Three Stories/On Condition: or Pensioned Off/Chapter 11

by Vítězslav Hálek

 

CHAPTER VII.

 

N the cemetery at Bartos’ house, consequently with Staza and the gravedigger, were Frank and old Loyka. They conducted together their modest household, Frank busying himself about the management of all outside the house, and Staza devoting herself to domestic duties.

Frank and Staza had reached an age, when life wishes to burst forth in the song of the skylark. Where such an eye directs its gaze, the bud unfolds, the rose blossoms. The sky is draped in a garment of transparent blue, every star hath its own language, every ray of moonlight brings a message down to earth. The earth is draped in a garment of green, and this green is full of hope, the birds sing songs about it, the leaves of the wood murmur about it. The garish light of day trenches far upon the depths of night, and night with its own golden speech of dawn trenches far upon the day itself. The young heart reels between waking and dreaming; presentiment and uncertainty contend about it, the presentiment of joy above which there is none; uncertainty which is half a certainty because the world is so fair.

Once Staza sat upon the grave of her mother: she did not sing “Oh rest in peace,” either to her mother or to the other dead. But she felt weary and oppressed, she knew not why, and then she interpreted the oppression to be sorrow for never having known her mother. And she would most gladly have delved a fresh grave beside her mother’s grave and laid herself in it, not by any means as a corpse, but that she might again tap at her mother’s coffin and tell her something which she had not yet breathed even to herself.

At this moment came Frank to her, and when he stood beside her, he was for the first time at a loss for a word. Everything that he had said to her hitherto seemed insufficient. He wished to say much more and therefore said nothing.

The dawn of life shot its crimson streamers before him, he had his soul full of spring, full of sap and beauty, and when he wished to express it all, he cast his eyes down to the ground and his tongue seemed parched with a long drought. He had his soul full of sunlight, and when he wished to reveal it in its full brightness, he had tears in his eyes.

And when he had stood thus a long time and could not find anything to say, and yet wished to say something—he found nothing else but the enquiry, “Oh! Staza, and so thou dost not sing any more.”

Staza quivered at these words, glanced up at him and then looked on the ground: glanced up at him with a gleam in her eyes which he had never seen there before, with fervour so that her bosom was expanded and was penetrated by it. And when she glanced down to the ground, she did not raise her eyes any more, but from the heaving of her own bosom it was evident that this gleam of light and fervour had elevated her whole existence.

Frank was melancholy; what he had said did not satisfy him, and he could not think of anything else. Even Staza was melancholy, because she could not find anything to say at all: but after a brief pause she threw herself at full length on the grass, a deep sigh escaped from her bosom, and then she quickly rose to her feet and without casting one glance at Frank, ran lightly away.

Perhaps she at last told her mother what she wanted to say.

Frank scarcely ventured to glance at her as she ran away, and still less ventured to ask himself the question why she ran away. And he sat down exactly on the place where she had been seated a moment before, only that he looked toward the wicket-gate and then called to mind how he had come to the cemetery the first time with the measure for his grandfather’s grave. And then he called to mind how he had slept in his grandfather’s grave, and how he and Staza had nestled together. And all at once he started as though something had stung him in the heart.

And now Staza and Frank avoided one another, or more properly they sought one another but when they ought to have found one another they did not find one another, and when they found one another, they were melancholy and sought one another once more. They, who had grown side by side, like two flower stems, only now became conscious that they were side by side, and began to separate from one another, in order that they might yearn for one another’s presence.

When at even Staza worked in the living room, certainly Frank was not there, and wandered somewhere under the window or outside the burial ground, in the fields, perhaps, even in the woods, God knows where. And if Frank was in the living room, Staza would rather have laid her down beside the charnel house than have been at the same time in the same room with him; and again she glanced into his eyes which were so clear and fervent.

And yet again, sometimes, when by accident they met one another, it seemed to them as though there could not be in the world a greater happiness than such meetings, so that they measured time by them, although they dwelt under the same roof.

When Bartos, the gravedigger, observed what I here relate, he said to Frank, “You will not sleep another night at our house, Frank, you will go to the farm; the farm is your own, and requires a hospodar without delay.

And now it seemed to Frank as though Bartos had announced to him some dire misfortune. Frank begged not to be dismissed to the farm until the morrow. But Bartos said, “You go there at once, just as you are, without saying a word to anyone.”

“Not even to Staza?” asked Frank.

“Not even to Staza,” said Bartos.

And so Frank departed that same day without saying a word to anyone.

When several days had elapsed, old Loyka said “I wonder where Frank is roving; ’tis several days since he has been at home.” “I have not seen him now for several days,” said Bartos, “I know not where he is roving.” I know not whether this answer contented Loyka, but certainly it did not content Staza, who was now constantly on the watch to see whether Loyka or Bartos would begin to mention Frank.

