by Karel Čapek
Hafia dashed towards the entrance as if released.
“Wait,” said Polana, stopping her, “ask him if he wants anything to eat or drink.”
“Never mind, my sweet, never mind,” cried Hordubal, moving towards the entrance. “It’s kind of you to think of it, thank you very much, but there’s no hurry. Perhaps you have some other work to do—”
“There’s always something to do,” Polana suggested vaguely.
“So you see, Polana, so you see, I won’t disturb you; just get on with your job, and in the meantime I … I’ll—”
Polana raised her eyes to him, as if she wished to say something, as if she wanted suddenly to say something very much, until her lips quivered; but she suppressed it, and went out to do her work; for there’s always something to do.
Hordubal stood by the door, and looked after Polana. What if I went after her into the shed—no, not yet, not yet; the shed’s dark, well, somehow it’s not the thing to do. Eight years, my lad, are eight years. Polana is a sensible woman, she’s not going to jump round my neck like a youngster; you’d like to ask her this and that, what are the crops like, the cattle, but God be with her, she has some work to do. She always was like that. Quick at work, active, sensible.
Hordubal looked thoughtfully into the yard. A clean yard, with cinquefoil and chamomile blossoming here and there, no trickle of liquid manure running away. What about having a look round the buildings—no, not yet, not yet; for Polana herself will say: Come and look, Juraj, see what I’ve done, everything is made of brick and iron, everything new, it cost so much and so much. And I shall say: Good, Polana, I am also bringing you something for the farm.
Polana works well: and she’s straight, as straight as a youngster. Lord, what a straight back! She always carried her head well, even when she was a girl—Hordubal sighed, and scratched his head. Well, then, Polana, you give the lead, for eight years you’ve been your own mistress, it can’t just end with a snap, you yourself will say that it’s good to have a man in the house.
Hordubal looked thoughtfully round the yard. Everything is different, and new; Polana has done very well; but that manure, my lad, somehow I don’t like that manure. It’s not from the cows, it’s stable manure. Two sets of harness hang on the wall, there are horse-droppings in the yard—Polana didn’t say that she has horses; but listen, horses, that’s not a woman’s job. It takes a man to look after a stable, that’s it. Hordubal wrinkled his forehead and felt worried. Yes, that’s the tap of a hoof against the wooden boards; the horse scrapes with its foot, perhaps it wants a drink, I’ll fetch him some water in the canvas bucket, but no: not till Polana says: Come, Juraj, have a look round the farm. In Johnstown they had horses down below in the mine; I used to go and rub their noses—you know, Polana, there were no cows there; just catch hold of a cow by the horn, and waggle her head. Na-na-na, you old beggar, heta! heta! But a horse—well, thank God you’ll have a man here.
But then came a whiff of something familiar, an old smell of something from childhood. Hordubal sniffed slowly with satisfaction: wood, the resinous smell of wood, the scent of spruce logs in the sunshine. Juraj felt himself being drawn towards the heap of logs. Rough bark is good for a rough hand, there’s a stump as well with a hatchet stuck in it, a wooden trestle and saw, his old saw, with its handle worn smooth with his horny hands. Juraj Hordubal sighed, glad to be home, safe and sound, he took off his coat, and wedged the log into the firm arms of the trestle.
Pespiring and happy Juraj began to saw wood for the winter.
CHAPTER IV
JURAJ straightened himself, and wiped the sweat away. Well, sure, this is a different job, and a different smell from that down there in the pit; Polana has a nice, sweet-smelling wood, no stumps, no dead branches. The ducks quacked, the geese made an uproar, and a wagon rattled and moved with glorious speed up the narrow road. Polana darted out from the shed, and ran, ran (Ach, Polana, you run like a girl), she opened the gate wide. Who is it, who’s coming here? The whip cracked, hi, warm golden dust rose in a cloud, a team clattered into the yard, the wagon rattled, and on it was a fellow standing up bravely, Magyar fashion, holding the reins high, and cried whoa, in a high voice. He jumped from the wagon, and with the flat of his hand he patted the horse’s neck.
Polana came up from the house, pale and resolute. “This is Stepan, Juraj, Stepan Manya.”
The man who was bending over the traces straightened himself briskly, and turned his face towards Juraj.
