Part 6
"Like a little angel! I am sure that there is not a baby in the world who sleeps better than he. You should see how intelligent he is! I believe he almost knows me, neighbour."
The orphan's adopted father was greatly astonished when the widow burst into a hearty laugh on hearing him say this. After that he kept silent, quite abashed.
"I really do not know why God did not give you a wife and children," said she, a moment later; "or rather, why He did not make you a woman."
She stopped suddenly; just outside the door a loud voice was heard, saying, "Ha, Iermola! old idiot, come here; you know very well that I expect you." It was the voice and the signal of the steward Hudny, who, having been already informed of the event of the evening before, desired by visiting the hut to see with his own eyes what had happened, so that he could relate the whole affair to his wife. The old man trembled at the approach of this stern master, whom he feared exceedingly, and whom he usually carefully avoided; but leaving the baby in the hands of his old friend, he hastened out of the hut.
The steward was mounted on a fat little horse, with a well-kept and glossy coat; he wore a gray cloak lined with lambskin, long boots, carried a whip in his hand, and had a cap pulled over his ears. One could see at a glance that he had not left his home fasting; and it was easy to perceive that he had fortified himself against the fog with the usual quantity of brandy. He was one of those stewards of the new regime, who had taken the place of the loyal and faithful servants of the old. To the defects of his predecessors, which he had preserved intact, he had taken care to add others peculiar to himself, and which were the penalty he paid to the advance of the times. The worthy Mr. Hudny, as former managers had done, treated the peasants as clowns and clodhoppers. He beat them, oppressed them, and rendered them miserable; moreover, he outrageously robbed and abused those who called him by the old title of manager, enjoining it upon his subordinates to address him as my lord the steward, and announcing to all who would listen to him that he should soon rent a large estate.
He and his wife lived like bugs in a rug, on this fine old deserted domain; they seized upon everything they could possibly take, and sought by every means in their power to escape from a position which was distasteful to them. Neither of them had any heart; but they possessed a revolting pride and an absolute want of principle, such as is manifested only in the ranks of a half-disorganized and deeply corrupted society. Two small bright eyes, a little crossed, which sparkled above a round red face, partly concealed by two enormous eyebrows, on account of their uncertain and conflicting expression, at once threatening and cowardly, gave at the first glance some idea of the character of the man. The rest of his rough and irregular features were partly concealed by his abundant beard and by the enormous whiskers which met under his chin.
Iermola bowed till his hands touched the ground.
"What are the orders of my lord the steward?" he asked.
"What is the news at your house? I hear some talk of a cast-off baby."
"Ah, yes, most illustrious master," answered the old man, adding the word "illustrious" if possible to secure a favourable hearing for his story. "Yesterday evening I heard a moaning sound under the oaks. I thought at first it was an owl; but, no, indeed, it was a baby, please your lordship."
"A boy?"
"Yes, a fine boy."
"And you found nothing else at the same time,--nothing but the baby, eh?" said the steward, fixing upon the old man his piercing, avaricious glance,--a glance which was almost terrifying. "No explanation whatever? No papers, no medal? For everything of that sort, you understand, must be turned over to the police; and the baby must be taken to the hospital."
At these words Iermola began to tremble and wring his hands. "No, my lord," he cried, "there was no sign of an explanation; the baby was wrapped only in a piece of coarse white cambric. I swear to this, my lord; but I do not wish--I will not give this little one to anybody, for God Himself gave him to me."
"Oh, oh! there must be something at the bottom of all this," replied the steward, laughing his wicked laugh. "A child is left at your door, and you wish to keep it? But an inquest may be held, some difficulties may arise, and some expenses be incurred. It is best that you should take the brat to the court or to the chief of the police, so that they can decide the matter; and as for the piece of cambric, send it at once to my wife, do you hear?"
So saying, the steward dismounted and gave his horse to the good man. Then he entered the hut, and Iermola's heart began to beat very fast. The poor old man dreaded for his child the presence and the gaze of this man, particularly as he could not go and protect the baby, for he could not leave the horse. He would have liked exceedingly to be present at the interview, but that was impossible; he listened intently, however, so as to hear as much as he could of the conversation which took place between the steward and the cossack's widow. This mental strain and anxiety agitated him to such a degree that when Hudny came out of the lowly mansion, Iermola was wiping away great drops of sweat as large as tears, which were running down his cheeks.
Fortunately the cossack's widow, for whom the steward entertained a sort of respect, had resolved to purchase peace at a moneyed price, and had taken care to buy her supply of butter from the Hudny dairy, and in some way or other succeeded in persuading him; and the result was that he did not persecute Iermola further on the subject of the baby, nor did he again order him to deliver it over to the police.
