by Karel Čapek
“And don’t make them go so fast,” cried Hordubal.
“They learn to trot,” said Manya, indifferently. “Let them learn. What can you do with a slow horse ?”
Does Stepan drive Polana about like this ? wondered Hordubal. The whole village turns to look: That’s Hordubal’s wife on the wagon, fine, like a lady: she folds her arms, and sits erect. And why shouldn’t she feel proud? thought Juraj. Praise be to God, she’s different from the other women, firm and erect, like a pillar; she’s made the farm like a castle; she got seven thousand for a pair of horses, well, then, she can carry her head high. It pays very well, my lad.
“Now there’s that flat land,” said Stepan, pointing with his whip. “Right up to those acacias it belongs to the mistress.”
Hordubal climbed down from the wagon as if broken. You’ve shaken me about, you devil. So this is that flat land; grass up to the waist, but dry and hard—don’t tell me, this isn’t soil for sugar beet, it’s a steppe.
Many a scratched his head. “If you bought this land as far as there, mister, you could keep thirty horses here.”
“We-ll,” objected Hordubal, “it’s not very rich, my good fellow.”
“What do you want with rich land?” grinned Manya. “A horse must be dry, mister. Or do you want to feed horses for the butcher?”
Hordubal made no reply, and, going up to the horses, he rubbed their noses. “Well-well-well, little chap, don’t get frightened, you’re a nice one. What are you pricking your ears for ? And you, ah, you’re a knowing one! Why are you pawing the ground? What do you want?” Stepan unharnessed the horses, he straightened himself, and said, somewhat sharply: “Don’t talk to the horses, mister. It makes them soft.”
Hordubal looked up with a start: so that’s how you talk to your master! And, well, perhaps so that the horses don’t get used to me. I won’t meddle with your horses, you camel; well, well, you needn’t frown.
Stepan let the horses loose to graze, and took up the scythe, ready to cut some grass. What a blockhead not to have taken another scythe with him! Juraj sighed, and looked out over the plain to the hills behind Kriva. There at any rate were real fields—all stone, perhaps, but they were fields: potatoes, oats, rye—somewhere there rye was still growing, somewhere there they were already cutting the corn. “And who bought those fields of ours up there, Stepan?”
“Someone called Pjosa,” said Manya.
Ah, Pjosa, Andrej Pjosa Husa; that’s the reason why he didn’t speak to me in the pub; he was ashamed because he had deprived a woman of her field. Juraj looked up over the hills. Strange, as if Hordubal’s fields had run down the hills, and settled in the plain.
“And Rybary is down there?” inquired Juraj.
“Down there,” said Stepan. “Over there, about three hours away.”
Three hours away, see, it’s a long way yet to Rybary. Out of boredom Hordubal picked a halm of grass and began to chew it; it was rather harsh and sour. The grass up there, on the slopes, tastes quite different, spicy, of thyme. Juraj walked slowly over the meadow, further and further. What a flat land, nothing to see but the sky, and even the sky isn’t the same as up there; it looks dusty. And here’s a field of maize as tall as a man, all green stuff; ach, Lord, it looks so untidy—just let the sows in, there would be a grunting! While a field of rye is like a velvet coat. Acacias—Juraj didn’t like the acacias; up there there are blackthorns, spindle-trees, and mountain-ash, and none of those good-for-nothing acacias. I can’t even see Manya now, in that apron of his, and high boots. And what about not talking to the horses! A horse is a wise animal, like a cow; it learns quietness through talking.
A flat plain spread out before Juraj, he was overcome with loneliness, it was almost like the sea; what could he do there! He turned towards the hills; ah, you, even you are eaten away by the flat land, it makes you look small and stupid. But to tramp up them, my friend, then at least you learn what the earth is like. And Juraj could not stand it any longer, he hastened back to the village, leaving Stepan behind with his team. I’ll look at the crops, he thought to himself, but he kept going for an hour, and still the hills were far away in front, and it was so hot, not a breath of air was stirring. So here’s your flat land. Who would have thought that Stepan had taken me so far? Only c-c, and we were already at the other end of the earth. Polana has keen horses: what’s the good of a slow horse, mister?
