Apocryphal Tales

by Karel Čapek

  “I beg your pardon, Father,” protested Sir Oliver, “but it was altogether different. The truth is that they buried Juliet. And Romeo ran Paris through with his sword over her grave.”

  “Wait a minute,” said the priest. “In the first place, it wasn’t over her grave, but in the street, by the monument to the Scaligeris. And in the second place, Romeo didn’t run him through, he only sliced him on the shoulder. Look, it’s not all that easy to kill someone with a sword. Just try it yourself, young man!”

  “Scusa,” objected Sir Oliver, “but I saw it right there on stage, at the very first performance. Count Paris most certainly was run through in a duel, and he died on the spot. And Romeo, in the belief that Juliet was dead, poisoned himself in her tomb. That’s how it was, Padre.”

  “Wrong on all counts,” snapped Father Ippolito. “He did not poison himself. He ran away to Mantua, friend.”

  “Forgive me, Padre,” persisted Oliver, “but I saw it with my own eyes — why, I was sitting in the front row! The next moment, Juliet regained consciousness, and when she saw that her beloved Romeo was dead, she too took poison and died.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?” Padre Ippolito sputtered angrily. “I can’t imagine who would invent such malicious tales. The truth is that Romeo fled to Mantua, and poor, heartbroken little Juliet did take a tiny drop of poison. But it was nothing, cavaliere, mere childishness on her part; why, she was scarcely fifteen years old. I know this from Friar Laurence, young man; of course, I was only a ragazzo then, no bigger than — ” the good father waved his elbow a foot or so above the floor. “Afterwards, they sent Juliet away to her aunt at Besenzano, to recuperate. Count Paris called on her there, his arm still in a sling, and you know what usually happens in such cases: she fell head over heels in love with him. Three months later they were married. Ecco, signore, that’s the way it is in life. I myself was an acolyte at their wedding, in a little white cassock.”

  Sir Oliver sat as if stunned. “Please don’t be angry, Father,” he said at length, “but it is a thousand times more beautiful in the English play.”

  Padre Ippolito snorted. “More beautiful! I don’t know what you think is beautiful about two young people taking their own lives. It would have been a waste and a shame, young man. Believe me, what is more beautiful is that Juliet married and had eight children — and what children, young sir! Pretty as pictures!”

  Oliver shook his head. “It isn’t that, dear Father; you don’t know what a great love is.”

  The diminutive priest blinked thoughtfully. “A great love? I think that is when two people are able to get along together throughout the whole of their lives . . . devotedly and faithfully . . . Juliet was an uncommon woman, my dear sir. She raised eight children and cherished her husband to the end of her days.

  “So, in your country Verona is called the city of Juliet? That is exceedingly good of you English, cavaliere. Lady Juliet was truly an excellent woman, may God grant her everlasting glory.”

  Young Oliver, who had been lost in thought, suddenly roused himself. “And what happened to Romeo?”

  “Romeo? I don’t really know. I did hear something or other — aha, now I remember. He fell in love in Mantua, with the daughter of this marchese — now what was his name? Monfalcone, Montefalco or something like that. Ah, cavaliere, that was what you call a great love! In the end, he ran away with her or something — it was an extremely romantic story, but I’ve forgotten the particulars; of course, it happened in Mantua. But supposedly it was a passione senze esempio, an exceedingly grand passion, sir. At least that’s what they said. Ecco, signore, the rain has stopped.”

  Sir Oliver rose to his full, embarrassed height. “You’ve been tremendously kind, Padre. Thank you so much. Perhaps I might be permitted to leave something here . . . for the poor people of your parish,” he stammered, blushing and shoving a handful of coins under the rim of his plate.

  “My dear young man,” Padre Ippolito protested, drawing back and fluttering his hands. “You mustn’t even think of such a thing — all that money for a morsel of Verona sausage!”

  “But some of it is for your story, too,” Oliver said quickly. “It was — er, it was very, very — I really don’t know how to say it. Very much indeed.”

  In through the windows of the rectory streamed the sun.

