Three Novels: Hordubal, Meteor, an Ordinary Life

by Karel Čapek

  On behalf of the witnesses I wish to protest against this insinuation, interrupted the public prosecutor.

  It is not in order, said the president of the court. I trust that it will not be repeated.

  The nice-looking little fellow made a polite and sprightly bow. As you please. We have heard the witnesses who have had something to say against Polana Hordubalova. But the court forgot to call one witness for this woman, I should like to call him the crown witness; that is the murdered man, Juraj Hordubal.

  The nice-looking little fellow waved a sheet of paper in the air. Gentlemen of the jury, ten days before his death, Juraj Hordubal, the farmer from Kriva, made his last will and testament. And in it, as if he had a premonition that his voice would be needed, he ordered this to be written (in a high-pitched voice charged with emotion the young counsel read) All my property movable and immovable I bequeath to my wife, Polana, née Durkotova, for her fidelity and conjugal love. Note, gentlemen, if you please—For her fidelity and conjugal love! This is the testament of Juraj Hordubal, this is his testimony. You have heard Misa the herdsman say that Hordubal himself wished to let you know that Polana was a good and faithful wife. I was—I admit—surprised at Misa’s statement; it sounded to me like a voice from the other side of the grave. Here you have a written testimony, the testimony of the only man who really knew Polana. The farm worker, Manya, boasted to his sister that, he said, he had had relations with his mistress. So it appears from the farm worker’s statement, and so (here he struck the paper with his hand) it appears from the statement which her husband made before God. Gentlemen, it is for you to decide which of these two you are to believe.

  The young counsel thoughtfully lowered his head. If by this the charge of adultery against my client falls to the ground, no motive remains for which she should be rid of her husband. You may object that she is in the eighth month of pregnancy; but gentlemen, I can refer you to several medical authorities to show how fallacious the determination of the stage of pregnancy may be. And the bright little fellow rattled off a number of authorities and scientific views. Manya’s experienced counsel shook his head. That ruins his case, the jury don’t like scientific arguments; but that with the will was pretty clever. Just imagine, gentlemen of the jury, that you find Polana Hordubalova guilty, and that the child of Juraj Hordubal, a living testimony of fidelity and conjugal love, is born in prison, branded as the child of an adulterous mother. By everything that is holy I warn you, gentlemen of the jury: do not commit an error of justice against an unborn child.

  The nice-looking fellow sat down and mopped his brow with a perfumed handkerchief. Congratulations, muttered the old warrior of the court into his ear, it wasn’t at all bad. But now the public prosecutor rose for his final speech. His face was flushed, and his hands trembled. If a child, then a child, he ejaculated hoarsely. Counsel for the defence, the child of Juraj Hordubal, Hafia, has given evidence. Her statement you will hardly call—(with his fist on the table)—gossip. At least I hope not (The nice-looking fellow bowed and shrugged his shoulders.) After all, I am grateful to you for producing the last will and testament of Juraj Hordubal. That alone was necessary (the public prosecutor straightened himself up as if he were growing) for us to form a complete picture of the character of this woman, almost diabolic, who—who already had the plan prepared to do to death her dull, good-natured weakling of a husband—and still she thought out the last subtle point of her plot: to compel the poor fellow to leave to her alone, to her alone, everything he possessed—and still give her what amounts to a moral alibi—for her fidelity and conjugal love! And the good man obediently went—so that not one penny should come to little Hafia, but to her, Jezebel, so that she could pay her lover and wallow in sin.—The public prosecutor choked with passionate indignation.—This is no longer a trial, in very truth it is God’s judgment over the sins of the world.—The tense and laboured breathing of the devout people in front of him was clearly audible.—And now a bright light has fallen on the case of Juraj Hordubal. The cold, calculating, cynical will which was able to induce the hand of the illiterate Juraj to make three crosses under this ghastly and incriminating document—the same dreadful will, gentlemen, inspired the hand of Stepan Manya—the murderer. This little village paramour was not only an instrument of adultery—he also became an instrument of murder. This woman is guilty, cried the public prosecutor, making a violent gesture and pointing at her. That testament convicts her—only the devil himself could have thought out that hellish sneer—for her fidelity and conjugal love! Jezebel Hordubalova, do you admit at last that you murdered Juraj Hordubal ?

  Polana raised herself, livid, ungainly with pregnancy, and moved her silent lips.

  Don’t tell them anything, someone said harshly and hastily. I’ll tell them myself. Stepan Manya stood up, his face awry with the mental strain. Hon … Honourable judge, he stammered, and suddenly he was seized with a violent fit of sobbing.

  Rather taken aback the public prosecutor bowed in his direction. Please calm yourself, Stepan. The court will gladly hear what you have to say.