"Fie, fie, old fool!'" said he, as he remounted his horse. "Upon my word, it seems absurd for you to take upon yourself such a useless burden. However, I will undertake to make the report to the court; but if you take my advice, you will get rid of the new-comer as soon as possible. What necessity is there that you should have another mouth to feed; and why should a child be brought to you? Ah, it must be a droll story," he added, laughing again his coarse, wicked laugh.
Iermola, in his terror, kissed his knee and hand and elbow, and begged that he would leave the baby with him with an expression so paternal and tender that any one but the steward would have been deeply touched.
But thus Iermola escaped a disagreeable errand; he was not obliged to go to the _dwor_, which would have been bad for him for two reasons: first, because the sight of the dear old house awoke in him painful memories; and secondly, because the steward and his wife, gentle and fair-spoken to their superiors, were harsh, scornful, and unkind to the common people. Thus he also had his whole day to himself, and could do all that was needful for the baby.
At that moment the sun rose, glad, bright, and radiant, like a messenger of hope and faith. Motion and labour began; a thousand noises awoke along the river shore. As the news, the wonderful news, had spread like lightning, all whose business led them along that road went into Iermola's house to see the baby and hear how it had all happened. The cossack's widow, more eloquent than her neighbour, undertook to tell the story, which she constantly clothed in new colours, repeating the smallest details with indefatigable delight. Meanwhile the old man occupied himself in making the cradle, for which, fortunately, he found a rush mat, perfectly woven and sufficiently light.
This mat, swung between the two feet which he had constructed as well as he could, then filled with hay, and covered with the softest and whitest cloth that Iermola could find among his rags, was ready about midday. It would have been, indeed, much easier to suspend a basket by a rope to one of the beams of the ceiling, as was the custom of the peasants, and rock it with his foot. But Iermola was afraid of everything where the baby was concerned,--the rope, the hook, the basket, the beam; and he preferred to undertake a tiresome and difficult task himself rather than to expose the innocent creature to any danger.
The widow rallied him upon his anxieties and fears, but she could not convince him. Then when the cradle was finished, he found it necessary to rearrange the chamber,--that room in which nothing had been moved for so many years. Now it must be arranged differently altogether,--so that the light should not fall upon the baby's eyes; so that he should not feel the draught from the door or the heat from the stove. And after that, he had to build a little shelter in one corner for the goat, with the help of an old door and a broken-down ladder. The obstinate animal did not become at all more docile. She ate whatever was thrown to her, but she would allow no one to come near her; and it was necessary for the present to keep her tied.
When his various preparations were ended, Iermola came and seated himself beside the widow, and listened attentively to all the precepts she laid down to him on the subject of caring for the baby. By dint of strict attention and numberless and exact questionings, he succeeded in learning precisely what he should give him to eat, how many times and in how much water he should bathe him, how he should amuse him, quiet him, and put him to sleep.
The profound and inexpressible affection he felt for the innocent new-comer was only equalled by the intensity of his hatred for the horned and rebellious goat, who persisted in her disobedience, and would not endeavour to appreciate the good fortune which was in store for her. All the while that Iermola was listening to the widow, he cast upon the Jewess a menacing glance, unable to boast sufficiently of the baby's lovable qualities or sufficiently to deplore the goat's unworthiness, her stupidity, and the detestable habits she had acquired while frequenting the inn.
It was in such important occupations that the first day of poor old Iermola's paternity was passed.
VII.
A NEW LIFE.
The fortunes of man are often very strange. He frequently passes through long, barren, unemployed years, awaiting the one moment which brings into relief and into activity all his faculties and all his powers; it seems as though he had slept an age in order to awaken for one hour. A new situation arouses in him unknown sentiments, enlightens his mind, opens his heart, and changes the indolent dreamer into a worker, an indefatigable athlete.
Thus it happened to Iermola, whom the mere presence of this unknown child had regenerated and revived, and who, to the great astonishment of the widow, the people of the village, and all who had formerly known him, not only acquitted himself without difficulty of the care necessary to be bestowed upon his nursling, but became quite another man. He always had been considered one of the most good-for-nothing and insignificant beings in the world, silent, humble, timid, and ignorant. People had become accustomed to see him every day at the same hour in the vicinity of the ruined inn, and to hear the same words of greeting repeated by him every day. With his bowed head and stooping shoulders, and his eyes fixed on the ground, and leaning on a cane, he might be constantly seen, now on his way to the river shore, and now going toward the _dwor_; he gathered grasses, kindling-wood, and fagots, and cultivated in his garden a little tobacco and a few vegetables. On fine summer evenings he repeated his chaplet sitting on his door-sill, and sometimes, when his complete isolation did not weigh too heavily upon him, he allowed several months to pass without appearing in the village. He never went to the inn, never showed himself at weddings, funerals, or baptisms; and when he went to them because he was invited, he stayed only a very short time, and was in a hurry to return to his den, where he squatted down and secluded himself as though there was some sad mystery attached to his life.
