Halek's Stories and Evensongs/Poldik the Scavenger

by Vítězslav Hálek

For other English-language translations of this work, see Poldik the Scavenger.

POLDIK THE SCAVENGER

CHAPTER I

HEE! heesta [gee]!” shouted Poldik to his horses; he was driving with his wagon into Podskali [Undercliff], be it understood, and from there distributed throughout the city sand in summer and ice in winter.

Through summer, all through winter, and for many a long year it was the same monotonous journey to and fro. In summer he carted sand for the builders. When one house was completed, he carted for other builders perhaps in quite a different quarter of the city—that change occurred in summer. In winter when he had stocked the cellar of one brewer, he led ice to the neighbouring brewery, which was perhaps some streets distant—that change occurred in winter. Otherwise, provided the order was for the produce of the Moldau, ice and sand, he carted anywhere, his pilgrimage to the Moldau always finishing with Myslikoff Street, thence diverging to the Zitne Gasse, and finally passing the Sipkoff mills until at last it was brought to a termination at Naplavka [the Quay].

As soon as his vehicle had entered these streets, Poldik might have sat in his cart and gone to sleep; his horses would have found their way as we say “blindfold”. They knew hardly any other road. They were like the bucket of a well: we let it down one way and draw it up the same without a span-breadth of difference, but always the same; and if they had awoke some morning in any of the streets, Poldik need never have opened his lips; they would have gone on of their own accord like automata through that portion of their circuit which was yet before them, be it to Naplavka or from Naplavka to the building steads. So perfectly familiar to them was this road that they knew instinctively where the ale-house was, where was the blacksmith’s forge, where the fruit stall, and where Poldik bought his tobacco.

Very frequently they stopped at the ale-house without Poldik’s bidding: and only again jogged on with the vehicle when their master tugged at the reins and said “gee up” or swore at them. But it also very frequently happened that their master did not tug the reins or say “gee up” or swear at them, but let the reins hang loose by the cart and with heavy steps slouched into the alehouse. Much the same occurred at the blacksmith’s shop; here they generally stopped of their own accord for certain, because whenever they lost a shoe Poldik swore at them then and there, and that was a sign that they would get a fresh shoe at the blacksmith’s. As for the fruit stall Poldik only occasionally recollected this halting-place, turned aside to the little booth and shouted at the door, “Two”. This had divers meanings according to the season of the year; either two kreuzer’s worth of cherries or pears, of plums or apples—or when there were none of these delicacies to be found at the stall—two kreuzer’s worth of brandy. Here perhaps, for the sake of completeness, I ought to detail what happened at the tobacconist’s. But Poldik frequently filled his pipe at the fruit stall and struck a light, and then it appeared to him that the world was better by a whole pipe of tobacco.

I do not pretend to enter into the sentiments of horses, but even Poldik’s horses saw the world in a better light after these halts, because they had a moment’s rest and quiet. They knew these modest stations well, and perhaps said to themselves, “There, if all be well, we shall enjoy another rest.”

I paint these horses for you, though you have seen them a hundred times; but they are indispensable for a proper understanding of my hero; although you have seen him also a hundred times. I do not know their life-history: they may have formed part of some grand turn-out: perhaps they had once served in a campaign, perhaps they were victorious with the heroes who rode them, perhaps with the same they beat an ignominious retreat. Now, they were horses because the Lord God had created them horses. Otherwise, they were mere skeletons, with just a strip of horse’s hide stretched across them for the sake of appearances, and if animals, like men, were in the habit of divesting themselves of their outer garments at night, a pair of bony frameworks would have been seen taking their rest in the stables, and might have served for a sciolist to demonstrate anatomy on. Nor did the aforementioned horses’ hides by any means interfere with any one who wished to compute the number of their ribs. You could do it to a hair, and see where the ribs began and where they ended, where the stomach was or rather ought to have been, where the hip-bones were and similar portions, which even a painter tries to endue with a certain amount of flesh.

They were, then, bones and leather, only that even this comparison is not quite correct. Their leather was rent in many a place, particularly in the region of the ribs and hip-bones where the straps frayed them; in some places it was even frayed off altogether, especially about the neck where the collar sat. At times these frayed and shabby objects tempted the fancy to divers comparisons. They looked like the seedy old sofa of some aged country parson, and only wanted a little horsehair or whatever the sofa was stuffed with to peep out from their rent hides, to make the comparison perfect. Or, again, they looked like an old sleeve of a past generation, which no longer gave any warmth to the wearer, because all the nap was rubbed off.

These horses, then, were far removed from their prototype Pegasus—as far, indeed as the hodman is from the architect, or the drummer in the orchestra from the composer of the overture.

Had Apollo clapped wings on to these creatures of Poldik—had he clapped on to them the original pair of poet’s wings, they would never, for all the world, have flown along Myslikoff Street—much less have taken flight above it. When they stood still and Poldik’s “Cl! cl!” and his whip gave them to understand that they were to bestir themselves, you could count up a fair number of seconds before their volition imparted itself to all the harness, before the traces stretched tight, before the fore-wheel got an inkling of what was toward, before the cart creaked and incited even the hind wheels to rotate, and before the whole system was in motion: horses, cart, and Poldik.

And when they were at last on the go their pace was above measure deliberate. Perhaps not even clockwork is so completely uniform, for we see clocks gain or lose. But Poldik’s horses never gained a minute in a whole year, though to their praise be it added that they never lost a minute either. A sluggish, even, deliberate pace was so strong a portion of their characters that neither Poldik’s whip nor his oaths caused the least variation therefrom. Poldik’s whip seemed to them a necessary concomitant to their own deliberate pace; if they had missed it in certain conjunctures, and in the same conjunctures had not heard the well-known oaths, they would certainly have cried out—had they been gifted with human speech—“Why don’t you crack your whip again now? why don’t you swear at us again?”

An anatomist, gazing at their even and ever sluggish pace, might have verified what muscles it was by which they extended their feet; he would have had plenty of time for this.

For their regularity of movement they were not themselves wholly to blame. They got just enough fodder to keep them in leather, and this leather held them together just enough for Poldik still at times to boast to his companions that they pulled “like clockwork”. Perhaps if they had got more fodder they would have pulled like greased clockwork, but no opportunity was given to them of converting more victuals into blood and muscle; therefore we can believe that if more fodder had been placed before them, they would not have cared about it.

Poldik’s own gait much resembled the pace of these dilapidated horses. By long tramping beside his vehicle, his pace had been drilled into one just as sluggish, slow, and vacillating; even on Sunday, when he no longer walked behind his vehicle, his step was no fresher nor brisker. The “tempo” of the previous week still maintained itself in his limbs, and he went on just as regularly as the small wheel in a watch. But inasmuch as the usual pace at which people move is considerably brisker than that of scavenger’s horses, Poldik’s step was uniformly shaky; every time he lifted one foot and brought it forward his body made a corresponding contortion as though he wished to take half a step backward. This shaky manner of walking was his habitual manner, and so even on Sunday when he indulged in something of a strut the upper portion of his person kept shaking and swaying as if it wished to compensate for the sluggishness of his ordinary pace.

It also sometimes came to pass that Poldik had to quicken his steps, when the horses entangled the reins or traces under their feet, when a horse lost a shoe or anything of the like nature occurred. But as soon as the affair was put to rights and the cranky vehicle moved on, Poldik remained standing and waited until the vehicle had jogged on so far that he found himself once more in his usual place. Then he felt as though he had over-exerted himself, and lapsed into his usual regular pace to rest himself. And he rested long enough.

Sometimes it would happen that he wished to have some confidential and important conversation with the scavenger who was driving the cart behind him. On these occasions he allowed his vehicle to rumble on ahead while he himself paused and waited until the other carter caught him up. When their chat was over, Poldik had to overtake his own horses, and perhaps they might be thirty paces or thereabouts in advance. Such moments necessarily stirred both his blood and his stumps, and for thirty paces he had matters for reflection as to how he had lagged behind, how he had fatigued himself, and whether it was worth the while.

Such pauses and delays did not occur frequently. Poldik had no great need of them.