You’re a bit dark, thought Hordubal to himself. Lord, what a raven!
“He came here as a farm worker,” Polana explained, drily and deliberately.
The man muttered something and bent to the traces, he took out the pin and led the horses away, holding them both by one hand, the other he gave suddenly to Hordubal. “Got here safe, mister!”
Hordubal quickly wiped his hand on his trousers, and gave it to Stepan. He felt embarrassed, and yet somehow greatly flattered. He became flustered and mumbled something, and once more he shook Stepan’s hand in the American fashion. Stepan was short but wiry; he only reached up to Juraj’s shoulders, but he gave him an insolent and piercing glance.
“Nice horses,” murmured Hordubal, and he tried to rub their noses; but they shied and began to prance.
“Look out, mister,” shouted Manya, with a spiteful sparkle in his eyes. “They’re Hungarian.”
Ah, you darkie, you think I don’t know much about horses? Well, as a matter of fact, I don’t, but they’ll get used to their master.
The horses jerked their heads, ready to dash away. Keep your hands in your pockets, Hordubal, and don’t get out of the way in case the black one thinks you’re afraid.
“This one is a three-year-old,” said Manya, “from an army stallion. Whoa,” he jerked the horse’s mouth. “Stand still, you devil! Whoa.” The horse pulled, but Stepan only laughed; and Polana came up to the horse and gave him a piece of bread. Stepan’s teeth and eyes sparkled after her as he held the horse by the rein. “Hi, you! S-s-s!” It seemed as if he were forcing the horse into the earth, in the effort he hissed through his teeth; the horse stood with its neck beautifully arched, as it felt for Polana’s palm with its lips. “Hi,” shouted Manya, and, holding on to their heads, he took them into the stable at a trot.
Polana looked after them. “I’ve been bid four thousand for him, but I shan’t take it,” she said brightly; “Stepan says he’s worth eight. We shall cover that little mare in the autumn——” Well, the deuce knows why she halted as if she had bitten her tongue. “I must get the fodder ready for her,” she said, hesitating, and not knowing how to get away.
“So, so, fodder,” Juraj agreed. “A nice horse, Polana; and what can he pull?”
“It’s a pity to put him in a wagon,” said Polana, testily. “He’s not a cart-horse.”
“Well, I just wondered,” Hordubal managed to say. “Of course it’s a pity for a nice colt like him. You’ve got some fine horses, it’s a pleasure to look at them.”
At that Manya emerged from the stable, carrying the canvas buckets for water. “You’ll get eight thousand for him, mister,” he asserted confidently. “And that little mare ought to be covered in the autumn. I’ve the offer of a little stallion for her, what a demon, eh!”
“Brutus or Hegiis ?” asked Polana, turning half-way.
“Hegiis, Brutus is too heavy,” said Manya, revealing his teeth beneath his black moustache. “I don’t know what’s your opinion, mister, but I don’t care much for heavy horses. They’re strong, but they’ve no blood, sir, no blood.”
“Well, yes,” agreed Hordubal uncertainly, “it is like that with horses. And what about heifers, Stepan?”
“Heifers?” exclaimed Stepan. “Ah, you mean cows. Ah—yes, mistress has two cows, for milk she says. You haven’t been in the stall yet, sir?”
“No, I—you know I’ve only just come,” said Hordubal, becoming embarrassed: Well, that heap of cut wood can’t be denied—at the same t
ime, he felt glad that he had begun so easily to talk to Stepan, like a master to a workman.
“Yes,” he said, “I was just going there.”
Stepan obsequiously led the way, carrying two buckets of water.
“We’ve go here—mistress has a young foal only three weeks old, and a mare in foal, she was covered two months ago. This way, sir. This gelding here is already nearly sold, two thousand five hundred sir. He’s a good horse, but I have to work the three-year-old to give him some exercise. He won’t stand quiet.” Manya again showed his teeth. “The gelding will go to the army. All our horses have gone to the army.”
“Well, well,” said Juraj. “Yes, it’s nice and tidy here. And have you been in the army, Stepan?”
“In the cavalry, sir.” Manya showed his teeth, and gave the three-year-old a drink. “Look, mister, what a lean head, and what a back. Come up! Now then! Look out, sir! My, what a rascal!” he said, patting the horse on the neck. “Now, sir, that’s a horse for you.”
