Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=ilpGAAAAYAAJ&dq
2. Alternate spelling of author's name: Józef Ignacy Kraszewski

IERMOLA

IERMOLA

BY

JOSEPH IGNATIUS KRASZEWSKI

Author Of "The Jew"

Translated

By MRS. M. CAREY

NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD, AND COMPANY
PUBLISHERS

Copyright, 1891,

By Dodd, Mead, and Co.

All rights reserved.

I E R M O L A.

I.

[THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE.]

Amor omnia vincit.

The events which are here related took place in Wolhynian Poland, in that little corner of the earth, happily overlooked, where up to the present time neither great highways nor roads frequented by carriages are to be seen,--a land remote, almost lost, where the antique modesty, simplicity, innocence, and poverty of past ages are still preserved. I do not mean by this to say that all human vices with burdens of sins upon their backs are always to be seen following in the footsteps of civilization along the great highways; but unfortunately there is always, between one social condition just ended and another which is beginning, a period of transition during which the old life is extinguished, and the new does not yet exist; and the result is indecision and sad confusion. That hour, which has already chimed for other nations and other provinces, has not yet sounded for this little nook of our land. Here people live, particularly in the dwors[^[1]] of the lesser nobles, according to the traditions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, which have left upon the people the impress of their thought, their faith, and their manners.

It is true that in those yellow-painted dwors belonging to the richer nobles certain reforms have been adopted and a few new customs are in use; but the mass of the lesser nobility are astonished and scandalized at these innovations. Can it be otherwise in this honest little corner of the earth, where the newspapers arrive in bundles once a month; where the sending and receiving of letters is managed only by means of the Jews who come to pass the Sabbath in the neighbouring town; where the whole business of the country, with the exception of some traffic in building timber, of which we shall speak farther on, is the breeding of livestock and the manufacture and sale of shoes made of bark? Some persons perhaps will find it difficult to believe that there still exists a spot on earth so remote and so behind the rest of the world; but it is really true that in the district of Zarzecze, in the environs of the marshes of Pinsk, not very long ago, there were still homes of nobles, whose occupants sometimes inquired of travellers for news of the health of King Stanislaus-Augustus, and were still in complete ignorance of all events which had taken place since the days of Kosciusko.

Soldiers are never seen there; officials are unknown. Even those of the inhabitants who go to Pinsk to pay taxes never ask the names of those to whom they pay them, and wrapping their receipts carefully in their handkerchiefs, never dare to examine them closely, fearing lest this might cost them dear.

The portion of country which will be the scene of our narrative was, however, neither so remote nor so wild. The almanac of Berdyczew regularly found its way there in the latter days of December, bringing a far-off reflection of foreign civilization and a collection of the facts most necessary to the inhabitants,--such as the name of the dominant planet for the current year, the date of the feast of Easter, the hour of the rising and setting of the sun, and the receipt for the destruction of insects which had been brought over from England. The post-office was only ten miles away, and the richer nobles sent a messenger for their newspapers every month or six weeks; some of them even received letters by this means still so little used.

The majority of the inhabitants preferred, in fact, to confide their commissions to the hands of a messenger on foot, even when he had to go as far as fifty miles, for the Polesian messenger is superior to all others. None walk so rapidly; none are so discreet, so faithful; none ask so few tormenting questions; and none so surely and so cleverly escape all sorts of dangers. At first sight one would take this peasant porter for a beggar or vagabond, with his torn and threadbare old gray coat, and his wallet containing a few crusts of bread and a change of shoes; but closer examination would reveal that in the folds of his girdle or in the lining of his cap, wrapped in an old ragged handkerchief or a scrap of paper, he carried titles, documents, and papers representing hundreds of millions of francs, or interests of the greatest importance. When God created the Polesian He made him a messenger: he always finds the shortest road by instinct; he never loses his way; and he goes through the most difficult places with marvellous ease. Consequently a tradition concerning messengers is current among the gentry; they hold that the promptest and surest post never can replace them. And therefore each village possesses a certain number of these hireling footmen, who tramp over the space of a hundred miles like apostles, and who, provided the recompense were sufficient, would not hesitate to carry a letter to Calcutta.

The portion of country of which we are speaking, whose geographical position it is not necessary more exactly to determine, is not so remote from Pinsk as Zarzecze, nor so near as Western Wolhynia; but it touches both of these regions, and thus occupies an intermediate position.

It is a long strip of land still in great part covered with forests of pine and oak. In the midst of it are to be found fields recently and with great difficulty reclaimed, and miserable villages all smoked and blackened by the resinous vapours from the forests.

The river Horyn flows through these forests, thus rendering them of great commercial value, for the principal revenue of the country is derived from the sale of timber transported to Dantzick in rafts. Thanks to their simple habits, almost all the inhabitants become rich in their old age. In fact, the Polesian, in spite of his wretched and poverty-stricken appearance, in spite of the inconveniences of the plica,[^[2]] with which they are frequently afflicted, would not change his condition for that of his cousin, the Wolhynian, who is apparently much more robust and prosperous.

In this country the peasant does not depend for support entirely upon the cultivation of the soil; there are varied means of subsistence which prevent his entertaining too great a dread of the unproductive seasons which are so terribly felt in other parts of the world. The forests and the river, to which the nobles grant him access, are for him an inexhaustible source of certain revenue and small industries. Those forests particularly from which the proprietors draw no profit after the trees suitable for sale have been cut down, furnish the principal wealth of the peasants,--bark from the oak and linden trees, barrel-hoops, bark slippers, osiers and rushes for the manufacture of baskets, blocks of beech and box wood for making domestic utensils, resinous torches, laths, and shavings. The dwellers in the dwors do not take the trouble to pick up all these refuse objects; but the peasants gather them and gain both profit and pleasure. Then, too, dried mushrooms, strawberries, mulberries, pears and wild apples, the berries of the guelder-rose and hawthorn furnish the peasant so many small harvests which yield him a modest and certain profit.

The working-men frequent the river shore. The young men of the villages are employed as raftsmen to float the timber down the river; they stretch nets and weirs, and hunt with the sparrow-hawk and boar-spear,--in a word, no one dies of hunger, and although famine sometimes threatens the poor people of the villages (and where does not this stern benefactress show her face?), if only they can hold out till harvest-time, they are sure to be able to live along together quite comfortably during another year. There are, it is true, bad days,--dark days, as the people call them. Sometimes they are obliged to make bread of bark, hay, and buckwheat. But the world would not be the world if one always enjoyed in it the peace and happiness of heaven.

The nobles who dwell in the dwors lead a patriarchal life, toward the maintenance of which the commercial relations with foreign countries contribute so little that these might without much inconvenience be altogether done away with. Everything is found, everything is manufactured in the villages; the people buy only sugar and coffee, a few bottles of Franconia wine, which is here called French wine, a few pounds of tea, a little pepper, and that is all. In many instances honey, which costs nothing, is substituted for sugar and chiccory for coffee; camomile or balm and lime tree flowers, infinitely more healthy, for tea, and horse-radish for pepper. Meat necessary for household purposes is frequently butchered at home; at other times the Jews bring it for sale at six and seven cents a pound, and tongues and tripes for even less. The poultry-yard furnishes fowls and eggs; candles are moulded in the old fashion; cloth is woven after an antique method, admirable for its simplicity; linen also is equally well spun and woven in the villages; and there are no trades necessary to daily life which are not practised in the somewhat larger towns. Everywhere one will find farriers, wheelwrights, carpenters, coopers, and masons, usually very industrious, although it must be said not very skilful. And besides, in urgent or difficult cases, when one is in a hurry, for instance, and a workman is not just at hand, there is always some Polesian who remembers having seen the thing made somewhere, and who will undertake the needed job. He does it as well as he can, and usually after several attempts becomes a tolerable workman.

I do not mean to say that trades and the arts are in a flourishing condition in Polesia; in a country so simple, but little that is artistic is required. When the shoemaker brings you a pair of boots, at first sight they will certainly not seem to be made for a human foot, they look so awkward, hard, large, rounded, and apparently moulded on a block of iron. But try them, wear them for two years in water and mud, and not a crack will be seen in the leather, not a peg will have come out, they are so solid, strong, and conscientiously made. No one asks, it is true, if his feet are more or less comfortable; has he not something for which to thank God if a good piece of ox-hide covers them and a thick sole protects them? And as for corns and bunions, he considers them the natural consequence of years and hard work, and not the effect of ill-made shoes.

It is in this way that everything is done there,--strongly, solidly, roughly. If the epidermis suffers in consequence, so much the worse for a skin which has been made tender by too much care, and for the eye which has become too delicate and exacting from the effects of luxury and studied refinement, I will only observe further that in this fortunate country each mechanic, who is oftener an amateur, and who has very few rivals professionally, thinks himself an artist, a being of superior nature, uncomprehended and unappreciated by his fellow-citizens. The frequent communications which he has with the dwors, the efforts he makes to possess himself of the secrets of his trade, the consciousness of being a necessary man,--a sort of axle in the social mechanism which surrounds him,--contributes to arouse in him feelings which, even if absurd, are manifested in other spheres and under other skies than those of our Polesia.