Not only was his step measured, vacillating, and swaying-his whole character was equally measured, vacillating, and swaying, all his thoughts and conceptions were so in their inception and concludings. It must be something of extreme importance, in fact, of absolute necessity which should cause Poldik to halt and wait for his follower and cart to catch him up and enter into conversation. In general he managed to learn what he wished to know by looks alone, and seldom had recourse to words. A whole dialogue was thus disposed of as they passed one another or trailed after one another, merely by means of glances. Thus one of his mates had a white horse that limped on Saturday. Poldik saw them again on Monday, and the white horse no longer limped. He glanced at the happy possessor of the beast, and this glance meant, “The white horse has soon recovered.” The other glanced at Poldik, infused a certain smug satisfaction into his look, and this look meant, “No; he does not limp to-day.” Or he saw the white horse in the forenoon with one of its shoes off, and when he met it in the afternoon the shoe was still missing. Here Poldik looked at the carter, and this look meant, “It is still with one of its shoes off!” The owner of the white horse similarly replied by a look, and in it Poldik heard or saw the words, “We have been very busy to-day, and really have not had time.”

Poldik’s regularity was shown moreover in the way he spoke to his horses. Just as if he had been laying out a road, he counted twenty Poldikian steps-and only after this precise measurement, pulled the rein, cracked the whip, and shouted “hee!” You might wager your head, it would not come one step before or after the twenty paces. Only I must except certain special occasions. On Monday when he put to the horses after their Sabbath rest he shouted “hee!” twenty times during the first twenty steps. That was to compensate for all that had been omitted on the Sunday. And this single circumstance proves to me that he did not usually shout out in his sleep or in moments of rest and abstraction. Moreover, this exclamation occurred more frequently early in the morning during the first few steps, and again in the afternoon after the midday meal.

In this Poldikian “hee!” rested a whole dictionary. Generally it was only a commonplace incitement to activity, pronounced clearly and pithily. But when something touched, angered, or vexed Poldik, the horses certainly became aware of the fact, for the “hee!” was forcibly expressed and sharply pronounced. Similarly, if he congratulated himself about some trifle or if he felt a bit of self-satisfaction, the horses knew it, for then the “hee!” was scarcely audible, it was only softly murmured as if spoken in a sort of a soliloquy. At such times it would happen that the horses stopped at the ale-house of their own accord. But something much out of the common way must have staggered the soul of Poldik before he prolonged the “hee!” and made of it “heesta!” Then the horses gathered themselves together and took several steps at a quicker rate, so that it was only on these occasions that, comparing them to a watch, they could be said to gain a little. But, indeed, these irregularities were so rare that they were almost lost in the distance of ages. Only to us who are Poldik’s biographers, are even these irregularities matters of importance; as we shall see in the sequel.

 

CHAPTER II

AND a time came when Poldik’s irregularities became almost the rule.

At midday he stopped with his vehicle not far from Naplavka in the shadow of a lofty wall, where he and his horses celebrated the dinner-hour. Having hung the oat-bags to the horses’ muzzles, he waited for the coming of Malka.

Malka, his little neighbour, brought his dinner to him, from the same house where Poldik dwelt or rather where he and his horses just bivouacked for the night. His neighbour herself, Malka’s mother, it must be understood, used to cook and bring his dinner, but when she fell sick her daughter brought it, and not till then did Poldik become aware that his neighbour had a daughter. Then this neighbour died, and Malka was crying when she brought his dinner.

Poldik could have wept with her, for under all his apparent roughness lay a tender heart. And here he was prompted to say, “Poor thing!” By this he meant the dead mother.

But when Malka only cried the more, he looked at her and said, “Poor, poor thing, don’t cry any more, it can’t be helped.”

When that afternoon he drove off with his sand, he felt as though all the time he had Malka’s tears in his own heart, and sometimes for a score paces his throat was parched, and “hee!” remained only “in posse”, or it stuck in his throat, and he felt as though he should cry if he succeeded in saying it. He cracked his whip moodily, and the lash curled itself round the handle like a flag round its flagstaff when the fête is over. His swearing was such that the horses could make nothing of it, and stopped continually, both at the ale-house, the blacksmith’s, the fruit stall, and the tobacconist’s.

When Malka came with dinner on the following day, Poldik scrutinized her while she was still in the distance to see whether she was crying. She was not crying, and consequently when she approached Poldik smiled faintly. He was hungry, and when he had half finished his dinner, he said, “Malka, you are a capital cook.” On this even Malka smiled faintly, and Poldik gave his horses their oats. That afternoon you might have heard Poldik’s “hee!” from one end of the street to the other, and he swore more in jest than in earnest, so that the horses were puzzled to know what it all meant. Even his own pace was fresher than usual, so that he overtook his vehicle and found himself walking by the shafts, after which he halted, and with a self-conscious smirk, awaited until the cart again overtook him.

And now Malka was no longer in tears when she brought the dinner, but still Poldik always turned his eyes to meet her, and to see how she looked. Malka was sometimes already smiling in the distance, and after this it appeared to Poldik that only one person in the world could cook so well, and that his dinner tasted excellent. He did not say so, indeed, in so many words, but his looks expressed as much. When he replaced the first plate in her basket he smiled, and also smiled after the second course, and concluded with the words, “You are a capital cook, Malka.” Malka smiled too, but with modest downcast eyes; when she departed Poldik gave her his hand, and was long enough in saying good-bye. For once in their lives his horses got plenty of oats.

All that afternoon this incident left traces of irregularity in his gait and action, which were apparent to every one even at a distance. His face looked as if he were still all the time munching his dinner, and praising Malka for her cooking. He kept saying “Cl! cl!” and even his “hee!” was frequently exchanged for these euphonious sounds. And when he cracked his whip it was with an air which plainly said, “How proud I am to be able to crack a whip.” He swore with a face that belied the oath and seemed to say, “I really scarce know why a fellow should swear after all.” And all the time his mind was occupied with Malka more than with anything else. She was for the present complete mistress of Poldik’s mental economy, and he was delighted to think what roguish eyes she had, what pretty dimples when she laughed, what a fresh healthy face, in a word, that she was a girl whom any one would turn to look at as she passed.

Afterwards it came to pass, that it was not enough to give her his hand in a long good-bye, but he also greeted her with a shake of the hand when she brought the dinner, and he laughed more frequently during the meal, and said, “Troth, troth, Malka, it is charming.” After this he always gave his horses an extra feed of oats, so that now none of his comrades passed them without measuring them with a look which seemed to say, “Look at him! he means to turn his jades into horses still.” It is true they still pulled like jades, but already they might any day have trotted away like horses.

Once, I know not by what accident, he was behind his time in driving to his midday halting-place. Hitherto, be it understood, he had always been first with his cart at the midday trysting-place, and it was only after he had given his horses their first feed of oats that Malka made her appearance. But owing to this delay it happened that he overtook Malka on the road, indeed in one of the several streets which he threaded before debouching on Naplavka, and when he overtook her he said, “Malka, let me give you and the dinner a lift.” He said this with a touch of pride, for it was not every one who could say, “Malka, have a lift.” He took the basket out of her hands, placed it in the cart, then helped Malka to scramble up, pointed out to her how she was to sit, and drove the vehicle standing.

Lord! what a drive that was! All the time that Poldik held the reins he felt as though he was holding Malka and helping her into the cart. His features were quite playful, his eyes were quite beaming, then he confused “hee” and “heesta” together, smacked his whip as if he were off to the festival, and only swore when it was absolutely necessary. After which he always looked at Malka with a broad smile which seemed to inquire, “There! what do you think of that now for a drive?” It was a delightful moment to him when Malka smilingly replied, “Quite charming, Poldik dear, quite charming.” Here at last Poldik felt that he might allow himself a certain latitude; he incited his steeds and coaxed them with “Cl! cl!” in such a way that it put them in mind of their youthful years; so that they exchanged their sluggish pace for a fresher step, so that in places they even frisked, so that the cart bumped over the cobble-stones until Poldik had to skip from one foot to the other, and Malka was in difficulties, not knowing whether she ought to clutch the dinner-basket to prevent it from being jolted out, or whether she ought to keep herself there by clutching with both hands.

It delighted Poldik beyond measure this fear of hers, which was at the same time half laughter. I do not know what the horses had to say to all that coaxing and whip-cracking, but they understood it, and for the nonce shook off several years of their lives. But, indeed, even Poldik felt himself younger and scarcely remembered when he felt so young as he did that day.

Well, and when they halted not far from Naplavka [the Quay] in the shadow of the lofty wall, he actually bounded from the cart, and when he looked at Malka and her face was covered with smiles and dimples, and she said, “What a ride we have had!”—oh! then it seemed as though they must be married to-morrow morning. Finally he helped her out of the cart. Malka took his hand with much simplicity, rested her other hand on his shoulder, and giving a spring allowed herself to be lifted off her feet and placed on the ground. Poldik felt thoroughly self-satisfied, and never in his life imagined that he could have courted a girl so well.

