In a small town where, by reason of its trade in wood and its rafting, the number and the means of the transient inhabitants is considerable; where the boatmen, the merchants, and their employees constantly come and go,--it would not be possible for a Jew, without money and without credit, to keep the principal hotel. Consequently the illustrious Szmula, who owned the inn of Popielnia, whence he reigned over the village and its vicinity, was not a mere innkeeper going from time to time a distance of three miles to purchase a little barrel of brandy. He was a Jew who had grown rich upon the profit of his trade in wood, timber, tar, and ashes,--in fact, all the products of the Polesian forests, including dried mushrooms and conserved berries.

His inn also, particularly in the springtime, brought him gain which was not to be despised; and Mr. Szmula, justly valuing the rotundity of his girth and the dignity of his position, began to set himself up for a great lord. The new inn, from which he lorded it, was different in appearance from the old-fashioned inns whose architecture had been perpetuated according to Slavic custom because they were intended to be used for public assemblies and councils. It was without the traditional vestibule, projecting and supported by pillars, for the practical Israelite cared but little to entertain the poor and infrequent travellers who usually passed through that secluded region; but there was a stable and coach-house sheltering the great carriage which was used in going to the fairs, and the house had externally very much the appearance of a gentleman's dwor. On one side was a large apartment, which was in fact the dining-hall of the inn, where heavy benches were placed all about the wall, with an enormous table in front of them. In one corner there was a sort of staging which was shut up during the night by means of several window shutters, and where during the day brandy was retailed from the counter. In the other part of the house, which was furnished with some elegance, lived Szmula Popielauski and his family; and there was a pretty unoccupied room kept for the merchants of his religion who might stop in the neighbourhood.

The front room in this portion of the house made some pretence to the name of drawing-room, for it contained a wooden sofa polished and varnished, and covered with a sort of damask studded with gold stars, two chairs with arrows of black wood on their backs, a mirror suspended on the wall, the framed portraits of two illustrious Israelites,--the rabbis of Hamburg and Wilna,--a cupboard filled with china cups, cut glass, and bottles of rum, and a somewhat rickety table supported by a lyre and covered with a bright cloth.

The floor of this room had once been painted white, but the colour having been rubbed off in many places, it was now variegated; the stove was closed by a small iron door with a brass knob; and Szmula, having done all this proprio sumptu et cura, to satisfy his taste for elegance, congratulated himself upon the effect. In the second room the Jewish dirt began to assert itself, but did not exclude attempts and pretensions to elegance. Above the bed was placed a fringed canopy with curtains covered with enormous flowers. Near this might be seen a cupboard of black wood, full of books and papers, and a small rickety bureau; also a pile of potatoes, one or two buckets of kindling-wood, some cakes of dough drying on a plate, a large earthen pan full of dish-water, and a white turkey, walking composedly about surrounded by her brood.

Szmula was no longer in his early youth. He was about fifty years old, and was married a second time, his late spouse having left him only one son, who kept a shop of his own in the next town. Not being satisfied with this only scion, Szmula had taken to wife a young Jewess, very poor but extremely beautiful, who had borne him three children during the three years of their marriage. His gray hairs were honoured by this blessing from the Lord. At first sight, this grave descendant of Israel was very pleasing, with his long beard and hair, his regular features, his serious and winning expression. One had a desire to study him closely, and to believe in his honesty. Nevertheless, his beauty and the sweet expression of his eyes were, as is so often the case, deceptive.

In fact, there could be no more insatiable vampire, no more greedy blood-sucker, than the worthy Szmula of the village of Popielnia. The constantly increasing profits earned by his deceit and tact did not render him above turning to account the smallest opportunities. Besides his bills of a thousand roubles and his coupons of government bonds, he deposited without shame in his chests the big copper money bathed with the sweat of the wretched peasants; and puffed up by his position and his wealth, he treated the poor villagers as though they were mere beasts of burden, and fleeced them without mercy.