In this country vast green forests form the frame and horizon of each landscape. As we pass along we come to an occasional clearing; there a pond glitters, or a slow, deep river runs; there damp marshes stagnate eternally, and meadows grow green, half buried under rushes. Farther on rise the roofs of huts blackened by the everlasting smoke. The Horyn, like a rich silver girdle, surrounds this sleeping country with its sparkling waters, which enrich and fertilize it; almost all the small towns of this region are grouped along the river shore.

In other countries the name of town is not given to such miserable, straggling villages; but in Polesia any assemblage of houses among which may be found an inn, a Catholic chapel, a cerkiew (Russian church), a market-place, and above all two or three Jews, is called a town.

The number of Israelites dwelling in a small town constitutes its wealth; the more of them, the richer it is considered. In each of these little capitals one encounters a Boruch, a Zelman, an Abram, or a Majorko, who trades in everything; who furnishes to each person whatever he desires, from a coat of lamb-skin to a gold watch; who buys wheat and grists of corn, keeps an inn, sells rum, tobacco, pipes, and sugar, and is acquainted with the whole history and condition of all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood, numbers of whose notes and receipts he has in his portfolio. The great storehouse situated on the market-place supplies the general needs of the poor villagers, who find there pots, girdles, bonnets, iron, salt, tar, etc.; besides, there are two or three little shops containing stuffs and haberdashery and a few groceries, and that is all. The entire little town is nourished, clothed, and subsists by means of the activity of the Jews who are its soul. The cultivation of the soil, it is true, which is carried on by the inhabitants of the towns, according to the ancient Slavic custom, also furnishes other supplies.

A few poor gentlemen, one or two functionaries poorer still, the curate, the Russian priest, and the employees of the dwor compose almost all the population. During the week the town seems deserted; only the Jewish children run about the streets playing at quoits and skittles. The chickens, goats, and cows wander peaceably through the market-place. But on Sunday it is almost impossible to pass on the square, there are so many riding horses, so many wagons laden with wood and fodder, and so brisk is the trade going on in all sorts of produce. And when once a year the day of the town holiday comes, then there are all sorts of noises, and a crowd, and a fair. Then the pedlers arrive with their little wagons, and display their bundles of merchandise upon the square. The Jew hatter hangs from long poles planted along the wall the bonnets and hats of his own manufacture; the Gypsy horse-doctor appears; hand-organs abound; and the crowd increases every moment. All the land-holders of the neighbouring parishes also come with their wives; the stewards and managers, the poor gentry who own only one field, the villagers who wish to get rid of any surplus commodity or useless provision, such as leather, wool, cloth, or linen,--all are there.

It is a pleasure to see, and a delight to hear, the noise and commotion with which business is carried on. On the square every few moments some of the men conclude a bargain and go off to the inn to confirm the agreement by emptying a pint mug; the old women venders of onions, garlic, tobacco, girdles, and red ribbons pick up as many big coppers as they want. The day after the fair, and even for many succeeding days, unless a good rain storm washes out the numberless traces, one would divine at first glance what had taken place. Possibly the pools of the blood of slaughtered goats and sheep which are drying and blackening on the ground might even suggest that some dark crime had been enacted.

But with the exception of this one day of bustle and gayety, the whole country reposes during the entire year in that state of sweet torpor and melancholy silence which is the normal condition of its daily life. Man always absorbs, more or less voluntarily, the external influences to which he is exposed. We are, in the scale of universal order, like the caterpillar who clothes himself with a green robe while living on the leaves of a tree, and with gorgeous attire when his food is the heart of its purple fruit.

In a country fast asleep, like Polesia, where the murmur of the venerable trees lulls the thin grass and the rushes on the marshes, where peace and torpor is inhaled with the heavy air,--damp, and filled with resinous vapours,--the inhabitants, with their growth, feel the blood flow more and more slowly in their veins; thoughts arise more and more slowly in their minds, and man, thus quieted and softened, desires only repose, trembles at the idea of a sterner and more active destiny, and clings like a mushroom to the soft, damp earth.

The peasants at about forty years of age have long beards like old men; the nobles at that age cease to wear coats, wrap themselves in dressing-gowns, allow their mustaches to grow at will, and to the end of their lives, if they have wives and children, never again go out of their houses. As for the old bachelors of the same age, they begin then to consider that the sole result of marriage is inconvenience and useless subjection.

There is but little visiting, although generally there is much cordiality between the land-holders; but in summer it is too warm, in winter it is too cold; in the autumn the mud and wind are disagreeable, and in the spring there are the gnats. If ever one of them determines to overcome his laziness, it is only on the occasion of a feast at the house of an esteemed neighbour or in case of inevitable necessity. As, however, it is not possible to live without some news, and some intellectual intercourse, the Jew who owns the inn of the town undertakes to retail the one and furnish the other. He comes at the slightest call, or naturally in virtue of his ordinary occupations; he stops at the door and begins at once to give an account of what he has heard during the week, either in his excursions through the neighbourhood or from the peasants who come to the mill or to the blacksmith's shop. Generally the amount of his information consists in being able to tell who has sown, who has harvested, who has sold, who has gone on a journey, how much money the one has received and why the other has departed. But this scanty supply of news feeds the curiosity of the noble for a time, amuses him or wearies him, makes him gloomy, irritates him, and sometimes even suffices to drag him out of his house.

Let us not therefore seek in this country any modern innovations, any enterprise or invention of the day; they would be greeted here only by incredulity, distrust, and dislike. Everything is done in an old-fashioned way; and if one should seek for the living tradition, perfect and entire, of the life of past times, he will find it nowhere in such perfection as here. The noble has the same respect for old customs as the peasant; and if outwardly he laughs at them, in the bottom of his heart he renders them homage, because with his blood and his milk, with his eyes and his ears, he has absorbed them from his infancy.

Thus it happens that in places where once rose a castle, and where now a new dwor stands in its place, the site of the new edifice retains the old name, and the peasants who haul wood for the proprietor still say that they are taking it to the castle. The spot once occupied by an ancient cerkiew is perhaps now a potato field, but the gardens of the proprietor are none the less called the monastery. At the cross-roads in the forest, where the foot-paths meet, a grave dug ages ago has disappeared under the grass so that no trace of it remains; the wooden cross has fallen and rotted in the sod, and may be traced in the thick green grass which alone marks the spot where the soil has been enriched by the decayed body. Still, not a peasant passes that way without throwing, according to Pagan custom, a stone or a broken branch upon the spot. Everything that has lived in this country lives there still. The legend of the founding of a colony whose limits were traced by a pair of black bulls whose privilege it was to preserve the future city from infection and diseases common to cattle; the story of the prince who drowned himself in a pond; the narrative of the Tartar invasion; the sad fate of the two brothers in love with the same young girl, on whose account they killed each other in single combat, and who afterward, in despair, hung herself on their tomb,--all these survive.

The same songs have been sung for a thousand years; the same customs continue to prevail; and all are faithful to them as to an engagement sacredly entered into with their ancestors.

II.

[THE BACKGROUND OF THE PICTURE]

Let us now imagine ourselves transported to the banks of the Horyn.

On the shore, close to the water's edge, there was a pretty little skarborwka[^[3]] painted a light yellow. Some planks, piled one upon another and closely pressed together, extended so far out into the water that one could not only walk with dry feet up to the little cabin, but almost out into the middle of the river. Every preparation had apparently been made for a voyage; nothing seemed wanting but the signal for departure; the men alone had not arrived. But at this very moment boatmen were being collected, more provisions supplied, and so day by day the hour for setting sail was deferred.

The country along the shores, though sterile and bare, was not devoid of a certain sweetly melancholy attraction. Beyond the broad spreading sheet of water, a little back to the right of the ploughed fields, might be seen a large Polesian village with its gray chimneys and the great clumps of trees which in summer crown it with verdure, its ancient Russian church surrounded by embattled walls and surmounted by a clock-tower, and its cemetery situated in the midst of a pine wood through which gleamed here and there the silver bark of a few birch-trees. On the other side of the river a dark forest stretched like a great wall as far as the eye could reach; upon the plain invaded by the waters, the long rows of damp osiers marked the place where the ponds and marshes usually ended. The village, which stretched in length for a great distance, must have been founded ages ago, and once was of considerable size, as one might see by the height and number of the trees which surrounded it.

The eye which seeks among the huts of the village for the roofs and walls of the dwor, which ought to be its crowning ornament, would expect to find it on the top of the hill overlooking the river; but on closer examination it would discover, in the midst of an abandoned orchard and brush-wood scattered over with rubbish and old tree-trunks, only the blackened ruins of an old wooden building which gives to the spot a sad and savage aspect. Three fourths of the dwelling-house had tumbled down; one of the chimneys opened to view its dark depths; and not far off, the farmhouse, very old and miserable looking, but still inhabited, sent up a little gray smoke from its roof. It was easy to see that for a long time the proprietor had not lived there; even the wooden cross which once stood at the courtyard gate had fallen and rotted on the ground. The broken-down hedges gave foot-passengers and flocks access to the orchard, while near at hand, the great gate, by an ironical stroke of fate, was still standing as though to defend the entrance.

