Three Novels: Hordubal, Meteor, an Ordinary Life

by Karel Čapek

  “Well, what is it this time ?” said Hordubal evasively. “You’d better look after your own business!”

  Stepan was almost ashy with rage—strange, he always used to be so yellow. “What are you saying about me, and about Hafia?” he burst out vehemently.

  Hordubal raised his eyebrows. “What am I saying ? That I have betrothed my daughter to the farm-worker.”

  Manya blew himself up with rage. “And why—why you—people laugh at me now, wherever I go. ‘When will the christening be, Stepan?’ they say, and ‘run, Stepan, there’s a gander chasing your bride—’ ”

  Hordubal began to rub his neck. “Let them laugh. They’ll get tired of it.”

  “I’ve got tired, mister,” said Manya, grinding his teeth. “I—don’t want to be a laughing-stock.”

  Hordubal breathed deeply. “And I don’t want to be a laughingstock either. That’s why I betrothed you. So what do you want?”

  “I won’t,” said Manya, grinding his teeth, “I—I shan’t stay here as the bridegroom of a sniffling baby.”

  Hordubal, with his hand still behind his neck, sized him up with his eyes. “Stop, what did you say? That you won’t?”

  Manya nearly cried out with rage. “I shan’t! I don’t want to! Do what you like, but I—”

  “You won t ?”

  “I won’t.”

  Hordubal snorted. “You wait here.”

  Manya swallowed hard, it was a shame for him to be jeered at by the whole village, better run away, or something—

  Hordubal came out from the hut, rapidly tearing some paper in his hands into smaller and smaller pieces. He looked at Manya, and threw the bits in his face. “Well, you’re not betrothed any longer. You can tell your old man that I’ve torn the agreement up.” His arms flew up, he pointed: “And there’s the door, get out!”

  Manya took a deep breath, his eyes were as narrow as caraway seeds. “I shan’t go from here, mister!”

  “You will. And if ever you come again—I’ve got a gun!”

  Stepan grew red. “And what—if I don’t go?”

  With Hordubal’s chest pushing against his Manya retreated. “You look out!” he hissed.

  “You won’t go ?”

  “Not till the mistress says so—no!”

  Hordubal gave a kind of growl, and suddenly—his knee dug into Manya’s belly.

  Manya bent double with pain, and then one hefty hand seized him by the collar and the other by the trousers, they raised him, and over the fence into the nettles.

  “Well,” panted Hordubal, “if you couldn’t go by the gate, so over the fence.” He strolled back, rubbed his neck; there was such an unusual warmth in his neck—

  Somewhere behind a fence a neighbour jeered.

  CHAPTER XX

  POLANA, of course, locked herself in the room, and was as silent as if she were dead.

  In the early morning Hordubal harnessed the three-year-old into the wagon, and the heavy gelding, a badly balanced team: the gelding kept his head down, and the stallion carried his high—a strange pair.

  “Tell your mother, Hafia, that I’m going to the town; I shan’t be back till evening, if God allows.”

  Let the cows moo with hunger, let the horses tap with their hooves, let the sows grunt, and the young pigs squeal; but Polana will stop sulking, they won’t let her, she’s a farmer’s wife after all, she’ll go and look after the animals, can anyone be angry with God’s creatures ?

  The gelding kept his head down, and the stallion carried his high. Stepan also carries his high—he used to work the three-year-old with the little mare—they go well together, he said. Na, na, why do you bite the gelding, you scoundrel ? But Polana will come out when I’m away, she’ll feed the animals, and cheer up. And see, even at this pace we’re getting to the town.

  First to the lawyer, and, if you please, sir, I should like to make my last will and testament: I have a wife, she’s called Polana; it’s right and proper that the wife should inherit what the man leaves.

  “And what have you to leave her, Mr. Hordubal: a farm, money, securities ?”

  Hordubal looked at him suspiciously: Why do you want to know? “Just write: everything that I possess.”

  “Well, let’s write: all my chattels and effects, movable and immovable—”

  Hordubal nodded: now, if you please, it says quite clearly, all the chattels and effects, movable and immovable, for her fidelity, and conjugal love.