The result was that when the villagers had any business to transact, they preferred to do so secretly with the poorer Jews who lived in the little town; and this aroused the deepest resentment in Szmula. He could not forgive them for being unwilling to allow him to cheat them. He considered their conduct a daring revolt; and as an old tradition, founded upon some unknown basis, gave him the right to claim one pint of flour when a peasant took his corn to the mill, he thought therefore he had the right to fly into a rage and make a terrible fuss when a peasant took his cow to the market or sold a bag of corn without his royal permission. Gifted with indefatigable energy, Szmula neglected nothing, for all gain was acceptable to him, and he always had time for everything. His presence of mind and dexterity never forsook him.

Such was the all-powerful autocrat to whom the simple-hearted Iermola was about to apply in the hope of buying his white goat. Fortunately, he had with him old Chwedko, who was infinitely better acquainted than he with all the subtleties of human rascality; who, experienced, cunning, and prudent, spared neither time nor words nor pains when the question was to economize or to earn a little money. As they went along, therefore, Chwedko gave all sorts of advice to Iermola, but the latter heard little of it, so absorbed was he with his own plans for obtaining the goat.

Unfortunately this old animal was the pet of Sara, Szmula's second wife, and also of her eldest son, who often amused himself by pulling the goat's beard, although she had more than once mercilessly trampled upon him. The goat in question was not worth more than twelve florins; but Iermola was quite willing to give twenty rather than not get it, and even Chwedko thought this a not unreasonable price considering the circumstances. But how were they to approach the subject and make this proposition to Szmula? If the Jew for a moment suspected how exceedingly necessary the animal was to poor Iermola, he would take advantage of the situation and fleece him unmercifully.

The question therefore was, if possible, to deceive the Jew, so that he should not have the opportunity to rob the unfortunate Iermola.

When the two men were within a short distance of the inn, Chwedko, who had reflected for some time, made a sign to Iermola to stop.

"Stay here a moment, near this cottage," said he, pointing to the spot. "Wait here a moment for me; I will go and feel the Jew's pulse. Do not fear; I will find some good way to arrange the matter. If we go and ask him for his goat outright, he will make us pay as much for it as the price of a cow. We must manage to have him offer it to us; leave it all to me."

"But what are you going to do?"

"You shall see; you shall see," answered good old Chwedko, deeply interested in Iermola's project. "Only be careful to do just what I tell you."

Then Iermola, making a great effort to be quiet, seated himself on the ground beside the wall of the hut, for he was in great need of rest for mind and body. He leaned his head on his hand and fell into deep thought. For the first time in his life he was obliged to think of the future.

As for Chwedko, he went straight to the great dining hall of the inn, but Szmula was not there,--no one was there, only the goat. Partly opening the door of the chamber, carefully wiping his feet, and humbly asking permission to enter, he stepped inside with a low bow and holding his cap under his arm. He took special care not to step off the door-mat, for the Jew flew into a rage if any one soiled the floor of his chamber. Having established himself firmly in his position, Chwedko dropped his hand down to his knees and made another low bow to the dreaded Szmula.

In order to be favourably received by the innkeeper, it was really necessary to go through with all these formalities, as the far-seeing Chwedko well knew,--first to wipe one's feet, then stop at the threshold, and above all, not to call the worthy man Mr. Innkeeper, but instead, Mr. Merchant, for our Szmula maintained that if he kept an inn it was for his own entertainment, and that it was for his pleasure alone that he lived in the country.

"Well, what do you want, Chwedko?" asked the Jew, without rising from his easy-chair, where he was bending his head, with his long nose over a book, yet ready without hesitation to interrupt his devotions whenever his interests required it, for he knew very well that God is more patient than man.

"Mr. Merchant--I want to tell you--there is an occasion."

Thus the lower classes speak of every unexpected event which may serve as a pretext for feasting or drinking.

"An occasion! What is it? A baptism? A betrothal? A wedding or a funeral? Is any one dead, any accident? I'll venture you have come to ask for some brandy on credit."