  November 6, 1932

  Master Hynek Ráb of Kufštejn

  Master Janek Chval of Jankov hadn’t yet recovered from his surprise. All of a sudden, if you please, right out of the blue, his son-in-law had burst in on him for a visit, and what a son-in-law! Just look at him, with his German breeches and Hungarian moustaches — in short, every inch the fine gentleman, and that’s God’s truth. And there was old Master Janek, his sleeves rolled up, helping a cow give birth to a calf. This is a fine how-do-you-do, the old man thought distractedly; what the devil brings him here?

  “Come have a drink, Master Hynek,” he insisted heartily. “It’s only a local wine, something a Jew from Litom ice brought by five years ago. You drink Cyprian wine in Prague, don’t you?”

  “One kind and another,” said Master Hynek. “But I can tell you this, father-in-law: nothing beats an honest Czech wine. Or good Czech beer, sir. Where I live, they don’t realize what’s good and right under their noses, and they buy all kinds of foreign swill. As if some foreigner’s going to send us anything but dregs.”

  The old man nodded his head. “And they want an unchristian price for it, too.”

  “Stands to reason,” Master Hynek snorted in disgust. “You take those import duties, for instance. His Gracious Majesty lines his pockets, and we have to pay for it.” He spat angrily. “Just so he can have coffers full of money!”

  “George of Podbrady?”

  “The little runt himself,” confirmed Master Hynek Ráb. “He looks like some kind of barley-merchant. Our monarch’s more butterfly than king. But things are changing, father-in-law. For economic reasons and so on. Are things bad for you here in Jankov, too?”

  Master Janek’s face quickly clouded over. “Bad, my boy. Very, very bad. Plague struck the cattle in spite of smoking out the cowsheds. And the peasants’ corn suffered blight, the devil knows why. Last year it was hailstones — Times are bad for the peasants. Just think, Master Hynek, they didn’t even have grain for sowing. I had to give them seed corn from my own granary.”

  “Give?” Master Hynek Ráb was amazed. “I wouldn’t have done that, father-in-law. Why pamper lazy churls? If they can’t earn their living, let ’em drop dead. Let ’em drop dead,” he repeated forcefully. “What’s needed in times like these, father-in-law, is an iron hand. No charity and no dole! It only makes them soft, and that’s a fact! Worse times than this are coming, so those beggars better get used to a little poverty. Let them eat bark and so on. I wouldn’t have given them a thing, sir; I’d have told them flat out: You yokels, you beggars, you impertinent clodhoppers and so on, you think we don’t have more serious things to worry about than what goes down your gullets? These days, I’d have told ’em, we’ve got to be prepared to make heavy sacrifices, all of us. We’ve got to think about defending our kingdom and nothing less. That’s what I’d have told them, sir. Times are serious, and if anybody’s not willing to die for his country, let him die from hunger. And that’s that.” Master Hynek took a quick swig of wine. “Drill them as long as they can stand on their feet, and no words wasted.”

  Master Janek stared blankly at his son-in-law. “What’s that? What’s that?” In his bewilderment, the old man’s words came tumbling out. “You mean — God save us — there’ll be war?”

  Master Hynek hooted in derision. “Of course! There has to be! What do you think peace is for? Ah, my dear father-in-law, whenever there’s peace you can bet something’s brewing. Look,” he said scornfully, “even he knows it, he himself, the — what is it they call him? — yes, the Peaceful Prince. The Peaceful Prince!” fumed Master Hynek. “It’s plain as day he’s afraid of losing his t
hrone. As if anybody could see him on it without three cushions under his rump.”

  “You mean Podbrady?” Master Janek asked cautiously.

  “Who else? Some sovereign we’ve got, sir, thank you very much! Nothing but peace, father-in-law. Nothing but deputations and delegations and the like. That’s what the money’s for, you know. Why, just the other day he went tearing over to Hlohovec to see the Polish king about a pact against the Turks, or so they say. He went all those miles to meet the Poles, if you can believe it! What do you think of that?”

  “Well,” Master Janek hesitated, uncertain how to reply, “if they had to talk about the Turks — ”

  “That’s nonsense,” Hynek Ráb stated conclusively. “You think it’s fitting for a Czech king to pay honor to a Pole? It’s disgraceful!” he shouted. “He should have waited for the Pole to come to him! To think, Master Janek, that we’ve fallen so low! What would our late Emperor Charles have had to say about Emperor Sigismund? In those days, my dear sir, we still had a certain international prestige — ” Master Hynek spat again. “Fie! I’m surprised we Czechs put up with such shameful behavior.”

