This affair, apparently so trivial, infuriated Joseph to such a degree, that he never spoke with any one in the village. He felt that he could not speak with them. Loyka’s farm became the butt of every saucy ribbald witling, even a kind of comic song circulated under the name of the “Kalounkarska,” or “Lay of the Kalounkar,” and when any of the musicians straggled into Frishetts and began to show off his skill on the village green, all the fullgrown lads flocked round him and wanted him to play the “Kalounkarska.” A little later every melody became the “Kalounkarska” if Joseph was within earshot. And they all began to play the “Kalounkarska,” one after the other, although they had been singing quite different songs till then.
And so it came to pass that one day Joseph went to his wife and said, “Barushka, it is impossible for us to hold out any longer in Frishetts, I shall sell the farm and we will emigrate elsewhere.” There was no sign of hesitation, he meant it in earnest, nor did Barushka by any means endeavour to divert him from his purpose. So then, let him find a purchaser and Joseph Loyka would decamp from Frishetts.
Not long after this the good folk of Frishetts whispered to one another that the kalounkar wanted to decamp. Vena one day delivered on the village green a complete disquisition: How, even this kalounkar, who showed the door to every real kalounkar, was now every day peeping out of that
