Three Stories/On Condition: or Pensioned Off/Chapter 9

by Vítězslav Hálek

 

CHAPTER IX.

GAIN the moon shone out, when they came to the cemetery, just as long ago when Frank and Staza first passed the night in his grandfather’s grave. And because the cemetery stood on an eminence there at times stole over it a warm breeze in whose breath the white iron figure of the Christus rattled upon the ruddy cross, several of the lesser crosses clattered with their arms, and sometimes creaked on its hinges a rusty little door, behind which lay concealed the inscription above some dead man’s bones.

This clattering of the arms of the crosses, the rattling of the Christus and the creaking of the rusty doorlets was the only unrest which the dead gave to view—how little was it all compared with that with which they had so tormented one another in life! Besides this, however, a breeze also ran above the graves and stirred the tall grasses and here and there a flower; but this unrest was scarce strong enough to be perceived, ay, rather it resembled the faint breathing of a child or the mere echo of a sigh.

As we know from the beginning of our story that tinsel music in which the Christus indulged was not over attractive towards nightfall, and people took to flight before it as if an enemy were in full pursuit behind them. But of those who came hither this evening none paid any attention to it; perhaps they did not even hear it, because in their inmost hearts resounded an unrest far more fierce, more discordant, harsh, so that they fled from it into this strange harbour of refuge.

And hereupon, old Loyka, as soon as they had set foot in the cemetery, embraced with one hand that ruddy wood of the cross, and raising the other on high and fixing his eyes upon the white iron figure of the Christus, began to lament his fate, to call aloud, to curse, to pray, and to prostrate himself at the same time. “Thou martyred head,” he cried, “thou hast suffered much, but thou had’st not a son to cut out thy heart piece by piece—I suffer more. Thou had’st no home, but because thou never had’st a home, thou knowest not what it is to be forced to leave a home, a home which I proffered to every one who needed it, and now I have not even so much as I proffered once to others—I suffer more. Thou wert young and vigorous when thou didst suffer, but thou had’st not hair streaked with grey and wrinkles on thy face, thou hast not suffered when the feet long to faint and flag, and must tramp on—I suffer more! But thou didst voluntarily undergo thy torments, mine are the punishment of my sins—yonder in that grave sleeps the witness of my words and of my evil deeds—I suffer more! And I but now entreated Thy Father about some fire that he would send it as he sent it upon Gomorrah, and he heard me not—what is there still left for me to suffer!”

After these words, pronounced with immeasurable anguish, a silence fell on everything in the cemetery as though it would accentuate Loyka’s bitterness—the white iron figure of the Christus clanged upon the cross from time to time—perhaps it did not wish without reserve to adapt itself to this train of thoughts. On this Vena said “If you would have allowed yourself, pantata, to be nailed to a cross like the Lord Christ, look you there, you never need have been banished from your home, and for my part I believe that Joseph would have helped you up if you had requested him.”

Loyka having bewailed and lamented his fate, now felt relieved, at least those thick clouds broke and dispersed in which till now his thoughts had been enveloped. But it was only for a moment. And in that moment he sank down the cross, embraced the foot of it, and perhaps he wept. But this did not last long. He looked up to the heavens, ran his eyes through the myriad stars, and seeing the moon in the full splendour of its rays, suddenly laughed aloud, laughed without words, and so continued to laugh.

Vena, gazing in the same direction as Loyka, said “Pantata, that tiresome little moon tickles me too under the nose with its rays; for my part I can hold out no longer, but laugh I must.” And he laughed too.

“Nay, ’tis not that lad,” said Loyka. “But I am so glad that I have found a comrade. Look at him, he hath no home either, and never in all my life had I observed it until to-day. To-day a holy spirit has quite illumined me; to-day I know it, just as if I had walked the sky with him. Look! look! every night he must hie up yonder through agues and nipping blights, and that pleases me. Only I should like to know whether he also had an estate, whether he gave it to some Joseph, and so now is pensioned off! Look at him! look at him It pleases me to think that we are two, I here on earth, and he yonder in the sky—and as it seems to me they are no better off yonder in the sky than we here on earth.”