Hordubal had already been going for two hours, and there at last was the beginning of the village; gipsies, the scoundrels, rolling about among hemlocks and thorn-apples, and there already was the smithy. Hordubal halted, something came into his head, ah, Polana, I’ll show you! He barged his way into the blacksmith’s shop. Hello, my man, make me a latch, well, what kind of a latch, for a door. I’ll wait till you’ve made it. The smith didn’t recognize Hordubal, it was dark inside the shop, and he could not see for the blaze. Well, if you want a latch, I’ll make it for you; and he began hammering hard on a big one. Well, my man, what are Polana’s horses like ? Why, like demons, but for the gentry; no good for work, uncle. When you shoe them, aha! it needs two fellows to hold devils like them.
Hordubal looked at the glowing piece of iron. I shall bring you something, Polana, something for the house. And what’s a horse like that worth? The smith spat. God’s my witness; they say they want eight thousand for it. All that money for a horse! If the wild terror falls lame what have you got ? A little Hutsul horse is better, or a heavy gelding, with a back like an altar, and a breast like an organ—ei, they were horses, they used to have on the estate! But now—a tractor! The squire is selling his meadows: what’s the use of hay, he says, what good are horses, now they’ve got machines-?
Hordubal nodded. Yes, machines like they have in America. I must see that Polana doesn’t go wrong. Machines will come, and what shall you do with horses then! Aha, so you see; no, no, Polana, I shan’t let you have my dollars to buy meadows. Fields and cows; they’re something different—a man can’t fill his belly with machines. And it doesn’t pay, they say. Well, perhaps not, but you’ve got milk and corn anyhow.
Hordubal went back home, carrying the piece of iron still warm. Polana—perhaps she’s cooking the dinner. Juraj stole up the steps to the loft, and fixed the latch on the inner, side of the little door. So, and now the staple—Polana climbed up the steps, and knitted her brows, to see what Juraj was tinkering at up there. What will she ask ? No, she won’t, she only looks on with a fixed gaze. “It’s already finished,” murmured Hordubal. “I’ve only fixed up a latch for you, so that you can lock yourself in.”
CHAPTER IX
AND already it’s so dull for you, Jura, Juraj; you walk round the farmyard, gaze about, and you don’t know what to do. Grow savoys ? That’s no job for a man. Feed the hens ? Feed the pigs ? Oh, that’s an old woman’s job. The wood’s already sawn, and chopped up, you’ve mended the fence, you’ve patched up this and that; you slouch like old Kyryl, who mumbles to himself over there in Michal Herpak’s farmyard. And the neighbours’ women peep. That’s a fine farmer, hands in his pockets, and yawning. May you jaw fall off!
Down there in the meadows—is Manya: what am I to do there ? Don’t talk to the horses, and so—stay there alone, what’s there for me in the plain ? Look at him, a farm worker from somewhere, and says, if you do this and that, mister. And look, I shall; it’s not for you to order me about, but if it’s of wood I shall make it. In the old days forests were cut; and they don’t sell the wood any more, they say, it rots on the ground, the sawmills stand—
God, to mind the cows once again! Not two young heifers, people would laugh, but twelve cows; and drive them perhaps as far as Volov Chrbat, with a heavy stick in my hand ready for a bear. And nobody would say: don’t talk to the cows. You have to shout at cattle.
But Polana wouldn’t even listen—the butcher gives you eight hundred for a cow, she says, and yet he lets you have it as a favour. Well, never mind the butcher—for myself I’d rear cattle: but if you don’t want
, all right. I shan’t stick the money in the plain for you.
Or harness cows to the wagons and go to the fields to bring the harvest home. The man walks, walks, with one hand on the yoke, get on! O—ou! No hurry, only as much as the cows can manage. Even in America I didn’t get used to any other pace; only the cows’ pace. And going down with a load of sheaves, to catch the wheel by the spokes, and hold all the loaded wagon in your hand—God be praised, at any rate you realize that you’ve got hands. That’s a man’s job, Polana. Ah, God have mercy, what vanity—but one’s hands get soft; and what able hands they are, hard, American ones.