  Such goings-on, Master Janek thought irritably. And why is he telling me all this? As if I didn’t have enough worries of my own —

  “Or this,” Master Hynek continued with evangelic zeal: “He sends an envoy to Rome so the Pope will officially recognize him or something like that. Asks him ever so nicely, cap in hand, you know? So there’ll be peace in Christendom, he says, and so on. That beats everything!” Hynek Ráb banged his fist on the table, nearly knocking over the flagons. “It’s enough to make our old warrior Žižka spin in his grave! God almighty, negotiating with the Pope! I ask you, is this what we Hussites spilled our blood for? So he can sell us out to Rome for a nod and a kiss from the Pope?”

  What are you making such a fuss about, the old man wondered, squinting absent-mindedly at his son-in-law. Just when did you ever spill blood for anything, young man? Your dear departed dad himself only came here with Emperor Sigismund — True, he married into a Prague family, but he still wrote his name Joachim Hanes Raab. He was a good man, young fellow, I knew him; a very sensible German.

  “And what he thinks he’s doing,” Master Hynek Ráb preached on, “is mapping out some kind of high-level policy. He even sent some of his idiots to France to see the French king, if you can believe it. Says he wants to found a league of Christian princes, so they can have some kind of all-Europe conference or something. To settle disputes by peaceful means and so on, or so they say. And against the Turks and for everlasting peace and I don’t know what all. Ask yourself: did you ever hear such rubbish in your life? Is that the way you make policy — like that? Who wants to settle disputes by peaceful means when you can settle them by war? Tell me, what kind of country would let itself be talked out of war when it wants to fight? It’s ridiculous; the whole world’s laughing about it. And how do you think it makes us look, father-in-law? A spineless move like that compromises us in the eyes of the whole world! God in heaven, it makes us look like we’re afraid war’s going to drop out of the sky on us — ”

  “And — is it?” Master Janek asked anxiously.

  Master Hynek Ráb of Kufštejn nodded his head. “You can bet your life on it. Look, father-in-law, we’ve got the Hungarians, the Germans, the Pope, and the Austrians all against us. With so many against us, here’s what we do: strike first, before they can join forces. War in nothing flat, and then it’s over and done with. That’s the way to do it,” declared Master Hynek, and he slicked back his hair with a firm, decisive hand.

  “I’d better see right away about laying in provisions,” Master Janek muttered thoughtfully. “Just as well to have plenty of provisions on hand.”

  Master Hynek leaned across the table with a confidential air. “But I’ve got an even better plan, sir: team up with the Turks and the Tartars. There’s policy for you! Leave Poland and Germany to the Tartars, let them smash and burn everything in sight. All the better for us, see? And leave Hungary, Austria, and the Pope to the Turks.”

  “They say the Turk’s a fiend,” the old man growled.

  “Exactly,” Master Hynek replied approvingly. “He’ll teach them a lesson they won’t forget! None of this nonsense about scruples or Christian sentiment! It’s a question of power, that’s all. And as for us — I always say, no sacrifice is too great for our country, sir; but it’s others who’ll have to make it, see? Take no prisoners, as our Žižka used to say. Us against the world, and so on. If only there were more true, honest-to-God patriots! To charge into battle once again, wielding our time-honored Czech maces — ”

  Master Janek Chval of Jankov continued to sit there quietly, nodding his head. I must remember to lay in those provisions, he thought. Who knows what may happen? Old Master Raab was a wise man, even if he was as German as a stump. Tyrolean, he was. Maybe he passed a little of his brains on to Hynek; and it’s true, folks in Prague know all sorts of things — The main thing, though, is to get the hay dried. They need hay in wartime.

  Master Hynek Ráb of Kufštejn smacked the table cheerfully with his hand. “Take my word for it, father-in-law, we’ll live to see the day! Your health! Hey, boy, over here with that jug! Pour me more wine — don’t you see there’s an empty tankard in front of me? Well then, here’s to our cause!!”

  “Wohl bekomm’s,” old Master Janek replied politely.