And he laughed on. Then he stood up, and looking towards the pilgrim moon, said “Stop and let us take note how fast he gets the round, to see if he is good on his feet. And here he looked up at the moon, just as though he were reckoning its footsteps, and laughed aloud. From this laughter went forth a greater horror than from the clanging Christus or from the clattering branches of those crosses which spread around.

As we know Frank and Staza followed Loyka at a distance hither to the cemetery. Even now in the cemetery they kept several paces apart, so that Loyka had no notion of their presence. When Frank first heard his father on the village green, he was half bewildered, and knew not what was happening, and understood nothing of it all. When he here heard him pray that strange prayer by the cross his flesh crept and he shivered, for so much he understood of it all as to perceive that his brother Joseph was the cause. But when he heard his father laugh so wildly, he could bear it no longer, but gave way to an uncontrollable flood of tears. He had never so wept since the death of his grandfather.

This time Staza was beside him and feeling ill at ease might also have given way to tears, because crying is infectious among children. But Staza had hitherto never associated with children, Frank was her single companion, and so what would have equally constrained another child in her place to cry, had on her a different effect. She saw and heard weeping in plenty at the cemetery, but at the same time she saw and heard how the rest of the people mingled singing with the weeping. And thus this sequence of ideas formed itself in her little soul. Old Loyka beside the cross appeared to her like the corpse, which Vena had brought to its burial. Frank appeared to her like those who wept over the corpse—consequently she must be one of those who sang above it. And, indeed, no sooner had Frank began to cry, than she began to sing

odpocinte v pokoji verne dusicky
Kralovstvi nebeskeho dedicky.

(Rest in peace ye faithful spirits of the dead; ye are inheritors of the heavenly kingdom). Both Staza’s singing and Frank’s weeping were one and the other, as it were, in tears. But in both was interwoven something which it is impossible to express in words. Anyone who had seen and heard it would have shuddered, and been cut to the heart. In the cemetery waved the warm night wind, in the heavens hung the moon, by the clattering cross stood a despairing father, and at a little distance by another trembling cross knelt Frank who wept aloud, and Staza who wept in singing the words of which exhorted all to peace.

Old Loyka, somewhat roused by this from his own sombre fancies, turned and listened. He seemed as though he were on the watch, as though he sought out for himself some new pathway, and now was deliberating whether he should take it.

“Dost hear, Vena? Dost hear?” said he to Vena. “I once heard that melody in the hall of our house; but there were harps with it.”

The reader will recollect that it was during the dance after the funeral of Frank’s grandfather, that Frank and Staza suddenly sang the song from the hall to the sound of harps and violins.

“Dost hear, dost hear it,” he again repeated after a pause. “For my part I had no notion the song was so merry a one when there were harps with it. And it would seem that to night there are no harps with it.”

There were no harps with it, to be sure, but all the same it was accompanied by the audible weeping of his own son.

“And it pleases me to find that they know it here in the cemetery. Prythee, lead me to those musicians, and let them play on. And if they do not wish to play, tell them that you are from Loyka’s farm, and then of course they will play, for they will remember Loyka although he rules his home no more.”

And he went with Vena several steps in the direction of the singing and crying, where Frank knelt sobbing and Staza knelt singing. When he came to them, Frank embraced his knees, and cried “Papa! Papa!” Staza was silent.

“Papa!” said Loyka. “I might have known that they would recognise me here. Where they are skilled in singing and playing, there they know old Loyka. So halloo! and play something lively that I may have a dance here.” And this poor old man here in the graveyard struck an attitude as though he would caper about, and as though he were ready for a fling.

And here Frank falling upon his knees continually embraced his father’s feet, and sobbing piteously, exclaimed “Papa! Papa!”

“Why dost thou clog my feet like a moist clod of earth, when I wish to dance a measure,” said Loyka to Frank, whom he did not recognise. “It is a disgusting habit, and looks as though thou had’st come to me for alms.”

“Papa! Papa!” cried Frank.

