Three Stories/On Condition: or Pensioned Off/Chapter 2
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CHAPTER II.
N Frishets they had a chapel, near which lay the old burial ground, but they had long ceased to bury the dead in it. The burial ground for the present defunct was distant about a quarter of an hour’s journey from the village, and almost in a deserted spot.
From Frishets to the west trended a low hill for a distance of two miles; it was tillage land on both its slopes and divided into fields, while along the ridge of the hill itself ran a carriage road. Half way along the hill and near the carriage road was the burial ground of the union—that is to say, Frishets and several other villages.
Four lofty walls, built in a quadrangle and whitewashed, proclaimed from a distance that they were the walls of a cemetery. High aloft and stretching to heaven in the centre of these four walls a ruddy-painted cross on which hung a white metal figure of the Christus confirmed it, while several lesser crosses which only just managed to peer into the neighbouring district with their summits ranged along the wall, equally bore witness to the fact. If a dead man could have risen from the grave, he would only have needed to sit astride the cemetery wall and he would have seen his native village and the very house in which he was born, from whatever parish he had been brought hither. Contrariwise, the villagers of any parish could see at a glance the dwelling place of their dead, and visit them in memory.
Moreover, in the cemetery were two modest buildings placed side by side. One with three grated windows; and in that dwelt the gravedigger. One with a single small window without any grating, and there dwelt the bones. It was was quite proper that, on account of the lonesomeness of his dwelling the gravedigger should have his windows grated, in order that no ill-disposed person should break into his house; it would have been quite superfluous to put a grating to the charnel-house; for who would ever think of entering that single window? At one side were a few skulls piled in order and a few unburied shin bones—that was a treasure about which a thief pays scanty heed.
By day mirth and gaiety reigned around the burial ground. People worked afield, conversed, sang, whistled, shouted to one another from field to field, and answered one another from field to field—and sound and speech are the source of all gaiety.
From field to field scudded the partridges, sometimes a hare ran along the road as far as the cemetery and browsed on the graves of human ancestors to requite these for having dined off his own ancestors. Or a lark fluttered from the field into the blue air of heaven, and there poured forth melody for its own delight, and also for our enjoyment. The field grew green with varied tints of emerald; grew pink and white with clover, grew yellow with beetroot, grew crimson, with hosts of poppies—and in the midst of it all glistened the burial ground, in the midst of the burial ground stretched to heaven the ruddy cross with the white iron figure of the Kristus.
Here, at eventide and at nightfall it was not so gay. No one was working in the field, no one spoke, the lark was asleep, and the green tint of the field was bathed in the sombre colours of evening and of night. And then those crosses which peered forth over the cemetery wall were just like heads and those heads looked just as if they were leaning on their hands, and it all peered forth over the wall at the carriage road, and at anyone who might be passing along it. The tall ruddy cross in the centre raised on high its desolate arms, on which, in windy weather, thumped the white iron figure of the Kristus. From the burial ground a bat flitted forth—after this there was nothing for it but that the wayfarer should cast a timid glance at the bone-house, to see whether something was not there also glowering from the window, and then lastly he must fain cast a glance at the dwelling of the gravedigger to see whether there was a light in the window or whether those windows also were lost in ghostly phantasies.
At eventide and at nightfall few of the villagers cared to take a walk hither, and anyone whose road led along the ridge of the hill or on either side of it, preferred to diverge I know not how many miles through lanes and byeways rather than allow himself to be surprised at night in the neighbourhood of the burial ground. As to dwelling here day after day and night after night, for a whole year, for all one’s life—you might have built a golden palace on the spot and I know not whether you would have found in the whole country-side a man to inhabit it.
Logic sometimes makes strange skips. All will perceive that a place which everyone shuns after dark is one of perfect security. A child might stand a siege there, and the puniest could put to flight the staunchest hearted. And yet every grown-up person would have considered himself a poor creature if he had settled there as gravedigger. And yet on the other hand, he thought to himself that the gravedigger ought to be a perfect Hercules to bear calmly all the horrors of the place—the glowering of the crosses over the wall, the thumping of the tinned figure of the Christus, the flittering of the bats, the desolateness of the bone-house and similar things.
By a strange coincidence it happened that the gravedigger was the Hercules of the neighbourhood, Bartos, about whom whole books might be written. If Bartos had ever said, “I will give battle to a ghost,” everyone would have wagered that Bartos would get the best of the encounter—such a man and no other was cut out to be a gravedigger in a lonely cemetery. So then, perhaps, it came to pass that the popular logic argued backwards, as thus: because the present gravedigger, Bartos, was the Hercules of the neighbourhood, it followed that only a Hercules was fit to be a gravedigger in that spot.