"No, indeed, sir; but I chanced to hear something, and I wanted to tell my lord the merchant about it. It is perhaps an opportunity to make something."

"Let me hear; what is there to be made?" said Szmula, rising, thrusting his hands into his girdle, and approaching Chwedko.

"Your Honour" (this title was specially flattering to the Jew's vanity),--"your Honour knows Iermola, the old man who lives in the old ruined inn."

"Certainly I know him; but he is only a poor devil, a beggar."

"That is true, but it does not prevent his having gained a few roubles."

"Well, what? He wants to drink them up?"

"No, no! he does not drink brandy, but he has taken it into his head to buy a cow, paying half the amount down and asking credit for the balance."

"A cow! and what will he do with it?"

"He was going to the town to look for one; but I stopped him because I thought of a plan for him."

"To the town! always to the town!" repeated the Jew, shrugging his shoulders. "The fools! That is their first thought. But tell me, Chwedko, what is your plan?"

"I have tried to make him think that it is not a good idea for him to have a cow and be in debt; that it would be better for him to buy a goat with his money. He would have milk immediately, and in a little while a flock. Perhaps you would sell him your white goat?" Just here the Jew fixed his piercing eye on Chwedko's face, but he fortunately was not disturbed thereby. It was scarcely possible, in fact, to suspect any design in so simple a proposition. The innkeeper, however, tried to sound the intentions of the good man by a sudden question.

"Is Iermola here at the inn?"

"No; since noon he has been down there with the neighbours. But if you wish, I can go and bring him here, though usually he does not like to come to the inn. But perhaps you do not wish to sell your old white goat? I merely thought of this for your interest; why should you let all the money of the people go out of the village? However, if the idea does not suit you, say nothing about it, and let him go on to the town."

"Wait a moment, wait," said the Jew, after a pause, seeing Chwedko with his hand on the knob of the door. "Why should he go to the town?"

Here he called Sara, who came in with a discontented countenance; they exchanged a few words in their own language, Szmula speaking in a low voice and his wife looking very cross. Chwedko tried to divine the intentions of the couple from their voices and their gestures, but in vain; the Jewess went out at last, and Szmula, turning to him and slapping him on the shoulder, said,--

"You are a good man when you want brandy on credit. I have told Sara to let you have a rouble's worth; do you hear? Bring Iermola here in the great hall. The goat is there; he can buy it. It is a good goat; he will like it. It is an excellent goat. How much money has he?"

"I do not know really," answered Chwedko. "He must have, I think, about fifteen florins; and the cossack's widow will probably lend him something more."

The Jew nodded his head silently, and having thus taken leave of the peasant, who hastened to rejoin his companion, he put on a warmer overcoat, for he took great care of his precious health; then he walked slowly into the great hall under pretext of going to look over some accounts with his servant, Marysia, who on the Sabbath as well as all other days served at the bar of the inn, besides which she took care of the children, milked the cow, in fact, rendered herself generally useful to the household.

The great hall, dark, dirty, and mean-looking, without any floor, dimly lighted by a torch of resinous wood which was smoking in one corner, was occupied at this moment only by Marysia (who was so very fat and short that the peasants compared her to one of the big-bellied barrels in which bacon is put up in brine), the white goat, who wandered around looking in all the corners for something to eat, and a Polesian peasant, who, after having taken a small glass of brandy and an onion, had stretched himself beside the wall with his money-bag and his shoes under his head, and was sleeping like a rock, and snoring like a chariot in need of greasing.

Szmula walked up and down for some time, looking first at the goat and then at Marysia, who was quite astonished at his sudden entrance. He yawned, sighed, and turned his thumbs over each other; then all at once hearing the sound of a footstep in the vestibule, he went to the window and began chalking figures on the shutter, keeping his eyes fixed on his calculations, and pretending to be very busy.