Hordubal didn’t feel at ease in the strong odour of the stable. A cowshed had a different smell of milk, manure, and grass, and home. “Where’s the foal?” he inquired.
The foal was young and curly, and just sucking; it was all legs. The mare turned her head, and with knowing eyes looked at Hordubal: Well, who are you? Juraj melted and patted the mare on the flank; her skin was warm and as smooth as velvet.
“A good mare,” said Stepan, “but heavy. Mistress wants to sell her—you know, master, a farmer won’t pay a full price for a horse, and in the army they only want light horses. Heavy horses are no use. A stable all alike is better,” Stepan opined. “I don’t know what you think, sir—”
“Well, Polana understands,” murmured Hordubal, halfheartedly. “And what about oxen, hasn’t Polana got any oxen?”
“What does she want oxen for?” grinned Manya. “A mare and a gelding are enough for the land—beef doesn’t pay, mister. Perhaps pig-breeding. Have you seen what a boar mistress has got ? Six gilts, sir, and forty young ones. Weaners fetch a good price, dealers come a long way to get them. Sows as big as elephants, with a black snout, and black hooves—”
Hordubal shook his head dubiously: “And what about milk—where do you get milk for them?”
“From the farmers, if you please,” laughed Manya. Eh, you, want our boar for your dirty sow ? There isn’t a boar as good as he is in the whole country. How many buckets of milk, and how many sacks of potatoes will you give for him ? Well, sir, you sweat for nothing here. Too far from the town, it’s difficult to sell anything. The people are stupid, sir. They grow things only for their guts. Let them give stuff away if they don’t know how to sell.”
Hordubal nodded vaguely. That’s true, we used to sell very little, only a few hens and geese. Well, this is something different. Polana knows how to manage things, that’s true.
“Sell a long way away,” said Stepan thoughtfully, “and only then, if it’s worth while. Who’d go to the market with one pat of butter ? They can see from your face that you’ve got nothing; well, then, either put the price down, or go to the devil!”
“And where are you from?” asked Juraj.
“From down there, from Rybary, do you know the place, sir ?”
Hordubal didn’t, but he nodded: so, from Rybary; what master wouldn’t know ?
“That’s a different country, sir, rich and as flat as you like. Take the swamp at Rybary—why, all the country here would go into it like a pea in a pocket; and grass, sir, grass, up to your waist.” Manya waved his hand. “Ah, it’s a lousy country here, you begin to plough, and you only turn up stones. With us if you dig a well, there’s black soil right down to the bottom.”
Hordubal’s face clouded. What do you know, you Tartar—I, I’ve ploughed here and turned up stones; but, Lord, the woods, and meadows! In a bad humour Juraj went out of the stable. A lousy country, you say, well what made you push your nose in here, you devil ? Isn’t it good enough for the cattle ? But, glory to God, this is the time for the cattle, already they tinkle in the valley and ring round the village; bells, with a cracked sound, deep and slow, slow like the step of a cow; only the little high-pitched bells of the calves dash about. Well, well, even you will grow up, and go heavily and seriously like cows, as we do. The sound of the herds drew nearer, and Juraj felt like taking off his hat as if it were the angelus. Our Father, which art in Heaven; like a river, the sound came nearer—it broke up into heavy drops, it spread over the whole village; one cow after the other left the herd, and bim bam, bim bam, made for her shed, the scent of dust and milk, bim bam in the gate, and, nodding their heads, two cows ambled into Hordubal’s yard, wise and gentle creatures and made for the cowshed door. Hordubal heaven a deep sigh. Well, I’ve also come home, thanks to the Lord, this is the homecoming. The sound of the herds dispersed over the village, and died down, a bat began its zig-zag flight after flies in the wake of the herd. Good evening, master! From the stable, with a long moo, the cow made herself heard. Well, well, I’m coming. In the dark Juraj entered the shed, felt the horns, the hard and hairy forehead, the damp muzzle, the softly folded skin on the neck; he felt for the tin pail, and the stool, and sat down to the full udder; he milked one teat after the other, the milk rang as it struck the empty pail; and thinly, under his breath, Juraj began to sing.