What came to pass fortuitously to-day, came to pass again on the morrow and the day after, and then for many a day. From some cause or other he always happened to overtake Malka about midday in some street, settled her in the cart, drove about with her, smirked at her, urged on the horses until the cart bumped over the paving-stones, and then again lifted her from the cart and took his dinner. At that time Poldik’s horses fared well, so that they thought nothing of their accelerated speed. They had plainly grown rich, both in the matter of speed and their provisions for life, and displayed it in every step.

At this period, you will understand, Poldik’s own feet moved brisker and were firmer planted. He was as it were on the highway to something better, and showed a touch of the dandy and of the world, though indeed any one at the first glance would have recognized his original uniformity and ponderousness latent beneath it all.

At this period it happened that once as Poldik was helping Malka from the cart, a certain chum of his passing by them grinned ironically at the couple, and inquired, “And, pray, when are you two going to pair off?” To this question Poldik ought to have replied with a smart repartee, and Malka with silence. But as it happened Malka replied with a laugh—indeed, a very boisterous laugh, and Poldik’s blood boiled and he never answered a word, but stood agape as though he had done something amiss.

It is possible that some sprightly young lady-reader has already condemned his faint-heartedness, and given it its proper appellation. I, however, have no objection to it, and have merely to add that it never occurred to me to exhibit his character in a more favourable light than that, in which it exhibited itself.

But the truth is, that though he stood agape and blushed at the question, still the question itself ran in his head. “When are you two going to pair off”, continually buzzed in his mind, and every “hee,” every “heesta” was the outward expression of that inquiry, every oath was a sort of a rejection of all possible obstacles, every smack of the whip was an asseveration that pair off they must. Ay, yet more. From that moment every time Poldik looked at Malka, he always saw in her that smile which had been called into existence by the original inquiry, “When are you two going to pair off.” Thus things evolve themselves from one another.

At that time he used to stop less frequently at the ale-house and the fruit stall. He had indeed saved and put by sundry groschen at home, but still it appeared to him that he ought to add every penny he could to what he had already scraped together, in order to have enough capital to begin housekeeping. And he saved and added and reckoned in his mind when the marriage could come off. Malka pleased him, about that there was no longer any doubt.

One Sunday she brought his dinner into the stable where his horses were stalled, and here for the first time Poldik said, “And perhaps, Malka, on Sunday we might dine together in your lodging.” He thought that in saying this he had said a great deal, and that it was a consequence of that much revolved sentence, “When are you two going to pair off.” But any one at all versed in the expression of ideas will agree with me that it really said very little.

Such apparently was Malka’s opinion. And she replied laughingly, “What an idea, Poldik, when we are—as we are! What would people say?”

Malka said much more that Poldik had done previously, indeed she led him a good piece of the way to the goal he had in view, perhaps even farther than was becoming in so young a girl. But Poldik being, properly speaking, slow, vacillating, and indecisive in mind did not perveice that she beckoned him so far in order that he might say the word, and then that they might reach the end in view. Poldik only gathered from her reply that he was not to be admitted to her table or to eat in her company. “At present she thinks she couldn’t yet”, he said to himself, and then wondered when the happy hour would come. And though it was his Sunday dinner and Malka had taken particular pains with it, Poldik scarcely smiled, and scarcely praised her cookery.

When the meal was over, Malka said, “Dear me, Poldik, aren’t you going anywhere this fine Sunday?”

Here Poldik did smile again, for he more easily understood this immediate project.

“Malka, would you like?” he said.

“I should like to have a look at Nussle or Liska [i.e. the Fox inn] well enough—wait just a moment till I have changed my things.”

Once again Poldik thought the world fairer by a whole Sunday. Only to think that he should never have hit upon the device of inviting her to take a walk with him, and there was Malka inviting him herself! True she had excluded him from one thing, but then she had freely invited him to another. And it almost seemed to Poldik that the second thing had the greater value. What was dinner? It only lasted an instant. But an outing with her lasted the whole afternoon until evening.

Then Malka came, and she was dressed in her best. Poldik chuckled with delight when he saw how it became her, and thought that there was none to compare with Malka. And proud he felt as he marched through the streets with her on his arm. He felt young again at her side, and he quite forgot his sluggish unsteady pace, and stepped out as if he had never tramped behind a scavenger’s cart and his horses. He never could have believed himself capable of so much animation. And he felt glad when he realized that he was; and he began to love Malka more and more for that very reason.

After a time they went into some gardens, seated themselves at a table, and Poldik treated Malka. It was beyond everything dear to him to have a being beside him who was pleased to be seated near him, and who was glad that they had gone out and were there together. Poldik looked smilingly at her as at a fair picture, and all through that afternoon he felt as if he must say continually how he loved her. But he did not say it. Indeed all he managed to force himself to say was, “Well then, Malka, when are we two to pair off?”

“That is for you to settle Poldik, dear”, responded Malka. And here Poldik thought that he knew everything, and that he had need of nothing more in the world.

 

CHAPTER III

FROM that day Poldik considered himself strictly and formally engaged to marry Malka. All the domestic arrangements which he made had a speedy marriage in view, now he ceased to think of himself that Malka also might not be too much in his thoughts; but, of course, you know how one feels under similar circumstances.

It came to pass once at midday, and yet more frequently later on, that Poldik was obliged to desert the shadows of the lofty wall and drive some hundred paces further to the river-side, to Naplavka. He was delighted to watch Malka with the dinner searching in vain for him in the old place, and Malka, too, was delighted when she found him at last close to the margin of the river.

Here Malka enjoyed herself vastly, and she told Poldik that he was to halt here more frequently in future for the midday meal under the shade of the tall poplar, for it was far pleasanter here than by that old wall yonder.

And it was pleasanter by the shore, boats laden with sand lay to, and smaller skiffs kept circling round them, and in these smaller boats were wherrymen punting about. The distant view upon the water, too, everything was better than yonder by that lofty deserted wall.

On the Quay Malka was considered in the light of Poldik’s future bride, and thus many a joke passed between them and the folk there present when Poldik took his dinner from Malka’s basket.

The next day Malka brought the dinner straight to the shore. And she was still more pleased with the scene than she had been the day before. I know not what called Poldik away for a moment, but in his absence Malka stole down close to the water’s edge, and said half to herself, “How I should like a trip on the water.”

I also know not whether these words were a simple soliloquy, but they caught the ear of one of the wherrymen, who gallantly replied, “Sit down in my skiff, and we will have a lark.” Malka looked at him and did not answer. Perhaps she considered the whole affair a joke. But the wherryman understood it for earnest. “Only just a minute,” said he, “before Poldik comes back we will be ashore again.”

Before she expected it the little skiff lay close by the shore at Malka’s feet. She need only take one step forward, and she would be afloat. The young wherryman stood all prepared as if he were a winged being, and as if his whole attitude was an embodiment of the words “Come and let us flutter about”. He was like an embodied smile, like an embodied jest. Everything in him was playful, everything in him was so full of gaiety that it was hard to resist. His eyes alone were a comedy, his words were like snatches of merry songs—Malka never meant it, and lo! there she was sitting in his skiff.

The skiff acquired wings; a few strokes, and it was in the middle of the river. The river smiled around them, the heavens smiled above them, when Malka looked at the young waterman he smiled, too. Everything was smiling; Malka also was smiling.

And then they looked from the middle of the river, and watched Poldik as he slowly returned to the shore.

“Never mind,” said the young waterman, “before he gets back we can yet take a look somewhere else.” And again he plied the oar, and they seemed to fly along; like a fives ball they were at Podskali, not far from Vysehrad [High burgh], and like a fives ball they were back again. And they stopped again in the middle of the river just as Poldik was returning to his vehicle which stood by the shore.

When he reached it some of the bystanders exclaimed, “Your bride has eloped, Poldik, look! yonder. Francis has carried her off”, and they laughed.

Poldik looked in the direction whither the wherrymen pointed; there from the skiff Francis and Malka looked smilingly at him, and Francis shouted, “Now she wishes me to tell you that she is faithless to you”, and Malka shouted to the shore, “Wait a minute, Poldik dear, I will be there directly.”

Poldik also laughed feebly, all laughed and joked, and so it may be concluded that they were all very merry at the Quay that noon.

Poldik waited for Malka a minute or two; but when she and Francis only dallied amidstream to teaze him, he shouted, “Malka, I must now be off!”