She would gladly have enquired a hundred times in the hour what had become of him, and yet she never summoned courage to ask even once.

“I wonder why Frank doesn’t come,” said old Loyka, after several days.

“I wonder he does not come,” said Bartos.

And it was the only thing she heard of him for several days, and yet she always watched with immeasurable anxiety for the occasion when Loyka should again enquire for his son. Once Loyka asked Staza herself whether she knew where Frank was. “I do not know,” said Staza, and after this she once more seated herself on her mother’s grave, buried her hot face in the clover, and doubtless told her mother to the very end what that other time she had only just begun to speak about.

In the meanwhile, Bartos went to the mayor, and both together went to the Loykas’ farm, and advised Frank how to manage his estate; instructed him, worked with him, and were always ready with friendly counsel.

Once Bartos came home and said to Loyka, “I know at last where Frank is.”

At these words Staza grew red and white several times in the same minute, just as though some one had announced to her that she must from that minute suffer some dire adversity.

“Frank is at home with his mother, who is sick unto death and longs for you to come and visit her,” exlaimed Bartos.

“I go to the farm!” began Loyka, vehemently. “To your wife, who is sick unto death,” put in Bartos. And here old Loyka was, for that day, completely metamorphosed. He did not speak a word, leant his head on his hands, turned over in his mind various plans and looked another man.

“So you think, Bartos, that I have to go to the farm,” he asked, as if on the brink of some final determination which he specially dreaded.

“I think that you ought to go. If you wish it, I will conduct you,” said Bartos. And here the matter was half decided.

What a wholly different effect it had upon Staza. How gladly, without any hesitation, would she have run to the bedside of the invalid, how gladly would she have watched there, how gladly would she have tended her. How instantly would she have left everything that she might be present where there was most need of her. No one invited her, and she would have sped like the wind. The gravedigger invited Loyka, and Loyka prepared himself to go, as though he was preparing himself for his own death.

“How many years is it since I have been on the estate,” asked old Loyka, still undecided.

“Oh, many a long year,” said Bartos. “In the meantime your son has grown up and is like a nosegay—’tis a pleasure to look at him.”

At these words Staza let fall everything which she held in her hands, and for a long time was at cross purposes in all she did. She poured water from the ewer into the basin until it overflowed. When she observed this, she wished to wipe it up with something, and emptied the salt seller into the water imagining it was something she had forgotten to salt.

That evening, Loyka and Bartos wended their way to the farm, at Frishetts, which Loyka still supposed to be in the possession of Joseph. It must have been a very crushing pilgrimage for him, for let Bartos begin any topic of conversation, Loyka did not listen to him, but remained shut up in his own sombre reflections, and at intervals he heaved a heavy sigh and said in a constrained voice, “Well, then, this is my last journey.” Bartos did not tease him to converse. Moreover, they had to rest at every boundary stone, and the walk, which under ordinary circumstances, was easily accomplished in half an hour, was prolonged to a full hour. And then each time they sat down Loyka said, “My Lord and Master, I go to the Mount of Calvary.”

But with this great oppression which overpowered Loyka, all traces of that tempestuous spirit which had oftentimes shaken his whole inner man, seemed to have disappeared. He went as though the road was one which it was impossible to avoid—he went exhausted and oppressed, but still he did not turn aside.

When they reached the Loykas’ farm it was almost dark. Loyka seated himself exhausted by the abutment, beside which long ago Frank had wept for the death of the grandfather. And as he sat by this abutment, he spoke in a voice of forced meekness. “Bend, proud knees, and entreat my son to permit me to cross his courtyard. Hands clasp yourselves in prayer and entreat my son to open that gate for so many years barred against me. Enter his doors, ye words, and entreat and implore. For surely it is not possible that I must stifle even my words. Then forth, oh! stubborn thoughts, and learn humbleness! My son Joseph!” said he raising his voice, “lo! thy father stands at thy threshold, only prythee, promise me one thing, by word of mouth and before witnesses, that thou wilt not set that dog upon me which long ago fawned upon me and which I fed with my bounty.” And more to the same effect.

At times it was like praying, at times like weeping, at times like affected humility, at times like reproach.

While he sat thus and Bartos stood beside him, the sound of harps and violins issued from the courtyard, and several vocal melodies were wafted to their ears. Old Loyka was silent, raised his head and looked round about him. He listened. He looked round about him to see where he was sitting, and he listened to find out whence the music came. He saw that he was seated by the gates of Joseph’s farm, and that the music resounded therefrom.

“Whither have you led me Bartos?” enquired Loyka and rose to his feet, for he could not trust what he had heard and seen.

“And you said that my wife was sick unto death,” he further enquired.

“So I said.”

“Why are they playing music where some one is sick unto death?” enquired Loyka.

“If music can play after a funeral, why should it not be played before the funeral? Did not the music play the whole day, when they brought out your father for me to bury?”