“Ah! I know thee now. I recognise thee now. Thou art the ghost of my son Frank, and walkest here in the cemetery. But thou art not Frank. He tramps it with the musicians, whom they chivied from my house—and that pleases me.”

“Papa, it is I,” cried Frank.

“Thou art not he, because thou hast no harp with thee. Look you there is no harp here, so you will not persuade me. But if thou wert a worthy ghost thou would’st lead me to my Frank, I would gladly see him and those musicians with whom he tramps the world, and I would tramp it too.”

“I will lead you home, Papa,” cried Frank.

“Thou shalt not lead me thither; for me, I want no home. But I want to leave home far behind, like my son Frank. I want to tramp it with the musicians, that they may compose a song about it, and may point to me on the market places and say that I am he, I am that old Loyka who dares no more have music in his house, because his son has banished it hence, and so I must follow the musicians even to the market place, because I have not where to entertain them at my house. Will you lead me to them?”

“I will lead you to them,” said Frank at random, without knowing what he said or why he said it.

“That pleases me,” said Loyka, “and inasmuch as the way will be a long one, we must rest ourselves here yet a little space.”

And they seated themselves on the graves, as if by accident old Loyka and Frank on the grandfather’s grave, Staza on her mother’s grave; Vena stood.

But at this point another character appeared on the scene, and when he had posted himself near them, said “Pray, who at this late hour, here disturbs my lodgers. I have guaranteed them rest, and will not have them molested.” He said it heartily, and with a certain humour. It was the gravedigger, Bartos.

“Good man,” said Loyka, “we seek a lodging for the night, and if you will let us be here, you can seat yourself beside us.”

Before Bartos had stepped up the group he had heard who they were, he recognised Loyka and the children by their voices, and by listening a few moments had soon understood what brought them thither. He therefore wanted no explanation, and at once adapted himself to the situation. “If that is all your trouble,” said he in the same voice, “you can remain here as long as you please; but it will not please you very long, I fancy,” and he seated himself beside them.

“So, so, so, so,” muttered Loyka, as was his custom when some process in his ideas had to be emphasised.

“What thinkest thou, old friend, who has suffered most, I or Jesus of Nazareth.”

“You, pantata, and that because none of us know what you have yet to suffer, although you have already suffered much.”

At these words Loyka started, because it was just as though they had been chosen out of his own soul, and he had rather expected contradiction.

“But I do not want to suffer any more, lad, and, if you know, pray tell me what I am to do.”

“I know one thing you might do,” said Bartos. “If you were to lie down to rest in these chambers,” and here he pointed to the graves, “all would be over, but you have no right to them yet, nor dare I enclose you in them. However I will tell you what you should do. You want nothing but to divert yourself a little.”

“Exactly what I thought myself,” said Loyka. “You speak like a true doctor, and if I should listen to you yet awhile, I know not whether good might not come of it.”

“And we will manage it thus. To-morrow I lead you into a neighbouring village to the house where Frank is living. There are the fiddlers and the harpers, and we can fling up our heels in a hornpipe.”

Even this idea was one which seemed to have been borrowed from Loyka’s own mind, and Bartos did indeed borrow it from Loyka; because, as we know, a moment before Loyka had expressed his desire to have a dance before this unseen witness.

“The further I listen to thee, the more convinced I am that thou art a mighty sage,” said Loyka with evident satisfaction, and it was plain that the gravedigger had struck exactly the right chord.

“But inasmuch as we shall have a debauch there, we must rest ourselves before we set out on our journey. We must sleep, for we have not slept at all for several nights,” continued the gravedigger.

“Thou mightest stand and preach in the pulpit, good man,” said Loyka, highly delighted at what the gravedigger had said. By his vague discourse the gravedigger had in reality probed Loyka to the quick. And Loyka hearing that repeated from another’s mouth which a moment before he had been the only one to long for, and thus having the object of his own wishes freshly paraded before his mind, felt relieved. His words and expression were deprived of that sickeningly painful cast which a short time before had driven Frank to weeping and Staza to song.