“We too”, shouted Francis from the river to the bank; and he laughed, and before any one expected it he was again pulling hard against the stream. The skiff was soon concealed behind larger craft, vanished from sight and, perhaps, was already again somewhere under Vysehrad.

Poldik stood waiting for Malka, hoping that she might yet soon return. But she did not return, and the wherrymen began now to laugh at Poldik in earnest.

“She has taken a small outing”, said one. “She wants to enjoy her freedom a little longer; Francis is showing her the world”, said another. “What matter! Francis knows the world, and he knows how to show it, too”, said others again.

Such was the tenor of the observations sarcastically interchanged among the bystanders.

Here Poldik suddenly turned his vehicle round loaded with sand, and tarried no longer. When he drove away his first word was “Heesta!” His horses got a severe belabouring until at last they flung out with their hoofs, and after this Poldik discharged a whole volley of oaths. But with this volley his store of ammunition seemed to become exhausted, and a considerable portion of the road and several streets were passed, and Poldik neither swore nor smacked his whip nor cried “gee-up” to his horses. He looked continually at the cobble-stones as if he had lost something among them, and was now searching for it.

He had been already some time at this amusement before Francis returned with the little boat on which he had given Malka a trip. “To-morrow we must take another trip”, said the young waterman to Malka when she stepped out upon the beach.

“Poldik has gone off on account of you”, said the wherrymen.

“He is in a precious huff on your account”, added others.

And they laughed; Malka also laughed. Malka thought that she would meet Poldik and excuse herself, but she did not meet him. The next day Poldik halted for the dinner-hour in the old place by the high wall, and there waited until Malka should bring his dinner. He had already looked eagerly on his way thither to see whether she was following him, in order that he might give her a lift. But he did not see her, and waited a pretty long time in vain expectation of her.

Otherwise no signs of vexation were visible in him, perhaps he had slept or driven off his annoyance of yesterday.

They greeted one another, and when Malka had produced the dinner from her basket—“I am just going to have a look at the water for a minute”, said she, and away she went.

Here it appeared to Poldik as if he had already dined. Whether he ate or not he himself scarcely knew, but he soon got himself and his horse under weigh without waiting until they had satisfied their hunger, threw the basket with the fragments of his meal into the cart, drove off to the beach for sand, and asked half mechanically, “Where is she?”

“Ask Francis when he returns with her”, said one of the wherrymen who was loading his cart with sand.

Poldik asked no more nor said another word, but as he was driving off he put Malka’s basket with the plates and knives and spoons on to a boat which was loaded with sand, and said generally to those on board, “When Malka returns tell her I shall not require dinner to-morrow.”

This speech seemed to the sandmen and wherrymen somewhat too serious to be considered a mere matter for jest, and as jest they had hitherto looked upon all which had been enacted at the quay-side.

“But, but!”—began some attempting to humour Poldik—“who would take matters so seriously all at once?”

But Poldik paid scanty attention to what they said, and vanished with his vehicle as quickly as Francis had done with the skiff on which he was giving Malka a trip.

And this time Francis and Malka were really long in returning. They must have put in somewhere or other beyond Vysehrad, otherwise wherever they had gone they could have already returned. Poldik was already a second time at the quay for sand, when the wherrymen shouted, “Look, there they go!”

Poldik did not look to see who was going or where they were going—he only made haste to finish the loading of his cart before the skiff had reached the shore. And he had just finished as they lay to, and Malka stepped smiling out of the skiff, on which the jolly waterman remained smiling also. Though Malka stepped out off the skiff as quickly as she could, she did not move quickly enough to stop Poldik, who was just that instant driving off and discharging upon his horses every oath in his vocabulary like a shower of hail. When Malka took her basket and the remains of the untasted dinner, some of the men who were loading sand said, “Poldik wishes us to tell you that to-morrow he will not require dinner.”

Malka at these words felt somewhat conscience-stricken, but she soon recovered herself when the waterman said to her, “Anyhow, bring the dinner, and to-morrow we will have another trip in my skiff.”

This time, at all events, Malka made every effort still to overtake Poldik; perhaps she felt that she was bound to excuse herself, even though she could not wholly exonerate herself from suspicion. Poldik for once seemed not to be driving scavenger’s horses, nor himself to wear the buskin of a scavenger—he had vanished, and there was not a trace of him.

When Poldik came home that evening Malka prepared to visit him at the stables, and there to have the quarrel out which, to tell the truth, was not yet well begun. But Poldik had no sooner covered up his horses for the night than he vanished from the stable and the house, so that not a single trace of him remained, and Malka did not tarry for him.

And when she brought dinner for Poldik on the following day, she neither found him by the high wall nor at the beach at Naplavka. “Tis true the jolly waterman was waiting there with the skiff, and invited her with looks and words and nods and smiles to seat herself beside him, for he had long waited. But Malka turned aside, and went back through those streets in which she thought she might perhaps meet Poldik. She did not meet him, but seeing his vehicle at the ale-house where he frequently stopped, and in which his comrades often took their half pint, she followed him into the house and placed his dinner beside him on the table.

“Pray, what do you want here”, said Poldik gruffly, just as when he meant to swear at his horses.

“I am bringing dinner for you, Poldik, dear”, said Malka, and attempted to set all to rights with a smile.

“What is the good of bringing dinner to an ale-house”, said Poldik in reply.

But Malka paying no attention to this objection, none the less placed the dinner on the table, and bade Poldik to eat.

“What is the good of bringing dinner to an ale-house”, repeated Poldik gruffly, and so saying he tipped over everything that was on the table, so that Malka’s proffered gift, knives, spoons, and broken crockery rolled in a pretty hash upon the floor.

Hereupon Malka had recourse to weeping, and through her tears declared that her fault did not deserve to be remembered, and that he had shamed her before everybody in the ale-house. What a rumpus he made about one little pleasure-trip on the water, and when she had never been anywhere all that year, and had only gone such a little distance. And more she said to the same effect. She added that she would go again on the water deliberately, and that Poldik had no business to take on so about it.

But to-day Poldik was quite inaccessible to reason; when Malka said that she was going again on the water and did not go, he got up and thundered out, “Well, go then at once if thou dost not I wish to be made a hash of like thine own dinner.”

And he spoke each word as if it was a stone. We know that Poldik seldom spoke, and that he never spoke a word more, but rather several words less than he meant. Consequently, when he pronounced these words with so much precision, there was nothing for it but to consider them meant seriously. Malka had recourse to a yet more violent flood of tears, but wasted no more words on him, and soon marched off. Those bystanders who were present in the ale-house with mine host at their head, posted themselves round Poldik, whom they generally reputed to be a man of thoroughly temperate thoughts and habits, and endeavoured by peaceful words to persuade him to reconcile himself with his mistress. “Let him sleep upon it.” “Everything will soon come straight.” “Things like this will occur at times.” “But a man ought not to take on so.” “What would matters come to, if—?" and so forth.

Poldik sat by his table, covered his features with both his horny hands and never stirred. Whether he listened to what the bystanders, sympathizing more or less with his hard fate, said to him, I know not: but when they ceased speaking, Poldik made no response. So that at the conclusion of those well-intended words a silence occurred, such as we are accustomed to call “a torturing pause”. And after that pause, the bystanders began to talk among themselves about indifferent matters, relating to their several trades or occupations; but during their indifferent remarks all kept their eyes fixed on Poldik, so that any one at all versed in the customs of the people, who had entered the house at that moment, must have guessed the conversation of those present was so commonplace and insipid, because they wished to spare him whose face was buried in his palms.

Their conversation went to say on tiptoe, for fear of outraging that which not long before had been raging very tempestuously.

Poldik suddenly burst in upon these placable remarks with the following monologue:—“Dotards, liars! And they tell us that God looks at the heart! He looks not at all at the heart. He allows the heart of him who hath one to be wrung from him—to be torn in pieces, and then the people flock around to laugh at those pieces as at the crucified Jesus. Yes! look at my heart! See how they pierce it but let them torture it. All your talking is not worthy that I should write it down on paper and then light my pipe with the paper.”

At these words all present looked at one another, and pointed to their foreheads as if they would say, “His reason has given way.”

 

CHAPTER IV

AFTER this scene Malka took her to the water-side, even when Poldik so pitilessly drove her away from him. She went with a faint notion that perhaps Poldik would soon follow her there himself, and that it would be easier to come to an understanding by the water-side than in the ale-house. But Poldik and cart never appeared, at least they did not appear so quickly as Malka thought they would. And when they did appear nothing more was to be seen of Malka, she was already with Francis in the skiff, and the skiff was—the Lord knows where.

