Iermola Part 3

Suddenly he said to himself that hireling hands were not fit to touch this gift of G.o.d,--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 G.o.d 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 sc.r.a.p 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 G.o.d!" 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 a.s.sistance, 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 gra.s.s 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 b.u.t.ter 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 n.o.bility 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 n.o.bility.

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 G.o.d 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 sh.o.r.e, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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?"