Just at that moment Chwedko appeared, followed by old Iermola, who was trembling like a leaf and blushing also at the thought of the farce he was obliged to play in order to get the white goat. His first glance fell upon the tall figure of the Jew; and this glance would doubtless have been sufficient to betray him if Szmula had seen it. But fortunately the Jew at that moment was entirely taken up with his own rÔle; he seemed utterly absorbed in important business, and was standing with his back to the two friends.

"Good-evening, my lord merchant," began Chwedko.

"Good-evening," answered Szmula, half turning round, and muttering a few words through his beard.

"Well, what shall we do? Shall we take a drink of brandy?" continued Chwedko.

"For my part, I rarely drink; but to keep you company--Pour out something for us to drink, Marysia."

"You are going to the fair," resumed the first speaker; "you must strengthen yourself for the journey."

"Ah! so you are going to the fair, are you?" interrupted Szmula. "Perhaps you have something to sell. I shall be glad to buy it from you."

"No, I am going for another purpose."

"And what is it?" said the Jew. "This is the way all of you peasants do,--as soon as you have any business to transact, you run to the town. Are you thinking of buying anything?"

"See here, my lord merchant," answered Chwedko, interrupting, "my neighbour wants a cow; he is lonely, and for company's sake is willing to take on himself one more bother."

"But why get a cow?" asked the Jew, in a scornful tone.

"Well, it would give me some pleasure, and perhaps some profit."

"Pshaw, pshaw!" cried Szmula, waving his hand, "one can see plainly that you never have owned a cow, and that you do not know what it is to take care of one. First, you must pay the little herdsman, and God only knows how much the herdsman asks; besides, the cattle always come home hungry. Then you will be obliged to buy hay,--and hay costs as much now as pepper; and tailings,--and tailings are now ten coppers a bag; and buckwheat,--and I do not sell that for less than forty coppers a bag; that is what every one pays me. Besides, she must have grass and potatoes; and if you do not give her some of all these things, the animal will get poor. Then there are so many diseases and so much time when the creature gives no milk. Think of it! not a drop of milk for six months in the year!"

"Yes; but one has the calf and a little milk."

"And who, pray, will take care of the animal for you?" interrupted the Jew, shrugging his shoulders.

"What did I tell you?" here put in Chwedko. "For a poor man like you a cow is only a bother and nothing else."

"But she would give me nevertheless a calf and a few drops of milk."

"Yes, about milk; talk about that," answered the officious go-between. "As for milk, I can assure you there is nothing so good as a goat. Observe, a goat costs very little and lives upon anything it can find,--branches, leaves, or stubble. Besides, a goat needs no care; and when once you have tasted goat-milk, you can be sure you have had something to drink, it is so sweet and nourishing."

"Really, to tell you the truth," said the innkeeper, in his turn, "I can assure you there is nothing like a goat. If any people know how to manage, it is our race, I believe; and you see that we almost invariably have goats. But men have opportunities to observe, yet do not comprehend; a goat is a treasure."

"Well, when I have thought the matter over, perhaps I shall buy a goat," said Iermola.

"And you will do well," cried Chwedko,--"you will do well, I repeat. Now suppose Mr. Szmula were to sell you his white goat?"

"What is it you are saying?" said the Jew, quickly, as though he had heard by chance. "I would not sell my white goat for any price; do you hear? It is the only pet of my wife and children, and moreover it is an invaluable animal; it is worth more than a cow."

"I am sorry," answered Iermola, looking attentively at the white goat, which was strolling around, "for the town is not here; my old legs will scarcely carry me so far, and, dear me, I might have decided to buy your goat."

"True, it is only a goat, but such a goat!" answered the Jew. "Have you ever seen one like it? She has so much instinct, so much sense, upon my word, one might almost talk to her; and as for her milk, it is all cream. You might go twenty miles and not find her equal. It is not a goat; it is a treasure, a rare possession."

"But it is old," observed old Iermola, respectfully.

"Old, old! Well, what does that matter? The older a goat grows, the more it is worth. Besides, how could it be old? It has hardly begun to live; it will live twenty years yet," cried Szmula, becoming more and more excited.