The broad road which formerly extended between the dwor and the village was now deserted and overgrown with grass. One could scarcely even distinguish the narrow foot-paths trodden by the cattle which the villagers took there to pasture.

The same neglect was noticeable in those houses in the village depending for repairs entirely upon the proprietor; but in spite of this apparently poverty-stricken condition, the rafting, the work in the forest, and the various small trades of the inhabitants were productive of employment and competence.

At the moment when this story begins, not a single person remained on the rafts which were ready to depart; twilight was coming on; the breeze from the water became brisker and more chilling. On the trunk of a fallen tree, near the river shore, was seated an old man, already bent with age, holding between his lips a small wooden pipe; near him came and went a little boy, who from his dress and exterior seemed to belong to a position between that of peasant and servant in a gentleman's family. It would have been difficult to determine precisely the exact age of the old man. Are there not faces which, having reached a certain age, change so entirely and so rapidly that the years which pass afterward seem to leave no trace upon them?

He was small in stature, a little bent, his head almost bald and slightly gray, his beard and mustaches short, though allowed to grow at will. His cheeks were wrinkled as an apple withered by the winter's cold, but retaining some fresh and healthy color. His eyes still had much vivacity and some brilliancy; and his features were remarkable for their regularity even under the yellow and furrowed skin which covered them. His face, at once quiet and slightly sad, wore an expression of peace and tranquillity of mind which is rarely met with in the countenances of the poor; one would say on seeing him that he had peaceably settled all his affairs in this world and that henceforth he would await quietly the reward which he might receive in a better one. It would be equally difficult to form any positive idea of his condition or position from his dress. According to all appearance, he was not a simple peasant, although he wore the costume of one. The threadbare coat which covered him was shorter than the sukmane of the Polesian, and it was gathered about his waist by a leather belt with a metal clasp; he wore besides dark cloth pantaloons, an old neck-handkerchief, and on his head an old brimmed cap considerably faded and worn.

But even in this dress, so simple and so worn, there was something which showed that the old man had still a certain care for his appearance: the coarse shirt which showed below his cravat was very white; the sukmane spotless and whole; the shoes of linden bark which covered his feet were tied carefully with narrow strips of linen.

The youth who was standing beside him and who was neither peasant nor servant, but who looked like a boatman's apprentice newly enlisted, had the features of the Polesian race, small, very bright brown eyes, long brown hair falling over his neck, a face almost square, a rather large mouth, a well-shaped turned-up nose, and a low but intelligent brow.

His entire countenance was expressive of cheerful good-humour heightened by the natural gayety of youth and utter carelessness of the future.

"There are three brothers of us at home," he was saying to the old man. "My lord has allowed me to hire myself as a boatman on the rafts; and I assure you I like such a life much better than the one I spend at home, doing all sorts of drudgery and melting behind the stove."

The old man shook his head gently.

"I see very well," he replied, "that you will no longer listen to my advice since you have got the desire to go on a voyage into your head. When youth wishes for anything, nothing but want can dissuade him from it. Go, then, and may God guide you, but this shall not prevent my telling you--"

The young man burst into a merry laugh.

"Let me first tell you what I think," said he, "and then I will listen to what you have to say. First, it is not a bad thing for a young man like me to see something more of the world than may be viewed from his window; secondly, I shall certainly be much more comfortable here with this Jew, who, though he cannot tell why, is always afraid, than with our lord and master, the steward; and last, but by no means least, I shall pick up during the voyage enough money to pay the taxes."

"All that is very true," replied the other, "and there are other things you may gain besides; but an old man looks at it in a different light. During these voyages, or rather, these wanderings, one becomes weaned from one's old home and unaccustomed to regular work, one gets into the habit of roaming about; and there is nothing so sad as to become dissatisfied with one's birthplace. When, after that, one returns to one's old home, everything seems strange and distasteful: the bread tastes bitter; the soup is poor; the neighbours are wearisome, and the daily work is a burden. At first one goes to the inn to talk with the Jew for some sort of distraction; then one grows accustomed to drinking brandy, and ruin surely follows. If I had a son, I never would allow him to go wandering about the world in company with a Jew. Let him whom God has appointed to live peacefully in his cottage take care never to stray away from its threshold."

The young boatman became thoughtful. "But," he replied, after a moment's pause, "do you believe that one so easily forgets all that has been about him from infancy, all his former life? No, no; surely not, my father. Can it be any harm to go and see the world so as to have something to talk about to one's children when old age comes? Would you not be constantly sighing for home and the good friends left behind, rather than forgetting them and laughing at them? Would not home food taste better after you had eaten the bread of strangers?"

"That is perhaps all true, if one continues honest and discreet,--if one lives in the fear of God; and then the voyages on the rafts might be of some service," answered the old man. "But it is so easy to grow dissipated, to get in the habit of seeing and desiring new things, and then grow weary and lounge about with arms folded. On the raft there are so many occasions for drinking: the unbelieving Jew does not spare the brandy at every mill, at every lock; and the men, from continually tasting it, soon go to the devil. What matters it to the Jew merchant what becomes of the souls of his boatmen, provided his wood arrives safely in Germany, and the thalers flow into his purse? As for me, I am an old man now, as you see, yet never in all my life have I had any desire to see what is going on far away in the rest of the world. I never have gone far from the threshold of the house in which I was born, and I have now only one prayer to offer to my God, and that is that I may be allowed to lie here in peace when I die."

"Bless me! And are you satisfied?"

"Perfectly, perfectly! And I ought to be, because I am no longer fit for the world, and I ought to be content to have in my old age all that is necessary to life,--a little corner and a bowl of soup. But I have had many sad moments too, and I am persuaded that it is much easier to endure poverty, weariness, and misfortune when one is among one's own people."

"Is this, then, your native land?" said the young man.

"Yes, here I was born, here I have dragged out my pitiful existence, and here I shall end it in peace," replied the old man, a little sadly. "It is not for the mushrooms to grow big like the oaks."

"It must be a strange story."

"What?"

"Your own, to be sure."

"Mine? Have I a history? Poverty was born, and poverty is dead."

"Ah, please! We have nothing to do this evening; I dare not go to the inn. I beg you, good father, do tell me something of your life. It is so lonely there all by myself on the raft; in this way we can while away an hour or two, and I shall have learned something from you."

The old man smiled sweetly.

"But what can I tell you? There has been nothing unusual in my life; there are a great many lives like mine in this world. I have lived all alone, without friends, without brothers. Not even one being calls me cousin; not a living soul bears my name. Moreover, my child, you know that what gives an old man most pleasure is to talk about the days of his youth; therefore, if you are wise you will not call the wolf from the forest, for you never will be able to get rid of him again."

"Never mind; only talk to me, talk to me! I shall always be glad to listen."

"Well," began the old man, "I remember that when I was a very little boy I used to run about here in this very spot, on the shores of the Horyn, with other little villagers of my age. Ah, it mattered not then whether my head was bare or my shirt torn; no other days that I can recall seem so joyous and so sweetly happy as those."

"And your parents?"

"I do not remember them. I was six years old when they died of a terrible fever; and as they had come from Wolhynia, I had no relatives here, and was entirely alone. I see as through a mist the village watchman leading me away, as we came out of the cemetery to a neighbouring hut, where an old woman who called herself my foster-mother gave me a large plate of soup which I devoured greedily. I had eaten nothing for two days except a crust of dry bread which I had concealed in the bosom of my shirt. The next day I was sent into the fields to mind the geese; after that I was made to take care of the pigs; and finally, when it was found that I was not awkward, and that I knew how to take care of cattle, I was appointed to take the village cows to the meadow. Oh, how sweet a herdsman's life is! It is true that we had to go off with the cows at daybreak through the long grass all wet with dew; but to make up for it, we had a good nap in the middle of the day under the trees, when the cattle were at a safe distance from the wheat, and when our happy band of shepherds were frolicking in the furrows or in the great clearings. Cattle are not much trouble: they are quiet and intelligent; when once they are accustomed to their pastures, they will not go out of them even though beaten with a stick. If they are driven away once or twice from the oat or wheat fields, they never will go back there again; the boy has only to look at them and call to them from time to time, and then amuse himself as he pleases."

"But what pleasure can he have when he has no companions?"

"I told you that we went out in companies. And when we lighted a fire on a little rising ground among the rushes, or in the forest against the trunk of an old fallen tree; when we roasted potatoes, fried some mushrooms and morels, or a little bacon which we had brought with us,--what a feast we had, and what a good time! Then we would sing till the woods resounded; and our hearts beat fast for joy, the far-away echo of our song seemed so beautiful to us. So when it happened that the proprietor of the village, our old lord (God rest his soul!), chanced to meet me one day as he was hunting, took a fancy to me and ordered that I should be taken to the dwor where I should serve as a cossack, God only knows how sad this made me, and how I longed to be able to refuse to go."

"Ah! So you have been in service at the dwor?"