Loyka mused awhile and was silent. After this, Loyka said of his own accord, “Let us enter.”

He opened the gate, remained standing in the gateway and listened. The music played on.

Here Loyka said, “They have not yet loosed the dog upon me and I cannot hear one barking. The music played on.

Then they stepped into the courtyard, and old Loyka said in a much milder tone of voice than before, at the abutment, “look in wonder on me all you who here in days gone by craved a hospitable shelter. Did any of you come here so humbly as I come this day? Had any of you to stoop to such servile entreaties as I have stooped to? Oh, how could I come more humbly than I come this day?” And the music played on. Loyka listened and said, “I have not yet heard the baying of the hound.”

And when he had said this he perceived that the music and the singing were in the chambers beside the coach-house, and now there was the chattering of many voices. He saw and heard feet approaching, and not looking up to see who it was, he bowed his body to the ground and cried, “If thou art my son Joseph, oh! I pray thee only do not drive me away for this one day. For the sake of my aged wife, I implore thee, for the sake of thy mother, who bore thee, and whose only fault was that she loved thee all too well, and now is sick unto death. I promise that I will depart again as soon as she is dead if I survive her death.”

And more to the same effect. It was Vena who approached him and said, “I welcome you, pantata, to your own farmstead.”

Old Loyka drew himself up, looked round about him and listened. Afterwards his eyes rested on Vena. “Thou art Vena,” he said, “I know thee. What has brought thee here? Thou went wandering from here.”

“Now I am here again, pantata, and we are expecting you,” said Vena.

“Expecting me? And who are those yonder playing.”

“The harpers, fiddlers, and singers. Of course, you know them all,” said Vena.

“And what do they want here?”

“They are expecting you.”

“Expecting me! Well, well, well, well.”

Then he took Vena by the hand and said, “Thou wise man, do not trot me out to make a fool of me, and tell me, is it safe to cross the courtyard?”

“I am sent for you, pantata, and I have to conduct you wherever you please—to the pension house or the farmhouse; but our good old mistress is in the farmhouse, and, therefore, I might perhaps have conducted you to the farmhouse.”

“Ha! then, lead me to the farmhouse, said Loyka, and he said it just as though he had by this confirmed his own death warrant, which it was impossible now to avoid. And, even as the wretch condemned to die, just before his death, dares to implore some favour for himself, so old Loyka implored—“You hear, Vena, I am going into the farmhouse; but, first, lead me yonder, to the chambers by the coach-house, that I may gaze upon those spirits who there await my spirit.”

And he hung on Vena’s arm, and Vena led him to the spot. When they caught sight of him a flourish of trumpets rang forth. Then the family of the kalounkar came out upon the doorstep, the cloth pedlar, several tinkers, and in a word, all whoever just then were lodging under that roof, and all said, “We welcome you pantata; we have already been expecting you.” And when old Loyka hardly recognised those figures by the scanty light of a candle, his head went round, so that he scarcely attended to what they were saying.

“Vena, let me not stay here any longer. Good lad, now I have seen it, now lead me to the farmhouse.

When he departed, a flourish of music again rang forth, and Loyka, staggering, and leaning upon Vena, reeled towards his house. And when he was already not far from the threshold, he said, “Only bend thyself, proud tongue, aud pray. Harsh words, swaddle yourselves in silk, be soft and meek, be very meek and soft, ay, as soft as the droppings of birds! And here already some one stood on the door step and said, “I welcome you, tatinka; we have been expecting you.”

He who pronounced these words was not Joseph; it was Frank.

And here motes seemed to flicker before Loyka’s eyes, and after a minute or two, Bartos, Vena, and Frank carried him into the farmhouse.

They laid him on his bed, for the strain upon his nerves had been too great, and he had fainted. He breathed. He opened his eyes for a moment and closed them again immediately. He fell asleep.

After so many years he again slept under his own roof, and slept in the farmhouse.

It was already pretty late on the following day when he awoke; and when he awoke, he looked fixedly at the ceiling as if he was trying to call to mind how it used to look. Very much that had occurred seemed to him like a dream. As yet, he could hardly manage to assure himself that he was not still asleep.

And when his eyes ranged from the ceiling and sought the objects that were nearest to him, here stood, here sat in the apartment, his wife, Frank, and Bartos. Loyka greeted them with a prolonged stare, but did not utter a word. He only gazed at them.

And when his eyes wandered to the door he saw several of the servants standing there, one of whom said, “We await your order, pantata, where we are to go and plough.”

Old Loyka again turned his eyes towards his wife, his son and Bartos, and said, “tell me nothing: if it is a dream, let me dream on.” And to the servants he said, “go and plough beyond the meadow, I will come and see how much you have worked.”

When the servants had gone, he again looked towards his son and said, “and Joseph allows you to be here? Does he allow me to be here also?”