A figure with a dark silhouette stood in the doorway. Hordubal stopped singing. “It’s me, Polana,” he murmured apologetically. “So that the cows get used to me.”
“Won’t you come to supper?” Polana inquired.
“Not till I’ve finished milking,” replied Hordubal from the darkness. “Stepan can have his with us.”
CHAPTER V
JURAJ HORDUBAL sat down at the head of the table, folded his hands, and said grace. That’s as it should be now that you are master. Polana sat with closed lips, her hands clasped together, Hafia stared and didn’t know what to do, Stepan frowned stubbornly at the floor—What, you, you don’t say grace, Polana ? Well, Stepan may be of another creed, but grace is the proper thing at table. Look at them, they grow peevish, they eat fast, and silently. Hafia toys with the food on her plate—”Eat, Hafia,” said Polana, admonishing her drily, but she herself hardly put anything into her mouth; only Stepan, leaning over his plate, made a loud noise as he took food from his spoon.
After the meal Manya wondered what to do with himself. “Wait a bit, Stepan,” Hordubal urged him. “What did I want to say—Yes, and what was the harvest like this year ?”
“The hay was good,” said Manya evasively.
“And rye?”
Polana looked sharply at Stepan. “Rye,” Manya said slowly: “Why, as a matter of fact, mistress sold those top fields. It wasn’t worth the trouble, sir. All stones.”
Inside Hordubal something snapped. “All stones,” he mumbled, “yes, all stones; but, Polana, a field is the foundation—”
Stepan showed his teeth with self-assurance. “It wasn’t worth the trouble, mister. The fields near the river are better. We’ve had maize as tall as a man.”
“Near the river,” said Hordubal taken aback. “So you’ve bought, Plana, some land in the plain?”
Polana was about to say something, but she swallowed it. “Manor fields, mister,” explained Manya. “The soil’s like a threshing floor, deep, good for sugar beet. But sugar beet’s a poor business. It’s a bad time, sir, better put your money in horses: a horse turns out well, and you get more for a horse than for a year of forced labour. If we only had another piece of land in the plain, and built stables down there—” Stepan’s eyes sparkled. “Horses aren’t goats, sir, they want flat land.”
“The owner is willing to sell those fields,” Polana remarked, almost to herself, and began to figure out what they would cost; but Hordubal wasn’t listening; he was thinking of the rye and potato fields that Polana had sold. They were all stone certainly, but hadn’t they been stone for ever ? That, my lad, was part of the job. Two years before I went away I turned a piece o
f waste land into a field—eh, what do you know of hard work in the fields!
Hafia came stealthily to Stepan and leaned with her elbow against his shoulder. “Uncle Stepan,” she whispered.
“What is it ? smiled Manya.
The little one wriggled shyly. “I only—”
Stepan held her between his knees and rocked her: “Well, Hafia, what did you want to say?”
Hafia whispered into his ear: “Uncle Stepan, I’ve seen such a beautiful little puppy to-day!”
“Have you really?” inquired Manya importantly. “And I’ve seen a hare with three little ones.”
“Oh, I say,” exclaimed Hafia in amazement, “and where?”
“In the clover.”
“And shall you shoot them in the autumn?”
Stepan looked sideways at Hordubal. “Well, I don’t know.”
A good fellow, thought Juraj to himself with relief, the child loves him; she wouldn’t come to me. Children get used to things; but that she didn’t mention those pictures I brought her from America! I ought to give something to Stepan—an idea struck him, and he looked round for his wooden box.
“I’ve put your things out on the dresser,” said Polana. She always was so careful, mused Juraj gravely, going up to the pile of things from America. “This is for you, Hafia, these pictures, and this teddy-bear here—”
“What is it, uncle?” murmured Hafia.
“It’s a bear,” Manya explained. “Have you ever seen a live bear? They live away there in the mountains.”
“And have you seen them?” urged Hafia.
“Yes, I have. They growl.”
“This, Polana, is for you,” mumbled Hordubal shyly. “They’re silly things, well, but I didn’t know what…” Juraj turned away, rummaging in his possessions for something he could give to Manya. “And this, Stepan,” he said shyly, “perhaps might suit you: an American knife, and an American pipe—”
