On his way to the potter's house, which was situated on a little hill where one could see the bright kiln surrounded by freshly moulded pottery and shaded by an old pear-tree, Iermola gave himself up to thought. It seemed to him that at last he had hit upon a wise and happy idea. His wrinkled old face began to light up; he rubbed his hands and walked on toward Procope's cabin with a firmer and lighter step.

The potter of Malyczki, after having married off his daughter, had established himself, with a very young servant and a little apprentice, in this cottage then vacant, where he for the greater part of his time led the idle life of a village epicurean.

Generally he did but little work, for he relied upon the half-rusty roubles which he had earned in his youth; he was seldom seen seated at his wheel or busy with his kiln, but could be found frequently at the inn, or seated at his own table before a well-supplied plate and a brimming goblet which his servant had just brought to him.

Iermola therefore found the man he was seeking, at table, in front of a pint of brandy and a great bowl of fresh milk thick with cream. Procope's hair was quite gray, but he was still erect and vigorous. He was a peasant of tall and massive figure, with broad shoulders, strong as an oak, and had a white beard which reached to his girdle. One glance at him was sufficient to tell that he had strength to struggle with a bear. When he was tipsy at the inn, every one was afraid of him; for he would shake the village boys with his long arms as though he were shaking a pear-tree to make the pears fall off. He could put his broad shoulders to the axle and move a loaded wagon; and with one hand he could lift a bag of wheat as easily as any one else would a handful of straw.

The potter wore a pair of well-tarred leather boots, large white pantaloons, cut after the cossack fashion, and a shirt of gray cloth, fastened at the neck by a large red button, and lower down by a broad belt of the same colour, and was stirring his spoon in his porringer while watching the servant, who was seated in front of him, showing her white teeth and covering her face with her hands as she laughed. At this moment Iermola appeared in the doorway, and saluted the inhabitants of the potter's house in the following pious fashion,--

"Slawa Bohn! Glory to God!"

The two old men had long known each other; and besides, Procope was generally pleasant and hospitable to every one so long as he was not intoxicated; when he was, he was terrible. But just then he was perfectly sober, and he immediately rose from his table. The servant disappeared, and the two men embraced each other cordially.

"Well, what is it that the Lord God sends you to say to us?" was the potter's first remark. "You will drink one good glass, won't you?"

"I will take one glass," said Iermola, "though it is not my custom to drink at all."

"Ah, ah! a good drink of brandy never did anybody any harm. After that, we will talk over your business, if you have any."

"Ah, yes! I have something very important to talk about," replied the new-comer; "but it is a long story."

"Then begin at once."

"Wait a while, till I recover my breath."

"As long as you like."

As he spoke, the servant reappeared; she removed the bowl and spoon, leaving the brandy on the table. The two old men began by complaining of the weather and the high prices of provisions. Procope lamented considerably over the inconveniences of his trade; and gradually they conversed with frank cordiality.

"You must know," said Iermola, suddenly, not without much internal agitation, "that I am myself the son of a potter. From time immemorial my ancestors owned kilns and made pottery."

"Ah, indeed! really?" answered Procope, with visible astonishment.

"Yes, truly, as I have told you; but my father and mother died when I was quite an infant, and I can barely remember the fact that they worked in pottery. But to-day there is still in our old garden a fine potter's kiln, which is overgrown with grass. As for my paternal property, it has passed into other hands."

"But never in the world was there a potter found among the people of Popielnia."

"My father was from Wolhynia, and he lived only a very short time after coming here."

"Ah! that is a different matter," replied the potter, slowly sipping his brandy.

"And, you see, in my old age, I have taken it into my head to take up my old trade again," stammered Iermola, blushing and looking down.

Procope stared at him, then began rubbing his head and speaking in broken sentences.

"You want to take the bread out of my mouth, you wicked old man," he muttered in a menacing tone.

"Only listen to me," continued Iermola, much agitated; "instead of injuring your trade, perhaps it may be that I can help you to gain something. Do not be frightened without reason."

"All right, let me hear; tell me."

"You have no son; your daughter is married; and you have laid by a nice little pile of money. It seems to me that it is high time for you to take some rest. The clay you find about here is good for nothing. You are obliged to go a long distance to sell your pottery, for no one will buy it here; the quality is too poor."

"Come, come! look out; mind what you are saying," growled the angry potter, striking the table with his fist.

"Do not be angry, Procope; remember that I can do nothing without your assistance."

"You want to rob me."

"Not at all; you will see that my plan will bring you quite a neat little income."

"All right, let me hear it, then; and the devil take you!"

