Iermola Part 21

At that moment, as though moved by some sad presentiment, Iermola arrived, having seen the carriage, and run till he was almost out of breath, trembling, half suffocated, fearing lest he should not find the child.

The husband and wife greeted him kindly, but with coldness and reserve; he returned them a glance of indifference.

"To-day," said Jan Druzyna, "you must make up your mind to give the child up to us. We cannot do without him; and he must be present at his grandfather's funeral."

"He can do as he pleases," answered the old man; "if he wishes to go with you, I shall not prevent him."

"You will come,--you will come!" cried the mother, rus.h.i.+ng up to Radionek.

The child hesitated, turned pale, and burst into tears.

"No, no, I cannot," he murmured; "I cannot leave you, my father."

"You may come to see him as often as you wish," said Jan, restraining himself and speaking gently.

There was a moment's silence; the child, beside himself, turned first toward the thoughtful, sad old man, then toward his mother, who seemed to implore him with her eyes not to send her away.

"Do with me what you choose," said Radionek, at last. "I do not know what to do, I can't think; I am weak and sad. I do not want to leave you two; but at the same time I wish to stay here always. Why will you not live here with us?"

Thus pleadings, prayers, and promises continued to be exchanged till half the day had pa.s.sed; and at last when the carriage drove away from the old inn, it bore in it poor Radionek, who was weeping and holding out his hands to Iermola and promising him to come back the next day and kiss him.

XVI.

ALONE!

He who rests and builds on the human heart should first look well into it and lay his foundations deep, lest the edifice of his hopes should tumble and fall for want of solid support. The human heart in its depths is only mire and mud; at moments this bottom thickens up and is condensed, but soon it becomes damp and dissolves under the flow of a thousand hidden brooks.

There are, however, some rare hearts formed of more lasting material, in which a furrow once ploughed is never effaced. Old Iermola, who had loved only once in his life, having found only one being upon whom he could lavish all the strength of his love, and to whom he had attached all the fibres of his soul, felt that nothing could replace to him this child whom he had loved, and whose loss he could not endure.

The grief he felt as he saw the carriage which contained Radionek drive away, it is impossible to describe. It was not a violent and pa.s.sionate despair, nor a tempest of regrets, desires, and bitterness; but it was a feeling vast, deep, bitter, deadly as poison, slow and cold as the mountain ices. His weeping eyes dried suddenly, and became haggard, strange, constantly fixed in the same direction. He heard nothing, thought nothing. An indescribable confusion filled his brain, which seemed enveloped in the mazes of a black and tangled thread. He had lost all consciousness of self, all strength and will to act; he stood there petrified, half frozen, on the threshold, his hand extended, his lips parted, and remained there thus a long, very long time, without taking any account of the moments or the hours, letting the time go by without feeling it.

Huluk, who was a good boy, finding that he could not rouse Iermola from this stunned condition either by taking hold of his hand or calling him in a loud voice,--for the old man did not hear, and would not have understood him if he had heard,--ran to the widow's house for help.

The good woman came immediately, somewhat agitated, and severely blaming the old man for what she called his want of sense.

"You act like a child," she said. "How can you be so silly at your age?

You ought to rejoice at Radionek's good fortune."

She began to lecture him in this way from a distance as soon as she could see him; but as she drew nearer, she perceived with fright that he could not hear her; he did not move his head, and gave no sign of life.

His eyes were turned toward the oak-trees, his mouth hanging open, his head bent down, his hands extended, stiff, and already almost benumbed.

The cossack's widow ran to him, began to rub him hard, and at the same time to talk to him, sparing him neither hard words nor reproaches, for she did not know what else to do.

"Have you really gone crazy, old idiot? Do you think they have taken him away to butcher him? For shame! for shame! Ask G.o.d's pardon; it is a real sin."

But she was obliged to scold and shake him a long time before she saw life or consciousness return. At last he burst into tears, began to sob, to murmur indistinct words, and finally his reason revived.

"It is all over," he said; "all my happiness is over. I no longer have my darling, my treasure, my Radionek. He is now a rich and powerful lord at Malyczki; but at my house there is no child, and there will never again be one there."

Then he began to break up his pitchers and porringers and his working implements, and threw them out of the door.

