The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 4/A North Bohemian Village

by Donald Levant Breed

A North Bohemian Village

By DONALD BREED.

It is easy to know when you are nearing Slanice, because the train shoots through a tunnel and then emerges at the base of a wide sloping meadow which goes up and up until it melts into the sky. On the other side of the track is a tall cleanly pine grove which used to be part of the estate of a German noble. There are deer on his lands and rabbits and, I think, a good many wild fowl. An old chateau is hidden somewhere in the recesses of the park, but it is closed and no one ever goes there now.

It takes three minutes to pass the great meadow and the evergreen forest and then, as the engine puffs feebly and painfully around a long up-grade curve, the little station of Slanice comes into view.

There is a great throng of people waiting to take the train. At every stop the platforms seem to be crowded. The increase of passenger traffic now-a-days in Bohemia is a little puzzling. Railway service is slow and uncertain, and the cars are often unheated and unlighted, with windows broken out and tattered upholstery. Yet the people come and go. Whence they come from, whither they travel, and why—these things are hard to explain. Most of them ride third-class, which means that they carry tremendous knapsacks on their backs and huge shapeless bundless of clothing. They are always lunching. As soon as the train starts they begin to eat. They unwrap from newspapers prodigious slabs of black bread, crack their hardboiled eggs against the wooden scats, and consider themselves lucky, if they have a piece of cheese or a scrap of meat. They talk and laugh and stare out of the windows in solid enjoyment. After all, life has its compensations, and it is vastly diverting to ride on a train.

At Slanice there is a tussle. It is necessary to wriggle and elbow one’s way past a mob of eager persons who are trying to board the car before the passengers for Slanice have alighted. Of course they would like to find seats, but they will certainly be disappointed, for there are already people standing in the corridors. A high-capped official roars at those who seem to be shoving and orders them back, but they ignore him with great good humor, for they know it is merely part of his business to be loud-mouthed and authoritative.

At last I am free of the melée and here is my good friend, the marmalade-maker, who has come to the train to meet me. He grasps my hand in hearty welcome and inquires, whether I am not half-frozen after my journey. I tell him that I am not, that my circulation is good, and the cold air in the Bohemian railway cars only stimulates me. The marmalade-maker shrugs his shoulders, smiles doubtfully and introduces me to his wife’s brother, who has just come up with a long pair of skis. I walk between them through the station gate and out into the street.

There are three streets in Slanice. One is the street of the tavern, another is the street where the marmalade-maker lives and has his factory, and the third is nothing but a long row of low orange-colored houses allotted to the workers in his establishment. Each of the streets sustains an independent existence. They lie somewhat apart, point in divergent directions and seem to have nothing to do with one another, like three brothers who have quarrelled. In the middle, between the railway station and the tavern, is an open place. In the season when the grass grows, this furnishes pasturage for the goats of Slanice, but now it is inches deep with snow.

Through this end of the town runs a wide ditch spanned in two places by narrow foot-bridges without railings. The nearer bridge leads directly toward the marmalade-maker’s house and factory and the hard-trodden path in the snow shows thatmany people come and go over this route. The young man with the skis warns me to be careful about my footing on the bridge. A mis-step on the icy planks might easily cause a tumble into the ravine which is half full of drifted snow, and that is very inferior sport as he knows from his own chilly experience.

A little girl of six comes dancing down the path toward us with open arms.

“Oh, daddy!” she cries. “Here you are! Did the strange man come?”

Then, catching sight of me behind her father, she is overcome with confusion and hides her blushes in the folds of his long coat. Her father laughs and lifts her in his arms.

“Our little Mařenka is shy,” he says. “But just wait a few years and you will see that she is not so afraid of the young men.”

Mařenka looks very demure, so that it is hard to know how much of her father’s pleasantry she understands.

“But what does this mean?” he continues with grave reproof, stroking her flying locks. “How many times has mamička told you not to go running out of doors on cold days with nothing on your head?”

Mařenka blurts out, crestfallen: “I forgot, daddy!’

Her father looks severe, but cannot refrain from winking solemly at me. It is probable that nothing escapes little Mařenka, least of all a furtive wink. It must be very subversive of discipline. The marmalade-maker goes on up the path carrying her.