How many a story of his strength was recounted by credible eye witnesses. Once on Sunday, when Bartos was on the spree, there drove into Frishets a drag full of soldiers on leave, and in their insolence they chivied the people hither and thither and struck at everyone who approached their vehicle. Hereupon arose a panic in the village, people ran out of the ale-house and among them Bartos. Bartos seized hold of the horses, held them back, and held back even the vehicle. But, thereby, he effected but little, because he could not approach the carriage, seeing that the soldiers struck out at everyone. “Come and hold the horses! come and hold the horses! shouted Bartos to his neigbours. And when the neighbours held the horses Bartos crept under the carriage, arched his back against it, lifted it off the ground and upset it, so that the soldiers fell out of it and then the citizens were quit of them. Never in their lives had the soldiers suffered such a reverse, even from an enemy, as on this occasion.
In these parishes it was a custom to test the strength by charging at one another face to face. Folks only tried it once with Bartos—never a second time; at the second fling, he sent every one spinning, his opponent staggered backward and it was a wonder if he did not fall.
Also, “the hook” was a frequent mode of exercise. Two men clasped the bight of a large hook with the fingers and thumb and then pulled against one another across a table. Come and try “the hook”; no one tried against Bartos more than once. He always gave way the first time, but at the second bout he dragged along his adversary together with the table, then his adversary for a couple of days had to nurse his thumb in cold water.
As he was strong so he had artifice. Once he went homewards by night in winter wrapt in his cloak. There fell upon him four footpads, and in order that he should not escape they muffled him in his own cloak. But Bartos tore away from beneath the chain which served for a clasp at the neck—glided out of the cloak like an eel, and soon put all his enemies to rout.
In order that no one should be surprised that highwaymen should fall on a gravedigger, I must say at once that he was well known to carry money about his person. In those days strong boxes and savings banks were not yet invented. People, therefore, who were possessed of wealth lodged their money with Bartos, because he dwelt in a cemetery, and because he was so strong. It became the custom of the neighbourhood to have their money buried in the ground by Bartos at his abode. Thus Bartos seldom or never went to or from a village without carrying silver in his pockets, sometimes a hundred pieces or more. Just as any one wanted money or was flush of it, Bartos brought it or carried it away. Hence we may see also that people built on his tried honesty as on a rock.
If he went to more distant villages at night-fall, and had to go by a wood, and he was apprehensive of danger, he laid himself somewhere behind the bushes, teamed the money into his boots, and so slept till morning. Or if it was cold he laid himself somewhere beside a dung hill, thrust his feet into it, and slept thus.
Once they almost had him. Hereupon he turned round, and cried out “If you do not decamp, I will plunge this knife into your bodies.” The chaps took fright and fled, but Bartos had merely a splinter of wood in his hands in place of a knife.
Of his youthful experiences especially, many stories were told. He was once in an alehouse where music was playing, and the lads were disputing who should have the honour of dancing a solo.
When they could in nowise determine among themselves, Bartos stepped up to the table, behind which sat the musicians, clapped his fist down upon it, and shouted out “Play me a solo.” The musicians tuned up, and Bartos had already begun to spin round in the waltz with some damsel or other. But his comrades would not leave him in peace. Like one man they clubbed together against him, and tried to hinder him from dancing. Bartos let go his partner, caught the foremost of the lads with one hand by the neck, with the other hand by the girdle, lifted him off his feet high in the air, began to chevy the others with him, to strike them blindly with him, and to press them towards the doorway until he pressed them through it; then he flung the one whom he had held by the neck and the girldle among them, and said “Take him, it was he who worsted you.” Then he looked around for his partner, she was cowering under a bench in a corner of the room and trembled all over. Says Bartos, “Just come out of that,” and then to the musicians “You have not finished playing us the solo.” Never in her life had the damsel danced as she did that day. The servants peeped in at the window to see how she and Bartos danced together, and he danced until he was out of breath. When he could not make another step, he called to those who stood outside “Now you may come in, now I will let you have your turn.”
But Bartos was by no means a gross tyrannical sort of giant. Never in his life had he ever challenged anyone, never in his life had he ever given the first blow, after that, if he gave one, it was scored in the popular memory. Nor was he the least at feud with the gentry in the public offices, only that there again he had a tongue in its proper place and lammed into them with words. He had no fear of persons, be they gentle or humble; of the gentry still less than of the humble.
