Part 9 (2/2)

”Pshaw, for shame!” cried Iermola, spitting on the ground. ”It is not right, Horpyna, for you to give me such advice. Suppose I should take to drinking from playing at weddings and b.a.l.l.s? And then how could I take the baby with me to all the inns?”

”Ah! that is very true. I have advised you as my mother did. But why couldn't you leave the baby with us?”

Iermola smiled and shook his head.

Just at that moment the two large pots which the widow had on the fire knocked together; one of them, which was probably already cracked, burst wide open and broke in pieces. The boiling water dashed all over the fireplace, on the coals, and spilled upon the floor, and would have gone upon the widow's feet if she had not jumped aside.

There was a moment of confusion. Horpyna gave the baby to the old man and ran to her mother's a.s.sistance; the widow began to cry; the servant screamed with fright; the half-cooked potatoes rolled upon the floor; the dog, which was asleep upon the door-sill, was startled, and began to bark loudly.

Some minutes pa.s.sed before order was restored. Fortunately, no harm was done, except to the pot, for the boiling water was all over the floor.

The young girls set to work to pick up their supper; and the widow, having cursed the decrees of fate, seated herself on the bench to collect her wits.

But when they came to put the potatoes again on the fire, and went to the loft for another pot, it was found that there was not another there so large as the one which had just been broken; and they were obliged to use in its stead two small ones which were like small pennies in comparison.

”There never was such a pot as that,” cried the widow, recommencing her mournful wail. ”I remember perfectly the day I bought it. It was at the fair at Janowka. It was as white as milk, and so strong and solid. One might have cracked nuts on it. We came back home at night, that drunken Chwedor and I. As we were pa.s.sing by Malyczki, he let the wagon run into a rut; Chwedor and I and everything that was in the wagon were thrown into a ditch. There were five pots and a sifter. 'Confound you and your brandy!' said I; and I began to grope about for the utensils.

”The sifter was ruined,--the wagon-wheel had broken it in half; two of the smaller pots were broken all to pieces; but my big white pot had rolled two fathoms away down the road. I ran after it; it was perfectly whole, and had not even the slightest crack. I could scarcely believe my eyes. I have used it for two years, and I never shall find another like it. Ah, that is what we need,--some good potters. To get another set, I must wait till a pedler takes pity on us and comes this way. But as the roads are bad and the merchandise easily broken, they come seldom; and they cheat us--oh, the way they cheat us is a caution! Now there is Procope, the potter at Malyczki; he makes such indifferent, ugly black pots. They are really good for nothing but to hold ashes. He is compelled to go away to sell them because we know them so well; no one here would buy them. Suppose you learn to be a potter; what do you think of that? It is an honest and quiet trade, and it is not hard work.”

”Do you think I could?” said Iermola, shaking his head. ”But who would teach me? And the clay? Is it good about here? And how could I build an oven? Besides, even supposing I could do all that, I should need a wagon and horse to carry my wares about; and suppose I should happen to upset them?”

”Well, really, what is the matter with you to-day, old man?” cried the widow. ”Everything seems disagreeable and difficult to you. I repeat to you your own proverb, 'It is not the saints who make the pots boil.'”

At this, all present burst into a laugh; Iermola alone remained silent and thoughtful.

Thus pa.s.sed this memorable evening, which was to bear so many fruits; for although Iermola did not then make up his mind clearly, he nevertheless, on returning to his home, begin to think seriously what there was for him to do, and gradually he recovered hope and courage.

”Since I have succeeded in learning to read,” said he to himself at last,--”which is much the most difficult thing in the world,--I ought to be able also to learn a trade. I am old, it is true; but do arms and thought and will belong to youth alone? We shall see.”

IX.

A VISIT TO THE DWOR.

Next day the old man intrusted Radionek to the care of his friend Horpyna, and under some pretext or other started for Malyczki. A thousand projects were whirling in his head.

The village was of medium size, surrounded by deep marshes and immense forests, built upon barren soil composed princ.i.p.ally of sand and peat-moss.

Nevertheless, the village was wealthy, for it was inhabited almost entirely by industrious mechanics. The peasants of this town were obliged to buy bread every year; the soil was like that of the district of Opoezynsk, and perhaps even worse, and returned for one bushel of wheat sowed only sixty sheaves, which would scarcely yield a bushel of grain, making a gain of only the straw. They were therefore compelled to resort to other means of subsistence. They made charcoal; they sold bark; they dealt in staves, made tubs and casks, and turned out various other small household utensils; they constructed carriages and ploughs, or were carpenters, weavers, or clothiers; they even wove caps and red belts; and there was one potter among them. But this last trade was not very profitable, although the man made his living,--for his wares were considered of indifferent quality.

As a general thing, potters rarely set up a business in a place where no one has previously worked at the trade; in most cases the ovens have descended from father to son for a considerable length of time.

Formerly, in the ancient times, when the potter's art was more necessary, because it was called on to furnish the sacred urns used at the sacrifices, the qualities of the different clays were better understood, and also the degrees of heat in the kiln; the situations for manufactories were better chosen, and a better standard of work prevailed among the men of the trade.

At the present time it is rare that any one attempts to build a kiln on a spot where no one has ever built before. Potteries are carried on just where they have been for ages, and the same clay is used which furnished the funeral urns of our ancestors.

The last descendant of the potters of Malyczki had sunk pretty low in his profession as artist and also in the social scale; he drank, lounged about most of the time, and cared very little about the quality of his clay, and still less about the quality or the beauty of his wares. His pots gave forth no sound to the touch; they were black, ugly, and so easily broken that the people in the village never bought them except when in extreme need. But during his expeditions to places at a distance he managed to get rid of them; and in his neighbourhood he pa.s.sed for a rich man, for he put on proud airs and indulged himself in everything.

He ate bacon, drank brandy, wore a robe of lambskin with a collar of gray astrachan, a woollen cloak with a hood, and a big cap of black lambskin as high as that of any gentleman. He had never had a son, and only one daughter, recently married to the richest peasant in the village, to whom he had given such a handsome dowry that his neighbours could scarcely believe their eyes or their ears,--horses, cattle, three chests of clothing, and a cap full of silver roubles.

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