His house appears insignificant in comparison with the factory and the various sheds and buildings which cluster about it. It is very old and is all on one floor, but the marmalade-maker is entirely satisfied with it. He is even a little proud, for it has a real bath-room, the only one in Slanice. The windows are casements, of a design long disused, and through them I see dainty curtains and rows of flowering plants.

The approach to the door-stone is across a sort of farmyard. If it were not winter there would be geese waddling about and a few hens, and perhaps a little lamb with wobbly legs would go cantering in front of us to get a drink out of the water pail. None of these things is to be seen today; the farmyard is deserted and the season’s white blanket covers the ground and roofs. Birds and animals are penned up in a number of outbuildings where they are presumably warm and well-fed, but where I fancy they drag out a dismal existence in spite of the company which they afford each other and the ceaseless opportunity for the exchange of ideas.

We are at the door. The brother-in-law throws it open, while I am busy with the boot-scraper, and admits us to a kitchen all shining and warm. A table with a white cloth in the center of the room is laid for afternoon coffee. The pungent smell of the drink fills the whole room and a cloud of steam rises from a small black kettle on the stove, where it is being stirred by the servant girl. The mistress of the house is placing a pan of boiled milk on the table. She is a merry little woman and makes me instantly feel at home under her roof-tree. A child of three toddles around clasping a great doll, and a tall boy of eleven, summoned from another room, comes in to make his compliments in a husky voice. A canary trills welcome from a brass cage and the kitchen range sends out a hospitable glow.

After the marmalade-maker and I have stood for a few minutes warming our hands over the coals in the stove, we are bidden to sit down. There are four places at the table, set for my host, his wife, her brother and myself. The children will not take coffee with us. Each of us gets a big cup more than half full of hot black liquid, and then the servant passes about with the scalding milk and dips it out with a ladle into our cups, stirring the mixture as she does so. Mařenka brings a great platter of buchty and coffee bread from the bedroom, staggering under the weight. Her mother exclaims.

“Child, what are you thinking of. Couldn’t you have waited for Anna?”

Mařenka rubs against her mother’s knee like an affectionate kitten and whispers confidently: “Mamičko, may I have one of those large ones?”

The coffee is excellent. There is nothing to take the place of coffee on a winter day. Moreover, this is real Mocha and not one of those substitutes, made out of hops or turnips ground and roasted, which everybody used during the war. It was given to the brother-in-law by a friend in Liberec, whose son, a courier, brought it from Italy.

“Why, here is Žíla!”

A small white dog bounds into the kitchen and commences rushing everywhere and barking furiously. The boy follows, with a selfconscious smile. The baby with the doll, amazed at this invasion, topples and sits down suddenly and violently on the floor.

“Put the dog out!” cries my hostess.

“Come here, Žíla,” says the marmalade-maker, in an indulgent tone, and immediately the little animal makes a lunge at himand worries the bottoms of his trousers.

“I won’t have it!” says his wife inexorably. “You know how the creature eats everything up.”

So Žíla is banished to the outside and the boy goes along for company. Presently I can see them through the window, playing and romping in a whirl of snow.

Coffee is over. My host proposes to take me to see the sights of the village until dinner time. We are warned not to be gone more than an hour and a half. For me, at least, that is easy to promise, for the scent of roasting pork which the oven now begins to disseminate is very alluring.

We go first to the factory where I am initiated into the fearsome secrets of marmalade-making. This business is one which was very slightly affected by the war. Raw materials are the greatest problem; the apple crop last year was miserable, but there is still a sufficient supply of sugar. Labor troubles are never heard of in Slanice. The factory hands live a stone’s throw from the place where they work; they are treated well and feel satisfied with what they get.

Nor is there any difficulty in reaching markets; the entire output of this factory could easily be disposed of three times over in Turnov, Mladá Boleslav and other towns within easy traveling distance.

Now that the worst times are over, my host expects to make certain necessary repairs in his plant. The Germans took away one of his great copper kettles; he hopes to get an iron one to put in its place. They overlooked a second copper kettle, which he had time to hide. He shook in his shoes when the officers were tramping in and out of the factory, for he knew it would be the worse for him if they should find it in its place of concealment. Eventually he will renovate the whole establishment, but many articles are hard to get at present,and he contents himself with making minor improvements; for instance, he is going to do some painting. He has bought a quantity of red paint, which has been turned out into a wooden tub in one of the sheds. As we pass the door, two painters come out, quitting work for the day. Their schedule used to be longer, but the eight-hour law applies to all industries. He speaks to them familiarly and they touch their caps. Both sides are evidently satisfied with the new legislation.

