by Karel Čapek
“Father,” the smith’s wife said quietly, “do you not wish to break your fast?”
Brother Francis broke the bread in his fingers and looked inquiringly at the smith and his wife. And what is amiss with you two, he wondered. Why are you so silent and out of sorts? Such good people, the young man strong as a bear and the woman blessed with child — what can be the matter, what distresses you so? The morsels in his mouth grew large with bewilderment and compassion. What can I do, God’s children, to cheer you? Should I tell you jokes I heard on my travels? Should I sing and prance about, to gladden the heart of the woman who is so near her time?
The door pushed open, ever so slightly. The smith’s wife raised her hand and her face turned pale. In the doorway there appeared the head of a dog, abject, its eyes filled with fear.
The veins on his forehead distended, the smith jumped up and rushed to the door. “Get out, accursed beast!” he bellowed, and he kicked the door shut. The dog whimpered and fled.
Brother Francis was saddened, and in his bewilderment he rolled his bread into pellets. “Brother smith, brother smith,” he burst out, “whatever has this creature of God done to you?”
The smith turned anxiously to his wife. “There, there, Giuliana,” he murmured gruffly, “there, there!”
The woman tried to smile, but her lips quavered; she got up, pale and shaking, and left the room without a word. Dejectedly, the smith watched her go.
“Dear brother,” Francis whispered compassionately, “why do you drive your brother dog from the table? If there is not enough for all, I will leave.”
The smith cleared his throat irritably. “I’ll tell you why, Dominie,” he said, in a harsh voice: “that dog — At Easter we were expecting a visitor. My wife’s sister, just a young girl, was coming from Forli to see us . . . She never arrived. Two weeks later her parents came to fetch her . . . We searched high and low for the girl, but there wasn’t a trace of her anywhere. Then, the week before Pentecost, our pup came running in from somewhere in the fields, and he was dragging something up to the doorstep. We looked to see what it was . . . entrails. Only then did we find what was left of the girl — ” The smith bit his lips to regain control of himself. “We don’t know who did it to her. God will bring down His punishment on the murderer. But that pup of mine, Dominie — ” The smith gestured in despair. “I can’t kill him, that’s the worst of it. And he won’t be driven away. He hangs around the house and begs — You can imagine the horror, Dominie — ” The smith rubbed at his face with his rough hands. “We can’t bear the sight of him. At night he stands at the door and howls — ”
Brother Francis shuddered.
“Now you know,” growled the smith. “Forgive me, Dominie, I must see to Giuliana.”
The friar remained alone in the rustic room, troubled and uneasy in the silence. He rose and went on tiptoe to the path in front of the cottage. A short distance away stood a shivering yellow cur, staring fixedly at him with uncertain eyes, its tail tucked between its legs. Brother Francis turned to face the animal. The dog wagged its tail tentatively and whined.
“Ah, you poor, wretched creature,” Francis murmured, and he tried to look away, but the dog continued to wave its tail and refused to take its eyes from him. “Well then, what is it you want?” Francis grumbled in his bewilderment. “You’re sad, little brother, aren’t you? It’s a sad, serious matter.” The dog shifted from one paw to the other and trembled with emotion. “Yes, I know,” Francis spoke soothingly. “No one wants to talk to you, isn’t that it?” The dog whimpered and crawled to the friar’s feet. Brother Francis felt somewhat sickened by the animal’s presence. “Off with you, go away,” he admonished the dog. “You shouldn’t have done it, my little brother. It was the holy flesh of a little girl — ” The dog lay at the saint’s feet and wailed. “Stop it, please,” Francis muttered, and he bent over the dog. The dog stiffened in sheer, utmost expectation.
At that moment the smith and his wife came out on the doorstep looking for their guest. And lo, there before their cottage knelt the friar, scratching the sobbing dog behind its ears and saying softly: “There there, dear brother, there there, my dear. What’s this, you’re licking my hand?”
The smith snorted. Startled, Francis turned to him and said timidly: “Ah, but you see, brother smith, he was begging so! Tell me, what is his name?”
“Bracco,” growled the smith.
“Bracco,” said Saint Francis, and the dog immediately licked his face. Brother Francis stood up. “That’s enough, my brother, thank you very much. I must be going, brother smith.” He didn’t know, at the moment, how best to take his leave; he remained standing before the blacksmith’s wife, closing his eyes for a moment and trying to think of some sort of benediction.
