Honeycombs for Proud Orysia

Help is a tricky thing. Hand it to a person straight, and they'll clench their fist. But wrap it up in a chore, and they'll let you right up into the attic themselves. We have a widow here, Orysia. Her roof leaked so badly that when it rained you could do the washing right in the house. But Orysia's pride was sturdier than any rafter. When her neighbor Mykola came round with a ladder, she chased him off with a broom: my roof is my fortress, no do-gooders wanted here!

Mykola understood: you don't break pride, you go around it sideways. Next morning he brought honeycombs to her gate. Empty ones, nothing but wax on the frames. Orysia, save me, he says. My storeroom's going damp, the moths will eat this wax, or it'll turn moldy. Keep it in your attic until the rains pass, and I'll give you a jar of honey for it. Orysia narrowed her eyes. Charity she did not take. But a bargain - now that was another matter. She nodded proudly and let him up.

Mykola climbed into the attic, set down the frames, and right away found a hole through which not only rain but a sparrow could have come calling. He shifted one board, then another. Mykola, are you fixing the roof or counting honeycombs? - the blacksmith shouted from below. Quiet, Mykola answered. Wax doesn't like a draft, but stale air harms it too. It has to breathe, but it mustn't get wet. This isn't firewood, you know.

And so he came day after day. Now he'd shift the frames, now tap on the wood, now mutter that wax needs the proper angle so it won't run. A couple of times he hauled up some boards. Orysia only waved her hand: let the man fuss about with his wax. A few days later an autumn downpour struck. Cold, mean, the kind that washes away even the hope of a good mood. Orysia sat down by the stove and got ready to set out the bowl, as always. But the house was dry.

It smelled quietly of smoke, dried apples and warmth. In the morning Mykola came, carefully carried out his honeycombs and smiled into his mustache. Thank you, Orysia, your attic is the driest in the village. The widow silently held out a hot pie to him. Pride is like a heavy sheepskin coat on a bare body in summer. Shameful to take it off, but wear it and you'll sweat right through. That's why a wise person will never ask you to take that coat off.

They'll politely ask whether they might tuck a piece of wax into its deep pocket, so that the owner works it out for himself: that coat has had holes in it for a long time now, and it's high time to patch it.