Now we have left the factory and, by the farther and less perilous foot-bridge, we cross to the street of the tavern. In the west a saffron sunset is cooling above the gentle curves of a line of hills. The gloom deepens and every house window throws its glimmer of light acros the roadway. This little villa on the corner is so situated that it commands a good prospect of the rolling country that lies to the north and west of Slanica. It is a pretty green house with a cupola, and a high spiked fence surrounds it. The owner was a Jew from Dresden who used to spend all his summers here. Finally something happened to him, something so horrible that my oracle will not even tell me what it was. His place has been deserted ever since, and the swallows make their nests unmolested under the projecting edges of the roof.

At the end of the street is a patch of woodland, and by the time we have walked there and back to the tavern it is quite dark. The tavern is a plain two-story affair, with no other inscription on its buff walls than Hostinec in enormous black letters. From within comes a confused din of voices and the sound of people trotting to and fro. I am surprised at this degree of activity in a plain country inn and ask the reason for it.

“Only a little party,” the marmalade-maker tells me. “If you have brought dancing shoes along with you, we can drop in there this evening.”

Castle Karlštýn, Dating from Fourteenth Century. Though he puts it so casually, I know he would be desperately disappointed, if I expressed a preference to spend the time in his warm kitchen instead. But, of course, that is what I have no intention of doing. Fortunately I came provided with evening clothes, for I have already learned that these plain people of Slanice like to preen themselves, when they sally out for an evening’s fun and wish their guests to do likewise.

We are on the way home. The dangerous hollow is crossed again, and as we come near to the house delicious whiffs of dinner travel to us on the breeze. My hostess lets us in and apologizes for laying the cover in the kitchen again, but really it is the most comfortable room in the house in winter.

“The pork is done,” she tells me. “The food will be on the table in a jiffy.”

An untoward event delays the meal.

From the direction of the factory there suddenly rings out the agonized yelp of a dog. There follows a succession of squeals, barks and piteous groans. The marmalade-maker raises his eyebrows inquisitively and his wife, who is wiping her hands on her apron, stands transfixed with awe. Little Mařenka flings the door open and peers out. In the beam of light shed from the kitchen I discern the form of Žíla, racing like mad toward the house. The little beast reaches the threshold and grovels there, panting and squirming. He would like to bound into the kitchen, but the wife’s brother, who has now reappeared, seizes him firmly by the collar. The boy saunters after Žíla, laughing heartily.

“Poor Žíla!”

At first glance the dog presents a shocking spectacle, for his hinder half looks as if it were entirely bathed in gore. Closer inspection resolves our fears. It is nothing but paint. Red paint! Some one has dipped Žíla into the wooden tub which I saw when I was visiting the factory. The marmalade-maker looks accusingly at his eleven-year old son.

“Did you do this?”

The boy nods, holding his sides with laughter.

“How shameful of you to torment a poor dumb brute like that!”

The culprit grows serious.

“Why, daddy, I didn’t mean to hurt Žíla. I was just playing with him out by the shed, and he looked so white, and I happened to think how funny it would be to make him red and white, so he would be a real national Bohemian dog!”

My host casts a comical stare at his wife and resolutely shuts his lips. Žíla lies on the door-sill in an abject posture. His patriotism has not been equal to the ordeal. The brother-in-law leads him off to be chained in one of the out-buildings for the night. The boy is summoned indoors and comes looking very sheepish. A brief family council decides that he must be sent to bed at once without anything to eat. His punishment is made doubly hard because Mařenka, who idolizes her big brother, is told that she must not go into his room to talk to him. The boy limps off immediately, glad of a chance to escape the publicity of his disgrace.

After the servant girl has marshalled the other children out of the kitchen, the marmalade-maker sits down to indulge in silent but tremendous laughter, in which the rest of us join.

Dinner is coming on the table. There is savory broth with noodles, a rib roast of pork with dumplings and fat, sour cabbage, a compote of cherries, and, after a while, sugar cakes and two kinds of wine. The kitchen is hot and full of steam and good smells. The door of the range is red-hot. My hostess’ face is very flushed and damp. Everyone is happy and hungry. There is little occasion for conversation.