"All my life, my child, all my life."

"And you have not been able to lay by anything for your old age?"

"Wait a moment, my child. Surely I do not complain, though labour has not been so profitable to me as to many others. But if I had more than I have, what good would it do me? I should not eat with a better appetite; I should not sleep more peacefully. Listen now, and you will learn what I gained by such service. They carried me by force to the dwor. I was washed, combed, dressed, whether I would or not. I was obliged to stay where I was put, although my heart was ready to break. But after three or four days I began to acquire a fondness for work.

"In fact, my work was not too hard; occupation was given me in the office until I should become sufficiently polished up to wait in the dining-room. The lord at that time was not an old man; he was tall and very handsome, had a fine mind and the best heart in the world. After hearing him speak only a few words, one could not help feeling that he was a man to be loved and respected; his appearance, his gestures, and his voice all bespoke the lord and master. If he were dressed in a cassock and a sukmane, one would recognize at once, though one should meet him in the dark, that God had created him to command others. But his commands were neither rough nor offensive to any one; he never spoke an angry word to his servants. When he was angry, he always kept silence, and his servants had the terrible punishment of seeing him refuse to speak to them and turn his face away from them. The home was like the master; not only the old cossack whose business it was to instruct me, but the other servants at the dwor were quiet, affable, and kind, and I soon grew accustomed to them.

"It is true they put upon me a good deal of their drudgery; but only my legs suffered from the errands they sent me on, and I cannot recall ever being injured or maltreated. The old cossack often said in a low voice, 'He is a poor little boy, an orphan, and it would be too bad to hurt him.' Thus little by little I forgot the open-air life; and a few weeks after, meeting on the dam old Hindra, the shepherd, and my old companions, I contented myself with smiling at them from a distance and showing them my wide pantaloons with red bands, and I did not feel the least desire to rejoin them in the woods. My task was not at all severe. The lord wished to have me take care of his apartment, and it was for this duty that I was first trained. As for his own wants, he gave but little trouble to any one; usually he waited on himself, and showed the kindness of a father to those whose business it was to serve him. His old cossack was like a brother to him, and often scolded him for one thing or another."

"Upon my word, he must have been a good lord."

"Yes, he was, God bless him!" answered the old man, wiping his eyes, which were full of tears; "there are no more like him in this world. He was brother and father and everything to me. He lived over there, do you see, in the place where that great gray chimney still stands; but in his time things were not as they are now. In his household there was neatness and order in every little corner as well as in the great courtyard; not a useless straw could be found lying about, and now there is nothing but brush-wood, briers, and rubbish."

Here the old man heaved a deep sigh and then resumed.

"He rarely quitted the estate, and seldom received visitors. However, now and then a guest did arrive; and although the house was ordinarily as quiet as a cloister, it was not dull,--for all of us, and especially the master, took part in cultivating the fields and garden, we went hunting, and we never had a moment of idleness or weariness. The lord loved the horses, the dogs, the trees, and the chase. Sometimes he delighted in fishing; and thus the days passed so pleasantly that we scarcely knew how the years rolled by. The master never married, and he seemed to have no relatives. It was said that he came from a distance, and had bought this estate; but though he was a new-comer, the country people were as much attached to him as if they had served his ancestors for generations, and he was beloved as a father throughout the neighbourhood.

"It was indeed an easy matter to become attached to him, he was so good, so frank, so cordial and honest; he had such pity for human sorrow that the most wretched being who came to his house was sure to receive help and go away comforted. I loved him at first sight; and before a year had passed, I took the place of the old cossack, who was beginning to grow infirm. He wished to give up work, for thanks to his master's goodness he owned a thatched cottage with a field, and had an annuity; so after having taught me all about his business, he asked permission to retire and rest. But how strong is the effect of habit! He thought he should be happy doing nothing in his own house, but at the end of three weeks he began to be so tired of it that he came every day to the dwor; there, leaning against the garden hedge, he smoked his pipe with us, or sat on the porch from morning till night. If it happened that for a single day he did not see his master, it had the same effect upon him as going without his food, his heart hungered so.

"As for me, no one could have forced me to leave my master, even though I should have been beaten, for he was indeed such a lord as is not often found in this world. I will give you an instance of his goodness, though it is only a little thing: whenever anything better than usual was served for him, whether good fruit from the gardens or a dish well prepared, he never failed to leave a bit of it for his servants. Gradually, as I came to know him well, I loved him more and more; and like all the others who surrounded him, I would have given my life for him. I saw more of him than any of the other servants did; together we went to the chase, of which he was passionately fond, we fished, we rowed on the river, we worked in the garden. We often rose in high spirits at daybreak; and old Bekas, my lord's spaniel, as if divining what we were going to do, would jump and bark and wag his tail. Then we would throw our game-bags over our shoulders, and away we would go to the marshes through the mud and the brush-wood, frequently spending the whole day without any other refreshment than a little brandy and bread and cheese.

"I was at first astonished that so good a man should live so alone; but after I knew him better I saw plainly that although he did his best to be calm and happy, and smiling toward others, there was something which he concealed which had embittered his life. Sometimes, even in his most joyous moments, he would stop suddenly, sigh, and turn pale; tears like large pearls would flow down his cheeks; but as soon as he became conscious of them, he would put his gun on his shoulder and go off to the woods or go to work in the garden or occupy himself in some way so that no one should see that he had been weeping.

"In the service of such a master I was so happy that I forgot to think of myself. I was beginning to be advanced in age; he himself undertook to make a marriage settlement for me, and to establish me in the village, but how could I bear to leave him? Besides, at the dwor we had become so accustomed to doing without women that we almost forgot there were any in the world. We learned by experience that it was very possible to get on without them; and the old cossack was of the opinion that they were good for nothing but to make a fuss, and cause disorder and waste in the household. Nevertheless, he married after a while.

"Our master never spoke to any woman; he never even cast a glance upon those who came in his way; and as for us servants, it never even occurred to us to marry. Our master grew old, and so did we. Some of us died; others grew gray-headed, and I sooner than any of them, for I was scarcely thirty years old when my head, God only knows why, began to turn white. Our life at the dwor underwent no change; the master continued erect and vigorous, and went hunting constantly, but he showed less enthusiasm for it, and preferred to work in the garden, for his legs began to refuse to obey him. Probably they had grown stiff, in consequence of his having tramped so much through the water and the snows of winter, for he walked a great deal and very rapidly.

"When he felt himself growing feeble and infirm, he became sadder. As it was thenceforth difficult for him to engage in any sort of labour, he buried himself in his books and sighed frequently, muttering mournfully to himself; and at night he prayed aloud, calling upon the name of God in a plaintive, tender voice which brought the tears to my eyes. We tried to amuse him, now in one way, now in another, but this became a more difficult task every day. I raised some birds for him, and this appeared to distract him; but he grew more feeble constantly, and began to be indifferent to everything.

"As soon as he took to his bed, some fine people, until then unknown to us, arrived. First came a lady, who, it was said, was our lord's sister-in-law; then came her husband, who, it appeared, was our lord's brother; and after that a horde of cousins, nephews, and other relatives, who formerly had not known him, and who now seemed to spring up from the ground.

"But all these people were so different from him that one never would have supposed that they belonged to the same family. They were polished and elegant in their manners, cordial in their greeting, and spoke in gentle voices; but we learned from their servants that all this was put on, for in their own homes they conducted themselves quite differently. I do not know what good reason our master found for sending them away, but they all suddenly departed in great anger; and after that we were left alone, thank God!

"We continued to lead a more and more gloomy existence. Thirty odd years had passed, and I had scarcely perceived the lapse of them; the last of these I spent constantly near the bedside of my good lord. There were moments when he still amused himself, sometimes with me, sometimes with old Bekas or some of his tame birds; at other times a book would please him; then he read night and day, and seemed more tranquil. It was easy to perceive that for him the end was near; but we loved him so much that we thought only of him, and never asked ourselves what would become of us afterward. We dared not think of the moment when he should be taken from us. I was almost forty when my good master died. I had passed my whole life near him; I was as devoted to him as if I had been his dog; consequently when we had laid him in his coffin, I felt as if it was a great misfortune to survive him, I was so sad and lonely and out of heart.

"I sat down at his feet and wept a long time. The lawyers came and wrote papers and sealed them; one of his cousins took charge of the funeral. I know nothing of what happened after that, for I was like one stunned. The next day I entered his room, swept it, and arranged it as if he still lived, and then sat there, bewildered, waiting for I knew not what. At times all seemed a terrible dream. But soon the sister-in-law, the brother, the cousins, and other relatives arrived, and turned everything upside down, searching everywhere for the will. They went through the house from top to bottom; and as they found no will, the brother and sister-in-law took possession of everything, sending the rest of the family abruptly away.