  Now sign here, in the name of the Father, and Son, and the Holy Ghost. Hordubal still hung back. “And then, if you please, would it be possible for me to go to America again?”

  “Oh, not at all, Mr. Hordubal; in America they’ve got too many workers now, they don’t want to let any more in—”

  “Hm, so. Perhaps there’s a mill here in the town?”

  “Oh, a factory. There are factories here, but they are closed, they don’t work. Bad times, Mr. Hordubal,” the solicitor sighed, as if he himself carried the burden of bad times.

  Hordubal nodded. What can a man do, men are no longer required. Nobody wants a man like Hordubal; it’s a shame for such able hands. But perhaps they want horses, horses who can carry their heads high.

  Juraj Hordubal inquired for the commandant of the cavalry. There, they said, in the barracks. And what do you want, uncle, are you looking for your son ? No, not my son, but I should like to sell this three-year-old, sir. We don’t buy horses here, said the soldier, but he let his hands run over the horse; he touched its legs and withers. A horse like a deer, uncle.

  And then an officer came, and shook his head. To sell a horse ? A nice animal, and it’s been ridden already ? He’s not had a saddle on yet, you say, only been ridden bare back—by the horseman. And soon about five officers had collected. And well, uncle, can we try the horse ? Why not ? said Hordubal. But he’s very wild, sir. Eh, what, wild; let me have him, boys, a bridle, and a rug, it would be a marvel if it threw Tony.

  Before you could count five, mister officer was sitting on the horse’s back. The stallion bucked a bit; reared, and mister officer was on the ground. He fell nimbly on his backside, he only laughed, and now, boys, catch the horse on the barrack square. The fat mister commandant laughed till he had to hold his sides. “Well, my man, an excellent horse; but keep it at home for a bit, we shall have to write for a permit before we can buy it—”

  Hordubal frowned, and he harnessed the horse into the wagon. “What am I to do, sir ? I shall have to sell it either to a gipsy or to the butcher.”

  The commandant scratched his head. “Listen to me, it’s a pity for the stallion. Do you want to get rid of him in any case?”

  “Yes, get rid of him,” murmured Hordubal. “He doesn’t suit me.”

  “Eh, then leave him here,” mister commandant decided, “and we shall give you a receipt to show that the horse is with us. And then later we shall write and say what we’ll give for it. Will that suit you?”

  “Yes, why not?” said Juraj. “He’s a nice horse, sir, he carries his head high. Eight thousand, they say.”

  “In that case, take him away,” said the commandant quickly.

  “Well, say five,” said Hordubal hesitating. There was another fat military gentleman, he nodded his head a little. “That would do,” the commandant said. “We shall write to you. If you’re not satisfied—you can take the horse away. Will that do ? And now we’ll give you that receipt.”

  Hordubal drove home, in his pocket he had the receipt with a seal, and the bag with his dollars. The gelding trotted on, hanging its head. The stallion was not there any longer. As if Stepan had gone a second time, now that the three-year-old was gone. It would be better to sell the filly as well and the mare with the foal.—Eh, little gelding, I only tickle your back with the reins and off you trot. And why not talk to the horse ? When a man talks, the horse turns his head, and swishes his tail; it’s clear that he understands. Also he nods his head because he’s thinking. A long way yet, my boy, but you go well uphill. Na�
��and don’t begin to shy, it’s only a little stream over the road. Never mind the fly, I’ll drive it away myself. Hi! And in a low voice, and slowly, Juraj began to sing:—

  Oh, Polana, Polana,

  Unlucky Polana,

  Let God be with you,

  Polana, Polana.

  CHAPTER XXI

  HORDUBAL was strange and restless: early in the morning he disappeared, let God look after the farm, and the devil knows what he was up to. The other day as far as Tibava; And you, Geletej, do you want a man for your cows, or in the fields? What, a workman, Hordubal, I’ve got two sons, who is it you’re trying to find a job for, cousin ? And in the Tatin range, the ranger Stoj lives there; Are there any trees to fell, he inquired. Trees, no my boy, thousands of trees lie rotting in the wood. Is that so, then good-bye. And isn’t there a railway being built somewhere, or a road, a quarry being worked ? What are you thinking about, uncle, everybody has forgotten us here; who is there to build for ?