For they had not by any means done with one another.

And we must say that Malka on the water recovered her spirits surprisingly soon. On the whole she liked life on the water far better than life in the street. Also, hitherto life with Francis had been far more agreeable to her than life with Poldik.

In the streets went on a monotonous, unexciting, sluggish, actually clattering carting of sand. Here on the water life acquired wings, and was swift, bird-like, and diversified. And such as the street was Poldik, and such as the water was Francis. With Poldik, before a thought got clothed in words, no brief interval of time was needed. With Francis a word was like a look. He could speak without let or stay, and never was in want of a topic. What a perfect convulsion of nature took place before Poldik managed to say that he loved her. Francis had said it to her at once with- out any embarrassment; he said it every moment, and repeated it continually. Compliments, which almost gave Poldik the cramp to pronounce, Francis turned off as easily as a tennis-ball. What a piece of work there was before Poldik had said, “He hoped they would make a pair.” And lo! here the jolly waterman had said it the first time she sat in his boat, “What a pity Poldik anticipated me, else we might have made a pair.”

And Francis repeated it to-day when Malka stepped into the skiff.

“But, of course, now we shall not make a pair”, Malka answered, meaning, however, by this that she and Poldik would not make a pair.

“Is it possible?” looked Francis.

And thereupon Malka recounted what had taken place in the ale-house.

Francis, however, in place of one consolation had ten at least, and each one was such that it would have been sufficient by its unaided self. When Francis and Malka parted to-day they clasped hands, and Malka must consent to be on the beach early next Sunday morning. Malka gave her consent, looked forward to Sunday morning with intense longing, and when Sunday came, was standing on the beach at the trysting-place, long before the appointed hour.

And then Francis came, light-hearted and versatile—like his own skiff, full of smiles and bedizened in the style of our Prague dandies which every one recognizes at the first glance. And to-day his skiff was much the same as he. Light and pliant and bedizened—with pennons and ribbons streaming—dressed out in silken kerchiefs and divers garlands—the skiff was a dandy like his owner. Malka must have been without eyes and with little good taste, if she had not been at once captivated by the whole affair. For, for whose sake was all this ornamentation? Malka was not one of those who would be unaffected by these considerations.

Fair dames and gentlemen! If any of you have already passed judgment upon Francis as a dangerous and fickle fellow, perhaps even a Don Juan, and in like manner upon Malka as perhaps little better than his victim, I pray you be not too hasty in your decision.

Surely it was past all conception natural that Malka should at once prefer the lively eddying Moldau to the long monotonous streets of Prague. And Poldik was an embodiment of those streets of Prague, and Francis was an embodiment of the water of the Moldau. So then, two almost radically different forms of life were here opposed to one another: the regular, measured, settled streets along which with loutish steps tramped Poldik beside his cart with raw-boned horses. Poldik, heavy like his sand, from which the water fell drip, drip: and here light-heartedness and elasticity, just like the smooth and marbled surface of the Moldau over which like thought itself skimmed Francis, light-hearted, transparently gay, gentle, and blithsome like that water which here plashed over the yellow sand.

So that Malka’s sudden desertion of Poldik and her subsequent predilection for Francis was so natural an occurrence, that I know not how many young ladies would have given proof to their constancy by not following in Malka’s footsteps. The female heart, according to popular ideas, flies on wings to meet a sailor lover; if the lover be not a sailor, it goes to meet him indeed, but at a perfectly Platonic pace. And we may consider Francis more or less a sailor, at least, in so far as our Moldau justifies the comparison. No doubt a facility to captivate the female heart has also its weak side; for a heart soon won, is also soon lost. But even that awkward land-lubber Rectitude has also his weak side, for being ill-adapted to charm the mind of women, he is too frequently left in the lurch without a wife, in spite of all his constancy of character and his devotion to business.

Malka enjoyed herself on the water beyond measure. Wherever the light craft sped its way, people on the bank paused to gaze upon the bespangled shallop, and asked each other whoever that couple could be. It was clear in the sky above them and in the water below them, the banks were carpeted with brilliant green, and by the river-side lads and lasses promenaded in their Sunday attire, and in all the innocent delights of the Sabbath. Where Malka wished, the skiff stopped; where she wished, it flew forward.

They dined together in a garden, under the broad blue sky; and here Malka already confessed to herself that there was more life in one afternoon with Francis then in all the time she had spent with Poldik.

And this afternoon delighted her more and more. They urged the boat forward against the stream, and the smiles of the whole world seemed concentrated upon them. In the villages by the riverside bands of music were playing, and the tones were wafted to them lightly over the water. The boys who trooped along the banks of the river recognized Francis who was indeed a general favourite among them, shouted to him their salutations from a distance, and waved their caps and handkerchiefs in sign of recognition.

At one river-side village they finally moored the skiff. The villagers came in a body to invite him to their village, and threatened to bar his further progress unless he stepped out among them and allowed them to dance at least one round with “that bonny lass of his”.

Francis and Malka were agreeable, stepped out on to the beach and proceeded to where the band was playing, accompanied by the young men of the village. As soon as Francis made his appearance, the musicians greeted him with a flourish of trumpets, the rest of the company turned and bowed to him and danced with Malka, and unusual tokens of respect were bestowed on both. Then the music accompanied them to their shallop, and the boys sang a merry roundelay. And as they floated along, Francis lighted various coloured lanterns in the boat so that it looked like a bed of roses, flashing out into the blue mysterious depths of evening. And amid the roses dallied Francis and Malka, crowned with smiles. Above them bent the boundless star-wrought heaven, and before them in smiling eddies flowed the clear and marbled surface of the Moldau. Francis who rowed, because they floated with the stream, had no need to stir an oar; the water itself carried them along, he and Malka might hold each other’s hands, and might look at one another and at one another’s smiles.

Malka thought that never in all her life had she experienced anything so delightful as that lovely evening on the water; and in whispers she declared what she could not venture to express aloud that she would like to linger on the water as long as the moon was shining in the heavens. And the moon shone so to speak in duplicate; it was visible high above them, and it was reflected in the Moldau, and on the water its lustre lay like molten silver. And where Francis dipped his oar, the lustre was splintered into a thousand silvery flakes and fell in sparks and silvery drops, and all the while the ripples pattered on the shore in half murmured music that yet was touchingly distinct.

If the river-banks had many a charm for Malka by daylight, they had many more on such an evening as this. The margin of the river was half lost in twilight, from which emerged houses, hillocks, and in general all objects bathed in glittering whiteness. The gaze could not penetrate that mysterious twilight, and yet the eye was loath to wander from it, as though within its depths lay all that ever drew the soul and spirit to itself.

This day and this evening had such an effect upon Malka that they easily and completely expelled from her soul the image of her previous lover which, as we have observed, hung there more from habit than from any deep spiritual necessity which would have held it there so long as life lasted. Aye, there needed but a few such days and evenings and Malka turned away from Poldik as from an uncouth scarecrow, and as though she were flying from a ruined vault whose ceiling was overhung with spider-webs; and she turned to Francis as to some sunny spot of earth which would free her from the dismal gloom of the other.

I cannot disguise the fact that the relation of Malka to Francis was a very dangerous one, and that I might here fall into the temptation to weave a romantic story. For threads which entwine so lightly as the inclination towards one another entertained by Malka and Francis, generally are just as lightly blown asunder; only that on one side follows merely a sentiment of vexation, on the other complete disenchantment, if not an utter dissipation of all the hopes which make a girl cling to life.

But, indeed, we have no need of any such a romance, and in the present instance it would not be true. Francis had already repeated to Malka a hundred times that they should live together as a happy couple, man and wife, and Malka, when he said it, had a hundred times pressed his hand, as if in token of her consent. And then they had said it to each other in looks and kisses, and then a time came when neither looks nor kisses were needed to express it, for it was so firmly fixed and settled between them that they saw it as clearly as they saw the path along which they paced together.

Thus then it came to pass that in Podskali the sandsmen and the boatmen prepared for the nuptial day of Francis and Malka. They discussed it a whole week beforehand on the Quay, and were planning for a whole week how to celebrate the happy event. For Francis had always been to them like their own soul; in summer on the skiffs and on the boats, in the winter on the ice where he selected and set in order and superintended the skating-rinks over which he himself sped along like the fickle wind over field and fish-pond. For this reason people had prophesied but last summer that all his life long he would never marry, for that he was too free and joyous-hearted, too like the wind and too inconstant, and that any woman who was his wife would doom herself to a truly thorny path. And now Francis was to marry.