The two children now nestled close together, and looked on like birdies from a nest at what was passing before them. They did not understand, but it had not any longer so much horror for them.

“If thou thinkest that we ought to sleep,” said Loyka, “as though he were still replying to the recommendation of the gravedigger, “it will be best to lay us down and sleep,” and hereupon he immediately made as though he would lie down.

“When you were married, pantata, I was at your wedding,” said the gravedigger. “And when the deceased, your father, quitted you for the pension house, he said ‘If at any time you are too much harassed to sleep at home, come to me, you will sleep beside your father.’ And to-day, you have come to him, pantata, and will sleep soundly.”

His father had in reality said this on that long passed wedding day, and now the son came for the first time to sleep beside him. A son already grey-headed, to sleep beside a father who was no more among the living.

“Only go on, go on, and tell me about it,” entreated old Loyka, and fitful dreams were already weighing down his eyelids. Yet a few words he pronounced as if in assent, for Bartos began to narrate to him the story of his own young days, and how he had performed such and such feats, but after a while the gravedigger observed that he was speaking to Loyka who already had fallen asleep.

Vena remained beside the sleeping Loyka. Bartos took Frank with him into his house, and told him to speed early next morning to the village about which he had spoken correctly enough, then he himself, like a night watcher, went out from time to time into the cemetery to see how Loyka fared.

The next day they followed Frank to the abode of the musicians. We must here say without concealment that Bartos had devised a kind of popular remedy for Loyka’s sick spirit. Whether it was destined to succeed or not we cannot however state at present.

In the village they found Frank already arrived. There also they found the musicians whose loss Loyka had so much deplored. The whole party collected at the alehouse, and the musicians played and sang, Bartos taking special care that everything should be gay and lively. A rumour of what had occurred at the farmstead had already outrun them, and consequently everyone knew was the afflicted Loyka who in this manner compensated himself for the loss of his home.

It was a piteous spectacle to look on the old man, and to see how his mind, restless enough without this soothing medicine, gloated over the well-known strains of the harps and violins. He sat and listened. The expression of his face was serious as if he were lost in thought, and not a word escaped his lips. The whole time he did not move a muscle, his eyelids never winked, his lips appeared as though they could not open. One would have thought that the music of his old friends would have stimulated him to mirth or tumultuous grief. But it was not so. Excitement seemed to hold the spiritual part of him in equipoise—and he was completely tranquil through it all.

Frank stood the whole time by the side of his father, who was seated. Old Loyka held him round the waist with one hand, and with the other stroked his face and head. And this he did the whole time without speaking or making any other movement. Only Bartos had straitly charged the musicians in no way to recall his thoughts to his home.

When it seemed to Loyka that they had played long enough, he rose and said to the musicians very gravely “I thank you, comrades, and as far as in me lies, I will requite you. But go not to our son’s farmstead, there I will never dwell again. I have determined to make a home just as the whim seizes me. Here I can invite you to me at any time. Here the people are good and honest, and no one says “No! act differently.” I have been too long at home, you know,—on the farm, ’tis seldom I have quitted it, and so this has come to me that I must quit it, I must look about me and go a little into the world to learn how the world wags elsewhere.”

And more he said to the same effect. On this he departed from the village with Frank, the musicians following after him and playing through the village and even when the village was left behind. Aud then they went into other villages, and there much the same occurred. Only that Loyka marched into those other villages at the head of a band of musicians, so that the village was immediately in an uproar, topsy-turvy, and with its feet in the air. People ran out of their houses on to the village green, gathered round him in a group, and said to one another “It is Loyka from Frishetts: he is pensioned off, and so, see! he has gone mad.”

Soon a rumour spread all through the country side about Loyka, how that he walked from village to village with an escort of musicians, and scarcely had they finished saying so, when lo! Loyka announced himself by well-known strains of music. And when the people ran together on the village green and collected round him, he paused, and said “Hearken to what I will preach unto you.”