  Well, what am I to do? Sit down somewhere and wait till dusk. Far away the cow-bells are ringing, the herdsman cracks his whip as if he were shooting, somewhere the herdsman’s cur is barking. In the fields—someone is singing. What am I to do ? Sit and listen. How the flies buzz, one close to my face, you can listen, for hours, and it’s never silent, life is always going on; perhaps a beede chirps, or the squirrel is disturbed, and everywhere the peaceful sound of God’s catde mounts to the heavens.

  And in the evening to slouch home. Hafia brings the food—eh, what food, even a dog wouldn’t eat it; but I’m not hungry, anyhow. Of course, Polana has no time to get my supper ready. It’s night already, the people have gone to bed; and Hordubal walked round with a lantern, doing what jobs he could: cleaning out the cowshed, putting manure on the heap, fetching water. He worked quietly, so as not to wake anybody, and he pottered about doing what it’s a man’s job to do. The eleventh hour is striking—every creature praise the L-O-R-D, and Juraj quietly crawled into the cowshed. Well, cows, well, there won’t be quite so much for Polana to do in the morning.

  And again as far as Volovo Polje, looking for work. Hi, Harcar, don’t you want someone to help you ? What you, have you gone mad, or have they let you out of clink ? Looking for work now, after the harvest? And what have you got to talk about? thought Hordubal, I’ve got enough money in my bag to buy half of your farm; you needn’t puff yourself up so much. Slowly Hordubal tramped home, and what to do at home? Oh, only to cross those hills, there’s nothing to do in this strange country.

  Juraj sat by the edge of the wood above Varvarin’s field. There too he could hear the cow-bells, they may have been from the Lehoty district. What’s that Misa doing up there on the clearing ? Below was a brook, and by the brook—a young woman was standing. Juraj screwed his eyes up to see her better. Doesn’t she look like Polana ? Ah, no, not that, how could Polana be here ? From this distance any woman would look like Polana. And from the wood a dark fellow came running. That’s not Manya, thought Juraj, how could Stepan come from this side ? The dark man reached the young woman and stopped, he stood, and talked. How can they have so much to say ? wondered Hordubal. Some girl maybe, and her sweetheart—a stranger from Lehoty, or from Volovo Polje; they meet on the sly, so that the boys at home don’t give him a hiding. And those two below stand and talk; well, talk, I’m not looking. The sun is over Mencul, won’t it be night soon ? And those two stand there below, and talk. And what can I try yet ?—perhaps in the salt mines they might have work for a miner. It’s true, the mines are a long way away; but who will mind how far I have to go. Those two stand below and talk. It will be useless to ask in the mines—

  No, they’re not talking, but there’s only one there now, who seems to be rocking about. But no, there are two of them, and they rock about, as if they were fighting. And it’s because they’re holding each other so tightly that they look as if there were only one staggering there. Hordubal’s heart missed a beat. I’ll run down there. No, I’ll run home, and see if Polana’s there. Surely she’s at home, where else could she be? Lord, these legs—like lead. Hordubal got up and hastened along the wood, he ran along the footpath, he dashed to the village. Ough, Tve got a pricking feeling in my side, as if someone had stuck one of those bodkins into me. Already he was out of breath, and he ran! ran with all his might. Glory be to God,here already is the village! Juraj went at a quick pace. Why does it prick so in my side ? God, if I only get there, only a but further now, there’s the gate, I must press with all my might on my ribs so that it doesn’t prick so much, %ud run up to the gate—

  Hot and sweating Hordubal leaned against the gate-post, he felt dizzy, he gasped for breath as if he were sobbing. The yard—empty; perhaps Polana is in the room, or somewhere. Suddenly Juraj became deadly indifferent as to where she was, he couldn’t get as far as the room, he couldn’t get his voice to speak, he breathed in gasps, and he had a job to hold himself up or his legs would have given way beneath him.

  The little gate opened, and Polana slipped into the yard, breathless and flushed; she was taken aback when she caught sight of Juraj; she stopped, and said, rather too hastily: “I’ve only been to see a neighbour, Juraj; at—Herpakova, to look at her baby.”