He carried money for his neighbours to the public offices and into the city; who, pray, could take it into the town more securely, who, pray, could do their business for them better than Bartos. But God preserve the official who dared to touch him even with a harsh look! Or just fancy if they had threatened him with the clerks in the office. Four clerks might have come, and neither singly nor altogether would they have dared to forge upon him—perhaps they would have been afraid to receive him even in the lock-up house.
Once the neighbours drove into Prague with wheat, and took Bartos with them as cashier. Bartos stopped at the toll booth to pay the duty. How could the collector know that it was Bartos, the gravedigger! He paid no attention to him, and made as though he counted. “How much will it be,” cried Bartos with such vehemence that the paper fell out of the toll collector’s hand. “Come, come, we will have no bullies here,” said the toll collector. “A thousand curses! you are the bully,” said Bartos, and nothing more. The toll collector also said nothing more, but his hand trembled with rage as he gave Bartos the change, and thus it happened that one ‘desetnik’ fell on to the pavement outside his office. “There is a ‘desetnik’ missing,” says Bartos. “You have it on the ground,” says the tax collector, and nudged himself into a certain amount of valiancy. “I pick up nothing from the ground,” says Bartos. The toll collector must even shuffle out of his office, pick up the ‘desetnik,’ and give it into Bartos’ hands, “There now I have all,” said Bartos, and as he quitted the toll booth muttered loud enough for the toll collector to hear, “I will teach people to throw money on the ground.”
Another time he went to an office for the purpose of drawing a sum of money and the cashier happened to be a new comer, and thus did not know Bartos. This official said that he had the money at home in his house, that Bartos might go on in advance, and that he himself would follow him directly; Bartos went into the house. But the official did not come for a long time and Bartos began to grow impatient, and when the cashier did come he began to talk to his wife and did not notice Bartos. Bartos rose from his seat and began to open the windows in the room, he opened them all. The official begged to know what he was about. “If I have to wait,” said Bartos, “I must have fresh air; stinks are not for me.” Then the cashier’s wife began to interfere, and shrieked out “Look at the red-hair’d ruffian!” “Yes, look at him,” retorted Bartos quickly, “and then look at Madame’s sweet double chin.”
This silenced the official’s chatter, and indeed his good lady’s, who hastily threw a handkerchief about her neck; after a few minutes Bartos had the money counted out to the last kreutzer.
Once he came to a lawyer’s office, and there they wished to put him off with a paper scrawled over with pot hooks, telling him to come another day. “And, pray, why should I come another day when I am here to-day,” answered Bartos testily. “What is that?” said the official. “That I will not stir hence until my business is transacted.” The official shouted to a clerk. Just as he had uttered the words Bartos stepped up to the table behind which sat the official, and said tartly “A clerk on me! Here I am, if you want me.” Then he struck the official’s table such a blow with his stick that it set all the pens and pencils skipping, and shouted “Am I then come to look for justice at some booby’s office!” Hereupon all the official staff rushed in pell mell, but as soon as they saw Bartos they whispered something to their chief, whom the affair had compromised, and in five minutes Bartos business was transacted. It is to be understood that now none of the clerks were forthcoming, and if they had come it would have been just the same.
If some of my readers think these answers and sayings of Bartos somewhat rough, and boorish, I cannot help it. But still I say that he only paid folks in their own coin, and that he only paid them out in this manner when they as good as braved him to do so. But if the brutalities and all the insulting expressions were noted down, which in previous times (every one knows how long ago I mean) the officials permitted themselves to use towards the people, a pretty large volume might be compiled. Also it came to pass sometimes that the neighbours grumbled in the presence of Bartos about the brutal behaviour of the officials. “It is a curious thing,” said Bartos, “I have had no fault to find with them now for a long time.”
Once he came to an office and the official was smoking. Bartos also drew out a well filled pipe and lighted it. “Do you think you are in the servants’ hall?” objected the official. “Yes,” answered Bartos, “here is smoke as if from a lot of stable boys,” and they passed it over.
In other respects Bartos was, as we have said, intrinsically good hearted, and even not without humour. About a hundred paces from the burial ground stood several pear trees which belonged to the neighbours of Frishets, but they allowed Bartos to take the fruit in requital for his various services, so that Bartos might say the pears were his. Once, on a Sunday afternoon, thinking that Bartos was not at home, two lads climbed into a pear tree and shook off the fruit into bags. But, as it fell out, Bartos approached. The lad who saw him first jumped down and cried out to the other to make haste for Bartos was coming. But the other one dawdled. Just as he was about to spring down Bartos run under him, caught him by the collar, so that the lad found himself treading the air with both feet. While continually threatening him with the whip, his captor only said “I’ll teach thee to dawdle another time,” and then he let the lad go scot-free.
