Three Stories/Under the Hollow Tree/Chapter 5

by Vítězslav Hálek

 

CHAPTER V.

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WO hours before the beginning of the play he had already reconnoitred the theatre in the hopes of gleaning some certainty without the need of asking questions. The moment the ticket office was opened, in spite of the jostling crowd, he was already to the front, and when he felt the ticket in his hands, it seemed to him to give him admission to the kingdom of heaven. But, indeed, who knows whether it were the kingdom of heaven to which it gave admission: possibly that ticket led quite other wither. At any rate he would not have parted with it for all the world, and when he looked at it as it lay in his hand, he seemed to be looking upon a portion of his own existence.

He had been seated in the theatre a long time before the beginning of the opera. He saw how they lit the lights one by one, he saw how the public sauntered in, he saw how the orchestra filled with musicians, and he saw below the curtain a swarm of pretty feet already upon the stage. Who could say whom they might belong to?

Everything seemed to spin round him, and he hardly seemed to be in the world. And again all around him roared with the din of a thousand voices, as when the wind crashes through the woodland and a tree is mere stubble in its path. The words spoken merged into one constant hum, and he seemed to be a tiny portion of that humming.

Then they began to play in the orchestra, and then the curtain was furled up. The stage represented awood. Then she stept forth whom all awaited with breathless expectation; and when she stept forth, garlands and bouquets fell thick at her feet; it was a rain of flowers, and the people made the tempest. Through this rain and through this tempest it was impossible to distinguish anything clearly, and yet Venik fancied that he had distinguished something. Then the tempest subsided and the singing began. She sung.

It was Krista in every movement and in every tone. Full well he knew her every movement; full well he knew her every tone. And when she began to sing Venik felt a choking in his throat, and as though no heart beat any longer within him; as though he was no longer alive; as though it could not be the least true which yet was true; as though everything around him was enchantment, and he alone was in that enchantment. Would to heaven it were only enchantment!

At the first touch, when he saw, heard, and recognised Krista, he felt only unembittered delight. Delight—to see her so beautiful, and to hear her so touchingly powerful, that she seemed like a superior being. As though she had got wings and flown to the stars. It was Krista, but a heaven-descended Krista. It was a different Krista from the one he had known, but it had grown out of the old Krista.

He smiled and the tears stood in his eyes. So near he was to her, so far away he was from her. From the hollow tree hither the road was one which had taken three years to traverse, and he had reached the goal at last. Through a whole world, through an eternity he had to go, through nights of waking and debauchery, through a whole river of teers, and through many sighs that path had led—and how he had reached the gaol at last. And now he seemed to be on a bed of roses, and to hear the song of the nightingale. And it was all Krista.

His heart now beat so audibly that he fancied everyone heard it, that even Krista heard it. But no one heard it, all eyes were turned to her, and Krista never heard it: at least she never thought of running to his side.

When her song was at an end they clapped and shouted; Venik did not clap nor applaud, but he was greatly delighted. If he had clapped, perhaps he would have called attention to himself; if he had shouted, perhaps he would have shouted Krista. He felt delight—unembittered delight.

Then the delight began to be embittered. A singer stepped forward, and here Krista was already not alone upon the stage. This singer pledged his love to her, and she pledged her love to him. Then they embraced and kissed each other. Already Venik was pretty well awakened from his dreaming and well nigh stricken to the ground. Here already he was not on a bed of roses, here he began to feel only its thorns. Here his heart began to beat differently, but his face grew pale and wan.

Then they sang together, the singer and Krista, and they sang about their love, continually about their love; when people after this again clapped and shouted, Venik neither clapped nor shouted, then if he had wished to shout he would have called out “a theatrical princess.” And after that he would have burst into a mocking laugh.

It was Krista. And now began to drum in his head the words “It is not Krista, that being yonder was, it is she no more.” The path to her had taken three years to traverse, it went through sorrow, tears, and sighs, and now that he had reached the goal at last, he said to himself, “I have found her and it is not she.”

It was Krista and it was not.

When the opera was concluded, he heard voices round him saying, “They drag her home again.” He ran out of the theatre and looked for the carriage in which they were going to drag her home. He saw a carriage, it was choke full of the garlands which were flung to her in the theatre, and young men were detaching the horses, and yoking themselves to the carriage in place of them. It appeared to him past all conception loathsome—but it was a lucky chance for him. He also harnessed himself to the carriage. When the road to her had taken three years to traverse, surely he might have one close look at her when they were in the same town together; and he awaited by the shafts.