  Juraj pulled himself up to his full height, and raised his eyebrows. “I didn’t ask, Polana.”

  CHAPTER XXII

  AND he would have liked to go behind the barn as usual, but he couldn’t, the pain stabbed him to the heart. He tried to pretend that he had taken a fancy to the spot: to sit there, on the kerbstone at the gate, and look at the yard. Polana—all of a sudden she was bustling with work; she fed the hens, she swept the doorstep, everywhere something—”Herpakova has got a little girl,” she communicated glibly. Eh, Polana, what makes you so keen on talking now ?

  “Mm,” murmured Juraj casually.

  Dusk fell; Polana opened the gate so that the cows could come from the pasture. “You, Juraj,” she began tentatively, “you said that you would buy some more cows—”

  “There’s no need,” mumbled Hordubal.

  Nodding their heads the cows went into the shed, bim bam, bim bam. Juraj rose, God be praised, I can manage already. “Good night, Polana,” he said.

  “What—you won’t have any supper ?”

  “No.”

  Polana stood in his way. “Juraj, I shall make you a bed in the parlour. What will people say if you, the farmer, sleep with the cows!

  “Never mind,” said Juraj, “They’ll say many things yet.”

  Polana watched him darkly as he went into the shed. What an old back Juraj has!

  Juraj lay down in the straw. He could not feel the pricking in his side any longer, but his heart felt heavy, oppressive. The farm was falling into silence somehow. Hafia prattled uneasily in a subdued voice, as if someone had shouted to her, be quiet, don’t shout so loud! As if someone were very ill.

  And silence, the farm was asleep. Sighing deeply Hordubal groped his way out of the straw, he lit the lantern, and went to have a look round, to see if there was any job to do. And again it pricked, blast it. The stable ought to be cleaned out, and the horses given fresh bedding, but Juraj only meditated, I should like to, I should; why is it that somehow I don’t care to-day? He looked at the hens in the loft, the pig-sty, the barn, he climbed the ladder to the hay loft. What if the hay gets hot ? Ah, my side hurts. He walked round the yard, and he even went into the orchard. What there? Eh, well, only perhaps there might be somebody. Who could it be there ? Well, no one, but you never know. And what about the loft—Polana doesn’t sleep there any more, there’s maize there: Polana has moved into the room. Hordubal held his breath to keep from groaning, and he climbed up to the loft; he tried to open the door, but he couldn’t, he only heard some trickling noise when he shook it. Oh, that’s the heap of maize which has slipped down and blocked the door. There’s nobody there either. And who could be there? What a silly!

  Hordubal stood in the yard like a black pillar, and uneasily scratched his neck. And a
fter all, what am I doing, he wondered, what am I chasing round here for ? Manya has lived here for so many years; well, I didn’t watch, I didn’t run round the yard with a lantern; why do it now? Somehow he felt dull and indifferent. If I were lying in the shed, and heard some steps—should I get up? No, I shouldn’t. Should I shout: Who’s there? I shouldn’t. I should only hold my breath. Ah, Lord, have I to watch grown-up people ? Well, I did once, it’s true, and I made as if I had some job to do in the dark. After all, can you watch and keep somebody’s heart? Stupid, you are stupid! Well, what—let Manya come back—what does it matter ? It’s all the same, everything is all the same. Nothing hurts now. When the house is burnt down the roof doesn’t leak. At Herpaks’ the child began to cry. So you see, perhaps it is true that Polana went to have a look at the baby. Why not ? women—like mad with children. That must be Herpakova feeding hei child. Do you remember, Polana, how you fed Hafia ? Only just moved your shoulder, and your breast slipped into your bodice—it’s eleven years ago now. And you—to America—you silly, silly—

  Hordubal blinked at the stars. Lord, how many they are—how many more have come through since then! In those days there weren’t so many that you almost felt frightened of them. It’s all the same. As if everything was slipping away from you, one thing after another. America was, coming home was. Geric was, Fedeles, Manya—how much it was; and now there’s nothing left. All the same. Well, praise be to God, it makes it easier for a man.

  Tu-tu-tu the night watchman chanted in the distance—and so many stars that you shivered.

  Good night, good night, Polana, good night!

  CHAPTER XXIII