Yes, Polana, you can run about, you’ve always got something to do, here the hens, there the pigs, there something in the dairy, but it’s a shame for a fellow to lean on the fence. If only you said, You, Juraj, you could do this and that; but you’re like an arrow, no one can talk with you. I could tell you things—perhaps this: in America, Polana, a fellow can sweep, wash the dishes, and wipe the floor, and he’s not ashamed; they have a good time, those women in America. But you—you scowl as soon as I touch anything: it’s not right, you say, people will laugh at you. Ah, what’s it matter! let them laugh, the silly fools. I do something in the stable, I give the horses food or drink—and again Stepan scowls. Don’t talk to the horses, he says, and so on. Right-ho, you! And he’s always scowling. Well, well, don’t eat me with your eyes. He doesn’t even talk to the mistress, he hardly opens his mug, and only with those eyes of his. He’s bitter, he’s all yellow with bitterness, it gnaws his entrails. And Polana is frightened of him, too, she says: Go, Hafia, and tell Stepan to do so and so, ask him about this and that—Hafia isn’t frightened of him. She calls him uncle, and he takes her on his knee: This is how the colt jumps, Hafia, this is how the mare goes—and he sings, but as soon as he sees anyone it’s as if someone cut him short, and he crawls away into the stable.
Hordubal scratched his head. And the deuce knows why Hafia is so frightened of me. She plays and plays, but as soon as I come she stops, and she doesn’t take her eyes from me, only off and away. Well, run. Eh, Hafia, I should like to make wooden toys for you, if only you would lean against my shoulder and look—ooh, what’s it going to be ? And what couldn’t I tell you about America, child! there are negroes there, and such “machines—eh, God be with you, Hafia, run along to your Stepan. Don’t beat her, Polana, you can’t tame anyone with force; but if you sat down sometimes, if we only talked to one another, Hafia would come, and she would listen, she would put her elbow against my knee—I could tell her many odd things, the child would listen with her mouth wide open. Well, in winter perhaps, in winter, by the fire—
Below from the village came the noise of geese, and the rattling of a cart—that’s Manya coming back. Juraj waved his hand, and retired behind the barn. What, am I to stand here, just staring at you! You bring a load of hay, and you make as much noise as if you’d brought God knows what. And here is silence, here you are at the back of the world. They let the orchard go to ruin, we used to have pears and plums here, and now nothing. Those old trees ought to be cleared away, and young ones planted in the autumn, but no; there’s nothing old left, nothing that was here before, except those barren trees: stay here with God. There used to be a shady little orchard, but now pigs root there; and nettles; oh God!
Don’t you realize, I saw many things in America; I had a look, and see, this or that could be done here, too. They have nice things there, handy ones—just take their different machines! Or this—grow vegetables. Or rabbits. But it’s best with rabbits when you’ve plenty of leaves from the vegetables. And then, many things might be done. I would do everything, if only, Polana, if only you took a glance to see what Juraj is doing. And what is it going to be, Juraj ? Cages for the rabbits, Hafia will be pleased, you’ll even be able to make her a little fur coat. Or a pigeon-house, for instance. And then, wouldn’t you like some bees! I could make a bee-hive, not out of a log, but a bee-hive with a little piece of glass at the back, so that you can see inside. In Johnstown there was a miner, a Pole, a great bee-keeper; just think, he even had a wire mask for his face. You learn a lot. If only you wanted, Polana, if only you looked—there would be lots of things. Or ask: how do they do so and so in America? Well, you never ask, it’s difficult to tell you anything. A man is too shy to do something only for his own interest, for himself—as if he were only playing: but for someone else—he spits in his hands, and even whistles. It’s like that, Polana.
Glory to God, I can hear the cow-bells ringing, it’s evening already; they must be tied up, given water, patted, Hafia will shout: Stepan, daddy, supper; Stepan eats noisily, Polana is silent. Hafia whispers to uncle Stepan, well, what is there to do; good night everybody. Hafia in the room, Polana in the loft, Stepan in the stable—walk round the yard once more, and crawl into the cowshed to sleep. And there, with my hands under my head, I can even explain aloud what we could have, and how things might be done.
And the cows—as if they understand; they turn their heads and look.
CHAPTER X
“TELL them, Hafia, that I’m not coming back till the evening.”