"Well, it is this: if you would only just help me a little at first, I am sure I could succeed; it seems to me that it runs in the blood to do it. Let us build, in partnership, a kiln at Popielnia. We will both attend to the firing of the pottery; and as a compensation for your trouble, half of my profits shall belong to you as long as you live, and you need do nothing all day long but lie down with your feet in the sun and your head in the shade."

At this Procope shook his head gravely.

"That would not be a bad thing; but who will go security for you?"

"Your lord."

"The old officer, the wicked old scoundrel?" cried Procope.

"Yes, he himself; he has seen and pitied the trying situation in which I am placed in my old age, and has advised me to do this to remedy it."

Procope was confounded, and for a moment made no reply. He looked puzzled, and pulled his beard.

"Is it really the chief of squadron who advises you to do this? What does he know about the business? You all seem to think that it is as easy to turn pots as to plough a furrow, and that one can light a kiln as easily as he can make soup. Now, I have worked at making pottery all my life, and still I do not always succeed."

"Because you do not take the trouble to do it. You have money enough, food, and a cottage; why should you worry yourself when there is no need of it?"

"That is true enough; but do you really believe, my old friend, that you can learn easily? Mind, I tell you that this thing needs a young head."

"Only try me; your lord will be pleased if you will."

"The devil take him with his lord!" muttered Procope. "Do you suppose the lord cares for the needs of one man?"

"But suppose we should find at Popielnia some good clay for making white pottery? You only make dark things which are ugly and good for nothing."

At these words, Procope rose up in a perfect rage, his fists clinched and his eyes bloodshot.

"They are good for nothing?" he cried in a voice like thunder. "Just wait till I get hold of you, old scoundrel, and you will see that your lord himself will not be able to help you."

"And will you be any better off after you have killed an orphan child and a poor old man?" answered Iermola, humbly, looking down.

His gentleness and submission disarmed the old potter; and he began to smile.

"What orphan are you talking about?" said he.

"Ah! so you know nothing about it all?"

"Nothing at all; I have been travelling for a long time. Tell me about the orphan."

Then the old man, quite satisfied with having appeased the terrible potter, who, though violent and passionate, was really good-hearted, set to work to narrate his adventure, without omitting the least incident or smallest detail, as peasants always do when they tell a story; and fortunately he succeeded in telling it in such a way as to interest and touch Procope. The old potter called his servant that she might hear it also; and thanks to Iermola's touching recital, a whole hour passed without their knowledge. True feeling called forth true feeling; and pity arose in their hearts.

Procope continued to swear and grumble, now, however, no longer at his visitor, but at those unworthy, miserable, wretched creatures who had been so hard-hearted as to abandon a poor child to all the chances of fate and the miseries of an orphan's life. Iermola's situation consequently interested him and excited his pity; perhaps also the remembrance of the dreaded lord, so well known to all his serfs, contributed to increase this favourable impression. To make a long story short, when the little company rose from the table, after having talked for several hours, the potter promised Iermola to come to Popielnia the next day to see the child and look for clay.

Having obtained this promise, which was sealed in a good bumper of brandy, Iermola returned to the dwor to inform his protector of the fortunate result of his day's visit; then hastening through the woods by an unfrequented path, he reached Popielnia, anxious about his little charge and fearful lest Horpyna had hindered him from sleeping by too much petting, or made him sick by stuffing him with sweets.

Tired and dusty, his lips parched, his brow damp with perspiration, full of anxiety concerning the next day's interview with Procope, and trembling lest he had entertained vain hopes and lost precious time, Iermola at last reached the widow's cabin. He immediately seized his dear little Radionek and devoured him with kisses as though he had not seen him for a year; then not desiring to confess to his neighbour the proceedings of the day, he hastened to return to his own cabin.

The next morning he was up at daybreak. He was obliged again to intrust the baby to Horpyna, for it would have been impossible to hold him in his arms as he wandered about the vicinity with Procope; then he busied himself sweeping and arranging his cabin, putting out a flask of brandy, and roasting in his oven a good-sized piece of meat for Procope's dinner, knowing he would not be content with a little, for he was accustomed to living very abundantly.

The potter of Malyczki kept his promise faithfully; about eight o'clock in the morning his little one-horse carriage stopped before the old inn. They put up the mare as well as possible in a half-fallen angle of the wall, and then, as Procope, after having taken two or three drinks of brandy, asked to go first to see the baby, they immediately repaired to the widow's cabin. They were probably expected, judging from the sumptuous reception which was offered them.

The old woman, anxious to second Iermola's efforts, and urged on by her vanity to appear liberal and magnificent in the presence of her guest, had prepared an excellent soup of oatmeal and gruel, a large dish of sausages,--the favourite meat of the inhabitants of Popielnia,--and also a large and appetizing omelet, which greatly added to the luxury of the reception, and at the same time gave the potter a great idea of the widow's opulence.