Thus, then, all the sandsmen and boatmen clubbed together and agreed as to the manner in which they were to spend the festive evening. The preparations for that evening might be heard discussed on the river-bank, on the water, and wherever people were engaged at their work. Only when Francis came to the Quay these discussions about the preparations for the day tacitly dropped.

But still Poldik heard all that was being prepared. However, he already treated the matter, or affected to treat it, as something wholly alien from himself, but none the less it stung him to the heart, and in his heart he felt as though a red-hot iron was piercing his very bosom. According to his own maxim, however, he would not have given a pipe of tobacco for Francis; but yet none but Francis was with her; somehow or other he managed to hold his own with Malka and to retain her always by his side. And the superior ability displayed by Francis in these respects was perhaps the most galling thing of all.

Thus the day drew near when Francis and Malka were to be plighted, and the evening drew near when in their honour was prepared on the Upper Moldau a festival of unusual splendour and seldom seen thereon.

Just as on that eventful Sunday morning when Malka and Francis first sailed out together, his boat was tricked out like a dandy, and in the evening glittered with divers lanterns that looked like roses, so, to-day, all the skiffs which were in Podskali were gaily bedizened and awaited in thick array until evening brought the happy pair among them. Scarcely had the first shadows descended upon the water, when all the skiffs glowed as it were with one single fire, distributed in a thousand different fragments. The glow broadened far over far over the river-banks, spanned the whole smooth surface of the Moldau, and shot its varied streams of light far into the star-bespangled skies.

And in the midst of it all sat Francis and Malka, a newly married couple.

The skiffs—as though they had been a single large vessel—crept slowly against the stream until they reached Vysehrad, until even those ancient walls and that ancient crag were tinged by the glow from the water, and looked like a stern face with a young smile on it. Immediately after this the compact body of boats fell to pieces, each skiff rode over the water by itself, and all circled round the exquisitely adorned skiff of the young married couple. On some of the skiffs music burst forth, on others singing and music succeeded one another, on all reigned mirth and jollity, on all the crews shouted with delight, kindled torches and waved them in the air. The Moldau was so animated and bedizened that it was no longer like itself. And it was all because Francis had married Malka.

The banks were wellnigh trodden down by the crowds of towns-folk who had come to feast their eyes on the agreeable spectacle. Even Poldik was amongst them, lost in the throng and unobserved. And at times it seemed to him that it would be best if he were to stab himself to the heart with something, then again if he were to stab to the heart all those yonder who made merry, and then finally it appeared to him that he deserved that taunting laughter in which accorded the people, the Moldau, and the heavens that bent above them, and then finally it seemed to him that he had deserved yet worse things than that taunting laughter in which the festival found tongue: and that all together ought to lift him above their heads and point the finger at him, and shout, “Pelt him! because he does not know what life is! Pelt him! for he does not deserve to live.” And then again he seemed to see the cause of it all in that jostling mob, and home he reeled like one half crazed.

 

CHAPTER V

POLDIK’S horses found themselves best off while the passion of their master for Malka was on the increase until it reached its climacteric.

In those days Poldik was glad to draw rein from time to time, and took care of his horses both in the streets and at home, in order that he might be able to boast of them as his property, and mainly in order that he might jog along with them when Malka sat beside him in his cart. At that time Poldik’s horses were on the high road to transfiguration. Their ribs began to be cased in a light coating of flesh, their ears sometimes pricked, and their shoes made a deeper dint upon the ground. And Poldik’s comrades, when they met him, looked at him with a pair of eyes in which were legible the words, “Poldik is becoming quite a skilful groom.”

Here we must note in passing that Poldik occasionally took to horse-doctoring, and that when he took pains with the horses, he generally succeeded.

Thus, for example, if some scavenger’s jade broke down, and its master half determined to take it to the knacker’s yard, it still occurred to him, “Suppose I let Poldik try his hand with her.” From Poldik’s then two paths led, either the jade was converted into a passable mare, in which case the owner reclaimed his property; or she failed to mend, and the knacker came for her. Poldik generally “mended” his horses at daybreak or evening, when his day’s work was over; and on Sunday, when he had the whole day to himself, he let out his troop into the court-yard in order to make up his mind what further he should do with them.

That troop of horses was a wonderful spectacle, and would have suited Falstaff’s ragged battalion to a nicety, if, that is to say, it had been required to turn his ragged infantry into cavalry of the same kidney. One horse would, perhaps, be altogether swaddled in blankets, another would have all one side encrusted with a kind of tetter or scab, another only the shoulders thus encrusted, a third only its fore-feet, another only one foot. It was just as if a sculptor had formed model horses of clay and these horses had been transformed into living samples: it was hard to decide whether there was more clay or more horseflesh as yet in their composition.

This Sunday parade in the court-yard attracted plenty of spectators. First came the owners of the animals whose lives and, perhaps, sufferings Poldik prolonged: after them came plenty of a second public-the true spectators. Poldik paraded his invalids in the court-yard, just as a circus master parades his trained stud in the arena. It must not be supposed that these convalescents performed, at Poldik’s bidding, wonders comparable with the wondrous feats of strength performed in the arena by their fellows of the circus. But still, relatively, they performed wonders, and perhaps in this respect even much greater ones. For, if in the previous week a horse had scarcely limped hither, and if, the week after, that is on the second Sunday’s parade, it could go a certain pace, sometimes at a brisk pace, although you could still see on which it limped, it had in that week relatively done a great deal; so much so that even then it found a public who were disposed to admire its agility.

But this occupation of Poldik’s was quite a secondary one. Like a true artist, he only devoted himself to it when the fit was on him. And thus also it came to pass that the owner of some jade might lead her to Poldik, but afterwards drive her off again straight to the knacker’s yard, and for this reason-because Poldik would not receive the horse. “I don’t take in horses”, he would say. “Pray, who would think of taking in horses to cure?” And sometimes, on the other hand, he received every horse that came, paraded them about the court-yard to see what progress they were making, and when they were cured dispatched them to their respective masters.

There were golden times in store for Poldik’s horses after Malka had broken faith with him. That spurt of briskness which they had found so tiresome was soon expended and from horses they quickly sank again into jades. Poldik had no longer any one to whom he could boast of them, and he was angry with himself for ever having been so possessed and for having given himself so much trouble with them. They fell once more into their old measured pacing along the streets of Prague, and nothing again aroused them from their ordinary shambling walk. But after Malka and Francis were espoused with so much pomp and ceremony, Poldik could not any longer bear to see his horses and cart. He had sufficiently clear insight to perceive what an unequal contest he had waged as a scavenger with Francis the wherryman. Nor was it the fault of his intellect that he had lost, but of the commonplace loutishness with which he was saturated through and through. It appeared to him that there was nothing more despicable than his own employment; at all events he himself despised it utterly; and at that time, if he could have driven off his cart and the horses along with it on to some red-hot rock, so that no vestige of them might remain, he would have done it without a moment’s reflection.

At that time he lost all hold on realities and certainty. His horses must have been in a maze of difficulties. He began according to entirely different methods, and any one who had known his previous methods must have admitted that the new methods were none at all. What cared he now for twenty paces? What cared he now at what point he said “he!” “heesta!” at what point he said “cl! cl!”, at what point he shouted “whoa up!” when he was to belabour them with the whip and when he was to swear? He mixed and tangled all his vocabulary in careless confusion, swore where he ought to have said “heesta!”, flogged where he ought to have sworn, and said “cl!” where the horses expected the lash. Now they never dared halt of their own accord, for then he let fly at them all at once a volley of all the abusive epithets which he had in his pate, just as when wind, thunder, and raindrops come down pell-mell together. The horses now walked past the ale-house and the tobacconist and the fruit stall and the other noteworthy snuggeries in those quarters as though they were demented—they had unlearned the habit of halting and were only thankful when they had got through the day with a whole skin.

Hence, once more the connoisseur and the tyro in horse-flesh might count their ribs and could say from their coat of hair how far the straps were to blame and how far the collar was at fault. Perhaps Poldik did not in the least perceive whither his horses were fast hastening, and that he might have driven them off any day to the knacker’s yard.

Once, however, an acquaintance gave him a hint about the matter. Going past Poldik he halted and said with slow precision, “They are no longer what they were!”