On this he delivered a kind of sermon, showing forth how he had passed the night in sufferings, how he wandered with the moon, how that the moon wandered in the sky and he wandered in the world, and how he arose with the first dawn, and how the foxes had holes and he had not where to lay his head like the Son of Man.

He even walked about the market places and spoke to people and implored them only not to send him home, and he would repay them for everything. Doubtless some laughed, some who knew him well pitied him. And many only pretended to pity him.

Then again he also walked with the musicians, and when he came into some village and stood on the green, he enquired whether they had any vejminkar there that he might have a look at him; or said he “Let the vejminkar be brought to me on the green, and we will come to an understanding about everything.” And more to the same effect. Soon old Loyka belonged to the roving figures of the neighbourhood about whom people talk or do not talk, whom we half laugh at and do not laugh at, who add a peculiar feature to those districts much as the eagle adds a character to the woodland above which it wanders lonely, and above which it utters from time to time a cry which pierces to the bones.

And so Frank led his father to all the places with which he had previously become acquainted through his own vagabond’s mode of life.

In some places, too, the respectable portion of the citizens came out to meet them, inviting old Loyka for friendship sake into their houses, for, in truth, Loyka had been the best known and most highly respected man of the neighbourhood. But Loyka never accepted such invitations, though modestly thanking his friends for all their kind intentions. “I never go on to any farmstead,” he would say. “I thank you, neighbours, most respectfully. Leave me any place where there is no farmstead, and I have enough for my poor wants.”

If there was a cross anywhere on the village green, Loyka posted himself beside it, and when the people began to flock around him, he pointed to the Christus, and said “Here ye behold him,” and then he pointed to himself, and said “and here ye behold me.” “He yonder bore his cross only once to Calvary, but I bear mine continually. But the hangman’s servants martyred him, me my own son martyred because I gave him my estate.”

At other times again he cried “Wherefore do ye wonder that I go from village to village? Here ye behold a man crucified upon a cross! he also wandered about in the world and no one hindered him. Why do ye hinder me.”

Also Frank led his father away into the woodland, and once a fiddler whom they happened to meet at the outskirts of the wood accompanied them to the well-known ravines. Never in its life, perhaps, had that rocky glen entertained such a fantastic group as it did that day, and, perhaps, never in their lives did such tones reverberate from its rocky walls as did that day.

Even old Loyka felt as though he were seated in the chambers by the coach house at his home, and listened to the old, old, stories. Only that on this occasion it was Frank who narrated his youthful experiences in that ravine, in which he pointed out where the wind-hover was wont to hang suspended in the air, where the brambles trailed, where hung the clinging sweet brier, and where the streamlet bubbled in which those blue flowers flourished. And the fiddler played; and it was all so strange to those rocky walls that one after the other they repeated it all, as if they gloried in their ready memory, and as if they wondered what it was all about.

And then at last there fell upon the place, after the playing and the story-telling, a silence like the grave. When the birch tree, safely anchored by its roots above them, stirred, even old Loyka heard it, and looked to see what it was. When the lizard, sunning itself by the bushes in the warm sunlight, let fall over the rock a fragment of pebble or a crumb of earth, Loyka looked to see what had happened there above his head. And when in the centre of the ravine a leaflet was whirled along tremulous and fluttered like thought itself, Loyka glanced upward, and wondered “Whence art thou? Where, I wonder, did they treat thee like myself?”

And then it came to pass that his eyelids drooped wearily, and he fell asleep. When he awoke he would no more hear of going into the villages, he would no more hear of the musicians, and said he fain would come hither oftener. He could come here as often as he chose, because the woodman at whose house Frank had been staying for some time, now welcomed Frank’s father also as an old and well-known acquaintance. And Frank led him into this ravine every day, here every day he slept most comfortably, and when he awoke he seemed always as though he found a portion of himself which he had lost.

It almost seemed as though Bartos’ device was destined to succeed, at all events, it partially succeeded. But it still failed of its full effect, because Loyka would not hear of returning to his home. But at the same time he would not hear of strolling through the villages any more.

People had already ceased to say in telling his story that he was wandering through the villages. Now they said that he wandered in the woods.