"They then undertook to manage everything after their own liking, to sell, to rent, collect money, and rule the village people. For my part, I begged them only to allow me to remain in service at the dwor; but what did they care for the dwor, when they did not wish to live there? They ordered me to go and live in a hut in the village; but there was not a vacant one, and our deceased master had made no arrangement for me. There seemed therefore nothing left for me but to take old Hindra's place as shepherd. But when they became convinced that I had given up faithfully to them all that my deceased master had confided to my care, they had sufficient consideration for me to allow me to end my days here. As I have told you, there was no vacant cottage, and I had no relatives. Do you see that old ruined inn down there near the clump of trees behind the cemetery? It was there that they gave me a small lodging and a bit of garden ground, which rented for three roubles a year. I have now lived there over twenty years, giving thanks to God. Each day I go to the old dwor; I recall the days of the past, I weep, and then I return to my hole--"

"And you live all alone?"

"Just as you see me. It is my fate doubtless to die alone also, without ever having had any one to live near me. Since the death of my good master, I never have been able to become attached to any man, and no man has ever seemed to care for me. I do not complain, for no one in the village seeks to do me any injury; they would, on the contrary, rather help me, but I am alone, always alone."

"At your age, that is very sad--"

"Oh, yes, it is sad," sighed the old man, "that is very true; but what is there to do? When one is gray-headed and walks with a stick, it is too late to marry. Besides, no woman would have me, except perhaps some one I would not have myself. God gave me neither relatives, friends, nor brethren. What can I do? I must die alone, as I have lived."

"And do you never murmur?"

"What good would that do?" answered the old man, quietly. "Should I lessen my grief or alter my fate by offending the Lord God? And moreover, cannot man become accustomed to anything, even to such a life as mine? That is, if one lives long enough."

So saying, he sighed, shook out his pipe, and taking up his stick, prepared to depart.

"Good-evening, my child," said he; "are you going to spend the night here?"

"The Jew asked me to sleep in the cabin; for there are some bags of flour and barrels of bacon on board, and he is afraid they may be stolen."

"Even the thought of theft should be unknown to us," answered the old man; "but God guards what the master takes care of. I must go, my son; good-evening."

"Good-evening, old father, good-evening."

III.

[WHAT THERE WAS AT THE FOOT OF THE OAKS]

Thus they parted,--these men whom chance had brought together, whom an hour's conversation had made friends, and who were perhaps never to meet again during their lives. It is strange, but where manners and social conditions are primitive, friendship and sympathy between men are easy, and they are unhesitatingly fraternal; and on the other hand, when men become civilized and polished, they carefully and politely avoid personal relations and fear and shun each other.

But among the lower classes it is quite the reverse; and I cannot say that things are any the worse for it. An hour is sufficient to bring two strangers together, and make them feel almost like brothers; a hearty speech or a sympathetic look excites ready confidence and prompt exchange of feeling; friendship is quickly formed, and grows as vigorously and ardently as hatred. Here at least, men are men.

Good Iermola, as the old man was called, then returned to his own house, his head still full of his old memories, while the young boatman, whistling a tune and thinking of the poor and friendless old man, spread down the bundle of straw upon which he was to stretch himself in front of the cabin door, content to go to rest; for as soon as the sun is set, the peasant, no matter what the hour may be, is always ready to sleep if only he is allowed to do so.

Meantime, Iermola walked slowly toward his lodging, which was but a short distance away. Between the village and the river, on a sandy bit of ground strewn with the trunks of old pines and oaks broken down from old age, mutilated also in many places by the hand of lazy villagers who were not willing to take the trouble to go to the forest for their fire-wood, stood an old building curiously constructed, which served as a shelter for our old servant. It was neither a thatched cottage nor a dwor, but simply a ruin,--an old deserted inn which once had covered a far larger space, and which had been knocked down and demolished by some unknown accident. Its roof had disappeared; its bare beams and rafters crossed one another here and there; and fragments of the straw thatching were still hanging suspended above the corners of the old walls. One of these corners, although strangely bent and filled with long cracks, still remained standing and entire; here might be seen a window half chinked up with mud, with a few panes of glass still left at the top, a door which had been freshly patched and nailed together, and walls which once had been painted white, but which now wore a coat of doubtful gray.

The rest of the building was all one mass of ugly ruins,--beams and rotten planks, blackened woodwork, pieces of rubbish all buried together, covered with mud and overrun with briers and high grass.

By what miracle was the fragment of roof still held in place over the room which it sheltered? How had this remnant of the building been preserved? These were questions difficult to answer.

Quite near the old building, a paling of half-rotten laths surrounded a small garden, shaded at one end by a clump of pines and large oaks.

Above the roof rose the old chimney, black, bare, and cracked, which, however, still served to warm the sole inhabitant of this poor lodging. The mouldiness of the beams, which were rotting on the ground, extended to the walls, which remained standing; the work of destruction might here be seen in all stages from beginning to completion, and one might quite certainly foretell the time when these miserable ruins would be only a vast mass of wood, mud, and useless rubbish. Gazing upon this wretched dwelling, it seemed cruel to think that a man should be obliged to find shelter there. Yet Iermola, accustomed to his pile of trash, approached this den without repugnance; he opened the door and entered his chamber. Then, as it was very dark inside, he hastened to kindle the fire and make a blaze of pine wood which he kept ready for this purpose in the little hearth of his stove.

Gradually every corner of the room was lighted up, and might be seen distinctly by the blaze of the dry wood. It was a small chamber situated in an angle of the building, where the roof and walls were still left, and which must formerly have been used as a bedchamber and office for the innkeeper.

The doorway opening into the large dining-hall of the inn, now entirely destroyed and uninhabitable, had a few planks nailed across it which were chinked with a mixture of chopped straw and mud. The large old stove, having been patched and mended every year, had lost its rectangular form and become externally utterly irregular, bulged out, rounded, dented, and altogether shapeless; and the metal plates which formerly closed it were now replaced by some tiles. Inside the fireplace, now stopped up, a few planks served as cupboard shelves, and the end of the mantel-piece as table and sideboard.

It may be easily imagined that the furniture was not elegant. It was partly of village manufacture, and had been roughly made with axe and saw; the rest was composed of a few respectable old pieces brought from the dwor. When the new owners sent Iermola away empty-handed, after thirty years of service, he was granted, as sole recompense for a long life of labour and devotion, permission to take with him a few old, broken, and useless pieces of furniture which otherwise would have been thrown on the rubbish pile. The poor but worthy and industrious old man had succeeded in transforming these into almost comfortable furnishings. The ingenious Iermola knew how to make the most of the least thing; and so his one apartment was soon quite decked out with souvenirs of his youth and happy days. He slept on an old sofa with broken and twisted feet, which was of fine wood, and had once been painted white and gilded. At his head stood a little round table supporting a chess-board which had been made and inlaid by the hand of some old master; two or three old chairs, upon whose seats some boards, nailed on, took the place of the velvet cushions, were evidently of Dantzick manufacture, but it was only by the aid of numberless nails and strings that the different pieces succeeded in holding together. Near them was a large wooden chest painted green, whose rough appearance clearly indicated that it had been made in the village. A bench, rough-hewn with an axe, was near the door; another table of unplaned plank served to hold all his collection of jugs and plates of common pottery. In contrast, on the mantel-piece stood a small pitcher of fine Sèvres china, without a handle; egg-cups and mustard-pots with delicate bright flowers shone there, a tea-pot of Saxon china with dainty feet, one of which had been broken off fifty years before, a cup of Wedgwood, and a butter-dish of Russian manufacture in the shape of a paschal lamb. The general appearance of the good man's chamber was poor and neat, but sad, because it was filled with mementos of former comfort striving to conceal present poverty. The drapery which covered the wall near his bed was a fragment of Turkey carpet, torn and patched, but still in strong contrast with the coarse bed-coverings. Broken glasses, porcelain, and bits of china glittered beside pots of clay, mahogany, and pine. On the wall, not far from a rude picture of Our Lady of Poczai, was hung a fine engraving by Raphael Morghen, horribly mouldy and old, with part of one corner torn off; it was "The Last Supper," after the painting by Leonardo da Vinci. Farther on was an old picture of the twelve apostles, by Hoffmann, of Prague, and a small painting on wood of the German school, much injured, and representing the birth of our Saviour.

The only real adornment of the room, therefore, was the exquisite neatness and order which reigned in it. There was no litter to be seen in any part of it, not the smallest crumb or the least speck of dust; each thing was in its place, and although in this poor apartment all sorts of things were mingled,--provisions, food, cooking utensils, the poor man's wardrobe, and all his simple stores,--there was neither inconvenience nor confusion. Cupboards were made on the walls, shelves set up in the corners of the room, the large chests rolled under the table; the hiding-place behind the stove--the fireplace, over which a piece of cloth was hung--served to shut up and conceal all disorderly objects. Even the chips and bits of wood used to kindle the fire were piled up neatly in their own proper corner. It is true that Iermola had very near at hand, in the ruins of the inn, a sort of cellar surrounded by walls, where he stored his more cumbrous provisions; but he could not leave many things in a place which had no fastening, for poverty, scorning the laws of proprietorship, often dares to share with poverty.

