senses, Iermola," cried the cossack's widow, bursting into a loud laugh and shrugging her shoulders. "Are you really thinking of bringing up the child yourself all alone?"

"And why not?" replied the astonished old man. "Do you suppose I would turn him over to strangers?"

"But you will not be able to do it. It seems an easy thing to you; but what will you do all alone, no woman near you at your age? Remember it must be fed, bathed, put to bed, amused, and looked after; this will be too great a task for you, all by yourself."

"Let me alone," answered Iermola, waving his hand. "It is not the saints who boil the pots;[5] I will prove it to you. You shall tell me what to do; and as true as there is a God in heaven, I never will be separated from this baby."

"Has the old man gone crazy?" cried the widow, shrugging her shoulders. "He thinks it is as easy to bring up a child as it is to raise a little dog; and how much worry and fatigue he will have during two long years!"

"The longer the better. Don't say anything to me, mother, don't say anything; I will not listen to you, I will bring him up; I shall do it well, you will see."

Every one laughed at old Iermola's enthusiasm. He was unable to jest on the subject, and for a moment he even began to be doubtful of himself, to hesitate.

"Good mother," said he, in a low voice, a little sadly, "help me, teach me, advise me; you will find that I shall know how to show my gratitude. When harvest-time comes, or when it is time to work your garden, you will find that all that sort of work will cost you nothing."

"Make yourself easy," answered the widow; "you know that I am not stingy with my good advice. I will help you and this orphan; but tell me this one thing, do you really believe that in your old age, and knowing nothing about nursing or bringing up children, you will be able to undertake to be its mother?"

At these words Iermola bowed his head and made no reply. Judging the feelings of others by those of his own heart, he feared that under this pretext some one would come and take his baby from him.

Then he rose, cautiously approached the bench, raised the coverings, took the baby gently in his arms, and started toward the threshold. At that moment the door opened, and Chwedko appeared, accompanied by the goat. The white head and horns of the animal appeared in the dark space of the half-open door, touched by the light of the flickering candle, and began to move. Horpyna, at sight of it, was startled, and screamed.

"Well, well!" cried the widow, "here is a nurse."

"Let us go back to the house," whispered Iermola. "Good-evening, mother; come to see me to-morrow, if you will be so good."

"I will, if only for the sake of curiosity," answered the old woman.

Then the good man, constantly fearing lest they should take his baby from him, hastened to leave the house. His heart felt lighter when he found himself in the street. Chwedko followed behind him, leading the goat, and both went on in silence toward the old ruined inn.

Iermola, however, was communing with himself all along the way.

"Why should I not be able to do it?" said he to himself. "I understand,--I understand; the old woman wanted to keep him herself, the beautiful little angel. But I will not give him to her. No, indeed; she shall not have the care of him. Once more I repeat, 'It is not the saints who make the pots boil.' I will bring up the child! I shall have a son!" he cried, with joyous pride. "My good Chwedko, take care of the goat; I will give you a florin, for you helped me very kindly. May God have in store for you a more abundant reward!"

The two, walking cautiously along, at last reached the door of the old house. Iermola laid the baby, who was still fast asleep, upon his own bed, and then undertook to light a fire; as for Chwedko, he even put off going to see after his gray mare, the only possession he had in the world. Seeing this, the old man gave a florin to his friend, embraced him, and sent him off, remaining alone in the room with the goat and the baby.

He did not think of going to sleep; he felt no need of sleep, he had so much to do, so many preparations to make. At first he seated himself near the stove, not knowing what to do first, his eyes fixed on the baby as one gazes on a rainbow after a storm. The old goat wandered restlessly about the room, butting against the door with her horns, and mousing around in the corners, picking up whatever she could find to eat.

The noise at last woke the baby; and Iermola sprang forward to hush it, when it occurred to him that the best plan would be to tie the Jewess (that was the name Chwedko had given to Iermola's new possession). Accordingly he threw her a little straw, and she became quiet, resigning herself to her fate. The baby slept on sweetly and soundly. Iermola had now no bed for himself, but he did not care for it; he sat down upon the piece of a tree-trunk, cut flat off at both ends, which served him as a stool whenever he wished to sit near the stove.

His bed was well filled; and he had so many things to think about and so many things to do before to-morrow morning!

He had already been warned that he would have to announce the discovery of the baby to the steward Hudny, who represented the estate, and tell him that he, Iermola, would undertake the charge of the poor little one. In addition to this disagreeable duty, which he would have given anything to escape, he had to make a cradle for the baby and to attend to a number of other small matters. Then the creature might waken and cry; he must soothe it lest it should shed tears. However, he felt that he could do all this, for strength did not fail him now,--that strength which comes from the heart.

The whole of this bright, short spring night was passed by him full of anxiety and care; the first gray light of morning which shone through the window found him still disturbed and embarrassed, but feeling no need of sleep or rest. Finally he thought he would like to go and cut some feet for the cradle from the old logs which were in his other room; but he feared to leave the child, and besides, the goat might disturb him. The creaking of the door even might waken the little creature; and what if, when he was busy at work, he should not hear him cry!

But the sense of these difficulties and apparent impossibilities overwhelmed him only momentarily; at other times he told himself that it would be easy to surmount it all, and he strengthened himself by hope, forgetful of hunger, fatigue, and want of sleep. The sun was just about to rise when he undertook the task of milking the goat, so that he might have some milk ready when his dear little one wakened; but the old Jewess was not in a kindly and accommodating humour. She was stubborn as a goat; that describes her temper. Moreover, she was accustomed to obey only her old master and mistress, and absolutely refused to submit to the will of her new owner. At first Iermola treated her with great gentleness. He patted her, spoke to her, and endeavoured to convince her of the necessity there was for her to be docile; but all was of no avail, and he was finally compelled to resort to violent measures. Then the goat boldly raised the standard of revolt; she broke her rope and rushed toward the door of the chamber, butting it with her horns. The baby, at this noise, woke; the old man tore his hair.

Fortunately, at this moment the cossack's widow arrived, the curiosity which had consumed her since she wakened having led her to Iermola's hut. Seeing him in such a state of bewilderment, she burst into a loud laugh, but she also set to work and succeeded in milking the goat with the most surprising ease. It might have been because the Jewess was accustomed to allow herself to be milked by women, or perhaps seeing herself alone against two, she doubted the expediency of opposition; but she voluntarily submitted to the widow. As for Iermola, he was already rocking the baby.

"Well," asked the old woman, "how did you pass the night?"

"I did not go to bed," answered Iermola; "but the baby slept sweetly. Only that miserable goat--"

"Oh, you will not have much trouble with her; she will become accustomed to you in a day or two if you feed her well. And so the little one slept?"