Moreover, he visited at none of the houses in the village with the exception of the widow's hut, whither he was drawn by memories of old friendship and also the need of assistance, for there he had his linen washed and mended, and took some of his meals. Some said that he was sulky and cross; but those who knew him best rarely spoke of him otherwise than in terms of kindest friendship. And indeed under his cold, rough exterior was concealed a rare heart, a heart of gold, one of those hearts to be met with among the poor and simple more often than one believes.
Nowadays a goodly number of thinkers interested in such matters, and who judge quite erroneously, have succeeded in discovering in the peasant far more bad qualities than good ones. But considering the influences to which the lower classes are subjected, the examples they have before them, their surroundings, the poverty which enervates them, and the want of moral education which brutalizes them, one can only be astonished at the treasures of honesty which God puts into their hearts.
Under such a condition as theirs, the greatest faults are pardonable; for which of our reformers proposes to inculcate either moral or religious principles? Therefore the virtues they possess really seem miraculous. In order to know the lower classes, it is necessary to observe them closely, and to study them, and not allow ourselves to be led astray by the prejudices and false ideas which we may have imbibed from the speeches of interested persons and from books. Virtue, with them, is the more to be respected, because it is indigenous, like pure native gold. As for us, we are inoculated with it; it is preached to us, taught us from our infancy. It is very easy for us to be honest. Our own interest, our self-love, the aid which circumstances give us, the advantageous emulation with which the social struggle inspires us, our conception of duty,--all help to clear the way for us; and in spite of this, all are not virtuous, or at least as virtuous as they ought to be. It is not at all astonishing, therefore, considering all that we have on our side, and all that makes against the lower classes, that good, equitable, and strict judges have discerned more worth and virtue in the lower than in the higher classes, and have invited the fortunate ones of this world to follow the example which by a sort of miracle is presented by those who enjoy fewer comforts.
We, who are in constant and active communication with our country people, do not hesitate to recognize that they are better by nature and by instinct than the people in other classes of society, than the people of other European races, especially the Western races. Let us examine, compare, and number their vices; and we shall be astonished to find still so much morality among a populace so miserable and entirely abandoned, who must have received the strength to be virtuous simply from the air which surrounds them, from the blood which flows in their veins. It is easy for us to understand and excuse their faults if we will only be just.
Iermola was precisely one of those men, gifted with a marvellous instinct of virtue and feelings naturally affectionate and just, whose nobleness servitude had not been able to stifle, possessing a heart which coarse and imperfect civilization had not been able to make cold, and earnest moral strength which old age had not withered or destroyed. I can find no other word than "instinct" to express that rare and powerful faculty; and I would willingly admit, if I were writing a treatise on psychology, that by the side of the coarse, egotistical, material instinct exists a second one, noble, generous, sublime, different in every respect from the other, which elevates often to the highest plane of virtue the weakest and simplest natures. Those who possess it usually act contrary to their most evident interests; they listen only to their hearts, which never breathe the voice of violence and passion, but rather that of pure love, which longs for perfection, and action, which reveals the need of devotion and tenderness.
The old man of whom we are speaking never had deplored the miseries of his useless and suffering life. He never had cursed his past; he neither scorned nor complained of men. He found a sufficiency in himself, suffered, was silent, and did not succumb, because he accepted everything with a humble and thankful spirit. No one ever saw him spare himself; he was always ready to help others, though he could do but little for himself. Every one knew him in the village; and strangers, as well as old friends, knew to whom to apply when they needed help or sympathy,--for poor old Iermola had nothing else to give. To watch and care for a sick person, to harvest a widow's field of barley, to take care of a houseful of children when the mother of the family was away, to collect herbs and recipes for curing wounds and diseases, were the things that Iermola knew how to do best, and that he did with most pleasure. People made use of him the more willingly because he would not accept any pay, and because he never drank brandy.
Among the lower classes it is customary in such cases to recognize by some gift or other even the smallest service rendered; the good villagers would be offended if these slight marks of their gratitude should not be accepted. They therefore slipped into Iermola's hands a few presents which he took, lest he should wound his friends; some eggs, a little butter, a small loaf of bread, seemed to him more than sufficient return for his services.