On entering, the old man contented himself with lighting in the stove his pieces of resinous wood, for candles or oil were luxuries which he did not allow himself; then he looked around to see if all was in good order in his dwelling. After that he took one of his pots and proceeded to warm his supper, which the cossack's widow usually prepared for him in the village, or which he sometimes cooked himself on his return to his lodging; and then he seated himself on a stool in the corner of the fireplace, and began to say his prayers.

The wind sighed fitfully in the branches of the pines and the oaks close by his little garden; a deep silence reigned all about him; and Iermola, sad and motionless, was beginning to dream as he prayed, when in the midst of this profound stillness the cry of a baby was suddenly heard, at first feeble and indistinct, then loud and shrill.

It was like the cry of a new-born baby; and it seemed very near, as though it came from the other side of the garden, out of the clump of pines and oaks.

"What can it be?" said the old man, interrupting his prayers, and rising from his bench. "It is now so late. Can it be possible that any silly woman can have crossed the river with her baby to come and ask for medicine?"

He paused and listened, but the trembling, feeble wailing did not seem to come nearer nor to recede; evidently the child remained in the same place. It was impossible to believe that any woman working in the fields could have left her cradle there; the chilliness of the evening, the lateness of the hour, the solitude of the secluded place, would not permit such a thought. And still the wailing cry continued.

"Ah! it is doubtless an owl," thought the old man, as he seated himself once more. "It is perched on one of the trees at the end of the garden, singing. But one could swear that it was a baby. How perfectly they can imitate the human voice!"

He continued to listen; the wailing became more and more distinct and pitiful.

"No, truly, it cannot be an owl; I must go and see. Perhaps some accident has happened. But what can it be?"

So saying, Iermola rose quickly, put on his cap, seized his stick, and rushed to the door, forgetting his pipe, which usually he never left behind him. When he reached the threshold, he became convinced that there was no longer any doubt that the cry he heard was not that of an owl, but the wail of an infant. This frightened the good man, who, following the sound of the voice, set out to see whence it came. He went at once to the garden, and thought he saw something white lying at the foot of one of the nearest oak-trees. The old man's eyes had not deceived him; on the thickly interwoven roots, padded and made velvety with mosses, a little baby, wrapped in swaddling-clothes, lay crying.

A baby! A baby here! all alone! deserted and cast off by its parents! The good man could scarcely conceive such an idea. He trembled with fright, surprise, sorrow, and pity; and darting forward, scarcely knowing what he did, he tenderly lifted the poor little creature, who, feeling perhaps that some one was near, immediately ceased to cry and be frightened.

Then, bewildered and forgetting his stick, the old man fled back to his chamber, carrying the baby, trembling, crying, and repeating over and over to himself, "A baby! A baby! How could this have happened?"

Suddenly it occurred to him that doubtless the little one had only been left alone for a moment; that the mother would be very anxious if she should not find it again on the spot where she had just left it.

He then began to shout as loudly as he could, repeating all the calls known to the Polesian tongue, which brought back to him his shepherd days; but no one answered.

"At any rate it is impossible to leave this poor baby out on so cold a night," said he, with emotion; "I shall take it to my room. Any one will immediately suppose that it is I who have picked it up."

He opened the door of his lodging. The fire had gone out in the stove; it was pitch dark. He deposited his living bundle on the bed, and again lighted his chips and twigs, of which this time he was lavish.

But when the light again glimmered through the room, and the old man returned to the side of the baby, who moaned constantly, his fright and astonishment knew no bounds. The little creature evidently did not belong to the peasant class; the clothing in which it was wrapped sufficed to show that. And in vain did Iermola imagine a thousand reasons, admit a thousand suppositions; he could not comprehend how a mother or a father could have been able to decide thus to abandon the innocent little creature, the very sight of whom caused him to shed tears of tenderness and emotion. In fact, from the moment when the baby's first cry had reached his ears and his heart, a strange feeling had taken possession of this old man hitherto so tranquil. He felt moved, frightened, but at the same time awakened and enlivened; it seemed as though he had grown twenty years younger in a few moments. He therefore examined with curiosity this little unknown being whom Providence, perhaps in pity for his terrible isolation, had sent him as a consolation at the very moment when he was sadly longing for some one tie which might still bind him to life.

The child, swaddled with care, was nevertheless clothed externally in such a manner as at first sight to conceal his origin. The heartless mother and unfeeling father, touched by some small feeling of solicitude, had covered the baby's long clothes entirely with a large piece of coarse white percale, leaving exposed only a part of the little suffering, weeping face.

Iermola gazed at the baby with his own sad eyes, and took its little hands in his.

It was some time before he remembered that there was something else to do; that a baby who cried so was perhaps hungry; that an unlooked-for burden had been sent him from heaven; that it would be difficult for him to take care of it, even with every exertion that he could make. Then came flashing like lightning before his mind the images of a cradle, a nurse, smiles, maternal cares, at the same time also his own poverty, which would not allow him to pay any one to take care of the little one.

Suddenly he said to himself that hireling hands were not fit to touch this gift of God,--this frail new-born being whom Providence had doubtless intrusted to him that he might be its nurse and father. Then he trembled, as it occurred to him that some one might take this baby from him; and at this thought he felt ready to faint with terror, although he had not yet been able to make up his mind what he should do with it.

"No," he cried aloud, "I will not give it up to any one; it is my child,--the child whom God has sent me. I will never desert the little orphan."

But he must hasten; the baby cried and moaned continually. Iermola again took it in his arms. What should he do? How should he begin? Whose advice should he ask?

As he was thus carrying the baby up and down the room, his arms filled and his mind bewildered by this strange adventure, a heavy little package escaped from the long clothes and dropped on the floor. Iermola in still greater astonishment picked it up and found about fifty pieces of gold wrapped in a scrap of paper. His surprise was so great that he almost let fall his precious burden.

"So they are rich people, who have abandoned their child, at the same time paying some one to take care of it."

And the old man, simply and deeply overcome, paused a moment, endeavouring to comprehend the baseness of this world of which he knew so little. Perhaps in that one moment he intuitively divined all the misery and woe of human existence.

"My God!" he cried, "there are perhaps men who would rob this little orphan of this gold! No, no! no one shall know anything about it. I will keep the money and give it to him some day when he is grown up; and I, by the fruits of my own labour, will bring him up."

He hastened to throw the gold-pieces into an old casket which was under his bed, and in which he usually kept the few coppers he happened to have; then having wrapped himself in his cloak, he determined to go to the village to ask advice of some of his neighbours.

Then covering up his precious burden warmly, the old man, troubled and surprised, yet happy, started for the nearest cottage.

IV.

[FIRST CARES AND FIRST HAPPINESS]

In this thatched cottage lived the widow of the old cossack Harasym, with her only and dearly loved daughter, who, having sought for a husband for several years, had not been able to find one, though she was young, beautiful, and consequently well worthy of attention.

The cottage which the late landlord had granted to Harasym was situated at the extremity of the village, not far from the river shore, so that the old servant of the dwor could say, in the words of the national proverb, "My cottage is all alone in the world; it has neither neighbour nor master,"--for from its window could be seen only the woods, the waters, and the barren plain upon which rose the ruin inhabited by Iermola. But cordial and friendly communication was kept up between the two huts, on account of the former relations which had existed between the two servants. The cossack's widow never refused Iermola her support and her counsel; he took his meals at her house, and went there for consolation in his hours of sadness, or distracted his mind by a few moments of friendly conversation or hearty interchange of feeling. But the widow's house was far more comfortable than poor Iermola's lodging. The cottage was well supplied; the good woman was active, orderly, and somewhat avaricious; she never had suffered either care or hunger, even just after seedtime or during the dark days, and she always had laid by a little money or a measure of wheat for those who were in want.

The cottage, already old-looking, was blackened and wretched outwardly, although the old cossack had built it himself with his master's assistance, and consequently neither care nor expense had been spared. The exterior, therefore, was similar to that of others which a little way off extended in a long line; but the planks of which the walls were built were thicker, more solid, and better arranged, and the interior more convenient, since there was a good stove and a first-rate fireplace, which furnished plenty of light and did not smoke.

There was one small lot belonging to this hut, which was left to grow up in grass for hay, and another larger one, which was usually sowed down in rye or planted in vegetables, and which on the farther side joined the commons. The cossack's widow owned four cows from whose milk she made butter and cheese, which she sold to the neighbouring dwors and to the peasants; in addition she had a team of two oxen for ploughing, which she often rented to her neighbours, or sent now and then without pay to cultivate the field of the poor,--also ten sheep, three small calves, and even a horse which she had bought to use in the harrow, but which had proved useless, as it was spavined. Besides herself and her daughter, there dwelt in the cottage old Chwedor, her servant, whose hair had grown gray in the service of others, and who was also a little deaf, and a great toper. Then there was a little orphan about ten years old, who drove the cattle to pasture, and a young servant. It was, in fact, a complete and flourishing household, skilfully managed by the widow. The comfort in which she lived and her honest reputation rendered more striking the indifference with which the young men of the village regarded her daughter, Horpyna, who had now reached her twentieth year, and was justly considered the greatest beauty in the village.