When he opened his eyes, the young woman was on her knees before him, her hand lying at rest on the head of the yellow dog. “Praise God,” Francis sighed, and he displayed his yellow teeth. “May God reward you!”
And the dog, yelping frantically with joy, began to scamper in a circle around the Saint and the kneeling woman.
November 27, 1932
Ophir
People in the Piazza San Marco turned briefly to watch as guards marched the old man to the Doge’s palace. He was ragged and filthy, his hair matted; he looked like a some sort of petty thief from the harbor.
“This man,” the podestà vicegerente announced when they arrived before the Doge’s throne, “says his name is Giovanni Fialho, a trader from Lisbon; he claims that he was the owner of a ship, and that he and his entire crew and cargo were captured by Algerian pirates; he alleges that he managed to escape from the galleys, and that he could perform a valuable service for the Republic of Venice — but what this service is, he will reveal to no one but Your Grace himself.”
With birdlike eyes, the aging Doge scrutinized the small, scruffy man. “So,” he said at last, “you say you worked on the galleys?”
Instead of answering, the wretched man standing before him bared his grimy ankles; they were swollen from being shackled. “And my back, Your Grace, is covered with scars. If it pleases Your Grace to see them — ”
“No, no,” the Doge quickly replied. “That’s not necessary. What did you wish to say to us?”
The shabby old man suddenly raised his head. “Give me a ship, Your Grace,” he said in a clear voice. “I will sail it to Ophir, the land of gold.”
“To Ophir,” murmured the Doge. “You found Ophir?”
“I found it,” replied the former trader, “and I stayed there nine months, for we had to repair our ship.”
The Doge quickly exchanged glances with his learned adviser, the Bishop of Pordenone. “Where is Ophir?” he asked the old trader.
“Three months’ voyage from here,” said the seaman. “You must sail around the whole of Africa and then up towards midnight on the clock.”
The Bishop of Pordenone tilted his head and scrutinized the old man. “And is Ophir on the seacoast?”
“No, Monsignore. It is nine days’ journey from the coast, and it is spread in a circle around a great lake blue as a sapphire.”
The Bishop of Pordenone nodded.
“And how did you reach the interior?” asked the Doge. “They say that Ophir is separated from the sea by impenetrable mountains and deserts.”
“It is true,” said Fialho. “No roads lead to Ophir. The desert abounds with lions, and the mountains are smooth and shiny as Murano glass.”
“And you went beyond them?” the Doge blurted out.
“I did. While we were repairing our ship, which had been badly damaged by storms, some men clad in white robes edged with purple came down to the shore and beckoned to us.”
“Black men?” queried the bishop.
“No, Monsignore. They were as white as the English, and they had long hair sprinkled with powdered gold. They were very beautiful.”
“And were they armed?” asked the Doge.
“They had golden spears. T
hey commanded us to bring whatever we had of iron, and they would exchange it in Ophir for gold — for there is no iron in Ophir. They took care to see that we collected all we had of iron: anchors, chains, weapons, even the nails that held our ship together.”
“And what then?” asked the Doge.
“A herd of winged mules was waiting on the shore, perhaps sixty beasts in all. They had wings like swans. They’re called pegasi.”
“Pegasus,” the learned bishop said thoughtfully. “Reports of the pegasi have come down to us from the ancient Greeks. It would seem, then, that the Greeks actually knew Ophir.”
“Indeed, they speak Greek in Ophir,” declared the old seaman. “I know a little Greek, because in every port there’s always some thief from Crete or Smyrna.”
“This is interesting information,” murmured the bishop. “And are the people of Ophir Christians?”
“May God forgive me,” said Fialho, “but they’re pagan as posts, Monsignore. They worship a certain Apollo, or whatever his name is.”
The Bishop of Pordenone nodded his head. “That corresponds with what we know. Obviously, they are descendants of the Greeks who were dispersed by storms at sea after the fall of Troy. And what then?”
“Then?” asked Giovanni Fialho. “Then we loaded the iron onto those winged asses. Three of us, that is to say, I, a certain Chico of Cadiz, and Manolo Pereira of Coimbra, were given winged horses, and guided by these men from Ophir we flew due east. The journey lasted nine days. Each night we would land and dismount so the pegasi could graze and drink. They eat nothing but asphodels and narcissi.”
