Part 23 (1/2)
”Yes, you, certainly. See how he is changed; he is withering away and consumed with fever.”
”And it is I,--I,--who am the cause of it, my lord?”
”a.s.suredly it is not us.”
”It is you,--it is you who are killing him,” then cried the old man, his patience all exhausted. ”I gave him back to you happy, vigorous, in good health; you have shut him up, destroyed his strength, and made him miserable and sad. The child loves me, and he has reason to love me. If he did not, he would be heartless; and you,--you do all you can to teach him ingrat.i.tude.”
”Are you beside yourself, old man?” cried Jan Druzyna, in a rage. ”What do you mean? How dare you answer? Go off; go off immediately, and never think of stepping your foot in this house again, for you will be driven out of it.”
At these words Iermola turned pale, trembled, was seized with fright, and tried to speak; but words failed him.
”You drive me away,” said he at last. ”I shall go away, since you order me to do so; and my feet will never again cross your door-sill.
Remember, remember, unjust man, that as you have taken the child from me, G.o.d, who judges and punishes, will take him away from you.”
Having uttered this terrible imprecation, which the mother heard just as she was hastening to restrain her husband, and which caused her to recoil, frightened and fainting, Iermola, desperate and beside himself, making use of the remnant of his strength, fled down the stairway and crossed the great courtyard without turning his head to look behind him.
After a few moments Jan Druzyna recovered himself. He realized his wrong-doing; and the prophetic words of the old man began to weigh upon his heart. The sight of the old man, who was rapidly disappearing from sight in the distance, was a cruel reproach to him. Not knowing what to do, he rushed into the house and entered just in time to receive his fainting wife in his arms.
She wished to go for Radionek and send him after Iermola, to soothe his anger, and bring him back to her family, but when she entered the child's room she found him on the floor, cold and pale as marble, and before any one could revive him, Iermola was already far away.
When night came, the poor man dragged himself wearily to the house of his old friend the widow, to whom he wished to make his lament and tell everything. He had not seen her for a week, for every morning early he had started for Malyczki; he therefore did not know that the poor woman had been very ill for three days. He had scarcely put his foot inside the door when he saw that according to custom the gla.s.s had been taken out of the windows, a coffin placed in the middle of the room, and a little way off the brotherhood with their banners, the cross, and the priest with the book, were coming to the burial.
Then Iermola, like one waking from a dream, gazed a long, long time upon the coffin, knelt down, and began to pray.
”She too! she too!” he murmured. ”Come, it is time for me to die.” He felt the chill of evil foreboding run through his veins. ”But first,”
said he, ”we must go with her to the cemetery and throw a handful of dust on her coffin.”
Silent and sad, he stood a moment near the door, leaning on his stick; then he joined the funeral procession, in which there was neither daughter nor son-in-law nor grandson, only the servants, the neighbours, and distant relatives of the deceased.
The cemetery was situated about halfway between the _dwor_ and Iermola's dwelling; toward this spot, therefore, the funeral procession moved. In the dim twilight the long line of tapers borne in the hands of the brotherhood were reflected above on the moving folds of the banners. Chwedor had already dug the grave; a great heap of yellow clay was piled up on the edge of it. The priest blessed it and made a sign to lay the body of the widow within it; then each of those present threw in a handful of sand and murmured a last farewell. Iermola paid this last duty with much feeling; then, half beside himself, he slowly took the road back to his hut. There was no longer any reason why he should hasten there now.
Huluk, who considered himself already quite the master of the house and the little business, and who, although good-hearted, really began to find Iermola somewhat in his way, was at this moment leaning against the doorway, dreaming of a future full of glad, ambitious hopes. It seemed to him that if Iermola were no longer there, he could so easily take possession of the pottery kiln and the little garden, marry little Pryska, and become a master-workman in every sense of the word. His old master at first seemed useless to him, then troublesome and in the way.
”What news have you for me? Did not the cossack's widow send for me when she was taken sick?” said the old man as he came near.
”Yes, certainly, Chwedor came three times of his own accord; she had something to say to you, but you were not here.”
”Ah, now she can speak no more,” replied Iermola, in a mournful, almost indifferent voice, as he entered the house. ”What is the use of talking about it? It is all over now. Everything in this world must come to an end.”
He repeated these words as he walked up and down the room; then he seated himself on one of the benches and began to doze. Huluk then went out, shrugging his shoulders.
”What is the old man thinking of?” said he. ”Wouldn't it be better for him to go off with a sack and beg? Then I could marry Pryska, and all would go well; but so long as he stays here, how can I think of it? Oh, what a bother!”
Confusion and discord now reigned in the chamber which formerly was so clean and well kept; it was easy to see that no one cared for it any longer. Huluk had taken some of the furniture into the next room; the old man had distributed some among his old friends; the rest was scattered here and there and covered with dust. There had been no fire in the stove for a long time; there was no pile of wood in the woodshed, no provisions in the house; a few cooking utensils lay in the corners, dusty and half broken. The old man had no longer any heart to notice all this. When he woke in the morning, he felt as if he could take courage and do something; but after a little while everything seemed so sad, so bitter, so grievous, the hut itself, with all its memories, became so hateful to him, that for the first time he thought of leaving it forever. He could not sit on the door-sill without looking at the clump of oaks under which he had seen, wrapped in his long white clothes, the child who had been the hope and comfort of his old age. These memories were still so fresh and heart-breaking that the old man could not endure them while surrounded by them, and, as it were, fed upon them.
”I will go away,--yes, I will; may G.o.d pardon them! I will go and wander about the world, grieving and praying,” said he; ”I will go from church to church praying for my child. What else can I do here? Here there is no longer any place for me; there are no friends for me. With a sack on my back and a stick in my hand I will start out. I can do no good by staying here.”
He took from his usual hiding-place some silver and copper money, so that in case death should come suddenly on the road or among strangers, enough would be found on his person to bury him decently and pay for a Ma.s.s for the repose of his soul; he made up a bundle of clothing and put it on his shoulder, put some linen in two bags which he tied together with cords and threw over his back after the fas.h.i.+on of a beggar's sack, and when thus ready to start, he called Huluk. The latter, as he came out of his room and saw his old master dressed as a beggar, trembled and felt confused, as though his thought had been divined. His heart beat violently; he began to pity Iermola sincerely, to be disgusted with his favourite project for the future and the business.