Consequently the old artisan, overflowing with good-humour, thought the baby pretty, interesting, and good; it is true that Iermola expatiated upon all his virtues and precocious characteristics.

At last, a little later, as the poor foster-father was burning with impatience, the two men left the cabin to go off on their search for potter's clay, though Procope separated himself with evident regret from the dishes and bottles, and would gladly have deferred the expedition to another time.

Iermola sent up fervent prayers to God from the very bottom of his heart, imploring Him to point out to him some good clay; for to tell the truth, he had not the least idea where to go to look for any, and had scarcely any hope of finding it. He, however, comforted himself by saying that Providence often accomplished more than men dared hope for. Having always heard that oak-trees grow best in clay soil, and knowing that the peasants went to look at the foot of the trees around his garden, in the very place where the baby had been put, for the clay which they used to repair their cabins, he resolved, guided by some vague instinct, to go first to that spot.

The two men took from Iermola's cabin a large strong spade, and went together down the little slope which led to the bottom of the garden. Procope, in order to appear important, walked slowly, with both hands stuck through his belt.

"Why, there is nothing here but pure sand," said the old potter at first. "The clay, if there is any, must be underneath it; and who knows if it is good for anything? It seems to me we had better look somewhere else."

They went on a few steps farther, and when they came to the big oak, which Iermola had christened Radionek's tree, the old man took a notion to dig in that place.

Procope, who, naturally listless, disliked exertion, seated himself quietly on the ground; and Iermola, spitting upon his hands, went bravely to work. The first spadefuls of earth he threw up were absolutely worthless; it was only white sand, then gray sand, then yellow sand, then gravel. Suddenly the spade encountered something heavier, more compact, and offering greater resistance; and digging down, Iermola found some clay. But this clay would not do: it was yellow and full of small pebbles; it was thoroughly mixed with sand and gravel.

Iermola offered a sample of it to Procope on the spade, but he contented himself with giving it a scornful glance and shrugging his shoulders.

"Dig deeper; dig somewhere else," he growled, red and breathless from the effect of his recent good cheer; "and--see here, give me your pipe."

Iermola at that moment would have given not only his pipe, but even his last shirt, to conciliate the good graces of the old potter; so quickly taking his clay pipe, which was already lighted, from his lips, he handed it to his companion, and bending down, he silently went to work again with his spade.

At the bottom of this layer of clay another appeared, thicker and deeper, but Procope was not satisfied with that; it was not the real potter's clay. Underneath the third layer suddenly appeared a sort of green earth, very curious-looking, dense and compact as stone, of a dirty cloud-colour and filled with fawn-coloured veins. As he saw this strange, disgusting-looking earth, Iermola felt cold in his very heart; he threw down his last spadeful of earth with a jerk, and almost breathless, leaned upon his spade. At that moment Procope's eye caught sight of a few pieces of earth which rolled to his feet; his face lighted; he stooped, took a bit of it in his fingers, mashed it and cracked it with his teeth.

"Oh, ho!" he cried, in a transport of delight, "You surely knew about this bed of clay. Do you know what sort of earth this is? Why, it is a kind of potter's clay which never has been found within twenty leagues around; there is none known of nearer than Wlodzimiez. Ah, you old raven, old rogue! I did not know you were so designing," continued Procope, letting fall his pipe.

Iermola was struck dumb with astonishment at these words; but he comprehended the necessity of appearing to have acted knowingly, while in reality the hand of Providence alone had led him.

He smiled mysteriously and shook his head.

"And is the bed deep? Dig a little farther and see," said the potter. "When I say that there is not such clay within twenty leagues from here, so tender and strong, and as fat to eat as butter-- Unless you go to Wlodzimiez-- Oh, such pots as we shall bake! Such pots!"

They both then began to dig, and soon discovered a thick and abundant bed of clay. True, they again came upon some veins of whiter earth, mixed with gravel and sand; but these slight layers soon disappeared, and the precious clay, thick and greenish, was there alone, rich and inexhaustible. They carried some of it away with them in an old cloak,--a good big lump which they wanted to try; and having drunk several bumpers to finish up the affair, Procope remounted his carriage and took the road to Malyczki.

Thus it was that the discovery was made at Popielnia of clay, the existence of which had until then never been suspected. That very evening the future potter, the first of all the potters who have rendered the village famous, knelt down in his chamber after Procope's departure, his eyes wet with tears of joy, and prayed fervently.

"The child will have bread!" he cried, perfectly wild with delight. "I thank Thee, my God! Thou hast heard my prayer. The child will have bread!"