Poldik himself looked at them and almost started aghast. “They are no longer what they were”, said he to himself and here he began to pity the horses from his heart.

If Poldik had not been Poldik he would have led them home to his own stable, but now he began to consider whether he might not as well take them to the knacker’s. And yet to do so seemed to him like smiting his own self and his own existence.

In the end, he led them to his own stable, ceased to be a scavenger and began business as a stableman. As soon as the news spread that Poldik had again taken to converting unsound horses into sound ones he had visitors from morning to evening, bringing him patients from all quarters, and Poldik received them so long as he had any stall-room left. At that time, if he had thrown himself energetically into his business, he might have made quite a fortune, and yet Poldik did not feel himself a happy man. It was a business which so completely ran counter to all his previous habits and so changed his step, his gait, and all his modes of life that he was long in doubt whether he would not again quit it and once more throw in his lot with the the scavengers.

But after all he remained constant to his new profession; for having after no long time converted his own screws into decent horses he happened to sell them speedily and well and it was just as if he had bartered his own soul. Rather than accustom himself to a new pair of horses and teach them to learn his habits, he would have quitted this tedious life below; and to think, too, that he would have to drive down to the Quay and among the wherrymen, and that Francis with Malka perhaps by his side would be there, and that he would see the sneer upon their faces. When he thought of a all this he was glad that he need go no longer to the Quay, and hereupon, like a doctor, he went his rounds, visited all his patients, felt himself a new man, and was at peace.

We have already said that Poldik only practised his horse-doctoring when he felt inclined. But now this inclination continued unchecked, and, consequently, he had almost become a real professional. By the end of the year, or at most two summers, he had amassed a considerable sum of money, so that no scavenger in the town could compare with him. Poldik, had he been a scavenger all his life, would never have attained so independent a position.

Then when his affairs began to succeed beyond his fondest expectation, they began also to be a burden to him; wherever he looked he saw the divine benediction; but with it all to be alone in the world was a grievous trial to him.

Here, no doubt, the inexperienced reader will be inclined to exclaim, “Ah, ha! the writer is trying to find a new bride for him.”

He is not doing so, my dear reader-all thoughts of wedlock Poldik had now banished from his mind for ever. He would rather have stabbed himself with the first knife which came to his hand than have said again to any female, “When shall we two pair off?” From that side he was as completely cured as those horses of his which he possessed no longer; and if a new saint had been required for the calendar, whose sole qualification was to be that he now never even looked at a woman’s form—Poldik might have applied for the place and have been canonized forthwith.

But a new and somewhat curious idea took possession of him, in consequence of which he ceased to feel lonely and deserted. This same idea was to beg from their parents the boys and children of scavengers. When he knew that a scavenger had a son who already began to trot along beside the horses, Poldik went to the father and said, “What do you mean your son to be?”

If the scavenger said, “What should I mean him to be? He will be a scavenger.” “Good,” said Poldik, “but you might entrust him to me for a time in order that he may learn to understand horses.”

And he got the boy, for what scavenger would have refused to have his son taught such an excellent science as was Poldik’s science. And as soon as Poldik got him, he said to himself. “Won!”

And to be sure, he sedulously developed in every boy a knowledge of horses and the proper treatment of them. But none the less, and perhaps mainly, he developed a disgust of scavenging and in place of it instilled into these boys a passion for the business of wherrying sand. That was his evangelium. When they were seated in the stable he would say to the boy, “Do you still want to be a scavenger?”

“I do not want, but I must be one”, said the boy. “I must! there is no such thing as must. Must take to the worst trade in the world! To drive continually along the same road among all the slatterns and be the laughing-stock of everybody. They look at your horses—and laugh; they look at yourself—and laugh. The horse is a sorry jade—you are the same—all the spavined cattle belonging to a scavenger’s cart are sorry jades. And whenever you want to marry you will find that no one will care to give you his daughter. They had rather yoke her to your cart: that’s what they’ll say. But a wherryman! faith! that is something quite different. You spin along over the water and the whole world smiles upon you. Be a wherryman!” And the following day he again inquired, “Do you still want to be a scavenger?” “What’s the good of asking me,” said the boy, “I had much rather be a wherryman, but I have no boat, and my parents are not likely to give me one.” “Oh! ho! the boat is the difficulty, is it? Well, I will buy thee a boat and all else that thou requirest.”

Then he asked again the third day, “Do you still want to be a Scavenger?” “No; if I can get a boat I will not be anything but a wherryman.”

“So you shall get one; but if you should ever cease to be a wherryman the boat is mine.” “And who would cease to be a wherryman while he had a boat?”

After this, Poldik told the parents that their boy had learnt to understand horses wonderfully soon. The boy then added that he was going on the water to wherry sand, and when Poldik explained the why and the wherefore he generally also obtained the consent of the parents.

And so then on the following day, Poldik led his young charge among the wherrymen, and he felt as though he was leading him to a wedding. He walked with quite a youthful step, his eyes sparkled, his face sparkled, his words sparkled. He chose his words as easily as though he were selecting twenty-kreuzer pieces from ordinary kreuzers, and it was evident that he was contented with those which he had chosen. And when the boy got his boat and punted about in it, and Poldik saw his face beam with pleasure, the tears came into his own eyes and he could have sung for joy. His heart beat fast, his feet made a few small skips, and he said as if he shared the boy’s joyous sense of freedom, “The world will smile upon thee wherever thou lookest upon it. And thou wilt easily find some Malka and no one will look down upon thee. I have rescued a soul from thy clutches, thou foul trade of the scavenger!”

Immediately after this Poldik sought another soul to rescue from the foul trade of scavenging, and did with him to a hair as he had done with his predecessor. He had already so many of these lads on the water that go which way he would for a walk, young wherrymen sprang to meet him and introduced themselves to him as to a father so that sometimes he was heard to mutter to himself, “I think I must be a wherryman myself when I have so many children at the trade.”

 

CHAPTER VI

THIS Poldik wore a harsh and rude exterior, but if the heart is the real core and marrow of a man, within his harsh exterior there was an excellent core and marrow.

Many a year passed away. Poldik still stuck to his horse-doctoring, and was cited as an authority in his department and summoned to a horse’s sick-bed like a physician. He had plenty of practice, and scarcely time to get through it all. His wealth grew very prettily, and already he might have spent any day he chose as a holiday. He could drive his own carriage, too, and he did drive one; for he got horses of a higher grade to be put to rights, such as had been knocked to pieces by drunken coachmen. And Poldik drove these horses in a carriage which he had expressly procured for the purpose, in order to test how far they had progressed towards convalescence. And he also drove them that people might see how his horses improved after so many Sundays or so many days, and to maintain his credit with the world.

He drove out like a gentleman who has his own coachman. The coachman was always one of those boys who had been adopted to be cured of scavenging and trained to wherrying.

As to what pertains to these boys, Poldik acquired by his generosity towards them the reputation of being a good-hearted fellow: it was a fine and honourable thing to take the children of the poor into his house and to look after everything which they might have need of. But we must not blind ourselves to the fact that he also laid himself open to the charge of eccentricity, and in sooth, just for these his good doings. He only took scavenger’s lads into his house, and he only turned out young wherrymen. This fact now hung about his neck like a characteristic label, and people, though applauding his doings, also added, “Tut! tut! Poldik, if a German mouse [i.e. a rat] were to come to him from a scavenger and begged for help because it wanted to set up among sand wherrymen, Poldik would give it shelter.” “And,” pursued others, “any one could swindle him who chose. Let the first idle vagabond come and say, ‘I don’t want to be a scavenger, I want to be a wherryman', and Poldik would open his house and heart to the fellow.” But then, on the other hand, they all concluded their conversation with, “But, pray, who would swindle him, where will you find the heartless rascal to do it?”

In one of these summers it came to pass that Francis died. His boat was capsized by a paddle-wheel, he himself was drawn under the wheel, swam to shore indeed, but took such a chill that he never again rose from his bed. Malka was left with a little chap about six years old. It was a cruel blow to Malka. There on the water which she loved best of all things, where, too, she had found the man of her choice, she must see him perish. And when she took stock of her means she found that the unexpected blow had left her without money for the funeral.

It was, too, an uncommonly hard trial to Poldik, but in a different way. His instinct prompted him to go to her, and then again it whispered to him, “Never mind her, she has ruined thee with her cold-heartedness, let her have her trials also. Pray, why have a heart?” But he mastered himself, went to her, and said, “Oh! Malka, you have much sorrow and anxiety, I will look after the funeral for you. People would cheat you who are a woman, a man is not so easily defrauded.”