When the dishes have been cleared away, the marmalade-maker presses tobacco into the porcelain bowl of his pipe and, between puffs, tells me stories about ghosts and spirits. There are tiny creatures in the hills who play all sorts of tricks on folk. If they happen to like you, they befriend you and bring you good luck. But if you happen to stir their liliputian wrath, then the worse for you! Of course these are just fables and my informer chuckles at them. But, on the other hand, there is the adventure that befell Jan Janek when he was coming home late one night from Vinoř. Something about a woman all on fire who came fleeing out of a thicket. Jan’s clothes were scorched when he got home. My hostess interrupts.

“Don’t tell those things,” she begs. “They make me feel creepy.”

The brother-in-law has already taken his departure, for he is escorting a girl to the ball and her house is some distance away. When we have changed our clothes, we too start for the tavern. We are late comers; the dancing has already begun.

The dance hall is a high, dark room, with thick rafters and a floor stained brown. It is crowded with all the young people of Slanice and a good many of their elders. A waltz is in progress. The music is very brisk, and the dancers whirl rapidly about, always in one direction and never reversing. When the pause comes I am formally introduced to a good-natured middle-aged woman and her daughter, a blooming girl in national costume.

The girl and I sit together. She is pleased because I am admiring her dress. No, she did not make it herself. She thanks me for the implied compliment, but she is really not clever enough for that. This was a present from her little grandmother in Králové Hradec. We make an engagement for the next dance, and I am glad when I find that it will be a Bohemian beseda. The beseda is great fun, especially the spinning part. You stand with your feet close together, facing your partner, with the tips of your toes almost touching hers. Then you take hold of hands and lean far back, away from each other. When the music starts you commence turning, gathering momentum and pivoting about your toes. Faster and faster you go, until the whole hall swims and you feel like two motes caught in an eddy of light. Then the music stops and you must make way for some one else. It is over too soon.

When we are warm and tired, we go into an adjoining low-ceilinged room, where there are clouds of blue smoke. We sit about a round table over glasses of amber wine, with two little squat bottles of Mělnické before us. The richest man in Vinoř, who is a sort of guest of honor, sits with us, and my beseda partner and her mother. The man from Vinoř talks politics. He would like to know about this scandalous new proposition they are talking over in the national assembly at Prague, the confiscating of big estates. He considers it an outrage. The marmalade-maker asks him, whether he would like to have the old days of German rule back again. No, he is too loyal to want that, but there is no reason why the new government should start its career with idiotic measures like the land law. The marmalade-maker reminds him that the Germans used to confiscate things too. His brows is pensive and I suspect he is thinking about his copper kettle.

After this bit of rest in the wine-room comes more dancing. It is remarkable how one feels more and more light and high-spirited at these village festivals, as the night wears away. It is hard to believe my hostess, when she finally comes to say that it is four o’clock in the morning. We trail home under a starless sky. My feet ache dreadfully. The servant girl, who has waited up for us to come home, is drowsing beside the kitchen table. She rouses herself and brings us more coffee and a piece of koláč. We drink our coffee and compare notes. It turns out that the marmalade-maker’s wife broke her vow and danced almost continuously through the whole affair. Her husband laughs and winks at me. We are warm and contented, but too tired to talk much. I am shown into my bedroom.

It is a small chilly room, crowded with dark, ornate furniture, but the only thing which interests me is the bed with its mountainous feather quilt. When I crawl under this I find that the sheet is like ice. It must be a frightfully cold night, for I can hear the boards somewhere in the house creak and snap. I have opened my window and a breeze sweeps into the bed. For a short time I find myself shivering, but what blessed relief to stretch out here and relax my weary frame! Soon the feather-bed has made me very comfortable.

My brain swarms with pictures. I burrow my head into the pillow and wonder confusedly whether I shall be long in getting to sleep. Now I am waltzing with the young sister of the man from Vinoř, now with my beseda partner. Now I am sitting out a dance with some one. By all that is wonderful, it is the little grandmother from Králové Hradec, and she is nodding her head and telling me how she came to buy the national costume! The marmalade-maker glides by me dancing with his wife’s servant girl in all her kitchen regalia. Suddenly all the people begin prancing about and cutting the most ridiculous capers, while round and round the room runs a little red and white dog. I cannot remember what comes next.