He bore no grudge against those of his old friends whom he had obliged, who in times of sickness and need had come to him for help, and afterward deserted and forgotten him. He never complained of their indifference, never called their neglect ingratitude or coldness of heart; he knew the villagers had but little time at their disposal in which to pay debts of affection or gratitude; that generally it was not the will which was wanting, but the possibility; and their indifference was often feigned and very frequently forced. It is necessary to know thoroughly their life of labour and weariness, to feel the effect of fatigue and its consequent lassitude, in order to comprehend it and not be surprised by it. And if with regard to matters of the heart Iermola was superior to his neighbours, in other respects he was still a child of the village, retaining its tastes, habits, inclinations, and prejudices.
The day following that upon which the event we have related took place, nothing was talked of all over Popielnia but the baby found under the oaks by old Iermola, and the goat bought from Szmula,--for Chwedko boasted as much of this good bargain as he usually did of his famous mare.
There were a thousand conjectures concerning the inexplicable appearance of the new-born baby,--an event the like of which was unheard of and unknown in the village; this miserable act was laid to the door, not of the peasants very naturally, for they would not have been able to commit such a deed, since they had no such habits, but rather to some unknown father and mother belonging to the nobility. Suspicions fell first upon one and then another neighbouring lord; but nothing confirmed them, and they contradicted each other. Effort was made to recall exactly everything which had taken place on the two previous days; unfortunately, the tracks of the person who had brought the baby and placed it in the garden had been entirely effaced. One of the villagers had indeed seen, about nightfall, a carriage driving rapidly away in the direction of Malyczki; but this proved to have been only the _briczka_ of the young secretary, who had been to pay a visit to Horpyna and her mother. Another remembered having seen, from a distance on the river shore, a man on horseback, holding under his arm a bundle wrapped in a white cloth; but he learned that it was the manager Hudny, who was taking a ride, and who, on account of the cold, had wrapped a towel round his neck. Marysia, the servant at the inn, also recalled the unknown Polesian who the previous evening had snored so loudly on one of the benches at the inn, and had disappeared when the cocks began to crow; but could he have slept so quietly if he had been the one who undertook to abandon to fate such an innocent creature?
At the inn, in the fields, in the woods, on the river shore, everywhere, in fact, nothing was talked of but the foundling baby; but no person knew any more about the matter than another. All were, however, astonished at Iermola's determination and laughed at the old man, shrugging their shoulders. Meanwhile, in the good man's hut the cossack's widow was preparing a bath for the little one. As she was unwrapping it from the piece of coarse percale which was to be sent to the steward's wife, she examined the child more closely, and began to share the convictions of his adoptive father. The baby was surely the offspring of some noble family, he was so delicate, so fresh-looking, so charming. There was no mark on his clothing, but around his neck was a silk cord from which hung a small medal of gilded brass which Iermola supposed to be gold, and put carefully away. Because of this the two old people began to wonder if the baby had been baptized; and the widow told her neighbour that when there was any doubt on the subject, it was always prudent to have the infant sprinkled with the waters of holy baptism. That very evening the baby took the name of Irydion, which was that of the saint the church invokes on the day it was found.
In the dialect of the lower class, this name assumes a Slavic sound, and is transformed into Radion or Radiwon; the little one was therefore called Radionek, as a sort of pet name. Iermola wept with joy as he took him in his arms and covered him with caresses, saying over and over a hundred times that at last he had a son, and that this son would make him so happy.
Our good man got a little tipsy for the first time in his life, on the occasion of the baptism. He treated Chwedko and the widow to bountiful drinks, embraced them both, pressed their hands, and showered affectionate words upon them. As for the unfortunate goat, who regarded all these joyful demonstrations with angry eyes, he shook his fist at her threateningly.
"Listen, wretched Jewess," said he to her, as he stood before her with flaming eyes and uplifted hand. "Listen, vile descendant of a horned and bearded race: if you are not gentle and obedient, if you are not willing to be an honest and affectionate nurse for this dear little baby, I will immediately find another to take your place. But as for you, I will cut you in two with a wood-saw, as truly as there is a God in heaven."
To these menacing words the goat replied by stamping her feet, shaking and throwing her head up proudly, and all the people present burst into peals of laughter; but it was observed that from that time forth she conducted herself with much more gentleness and docility, as though Iermola's violent harangue had finally triumphed over her indomitable obstinacy.
VIII.
HAPPY DAYS.
Such was the beginning of this self-imposed paternity; in spite of the difficulties at the outset, the good man was so successful that at the expiration of three months he had become perfectly acquainted with all the duties and requirements of his new occupation. The village people never tired of seeing the old man with the baby in his arms, walking with him in the fields or on the river shore; they would immediately surround the pair so strangely but so entirely united, and overwhelm Iermola with questions and the baby with caresses.