A slice of bread and bacon, all is ready, and now for the hills. Hordubal felt free and almost homesick, like a child that has escaped from its mammy. And he looked over the village as if something had changed there. What was it? This used to be Hordubal’s field ? It was, without a doubt—all stones, they said, and yet Pjosa had a crop of barley here, he’s got potatoes here, and a little patch of flax; see how Pjosa’s field and Hordubal’s have beenjoined together. But there, higher up, by the mountain-ash—from there you can see the whole village. There you can marvel at God’s wisdom: Kriva, the village is called, and really it is crooked, bent into an arch, like a cow lying down. One roof next to the other, all the same, like a flock of sheep: but that white building is Polana’s. As if it didn’t fit in here, thought Juraj; the roof is red, new—one might ask who has come here ? Someone from the plain, where people have no wood, and must use brick—
The plain. From here even the plain is visible. Blue, level—like the sea, well, a weary waste. That’s why they go so fast: the road is dismal, a man walks—walks, and it’s as if he trod on one spot. You don’t go to the plain just to see things; while here—like a feast day, you only need follow your nose, and there’s always something to lead you farther: there past the bend in the road, over the stream, there to that spruce, up over the clearing, and then, when you’ve got there, into the wood: the wood faces the midday sun, all beech-trees, the trunks light and grey, as if mist were lying there; and here, there, everywhere cyclamen in flower, like tiny glowing flames. And here, look what a pale brown mushroom, it lifts the dead leaves, ah, what a sturdy white stem; and do you know what! I shall let you stay, mushroom, and I shan’t pick you either, cuckoo-flowers and campanulas, but a bunch of strawberries for Hafia, down below at the edge of the wood, where they are sweetest. Hordubal stopped and held his breath: deer; there on the other slope a doe was standing, blonde and sleek, like last autumn’s leaves, she stood in the bracken, alert and inquisitive. What are you, a man or a stump ? A stump, a butt, a black branch, but don’t run away; what, even you are afraid of me, wild creature? No, she’s not afraid; she nibbles a tiny leaf, she looks, chews her cud like a goat. Beh, beh, she says, she stamps her little hooves, and trots away. And Juraj was suddenly overwhelmed with joy, he went upward with a light step, thinking of nothing. He just went, and went, feeling at peace with the world. I have seen some deer, he will say to Hafia in the evening—ooh, where ? Well, up there—there are no deer, Hafia, in the plain.
And here it is already—nobody knows what it is really: some kind of a log hut, now in pieces, logs strewn about, but logs. Good Lord, a belfry might be built of them, grown over with Night-shade, and Herb-Paris, with wild lilies, Verasrum, Crane’s-bill, and ferns, truly, a strange spot, as if haunted—here the wood faces north; a dark wood, grown over with moss, the soil is black, and squelchy, yes, it’s haunted
here, they say, and some mushrooms, whitish, translucent, like jelly, wood sorrel, and darkness, always so dark here, not even a squirrel to be heard or a little fly; it’s such a dark wood, young children are frightened to come here, and even a big chap crosses himself. But here already is the edge of the wood, you wade through bilberries up to your knees, and lift the branches, and see how much lichen hangs here, brambles catch you by the legs, eh, man, it’s not so easy to get through the wood to the upland clearing, you must tear your way through the thicket like a boar; and bang! as if you had been shot out of the wood, as if the wood itself shot you out, you stand in the clearing, praise be to Jesus Christ, here we are!
The clearing is wide: spruce-trees here and there, big and mighty like the church, you could take your hat off, and greet them aloud; and the grass, velvety, smooth, very short, you walk on it as if on a carpet; the long and wide clearing between the woods, it stretches far and wide, it has the sky above, it has gathered the woods round its waist: like a man who bares his chest, and lies, lies, and looks up into God’s windows—ah, ahah, that’s breath for him! And Juraj Hordubal felt suddenly as small as a little ant, and he ran over the wide clearing, where to, little ant? Well, there, up to the top; do you see there, those little red ants grazing ? That’s where I’m making for. The clearing is big.
Big, sir: you would say a herd of oxen? Those red dots ? God has it very nice: he looks down, and says to himself: that black dot there is someone called Hordubal, that bright dot there is Polana; I must look and see, will those two dots meet? or shall I push them together with my finger ? And here from the hill something black dashes directly at me; it runs, it rolls down the slope, what are you? Oh, you are a black cur, you’ll bark yourself hoarse, get off, do I look like a robber? Come here, you’re a brave little dog; I’m going to the herdsman up there. Already you can hear the cow-bells. Hajza, the herdsman kept shouting: the oxen with big, quiet eyes gazed at Juraj, they swished their tails, and went on grazing; the herdsman stood motionless, like a juniper-tree, and looked round for the newcomer.