Krista stepped into the carriage and seated herself in the midst of the garlands and bouquets. All the young men took off their hats and yelled. Venik also tossed up his hat and yelled. And Krista smiled blandly in all directions and bowed in all directions; she smiled on all alike, and she bowed to all alike. A portion of these smiles also fell to Venik’s lot, and a portion of those bows, just as much as to the rest; he might go shares with them, and he went shares with them.

While they drew her along with yells and shouts Venik went almost close beside her, he could have touched her. When they approached a street lamp, and it cast a stream of light into the carriage, Venik cast a glance there likewise, but only for an instant, that he might not meet her eyes. But indeed he need have been under no apprehension on that score—she had no time to meet his eyes—she had to smile blandly in all directions, and to bow in all directions. Then he took a long look at her, for he observed that they all took a long look at her. He took a long look and their eyes never met ; then it appeared to him that their eyes did meet, but it was dark, and a man easily becomes the sport of fancy when the lights are out.

Also a man in a multitude sees less and is less of a man, just as among many voices our own voice is lost, so also each particular individual is lost in a multitude of individuals. When a multitude is unwise—and it always is unwise—we are infected by the multitude and by its unwisdom. A single person would not have drawn Krista in her barouche: he would have said “Horses are for that purpose.” But the multitude yoked itself without reflection, said to itself “I am a horse”—and horse it was. In that multitude Venik tore along and yelled with the rest of them. He ceased to be Venik. He was at that moment only one of those who dragged and yelled and tossed up their hats.

Then they halted before a house, and Krista stepped out of the carriage. The crowd and the carriage stood before her dwelling, and those young gentlemen assisted her out of the carriage and conducted her up the staircase. Others took the garlands out of the carriage and carried them after her. Venik also took one and carried it after the rest. He wished to see what sort of life she led, but he went more from mere instinct and merely because he was a portion of that multitude which carried garlands.

He saw but little of her abode, but enough to see that it was rich and costly. In the front hall the young men laid down the garlands and then went away: Venik did so too—laid his garland down and departed.

When he reached the street, a procession approached with torches and halted before the mansion. Singers sang and Krista came out into the open air on to the balcony, and thanked them all quite composedly and quite impartially: she paid him his due also and he accepted it. He heard her speak and when she opened her lips he seemed as though only now he saw and heard her, for in the theatre she merely sang.

Then all the pageant began to disperse in different directions, and Venik was in the street before Krista’s house alone. And when he was alone he ceased to be a member of that multitude, became again a man, and was Venik.

He posted himself opposite the house, and his glance ranged over the illuminated windows. But, of course, he well knew which windows were hers, for he had a few moments previously laid a garland in the first floor.

And now he stood there, and looked and watched, to see whether he could hear any voice, and he heard many. There was a subdued hum of voices, perhaps there was a dinner party or some sort of entertainment, and numerous pleasure seekers with her. He heard conversation and laughter, he saw lights, he heard the singing of divers voices, then he heard Krista also sing, and here he began to parley with himself. He would have gladly posted himself at the very window, if need be, if order to gain a clear view of everything; but it was impossible. So he drew on his imagination for what he could not see.

A gas lamp was glaring near the window, and when the lamplighter came with a ladder to put out the lamp, he longed to ask to be allowed to mount the ladder himself. Hecould then have peered into the interior of the house and have seen whom she conversed with, and with whom she sang and laughed. But he felt himself frozen to the spot where he stood and could not stir.

Then he asked himself what he wanted there exactly, and whether he was in his right place there. It is hard to say, it is hard to answer. Rather let us philosophise on the very substance of sprit: we shall more easily answer the question what man is, than I can say whether Venik was here in his right place or not. He was, and he was not. Instinct prompted him to fly hence, and yet held him here so that he could not stir.