"What good will all this be to me? I want to return to my former life, to forget that the child was mine, that I had a son. I know what they will do with him; they will spoil him and turn his head. Radionek will be lost to me. The sweet child will never more speak to me and give me loving smiles as he used to do; he will always sigh for their handsome house, their plastered house. He will be cold in my hut; the fresh water and hard bread will not seem good to him; Iermola will be to him only a garrulous, insupportable old grumbler. Oh, I have been weak and mean-spirited! I have been crazy. I should have run away,--run far away with him to some place where they would not have been able to find us, and where they could not have taken him from me."

The cossack's widow listened and shrugged her shoulders; from time to time she tried to say a kind word to him, but she knew that it is necessary always to allow a great grief to vent and exhaust itself, so she let Iermola cry and groan. At every step the old man came upon something to remind him of the child, in the room which was still so full of mementos of him. Here was his drugget cloak; there a little painted pitcher which he had made himself, the first vase, glazed and ornamented with flowers, which he had so lovingly made, his square cap with a red border, of the Polesian fas.h.i.+on, and in a corner, the little bench upon which he loved to sit, the porringer from which he ate his meals, the goat he played with, and which was bleating because it did not see him.

"Oh, I must end it all by bursting my head against the wall!" cried Iermola. "How can I live without him? I feel as if my child were dead."

The widow, who now began to be frightened because she thought that Iermola's grief was not of the kind which would soon subside, sent Huluk to beg Chwedko to come immediately to the old inn. Chwedko, being warned of what was going on, and considering brandy as the greatest possible comforter, took care to take with him a bottle full of it. He began by talking pleasantly and even congratulating his old friend, then he compared in a melancholy way the old man's attachment for Radionek to that he bore his gray mare; then having exhausted all his eloquence, and not knowing what else to do, he drew the bottle from his pouch and set it on the table.

At the sight of it Iermola's eyes sparkled; he seized the bottle and emptied it at one draught. But man has moments of internal upheaval, so deep and so intense that the effect of things with which he comes in contact is no longer manifested according to the general laws of nature. The human being who has reached such a state of excessive excitement and agony no longer feels either hunger or cold, and will even be proof against poison; as, for instance, in the heat of battle, a soldier will take, without becoming intoxicated, an enormous quant.i.ty of liquor, which ordinarily would certainly have laid him on the ground. Just so it was with Iermola, who wished to get drunk and could not succeed, for he felt no inconvenience or stupefaction, in spite of the large quant.i.ty of brandy he had swallowed.

"What a head he must have to stand a pint of strong gin!" murmured Chwedko, with a sort of respect.

"It is not his head which is strong; it is his grief," said the widow, in a low voice. "Give him a bucketful of it now, and you would not make him tipsy; grief keeps him awake."

As the evening came on, they made every effort to induce him to spend the night at the widow's cottage, but they could not persuade him to do so. The old man seated himself again on the door-sill, and began to muse and sigh with his eyes fixed on the oaks. The two neighbours were compelled by urgent business to return home, Chwedko remembering that it was time to water his mare, and the widow having to prepare her supper and milk her cow. They were both obliged to leave him; and Huluk, the poor orphan, was left alone with him, weeping.

The evening advanced; night came on, and still Iermola did not move from the spot. He slept there a few moments, for sorrow had overcome him. Then he wakened suddenly and remained so, still motionless. Huluk, suffering for the want of sleep, watched over him and kept up a low wailing.

It was about the first c.o.c.k-crowing when a shadow of some one moving fell suddenly upon the threshold of the cabin. Huluk, who had the eyes of a lynx, immediately recognized Radionek, who was running along the road leading from Malyczki. The old man had not seen him, but he had felt his coming; he trembled, looked around, and cried, "Radionek!"

"Yes, it is I, my father."

"It is you, my good child; ah, the Lord be praised! I was dying without you, do you see, and you have come to bring me back to life. But how did you come? On foot?"

"On foot, father. Did I not know the road? And why should I be afraid to walk at night?"

"Did you come alone?"

"With my stick."

"And did they give you permission to come?"

"Bah! I did not ask it. They put me to bed, but I was so troubled I could not close my eyes. I cannot tell you how anxious I was; I felt obliged to come back to you. And when the morning comes and they do not find me, they will know well enough where to look for me."

Iermola, as he embraced him, felt his strength and presence of mind return, and he quickly revived.

"Huluk," he cried in a glad, strong voice, "the poor child is doubtless cold; he is hungry too. Surely they could not have given him anything to eat. Light the fire. Is there anything to eat? I also feel as if my stomach was empty."

"How astonis.h.i.+ng!" murmured the boy; "yesterday neither of them ate one mouthful."

"Ah, that is true, upon my word."

"I will light the fire myself, father, and get your breakfast ready,"