She had a tall, erect figure, which she inherited from her father, a charming bright and healthy complexion, beautiful hair, and fine black eyebrows. When she dressed herself on Sunday in her ribbon head-dress, her jacket of gray-blue cloth, and yellow Wolhynian boots with high heels, she might have been taken for a great lady in disguise. The young men of the village gazed at her from a distance, sighed, twirled their caps in their hands, and scratched their heads; but none of them dared approach her, for Horpyna was as proud as if she had been the daughter of a great lord. Besides, it had been whispered about for two years that one of the gentlemen of the lesser nobility who had served in the capacity of agent in a great land-scheme was suing for her hand, and made frequent visits to her and her mother. It was this which frightened and discouraged the village suitors, who took pleasure in laughing secretly at Horpyna's vanity, her fine-lady airs, and her liking for the nobility.

But the old mother, apparently expecting no good to come of such a rash project, used every effort in her power to marry off her daughter. She went with her to all the fairs and jubilees; she invited the fathers of families and the young men to suppers and wakes. Every one went gladly to her house, were entertained, ate and drank heartily, but nothing came of it all, and Horpyna still had not seen the arrival of her bottle and napkin.[^[4]]

It happened that Iermola encountered no one on his way to the widow's cottage; and he reached it all out of breath, holding in his arms the baby, who still continued to cry. But the light which glimmered from the window told him that the thrifty housewife was at home. He therefore hastened with his burden straight into his old friend's chamber.

The widow was seated on a bench near the table, leaning her head upon her hands, and seemed in deep thought; Horpyna was standing beside the fireplace. They were both gloomy and silent; but when they saw Iermola with his burden, they rose at once, somewhat confused, and uttered a cry of astonishment.

"What have you got, old man? What is it?" cried the mother, who was the first to speak.

"See what it is," answered the old man, as he laid upon her lap the baby, upon which his eyes were fixed. "Look at it; see, it is a baby which God has given me."

"A baby! to you? How is this?"

"It is a marvel, a miracle; I can scarcely believe it myself. I had just come from the river shore, where I had been to help the raftsmen bind up the wood; I had lighted my fire and sat down to say my prayers, when I heard all at once something moaning under the oaks. Now it sounded like the voice of an owl, and then like the wail of an infant. At first I was sure it was an owl, because those hateful birds have nests in the old trunks, and I went on with my prayers; but suddenly the voice rose in louder weeping. Then I could not tell what it was, and I began to be anxious. I ran out hurriedly and looked around; and what do you think I found? This baby. And now what shall I do with it? What shall I do?"

The two women, shaking their heads in their extreme astonishment, had listened to Iermola in profound silence.

"Some one must have brought it there," said the widow, at last; "but who could it have been?"

"And who could have been willing to desert such a pretty baby?" answered the old man, indignantly. "How could such a thing be possible?"

"Oh, oh! There are many people capable of such a thing," replied the widow, shaking her head sententiously. "This is not the only instance which might be related of human depravity. Did you never hear of the unnatural mother who had the atrocity to give her sweet little baby to be devoured by swine?"

Old Iermola, not being able to comprehend what he heard, kept silence, opening wide his eyes and shaking his head. Meanwhile the two women had been kneeling on the floor that they might see the baby better.

"How fine and white his long-clothes are!"

"And how delicate it is!"

"It must be the child of some lord, for no one in the village would have dared to do such a thing."

"And was it really brought and placed near your hut?"

"Yes, yes! but advise me; tell me what I ought to do with it."

"Do what you like best," answered the widow. "You can take it to the steward, who will have it sent to the chief of police; and then it will be taken to the hospital."

"Take it--and send it--to the hospital!" cried the old man, in a voice choking with tears. "Ah, do you call that good advice? Would any one there pity it; would any one take care of it? How could I be sure they would not leave it to die?"

"Well, but what are you going to do with it," replied the old woman, shrugging her shoulders.

"Ah, I do not know; advise me, neighbour."

"Well, what do you think of doing?"

"How can I tell what to think?" answered the old man. "My head is going round like a crank. I would not for anything in the world abandon a child whom God had intrusted to me; and when I think of rearing it myself, I fear I am not capable of doing it. But I feel almost sure I could; why should I not?"

"But you would have to put it out to be nursed; you could give it to Jurck's wife."

"No, no! not for anything in the world!" cried the old man. "Jurck's wife is too wicked; she treats her own poor child badly; and besides, she would ask God knows how much for taking care of it, and I always have a hard time making both ends meet. Could you give it a little milk? See how it is crying; perhaps it would drink it. I will buy some milk from you every day."

At this the cossack's widow burst into a loud laugh.

"Well, well! So you are the one who is to rock its cradle, amuse it, and make its broth? But if you do, you must remember that you will not be able to do anything else. A little baby is a constant occupation and care. I remember very well what I suffered with my little Vymoszek, who only lived one year, and with my Horpyna too. I had not a moment day or night without anxiety."

"But I do not need much sleep, and I have not much to do," replied the bewildered old man, who felt himself drawn more and more to the poor little foundling. "Three or four hours' sleep is quite sufficient for me; and a little baby sleeps almost all the time, provided his stomach is not empty. I should find plenty of time to rest myself, take care of my garden, and roast my potatoes."

"But what would you give it to eat?"

"Why, milk, to be sure."

"Suppose it should not be able to drink, it is so young and so weak."

At this Iermola heaved a deep sigh. "It may not be able to drink at first," he said; "but it will learn after a while. But what shall we do for it now?"

Then the cossack's widow took the baby in her arms so as to examine it closely. Her daughter ran to get some new milk, and the neighbours, attracted by curiosity and by the few words which had fallen from Horpyna as she passed, began to assemble, first by twos and threes, and then in large numbers.

Since the village had been in existence, in the memory of the oldest inhabitant nothing like this had ever occurred, so there was no end to their observations, exclamations, and conjectures.

The oldest inhabitant gave his advice; the counsellors counselled; the young and the old gave their ideas on the subject,--women and men and even the servants. But no one could suggest any very acceptable plan; each repeated the same opinions, each differing a little from his neighbour in particulars, but in the end coming to the same conclusions, and all recommending the wife of Jurck to Iermola as nurse.

There were numberless conjectures, wild suppositions, jokes, and accusations with regard to the wicked parties. But no one had the slightest suspicion who the authors of the scandalous act could be.

No one had seen any strange person about nightfall either in the village or its vicinity; the roads and foot-paths had been deserted; at the ford, at the mill, at the inn, no stranger had appeared. After discussing the matter a long time, the villagers gradually dispersed, spreading the strange story as they went along; at last no one remained but old Chwedko, the illustrious proprietor of a gray mare, who stood leaning on his stick, and after a few moments of thoughtful silence addressed his friend Iermola as follows:--

"There comes to my mind at this moment something which happened twenty years ago. A farmer of Malyczki, who was a friend of mine, had the misfortune to become a widower; his wife left him a poor little orphan who had scarcely drawn a breath.

"The poor man, who was blind in one eye, lame, and poor, had nothing to pay a nurse. He went in vain from cottage to cottage trying to find a woman compassionate enough to be willing to nurse his child; and he had no cow even to furnish him milk. Do you know what he did? He bought a goat with the last half-rouble which remained after the funeral expenses had been paid; and that goat nursed and reared for him the little daughter, who afterward became the loveliest girl in the village."

At these words Iermola trembled and rose.

"Somebody find me a goat!" he cried aloud. "Where is there a goat? I will buy one at once."

"The Jew innkeeper has one."

"Then I shall go and buy it."

He had already started for the door when Chwedko and the cossack's widow stopped him.

"Take care what you do, good man," said his old companion. "The Jew will fleece you if he knows that you really need the goat very much."

"Ah, well, let him ask what he will, provided I get the animal."

"He will take your last shirt from you, old fool," said the cossack's widow, in her turn. "You know Szmula; he is a regular thief, the most miserable rascal that ever lived, even among the Jews of his class. Do not be in too great a hurry, for God's sake! Use a little deception at least, and say that you want the goat to raise a little flock, or else he will make you pay more than you would have to give for a cow."

"I will go with you," said Chwedko, "see if I don't; between us we shall be a match for the Jew."

"But what shall we do with the baby?"

"Never mind about it; I will keep it here. No harm shall happen to it."

"I pray you, good mother," said Iermola, trembling, "take special care of it."

"Ha, ha! he undertakes to give me lessons, do you see? Just as if it was the first baby I ever had in my arms. I shall rock it, and feed it with some milk, and perhaps I shall let it suck the end of my finger. Do not be at all anxious."

"I shall be back again in a moment," continued Iermola; "do take care that nothing happens to the baby."

The old woman burst into peals of laughter as she listened to him, he looked so anxious. Just as he was about to cross the threshold, he remembered that he had not smoked for some time; he drew from his bosom his old wooden pipe, which was his constant companion, went up to the tinder, lighted it, and then started off with Chwedko through the darkness in the direction of the new inn situated in the centre of the village.

V.