When he heard Krista’s song above, everything pressed him to reply. She sang a song from the hillside, she sang what she had once sung with him in the villages. Had he had his violin with him, he would have answered—he would have announced his presence. For a minute or two he thought he must run and fetch his violin, and that he must announce his presence. But he never went. Then he ruminated. If he had gone for his violin, and had played under the windows, it would have been peculiar: Krista would have heard him, and what then? Would she have started? or would she have continued to sing and jest? Would the song and jest have deserted her? Granted that it did desert her, then everything would have cleared away from her and Venik have been left in the street alone, and she would have been alone in yonder house. If he were to play below her window, she would be left desolate, her guests would disperse, and what he saw and heard would be all over. So in his ruminations he came to this conclusion, that it lay in him to say how long they had for the jest and for the song. If he should say “Hold! enough!” it would be enough. He granted them that feast; he prolonged it for them; and which of them had the least idea that so it was?

Verily Venik smiled to himself to think what a puissant lord he was, until he began to feel an arrogant conviction that everything which happened on that first floor was under his control.

But he did nothing, and yet he waited until everything was at an end. Gentry and ladies dispersed from Krista’s house, and throughout the first floor silence began to reign. In the street where he stood not a living soul was to be heard.

The lights in Krista’s window were extinguished and then a single window opened. It was a warm summer night and the window could remain open all night long.

The moon shone just in the direction of Krista’s window, and Venik stood in the shadow of the opposite houses.

From Krista’s window a head peeped out, and perhaps it was her head. Venik at that time stood facing her and was alone. Even she was alone at last. Then the head vanished and did not appear again.

If he had wished to address her, he could have done so before, but now it was too late. And what was there to say? Where to begin and where to end? His speech might need to be a very long one or it might be a single word. And what was the word? Where was it to be found.

If at that period when he sought her three years ago he had been ten times further away from her, he would have spoken to her, now he was but a few paces from her and yet he did not open his lips. Now he was simultaneously moved to anger, to weeping, and to laughter, and he neither wept nor laughed nor stormed. Where then was he to find a word that should express both anger and weeping and laughter? And yet he found it. When the head had vanished from the window and all was silent for a long time, Venik called aloud from his hiding place “Krista!” and in that word was both anger and weeping and laughter.

He had not long to wait before the head again appeared at the window and looked up and down the street in great surprise. It looked up and down and in all directions but because Venik was in shadow it did not see him. And Venik did not stir any more. The head after a few moments again vanished from the window. Doubtless it thought that there was some trick in it all and that it was a voice without reality. After this complete silence reigned in the first floor, perhaps Krista was dozing, perhaps she had already gone to sleep.

Venik after this crept from his lair under cover of the shadow and only determined further that he would come pretty often to trick her with his voice unless he thought better of it.

And then he wandered about the streets of Prague and wandered in his own consciousness. He wandered even in his thoughts—he wandered even in his imagination. Yet unceasingly he heard voices, laughter, songs; he saw torches and a glowing face and in the midst of it all he himself seemed to shout out Krista, and when he had thus shouted all was over for ever.

Then it appeared to him that he again stood before Krista’s house, and there he stood. No living soul was stirring anywhere, the house and the street were plunged in sleep—not a voice was to be heard anywhere as though that day had never been at all.

All that to-day had been, already now spoke only in Venik, it was already only an echo, though this echo was very distinct indeed and sometimes well nigh found a voice. The torches seemed to be aflame in his bosom and a cry seemed perforce to be wrung from it as if he had to shout for the whole troop.

The next time when Krista once more sang he was again first in the theatre. This time when the curtain was furled up, the wood was not on the stage: there was a garden and in it was a hum of voices. One might suppose a féte represented in this garden, and Krista sang at it while the guests amused themselves. The action on the stage was concluded by the first violin playing a solo melody which the public clapped: but Krista on the stage had to feign herself conscience stricken by the melody and finally to fall fainting on the ground whereupon the curtain fell.

When Krista fell fainting on the ground, Venik could scarcely refrain from calling out to her. But then the public kept on clapping, the curtain rose, Krista stepped before it, as if she had never in her lifefallen on the ground in a fainting fit, thanked them, smiled blandly, and as often as the curtain furled up was ready with more smiles and with more thanks. When Venik saw all this thanking, he was no longer disposed to call out to her, disdain again played around his mouth and half to the neighbour who sat beside him he audibly exclaimed, “a theatrical princess.”

His neighbour took these words for eulogy and to heighten their force, said, “yes, a perfect queen of the theatre!” and asseverated it to himself, which was also a kind of asseveration to Venik.