It was a heavy stone which fell from his heart at these words. And he looked after the funeral very decently, and took care that all who wherried sand on the Moldau and all who carted it away from the shore should take a part in the last sad rites.

When Poldik came home after the funeral he said to himself, “Poor Malka! nowhere any one to turn to! and her boy on her hands! Where is she to work? What wages can she earn?” And he wished to set off at once and say to Malka that she had better give her boy to him, that he would take him like any other boy, and that he would relieve her of all anxiety. He would have gone: but then again he said to himself, “What should I do with the little scamp? He will be like his father, he will never have heard of scavenging and care for nothing but the water. What is the profit of purifying his will from the taint of scavenging, when he has no will to be a scavenger?” And only because he had neither skill nor power to fit the thing into his own mental economy, he hesitated and did not go for the boy.

But once it was made known to him that Malka was ill, and that she did not know how her illness might end. Hereupon Poldik went directly to Malka and said, “Ah! Malka, give me this boy of yours: he will be very useful to me, and then you will be freed from all anxiety about him. The boy will be as though he was my own!”

On this Malka said, “I thank you, Poldik, for your kindly offer: but I will not give the boy to you.”

These words made on Poldik the impression as though he had fallen from the sky. So then, she still even now so despised him that she would not even trust her child to him, although she was sick and in distress.

It is possible that any one else would have snatched his hat and quitted her at once. Even Poldik thought of leaving her, but his heart took a considerable step higher, he mastered himself and said, “And what if I should still wish for the boy?” He thought to himself, is it possible that she does not trust him to my charge. On this, Malka said, “I, still, shall not give him to you.”

Then at last Poldik stretched out his hand for his hat, and was departing: only instead of good-bye, he said, “I did not think it of you.”

And here Malka looked at him almost with anguish and said, “Do not take it amiss, Poldik, dear. But you wish to make all your boys wherrymen.”

“Well, and what is the harm of that?” said Poldik, with a certain stubbornness which carried with it a touch of reproach to Malka.

“I do not wish to make a wherryman of him”, said Malka.

“Your boy has not to be a wherryman?” asked Poldik, and he felt as though he had come to the end of all his latinity. “What then is he to be?” he added.

“His father perished on the water: I cannot look any longer at the water without crying, I should be miserable every day if my child had to be on the water for the whole day.”

That was a reason with which Poldik could hardly quarrel—it carried conviction with it. He laid his hat down again and said, “Well, well, doubtless you are in the right. And what then has he to be?”

“A scavenger, Poldik, dear, a scavenger,” responded Malka, almost enthusiastically. “There! now you know why I cannot give him to you.”

“A scavenger!” Poldik was again taken aback, perhaps this time more violently than before. “Perhaps you know of some one,” continued Malka, “who would adopt him and, of course, I will work for both of us in order to pay for his apprenticeship.

She would work for both and could not even work for one, said Poldik to himself with a sigh.

And here a gigantic conception emerged in him. Ay, it is possible that even a giant would have felt himself weak beneath its weight.

Poldik’s head went round at the notion, and he felt as though some tremendous weight had exhausted his feet and hands, and even his tongue and words. He knew what he wished to say, but at that moment it seemed an impossible thing to say it. To-day, at least, it was too much for him; step by step he had gone higher, but now at the same time he felt that if he attempted another round of the ladder, he would stagger and perhaps fall.

He took the final step, staggered, but did not fall. “I know of such a one,” said he. “I will make a scavenger of him for you.”

When Poldik expressed himself in these words he felt as though he had expressed his consent to a crime, and yet, on the other hand, he felt that something stirred within him which gave him wings, just as if he sped in flashing skiff along the Moldau, and just as if he felt a joyous sense of boundless freedom. Malka looked at him as at a man completely new—just as if it was not Poldik, and said: “They do you cruel wrong, Poldik: they say of you that you are an eccentricity, and that you don’t want any one to scavenge. Oh! what a cruel wrong they do you!”

These words confirmed in Poldik the sensation of having acquired wings, although they told him that he was about to undertake something wholly repugnant to his habits of thought.

Well, and so Poldik became once more a scavenger, and I think that in thus doing he reached the highest summit to which his capacities could aspire. For the sake of a fair and noble deed—to take care of a deserted child, the son of a detested father, and of a mother equally detested for the sake of the same fair and noble deed to tear to pieces and fling to the winds all theories, personal crotchets, hatred, and distaste—name to me anything more sublime and more honourable—I know of none, and let your heroes rant and declaim from the boards I know not how far to your satisfaction—Poldik the scavenger can boldly place himself beside any of them, and stand on a level even with the most favoured.

He hated the scavenger’s business from the very bottom of his soul, and now he walked once more beside his cart with sand and led by the hand the son of Francis, called Francis like his father; he instilled into him a love for a calling for which he himself felt no love; he pointed out to him its advantages, though he himself knew of none; he was silent about its disadvantages of which he could count so large a number.

But he adapted himself to it once again. He still continued to exercise his trade in horses, not, however, to the same extent as formerly, but only like an artist, when he felt an inclination to do so.

But now, as day by day with little Francis he rolled out his “hee! hee!” and “heesta!” alongside his vehicle he felt delighted when the boy first caught up the cry, and then he taught the little fellow to say “cl! cl!” and to shout at the horses, and he felt enormous delight when Francis’s first oath tripped off his tongue in the true Poldikian style. He already began to settle down to scavenging and it began to please him.

And now his horses again halted at the ale-house, at the blacksmith’s, the fruiterer’s and the tobacconist’s, only they were And then different horses and rather brisker than the old ones. And then there was a different landlord at the ale-house, at the blacksmith’s forge a different blacksmith, at Naplavka also an almost completely different set of sandsmen and wherrymen—most of them the result of his own careful training. And what immeasurable astonishment was exhibited at the stations when Poldik appeared with his vehicle once more, although if he chose he might have driven his own coach—we can imagine for ourselves.

The people were completely puzzled to know whether he was an eccentricity or whether he was not, and in the ale-house several times in the week we might have heard the following conversation:—

“People always said that Poldik turned scavengers into wherrymen, and now look you, he scavenges, and that with a wherrymen’s little chap!”

“’Tis true he goes about with a wherryman’s little chap. It is Malka’s boy, and don’t you know that Poldik wanted to have her for his wife? Tra-la-la! Stranger’s boys he teaches to be wherrymen, and he keeps scavenging only for the Lord be with him. Tra-la-la!”

But even bygone times, more or less, renewed themselves. Malka, when her health was restored, once more brought dinner for them; at first, however, only for her son, but soon for Poldik also, because Poldik said as we drive together we must also dine together. Sometimes they waited for Malka, and when she was coming with the dinner, settled her in the cart and then drove on with her. On these occasions little Francis must needs take the horses in hand, that his mother might see with her own eyes how far he had progressed. Here Poldik laughed heartily at his “whoa-ups” and whip-cracking and looked the picture of contentment. There was only one fault to find in Francis, and that was that he was still diffident of swearing before his mother. This slight shortcoming which marred the perfect whole, Poldik could not pass over in silence, and therefore said, “Ah! Malka, he is learning very fast, but he still wants the least little bit of courage.” And that meant more particularly, “If only he would swear all would be well.”

At last Francis was wellnigh grown to man’s estate, and then Poldik entirely confided to him the charge of the horses and vehicle. He himself carted sand no longer, but devoted himself solely to the management of horses. He was already old, he could not any longer walk so well as he was wont, beside the cart, “hee” and “heesta” no longer issued bravely from his lips, and the horses obeyed them better when they heard them from the lips of Francis. “Come, then, Francis, manage everything for me”, said Poldik, and thus he quitted for ever his previous occupation.

When Poldik grew enfeebled by age Malka shifted to his lodging and tended him as though he had been her father, and when he expired no son and daughter could have grieved more heartily for a father than did Malka and Francis. And it would be hard to name any other funeral in which so many people took part, and amongst whom so large a number could say and said with tears the words, “He was our father.”

And in the evening after the funeral—if you had seen the Moldau! The whole Moldau was covered with boats of all descriptions, on all of which were lanterns of every colour of the rainbow and torches, and from all of them issued plaintive music and plaintive dirges—it was a grand “pannuchis” in which all joined with the frankest and heartiest goodwill.

So lived and died Poldik, the scavenger.