Just as people told stories about Bartos as the country Hercules, so also they had to tell about him in his character of sexton. More than once they had seen him weep while he dug a grave, and more than once they heard him hold mysterious communication above an open grave. More than once had seen him sitting on a grave as though he were holding intercourse with the dead. But not perhaps with this or that dead man, but with all whom he had known.
He used to visit them in succession or according as he missed them, and felt sorry for them. “I must go to Klimoff.” he would say, “just now I feel so sorry for him.” And then he reminded Klimoff of all sorts of things—where he had walked with him, where they used to ramble together, when they had gone to hear the band play, and so forth. When this recapitulation was quite at an end, he would say “And now it is your turn, Klimoff, to tell me how you get on down there.” After this he listened for a moment, and when no reply came, he made as though he had heard an answer, and said “Ah! yes, that is just what I thought. How curious! Ah! ha! so it is like that down there. Ah! well! how different it must be when it is like that,” and so forth.
He had a very special set of reflections when after seven summers some one’s turn came to be exhumed. When he had delved down to the coffin, he rapped on the lid, and shouted “Are you there, Vaclav!” After this he answered himself for the dead man, ‘I am.’ “Come then, creep out,” he said again for himself; then with the greatest care he raised the lid of the coffin and, beholding the corpse which looked as if swathed in spider webs, he said “And pretty dainties thou dost get down there! What a figure thou art! Thy own children would not recognise thee if ever they were to meet thee! And not to have a rag on! Shocking! Pray when did you comb yourself? And what is the fashion your head gear follows? Nowadays we never wear it thus. To think of combing it thus.” And so on. Then again he run through the dead man’s past life with him, and here it pretty often came to pass that Bartos wept; just as if he had only then laid the corpse in the grave. Generally this exhumation concluded thus “It is not well with thee down there; they have patched thee together but poorly. Alas! I fear thou will not hold together much longer.” After this he touched the corpse, which thereupon fell to pieces into bones and a few clods of earth.
This man, just as he was compassionate towards the dead, was yet a hundred times more so towards the living. There was no grief for which he did not feel compassion, there was no misfortune which ever failed to touch his heart. But his was not perhaps the spurious compassion which is assumed to win general admiration; rather was it the compassion which, if possible without parade and bustle, is succeeded by compassionate deeds.
Once they brought a coffin to the burial ground slovenly nailed together. No one followed it to the grave save one little girl three years of age. In the coffin lay a kind of a servant girl—they called her Katchka. She was an illegitimate child, and the little girl who followed her to the grave was also illegitimate. How could any honest soul come to such a funeral?
For the nonce, Bartos had to play the priest. He repeated a few prayers over the grave, and when the little girl wept over the coffin, he said “Sprinkle it, little one, sprinkle it: maminka will sleep the lighter; for the tears of a child are the fairest waters of purification.” When he wished to lower the coffin into the grave he saw that there was to help him only one servant who had driven the dead Katchka in an open ribbed wagon. “Is there no one here but thee?” inquired Bartos angrily.
“And who then would come to the funeral of such a,” said the servant, and leered in a very saucy manner.
After this Bartos was silent, and filled in the grave over the corpse. When the grave was filled in, the little girl plaintively lamented that she had no one to go to, and that no one wanted her in the village.
“And why does no one want her,” asked Bartos of the servant.
“And who, then, would trouble his head about her, about such a ,” said the servant again, and once more leered in the same saucy way.
“What dost thou mean by ‘such a one,’ thou boor!” retorted Bartos on the servant. “Did any other than He who created thee, create her? Wilt thou make thyself her judge, because she came into the world thus and not otherwise. Thou knowest, forsooth, who is such an one, and who is not such an one.”
And then he gave the servant a trifle to salve his wounded pride.
“Well they all say it,” observed the servant apologetically.
“All such boors as thou,” retorted Bartos. And then he turned toward the little girl, and enquired what they called her.
“Staza,” said the little damsel.
“You shall never go with him again little Staza,” said Bartos, and took her by the hand. “You shall stay here with me and Maminka. Would you like?”
“I should like.”
And from that day forth Bartos adopted little Staza as his own.
She had been with him six years and called him ‘tatinka!’ and so she was nine years old when Loyka’s Frank brought the measure to Bartos, in order that by it Bartos might delve the grandfather’s grave.
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