“Yes, a perfect queen of the theatre!” repeated Venik after him, as if he himself could heighten the force of his neighbour’s criticism by repeating it.

What then happened after this in the theatre Venik scarcely saw or heard. All that was stereotyped in his mind was that solo of the first violin from the orchestra, then how Krista sank in a fainting fit, how the curtain fell, how the curtain was raised, and how Krista had her fainting fit over in a twinkling, and was able to thank them all and to smile blandly.

When the theatre was over there was no watchword given to-night that they were to take out the horses from Krista’s carriage and drag her home.

But still Venik again posted himself by the exit from the theatre, and just where Krista had the other night stepped into her carriage: and there he waited.

There was the carriage again ready prepared, but Krista did not step into it, she told the coachman that she would go a-foot, and the coach only drove home her wardrobe. She went a-foot, and she did not go alone. There walked by her side a very stately young man. Krista hung on his arm and they conversed together very amicably. After them at a respectful distance followed more young men, doubtless some of those who the other day had drawn her carriage in place of horses; to-day they only followed as a kind of escort or body guard.

Along with these young fellows followed Venik and learned from their conversation both the name and rank of the person who accompanied Krista: but he did not much care about his name or his rank. Then he learnt that he escorted her almost always; that the barouche in which Krista drove was his and that she drove in this barouche, even in the daytime, whenever and whereever she chose.

Now this was not a matter of indifference to Venik: when he heard it the red blood rushed to his face. But then, yet again, he affected indifference and said, half to himself half to his neighbour, “Ah! well; I knew it from the first.”

His neighbour doubtless paid scant attention to these words or to him who spoke them.

As soon as they had reached the house in which Krista dwelt, her cavalier bade her good night very heartily, kissed her hand, and made many polite bows. After this he departed, Krista entered the house and the rest dispersed to their several homes. Only Venik again was left standing just on the spot where he stood the other day.

He was again overshadowed by the shadow of the opposite houses, while the moon’s radiance fell in full lustre on Krista’s house and upon her window.

This time there was no din of voices in that house. Krista was seemingly alone. Now he could have spoken to her. But what was there to say?

While he looked thus at those windows of hers, behind which floated rich curtains, he felt as though he fain must again cry out “Krista!” Then perhaps the window would be opened and she would appear at it. But he did not call out to her, and yet the window was opened and Krista appeared at it. She looked into the sky and to a star. Then she went away from the window and Venik heard her hum to herself snatches of song, and amongst them he recognised many from the hillside, and from the hollow tree. At this his flesh crept. Then she came to the window again, again for a moment looked toward the sky, and toward the star, and then Venik heard her humming to herself half aloud “The Orphaned Child.”

And here Venik shivered as if the cold of winter had come upon him. Was she yet orphaned, was she yet in sorrow? Did she remember? Did the gorgeous life which she now led fail to satisfy her? Could he have spoken to her, could he have questioned her, could he have announced his presence, he would have learnt all and perhaps they would have found one another.

They might have found one another, they had all but found one another, and here Venik again said to himself, that he wanted her not. And once more his mind ran upon the solo of the first violin, her fainting, the curtain, her smiles, her bows, her thanks, then her escort home, their confidential conversation, the barouche, and at the end of it all, her humming melodies and the “Orphaned Child”—and out of the chaos again emerged the title “a theatrical princess.” If he had then wished to know and call her by name neatly and elegantly, he would not have shouted “Krista,” but “Oh! Theatrical Princess,” and there was humiliation to him in the expression.

So when Krista’s head once more vanished from the window and when the song and that day’s excitement was hushed for him, Venik hurried away from the spot not however stealthily to-day nor did he wander on the way. To-day he went direct to his temporary dwelling and on the road only “the orphaned child” kept buzzing in his head just as he had heard Krista hum it.

Next day he enquired for the manager of the orchestra, went to him and announced himself as a violinist and begged to be received into the orchestra. The manager gave Venik something to play over and was fully satisfied with him, and told him that he would take down his name and use his influence to have him accepted. On this Venik further begged that he might be allowed on the next performance, as if to approve himself to the public to play that violin solo in the orchestra. The conductor gave Venik the solo to play through then and there to test him. As Venik played the conductor smiled and told him that he was quite satisfied with it.

And Venik also was quite satisfied.