“Clearly they are of Greek origin,” observed the bishop.
“On the ninth day we caught sight of a lake blue as a sapphire,” continued the old seaman. “We landed on its shore. There are silver fish in it with ruby eyes. And the grains of sand on its shores, Your Grace, are real pearls big as pebbles. Manolo threw himself to the ground, rolled around in the pearls, and raked them up with both hands; and then one of our guides told us that it is excellent sand, that in Ophir they burn it to make lime.”
The Doge rolled his eyes. “Lime made from pearls! That is astounding!”
“Then they led us to the royal palace. It was all of alabaster, but the roof was made of gold and shone like the sun. There we were received by the Queen of Ophir, seated upon a crystal throne.”
“What? A woman rules in Ophir?” marveled the bishop.
“That is so, Monsignore. A woman of dazzling beauty, like a goddess.”
“One of the Amazons,” the bishop reflected, “no question about it.”
“And what of the other women?” the Doge burst out. “I mean, the women of Ophir in general. Are they good-looking?”
The seaman clasped his hands. “Ah, Your Grace, not even in the Lisbon of my youth were there such women.”
The Doge’s hands fluttered. “You don’t say! I’ve heard that the women of Lisbon are black as cats. But in Venice, my man, in Venice some thirty years ago, what women there used to be then! Right out of Titian’s paintings! But these women of Ophir — tell me more!”
“I’m an old man, Your Grace,” said Fialho, “but Manolo could have told you, if he hadn’t been killed by the Musselmans who captured us off the Balearic Islands.”
“Could he have told us quite a bit?” the Doge asked with considerable interest.
“Mother of God!” cried the old seaman. “You’d never believe all he could have told you, Your Grace! I’m telling you, by the time we’d been there for two weeks, Manolo was thin as a rail; you could have lifted him straight up out of his breeches.”
“Ah. And what about the Queen?”
“The Queen wore an iron belt and iron bracelets. ‘They tell me you have some iron,’ she said. ‘Sometimes Arab traders bring us iron.’”
“Arab traders!” the Doge shouted, and he struck his fist on the arm of his throne. “There, you see? Those scoundrels are grabbing up markets everywhere! We cannot allow it, not when the highest interests of the Republic of Venice are at stake! We must supply Ophir, and that’s all there is to it! I’ll give you three ships, Giovanni, three shiploads of iron — ”
The bishop raised his hand. “And what happened next, Giovanni?”
“The Queen offered in exchange for all my iron an equal weight in gold.”
“And you, of course, accepted her offer, you thief!”
“No, Monsignore. I told her that I didn’t sell iron by weight, but by bulk.”
“Quite right,” said the bishop. “Gold is heavier.”
“Especially the gold of Ophir, Monsignore. It is three times as heavy as ordinary gold, and it’s red as fire. And so the Queen ordered that an anchor, nails, chains, and weapons — all exactly like ours of iron — be forged from gold. That’s why we had to stay there for several weeks.”
“But why do they want iron?” wondered the Doge.
“Because, Your Grace, iron is rare in Ophir,” replied the old trader. “They make it into coins and jewelry. They hoard iron nails in coffers like treasures. They say that iron is far more beautiful than gold.”
The Doge lowered his eyelids, as wrinkled as those of a turkey. “Remarkable,” he muttered. “This is most remarkable, Giovanni. And what happened then?”
“Then they loaded all the gold onto the winged donkeys and took us back to the seashore the same way we had come. We hammered the ship together again with golden nails and hung the golden anchor on a golden chain. The tattered rigging and sails we replaced with silk, and with the next favorable wind we put out to sea for home.”
“And what about the pearls?” asked the Doge. “Didn’t you bring any pearls back with you?”
“We did not,” said Fialho. “Your Grace will pardon me, but of course pearls were merely sand in Ophir. A few did get stuck in our shoes, but even those were taken from us by the Algerian infidels, when they attacked us off the Balearic Islands.”
“It appears,” muttered the Doge, “that there’s a fair amount of truth to the man’s story.”
The bishop’s slight nod indicated a degree of assent. “And what about the other animals?” he asked as an afterthought. “Are there centaurs in Ophir?”
“I heard nothing of centaurs, Monsignore,” the seaman answered respectfully. “But there are flamingoes.”