[SET A CHEAT TO CATCH A CHEAT]

In a small town where, by reason of its trade in wood and its rafting, the number and the means of the transient inhabitants is considerable; where the boatmen, the merchants, and their employees constantly come and go,--it would not be possible for a Jew, without money and without credit, to keep the principal hotel. Consequently the illustrious Szmula, who owned the inn of Popielnia, whence he reigned over the village and its vicinity, was not a mere innkeeper going from time to time a distance of three miles to purchase a little barrel of brandy. He was a Jew who had grown rich upon the profit of his trade in wood, timber, tar, and ashes,--in fact, all the products of the Polesian forests, including dried mushrooms and conserved berries.

His inn also, particularly in the springtime, brought him gain which was not to be despised; and Mr. Szmula, justly valuing the rotundity of his girth and the dignity of his position, began to set himself up for a great lord. The new inn, from which he lorded it, was different in appearance from the old-fashioned inns whose architecture had been perpetuated according to Slavic custom because they were intended to be used for public assemblies and councils. It was without the traditional vestibule, projecting and supported by pillars, for the practical Israelite cared but little to entertain the poor and infrequent travellers who usually passed through that secluded region; but there was a stable and coach-house sheltering the great carriage which was used in going to the fairs, and the house had externally very much the appearance of a gentleman's dwor. On one side was a large apartment, which was in fact the dining-hall of the inn, where heavy benches were placed all about the wall, with an enormous table in front of them. In one corner there was a sort of staging which was shut up during the night by means of several window shutters, and where during the day brandy was retailed from the counter. In the other part of the house, which was furnished with some elegance, lived Szmula Popielauski and his family; and there was a pretty unoccupied room kept for the merchants of his religion who might stop in the neighbourhood.

The front room in this portion of the house made some pretence to the name of drawing-room, for it contained a wooden sofa polished and varnished, and covered with a sort of damask studded with gold stars, two chairs with arrows of black wood on their backs, a mirror suspended on the wall, the framed portraits of two illustrious Israelites,--the rabbis of Hamburg and Wilna,--a cupboard filled with china cups, cut glass, and bottles of rum, and a somewhat rickety table supported by a lyre and covered with a bright cloth.

The floor of this room had once been painted white, but the colour having been rubbed off in many places, it was now variegated; the stove was closed by a small iron door with a brass knob; and Szmula, having done all this proprio sumptu et cura, to satisfy his taste for elegance, congratulated himself upon the effect. In the second room the Jewish dirt began to assert itself, but did not exclude attempts and pretensions to elegance. Above the bed was placed a fringed canopy with curtains covered with enormous flowers. Near this might be seen a cupboard of black wood, full of books and papers, and a small rickety bureau; also a pile of potatoes, one or two buckets of kindling-wood, some cakes of dough drying on a plate, a large earthen pan full of dish-water, and a white turkey, walking composedly about surrounded by her brood.

Szmula was no longer in his early youth. He was about fifty years old, and was married a second time, his late spouse having left him only one son, who kept a shop of his own in the next town. Not being satisfied with this only scion, Szmula had taken to wife a young Jewess, very poor but extremely beautiful, who had borne him three children during the three years of their marriage. His gray hairs were honoured by this blessing from the Lord. At first sight, this grave descendant of Israel was very pleasing, with his long beard and hair, his regular features, his serious and winning expression. One had a desire to study him closely, and to believe in his honesty. Nevertheless, his beauty and the sweet expression of his eyes were, as is so often the case, deceptive.

In fact, there could be no more insatiable vampire, no more greedy blood-sucker, than the worthy Szmula of the village of Popielnia. The constantly increasing profits earned by his deceit and tact did not render him above turning to account the smallest opportunities. Besides his bills of a thousand roubles and his coupons of government bonds, he deposited without shame in his chests the big copper money bathed with the sweat of the wretched peasants; and puffed up by his position and his wealth, he treated the poor villagers as though they were mere beasts of burden, and fleeced them without mercy.

The result was that when the villagers had any business to transact, they preferred to do so secretly with the poorer Jews who lived in the little town; and this aroused the deepest resentment in Szmula. He could not forgive them for being unwilling to allow him to cheat them. He considered their conduct a daring revolt; and as an old tradition, founded upon some unknown basis, gave him the right to claim one pint of flour when a peasant took his corn to the mill, he thought therefore he had the right to fly into a rage and make a terrible fuss when a peasant took his cow to the market or sold a bag of corn without his royal permission. Gifted with indefatigable energy, Szmula neglected nothing, for all gain was acceptable to him, and he always had time for everything. His presence of mind and dexterity never forsook him.

Such was the all-powerful autocrat to whom the simple-hearted Iermola was about to apply in the hope of buying his white goat. Fortunately, he had with him old Chwedko, who was infinitely better acquainted than he with all the subtleties of human rascality; who, experienced, cunning, and prudent, spared neither time nor words nor pains when the question was to economize or to earn a little money. As they went along, therefore, Chwedko gave all sorts of advice to Iermola, but the latter heard little of it, so absorbed was he with his own plans for obtaining the goat.

Unfortunately this old animal was the pet of Sara, Szmula's second wife, and also of her eldest son, who often amused himself by pulling the goat's beard, although she had more than once mercilessly trampled upon him. The goat in question was not worth more than twelve florins; but Iermola was quite willing to give twenty rather than not get it, and even Chwedko thought this a not unreasonable price considering the circumstances. But how were they to approach the subject and make this proposition to Szmula? If the Jew for a moment suspected how exceedingly necessary the animal was to poor Iermola, he would take advantage of the situation and fleece him unmercifully.

The question therefore was, if possible, to deceive the Jew, so that he should not have the opportunity to rob the unfortunate Iermola.

When the two men were within a short distance of the inn, Chwedko, who had reflected for some time, made a sign to Iermola to stop.

"Stay here a moment, near this cottage," said he, pointing to the spot. "Wait here a moment for me; I will go and feel the Jew's pulse. Do not fear; I will find some good way to arrange the matter. If we go and ask him for his goat outright, he will make us pay as much for it as the price of a cow. We must manage to have him offer it to us; leave it all to me."

"But what are you going to do?"

"You shall see; you shall see," answered good old Chwedko, deeply interested in Iermola's project. "Only be careful to do just what I tell you."

Then Iermola, making a great effort to be quiet, seated himself on the ground beside the wall of the hut, for he was in great need of rest for mind and body. He leaned his head on his hand and fell into deep thought. For the first time in his life he was obliged to think of the future.

As for Chwedko, he went straight to the great dining hall of the inn, but Szmula was not there,--no one was there, only the goat. Partly opening the door of the chamber, carefully wiping his feet, and humbly asking permission to enter, he stepped inside with a low bow and holding his cap under his arm. He took special care not to step off the door-mat, for the Jew flew into a rage if any one soiled the floor of his chamber. Having established himself firmly in his position, Chwedko dropped his hand down to his knees and made another low bow to the dreaded Szmula.

In order to be favourably received by the innkeeper, it was really necessary to go through with all these formalities, as the far-seeing Chwedko well knew,--first to wipe one's feet, then stop at the threshold, and above all, not to call the worthy man Mr. Innkeeper, but instead, Mr. Merchant, for our Szmula maintained that if he kept an inn it was for his own entertainment, and that it was for his pleasure alone that he lived in the country.

"Well, what do you want, Chwedko?" asked the Jew, without rising from his easy-chair, where he was bending his head, with his long nose over a book, yet ready without hesitation to interrupt his devotions whenever his interests required it, for he knew very well that God is more patient than man.

"Mr. Merchant--I want to tell you--there is an occasion."

Thus the lower classes speak of every unexpected event which may serve as a pretext for feasting or drinking.

"An occasion! What is it? A baptism? A betrothal? A wedding or a funeral? Is any one dead, any accident? I'll venture you have come to ask for some brandy on credit."

"No, indeed, sir; but I chanced to hear something, and I wanted to tell my lord the merchant about it. It is perhaps an opportunity to make something."

"Let me hear; what is there to be made?" said Szmula, rising, thrusting his hands into his girdle, and approaching Chwedko.

"Your Honour" (this title was specially flattering to the Jew's vanity),--"your Honour knows Iermola, the old man who lives in the old ruined inn."

"Certainly I know him; but he is only a poor devil, a beggar."

"That is true, but it does not prevent his having gained a few roubles."

"Well, what? He wants to drink them up?"

"No, no! he does not drink brandy, but he has taken it into his head to buy a cow, paying half the amount down and asking credit for the balance."

"A cow! and what will he do with it?"

"He was going to the town to look for one; but I stopped him because I thought of a plan for him."

"To the town! always to the town!" repeated the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "The fools! That is their first thought. But tell me, Chwedko, what is your plan?"

"I have tried to make him think that it is not a good idea for him to have a cow and be in debt; that it would be better for him to buy a goat with his money. He would have milk immediately, and in a little while a flock. Perhaps you would sell him your white goat?" Just here the Jew fixed his piercing eye on Chwedko's face, but he fortunately was not disturbed thereby. It was scarcely possible, in fact, to suspect any design in so simple a proposition. The innkeeper, however, tried to sound the intentions of the good man by a sudden question.

"Is Iermola here at the inn?"

"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.