  January 15, 1933

  Napoleon

  Mademoiselle Claire (of the Comédie Française) sat without saying a word; she knew that sometimes the emperor became engrossed in his thoughts, as he was now, and did not care to be disturbed. Besides, entre nous, what could one talk about with him? Que voulez-vous, he is, after all, the emperor. And the man feels out of place here, is that not so? (But it is so for all foreigners, mused Mademoiselle Claire, pas très Parisien.) Still, there in the firelight he has a passably handsome face. (If only he weren’t so tubby.) (La la, he has no neck, c’est drôle.) (But you know, he might be a bit more polite!)

  A heavy marble clock ticked away on the mantelpiece. Tomorrow, thought the emperor, I must receive representatives from the cities — it’s stupid, but what can one do? They will, of course, complain about taxes. Then the Austrian ambassador — always the same old story. After that, the new presidents of the courts come to present themselves — I must read up beforehand where each of them practiced law ; these people are always pleased when I know something about them. The emperor counted on his fingers. Something else? Yes, Conte Ventura, he’ll squeal on the Pope again — — Napoleon suppressed a yawn. God in heaven, what a bore! I should send for — what’s his name? — that clever fellow who’s just returned from England. Now what is that man’s name — porco, he’s my best spy!

  “Sacrebleu,” grumbled the emperor, “what’s the name of that fellow?”

  Mademoiselle Claire fidgeted slightly in her chair and maintained a sympathetic silence.

  No matter, thought the emperor, let him call himself whatever he likes, but his information is first rate. A very useful man, that — that — maledetto! It’s stupid the way a name sometimes slips away from you! In point of fact, I have an excellent memory for names, he marveled. How many thousands of them I carry around in my head — and that’s only counting the soldiers I know by name! I’ll wager I can remember to this day the names of all my classmates at the military academy — even my friends from childhood. Let’s see, there was Tonio, known as Biglia, Francio alias Riccintello, Tonio Zufolo, Mario Barbabietola, Luca, dubbed Peto (the emperor smiled), Andrea, also called Puzzo or Tirone — I can remember all their names, the emperor reflected, but I cannot for the life of me come up with the name of that spy — tonnere!

  “Madame,” the emperor said, brooding over the matter, “do you also have such a confoundedly peculiar sort of memory? One can remember the names of all one’s childhood companions, but not that of a fellow he spoke to only a month ago.”

  “Exactly, Sire,” said Made
moiselle Claire. “It is so curious, is it not?” She tried to recall some names from her childhood, but none came to mind; she remembered only the name of her first lover. It was someone named Henry. Yes, Henry, that was it.

  “Curious,” muttered the emperor, staring fixedly into the blazing fire. “I can see them all, right before my eyes: Gamba, Zufolo, Briccone, Barbabietola, little Puzzo, Biglia, Mattaccio, Mazzasette, Beccajo, Ciondolone, Panciuto — Yes, there were twelve of us young rascals, Madame. They called me Polio, il Capitano.”

  “Charming,” exclaimed Mademoiselle Claire. “And you, Sire, were their captain?”

  “Yes, of course,” the emperor said pensively. “I was captain of either robbers or soldiers, depending on the circumstances. I led them, you understand? Once I even gave orders to hang Mattaccio for disobedience. Yes, oh yes, and that old watchman Zoppo cut him down just in time. We ruled differently in those days, Madame. A capitano was absolute master of his people — I recall one hostile gang of young rogues, led by a youth named Zani. Indeed, he later became a bandit chief in Corsica. Three years ago I had him shot.”

  “It can be seen,” sighed Mademoiselle Claire, “that Your Majesty was born a leader.”

  The emperor shook his head. “You think so? In those days, as capitano, I felt my own power far more strongly. Governing, Madame, is not like commanding. Commanding without hesitation or consideration — caring nothing about possible consequences — And Madame, what was so absolutely perfect about it was that it was only a game, that I knew it was only a game — ”

  Mademoiselle Claire sensed that she should remain silent; it would be to her credit.

  “Even now, it’s the same even now,” the emperor continued, more or less to himself. “Often the thought comes to me out of nowhere: Polio, it’s only a game! They call you Sire, they call you Your Majesty, because we’re playing a game, all of us. The soldiers standing at attention — the ministers and ambassadors who bow and scrape — it’s all a game. And yet no one nudges anyone else with an elbow, no one breaks out laughing — We played the same way when we were children, too, so very seriously. It’s part of the game, Madame: acting as if it were all so serious — ”