Iermola Part 15

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

So Radionek was unable to persuade him to hire a wagon; but toward evening he sent Huluk to the village secretly, to learn whether any one was going to town. Then, as he had laid by a few coppers, the product of his work, he charged Huluk, if he found no other opportunity, to hire Chwedko's mare, enjoining it upon the old man to say that having himself some business in the town, he offered a seat gratis to his neighbour Iermola. Everything happened as fortunately as possible.

Chwedko's wagon was not hired out for the next day; and the old man, having received two florins for his trouble, engaged positively to feign and lie. Accordingly, by the end of the evening Radionek had everything arranged; and when Huluk returned from the village Radionek went and kissed the old man's hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Radionek, who was now silent on the subject, thought of it as much.

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

XIII.

THE GRAY MARE.

The morning of the next day was clear and bright; from early dawn the sky had been perfectly clear and radiant, which is the sign of a storm.

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

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

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

"Come, let us be off, neighbour."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes, and he is a very pretty boy now; G.o.d bless him!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Iermola, still more agitated, trembled at these words.

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

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

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

"He has a good heart."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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