The bishop gave an indignant snort. “You are perhaps mistaken. Flamingoes live in Egypt — it is well known that they have only one leg.”
“And they have wild asses there,” added the seaman, “striped black and white, in the manner of tigers.”
The bishop looked at him skeptically. “Do you take us for fools, Giovanni? Who has ever seen striped asses? But there is one thing that I find most curious. You claim that you flew over the mountains of Ophir on winged mares.”
“That is so, Monsignore.”
“Hm. We shall see. According to reports from Arabs, in the mountains of Ophir there lives a bird called the Noh, which, as is well known, has a metallic beak, metallic claws, and quills of bronze. Did you hear nothing of this bird?”
“No, Monsignore, I did not,” stammered the seaman.
The Bishop of Pordenone shook his head in grave displeasure. “You could not have flown over those mountains, old man, you will never persuade us of that. It is a technical impossibility. It has been proved that the Noh bird lives there, and the Noh would have snapped up those pegasi the way a swallow snaps up flies. Don’t think you can put anything over on us, trickster. So then: what kind of trees grow there?”
“Well, as for what kind of trees,” the poor unfortunate blurted, “it’s well known what kind of trees grow there. Palm trees, Monsignore.”
“You see? You’re lying!” the bishop cried triumphantly. “According to Bubon of Biskra, who is an expert in these matters, pomegranate trees grow in Ophir, and their fruits contain garnets instead of seeds. You’ve invented a preposterous tale, old man!”
Giovanni Fialho fell to his knees. “As God is my witnes
s, Monsignore, how could an unlettered trader like me invent a place like Ophir?”
“That’s your story,” the learned bishop reprimanded him. “I know better than you that there is such a place in this world as Ophir, the land of gold. But as for you, you’re a liar and a rogue. What you say is refuted by reliable authorities and therefore is false. Your Grace, this man is an impostor.”
“Another one?” the old Doge sighed, blinking fretfully. “It’s shocking how many adventurers there are nowadays. Take him away.”
The podestà vicegerente glanced at him, awaiting further instructions.
“The same as usual, the same as usual,” yawned the Doge. “Let him sit in prison till he’s blue, and then sell him to the galleys. Pity,” he grumbled, “that the man’s an impostor; some of what he said seemed to have a grain of truth in it . . . Perhaps he heard it from the Arabs.”
November 13, 1932
Goneril, Daughter of Lear
No, nothing’s the matter with me, nurse — and don’t call me your golden girl. I know, you called me that when I was small; and King Lear called me ‘you little scamp,’ didn’t he? He would have preferred a son — tell me, do you think sons are better than daughters? Regan was such a proper little miss, right from the first, and Cordelia — well, you know Cordelia: a weak sister if ever there was one. A complete blockhead. And Regan — no one could tell her anything: nose in the air like a queen, completely self-centered, remember? Right from the first. Tell me, nurse, was I evil when I was small? — There, you see?
How does it happen that a person becomes evil? I know I’m evil, nurse. Don’t say I’m not. It doesn’t matter what any of you thinks of me, even if you think I’m evil. But as to that business with father, nurse, I was the one who was right. Where did he ever get the idea that he had to drag those hundred men of his around with him? And it’s not as if there were only a hundred of them, there were all manner of family members and servants besides — it was simply impossible. I would have been happy to have him stay with us, nurse, truly I would. I was fond of him, immensely fond, fonder of him than of anyone else in the world; but that horde he brought with him, my God — They turned my home into a bawdyhouse! You remember what it was like then, nurse: lazy idlers every one of them, pandemonium itself with all the brawling and shouting, and the filth, well you’ll remember that — worse than a dunghill. Tell me, nurse, what mistress of any household would have put up with that? And I couldn’t tell them them what to do, not I! No one but King Lear himself was allowed to give them orders — they only sneered at me. At night they’d go creeping after the maids — you were forever hearing the tap-tapping of footsteps, the whispers and the squeals — the duke slept like a log; I’d rouse him and say, do you hear that? And he’d merely grunt: leave them alone, go back to sleep. Just imagine what it was like for me, nurse, while that was going on! You were young once, too, you know what it was like, don’t you? When I’d complain to King Lear, he’d only laugh at me: well, my girl, what else would you expect from those young fellows? Cover your ears, that’ll take care of it.