"How much did it cost you?" asked Iermola.

"Oh, it has cost me-- I cannot tell you how much. First, when it was just born, I paid two roubles for it. For you see this is no ordinary goat; it is of a fine breed,--a very rare breed. I would not take six roubles for it; she eats almost nothing, and she is always fat, and every year she bears two kids."

After this speech there was a moment of silence. Iermola turned pale and became agitated, not knowing what to say. He gazed at the goat, which continued to walk around, stamping on the ground with her hoof, and poking her head into every corner where she perceived the faintest odour of food. She occupied herself in picking up scattered leaves, bits of bark, and cabbage stalks; and in justice to her, it must be said that she minded her own business and disturbed no one.

"She would suit you exactly," said Chwedko, resuming his rÔle of courtier. "She never would run away, because she is already accustomed to the village. She knows where to go to graze; she is old, gentle, and used to being milked."

"And she is not an ordinary goat," repeated the Jew, in a sententious tone; "she is of a rare breed,--a good breed."

"But where should I find so much money?" sighed Iermola.

"Come, see here," answered Szmula, coming nearer and speaking earnestly, "you are an honest man; I will have every consideration for you. In the town people might cheat you; I will give you a good bargain, and let you have the goat for three roubles. Now that is the best I can do; make up your mind."

Chwedko, who had not expected such reasonable terms, hastened to conclude the bargain, quite satisfied to find Szmula in such an accommodating mood.

"Come, hold out your hand, neighbour, and thank my lord merchant; you have made an excellent bargain. Pay for the animal and take her; I hope you will be quite satisfied with her."

"Well, what shall we do?" sighed the old serving-man. "I will take it at that price, since my lord merchant will not take less. Please give me a bit of cord so I can lead the goat home."

Accordingly, the purchase was quickly made and satisfactorily beyond all expectations. Iermola drew from a knot in the corner of his handkerchief three roubles, which he gave to Szmula. The Jew examined them, threw them on the ground, as was his custom, and then, dropped them into his pocket.

"You will return the string to-morrow?" said he, as he slowly retired to his chamber.

"How about the treat?" said Chwedko, timidly.

"That is Iermola's right," answered Szmula, "but since he did none of the bargaining, you shall not pay for your little glass of brandy; I will treat myself."

Then Marysia threw to the two friends a piece of cord with a buckle at the end which was used to carry the fagots of kindling-wood. And Chwedko, having shut the door, began to chase the goat, who, suspecting some foul play, fled from the least approach of her two pursuers. The Jew had already gone away to his own apartment.

"Well, upon my word, you have shown your sense," cried the servant when she saw that her worthy master had disappeared. "What a shame to give twenty florins for a miserable old beast! you might have bought three young ones at the fair for that price."

The two old men kept silence; and having tied the string to the animal's horns, they led their conquest away.

Iermola was trembling with pleasure; the tears filled his eyes; and he embraced his neighbour.

"You have done me a great service; may God reward you!" he murmured.

"For the present, I shall not think of showing myself at Szmula's house," sighed Chwedko, who recognized the full extent of the danger to which he had exposed himself. "As soon as he hears about the baby, the rascal will suspect some trick, and never will forgive me. He would have fleeced you famously had he known that the goat was such a necessity."

Talking thus in low tones, they reached the widow's hut, forcing the goat to obedience by various means, more or less gentle, for she had not the slightest desire to go away from the inn.

Meantime the storm began to mutter behind them, for Sara, greatly enraged, had just rejoined her husband, and was relating to him the story of the baby left at old Iermola's house, which news she had just learned from Marysia, the bar-maid.

Szmula, who was not wanting in sagacity, understood at once why his goat had suddenly become so necessary; he pulled his beard and bit his finger-nails.

"Just wait a while, you rascal, you scoundrel of a Chwedko," muttered he, shaking his head. "If I live only a little while longer, I will pay you for it."