“You are at home, Papa,” said Frank, “and we will never leave it again.”

“At home? Prythee tell me nothing whatever until afterwards,” and he rubbed his forehead. After a while he said to his wife, “They told me you were sick unto death.”

“Now she is well again,” said Bartos.

When Loyka got upon his feet he enquired, “may I venture to walk about the room.”

“About the room, the courtyard, in the fields, where you please.” answered Frank.

Loyka smiled and walked about the room, and said as he did so, “It is all a very well concocted plan, but I am already old, why should I not allow myself to take a few steps in a room which was once my own.”

“It is yours, so long as you are pleased to stay in it,” said Bartos.

“Good lad, I must trust you, although I do not know yet whether you speak the truth.” And Loyka looked out of the window at the courtyard.

“I wonder who that is standing in the courtyard?” he said, “If I am not mistaken it is the old harvester.”

“He has been already waiting two days to see you and to have a talk with you,” they said.

“Well let him come and say his say,” responded Loyka, “I always gladly talk with him.”

They called to the harvester and he came. “I am come to you, pantata, to enquire whether you will require the services of the old harvester this summer? Because they are ready to engage us in Caslavska, and I said that we would go if our old pantata Loyka did not require our services.”

“Have you spoken to the young folk,” enquired Loyka.

“They told me that everything depended on you,” answered the harvester.

“Well, if they said that to you come all of you to our harvesting. To be sure, where else would you go, when we need your services here.”

“We will be here on call early to prepare ourselves,” said the reaper and took his leave.

Old Loyka turned to his friends and said, “I know very well that Joseph will not be pleased, but why should I not exasperate him a little? Just let them come. Of course, I shall still employ them.”

After this he said, “Still Joseph does not come hither to drive me away?”

“He is not coming,” said Frank.

“Then if he is not coming, let me go into the courtyard,” and they led him into the courtyard.

In the courtyard the servants of old Loyka saluted him, called him ‘pantata,’ and, in general, behaved towards him very respectfully. Old Loyka inspected the field implements, inspected the house and was evidently well pleased.

He went to the chambers by the coach-house, there all was just as it had been in his time. The family of the kalounkar, only a few inches taller and perhaps with one or two additions to its numbers; the cloth pedlar, a little shrunken, and the harpers and fiddlers with the same instruments, only that perhaps, they too, were already a little shrunken. All welcomed old Loyka with smiles and pretty speeches, and one of them said that now all was once more just as it used to be in the old days.

Then they begged Loyka to come and sit down with them. After this they began to relate about things past and present, and what changes there had been, and old Loyka felt as though someone was planting a new heart in his breast and in his head the song of the laverock once more resounded.

Then the old kalounkar said, “I think, pantata, if you would be so good as to suffer us to stay here sometime under this roof, that the Lord God would reward you for it on the other side.”

Old Loyka said, “When I see you here I can believe that I am here—just as if you had been my roots and I could again anchor myself here by you.

They were in very truth his roots, and old Loyka anchored himself here by them.

After this his neighbours from the village came and welcomed old Loyka. They declared that they were interested about the construction of some public gardens, and that they only waited for his advice before beginning to lay them out.

In a word, every one treated old Loyka just as though there had never been a period when he was a fugitive from his home, just as though this day was a continuation of the brighter happier days of old. Not, perhaps, that Loyka should no more remember what had been. By no means. He very well remembered that but yesterday he was a wanderer in the world, but at the same time there emerged in him to-day a fresh consciousness that, perhaps, there might be an end of this wandering.

And so Bartos’ plan succeeded. Those spiders’ webs which had obscured old Loyka’s mind, dissipated themselves of their own accord, and he every day visibly convalesced. Once more he took his walk every evening to the chambers by the coach-house, and himself invited the inmates to converse and sing. “Be merry, lads, be merry,” he used to say.

And the old life began again at the Loykas’. That farm was now once more just as people had known it all their lives. Old Loyka so far convalesced that he threw off several years as though they had been a few heavy sheaves of corn; so that at last his friends ventured to tell him the whole truth, both about what had happened to Joseph, how he had sold out of the farm, and how the farm was bought for Frank, and how being still young, Frank begged that he, Loyka, should manage it for him. Ay, he so far convalesced that sometimes he would say, when he paid a visit to the chambers, “So, my lads, tell me the story of old Loyka when he was a wanderer in the world.”

“Ah! well, he was always very merry through it all,” so they began the story, and that was the only part where they did not tell him the whole truth, because they knew how greatly pleased he was that people should think he had been merry in the height of his misfortune.

They even told him that the illness of his wife was a mere pretext in order to coax him home again, and that it had succeeded.

“Ah! well,” said old Loyka about his wife, “she suffered quite enough poor thing when she was here by herself.

And thus old Loyka got himself home once more.