Читать книгу Iermola - Józef Ignacy Kraszewski - Страница 9

Table of Contents

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."