  It—it was—sobbed Stepan—me.—I only wanted revenge—for—for—because he threw me over the fence—and the people laughed at me! I couldn’t even sleep—I had to do something to him—I had—to have my revenge—That’s why I went— —

  Did the mistress open the door for you ? inquired the president.

  No—she didn’t—she didn’t know anything…. I, in the evening—nobody saw me—Hordubal slept in the parlour—and I went to the loft—and hid there—

  In the body of the court Biegl excitedly prodded Gelnaj. But that’s not true, he blustered—he couldn’t get into the loft, the door was held down with maize! I was there the first thing in the morning, Gelnaj! I’m going to tell them—

  Sit still, growled Gelnaj, holding Biegl down. You ass, don’t you dare!

  And at night, stammered Stepan, wiping his nose and eyes, at night I crawled down—into the parlour—Hordubal was asleep—and I killed him with the needle—it didn’t—it didn’t want to go into him—and he didn’t—didn’t move—Stepan staggered, and the attendant handed him a glass of water from the president’s table. Stepan drank gratefully and copiously, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. And then I cut the hole in the window—and took the money—to make it look as if burglars—and—back to the loft—and out by the window. Stepan gasped. And then I knocked at the window—for the mistress—to tell her that I had come for my coat.

  Polana Hordubalova, is that true ?

  Polana rose, her lips were pressed together. No, it’s not, he didn’t knock—

  The mistress doesn’t know anything about it, broke in Stepan. And it’s not true that she had relations with me. Once—ye-es, once I wanted to throw her down on the straw, but she defended herself—and Hafia came. And then nothing, nothing more—

  That’s good, Stepan, said the public prosecutor, bending forward. But I have one question more to ask. Up till now it was not necessary. Polana Hordubalova, is it true that before this Stepan here you had another lover, the farm worker Pavel Drevota ?

  Polana faltered and gasped, raised her hand to her forehead, and the attendant half led her, half carried her out.

  The trial is adjourned, announced the president; on account of the new points revealed by the confession of Stepan Manya, the court will meet to-morrow at the place where the deed was committed.

  Biegl waited in Hordubals’ yard for the noble court to arrive. And then the distinguished gentlemen drove up. Biegl saluted, solemn and erect, the people stood watching in the road behind the fence, gazing into the Hordubals’ yard, as if God knows what might appear—a great day for the policeman.

  Biegl led the noble court to the loft. The loft is just as it was, nobody has set foot in it since the day of the murder. Even then the door was held down with maize; if anybody had tried to push it up the maize would have fallen down here on the steps. And Biegl pushed against the door, the heap gave way, and down fe
ll a stream of maize. If the gentlemen will kindly go up, said Biegl politely. In the loft was all God’s blessing from the plain, heaps of reddish maize, one felt like wading and jumping in it. And this is the little window; so Manya went out this way, he said—

  But this window is latched on the inside, a member of the jury discovered, and looked round importantly. If nobody has been here since the day of the murder Manya could not have got out this way.

  That’s true, he couldn’t; on the window-sill here there are bottles and tins covered with years of dust, these farmers never throw anything away! If Manya had crawled out this way he would have moved this rubbish away first, wouldn’t he ?

  Yes, of course he would have to. And what’s outside, under this window.

  The parlour where Hordubal was killed, and the little garden in front of the house. Will the gentlemen kindly go and look there as well ? The noble court betook itself with dignity to the little garden. One of the lower windows had been taken out: This is where the opening was made in the glass. Just above us is that little window in the loft through which Manya jumped out, so he says. I searched here immediately after the murder, said Biegl modestly, and below the window there was not a single footprint; there was a flower bed, freshly dug, and it had rained just before—

  The president of the court appreciated the point and nodded. It’s obvious that Stepan is lying. But perhaps you ought to have gone and looked in the loft immediately after the murder.

  Biegl brought his heels together. Your honour, I did not want to disturb the maize. But to make certain I nailed down the door so that nobody could get in. I only took them out this morning. I tied a piece of thread on the door—

  Good, good, mumbled the president, now satisfied. You thought of everything, mister, mister—

  Biegl puffed out his chest. The assistant policeman Biegl.

  Another gracious nod. Among us, gentlemen, there is no doubt that Stepan Manya lied. But now we are here perhaps it would interest you to look into the parlour.

  From the table a big, broad-shouldered, heavy farmer stood up; they were just having dinner. This, if you please, is Mechajl Hordubal, the late farmer’s brother; he is managing the farm at present.

  Mechajl Hordubal bowed deeply to the gentlemen. Oxena, Hafia, quick and bring chairs for the gentlemen.

  There’s no need, my man, no need. And why haven’t you had a new window put in here ? It lets the cold in.

  And why buy a new window, I ask you ? The window is at the court, it would be a pity to buy a new one.

  So, hm. And I see you are taking care of Hafia here. She’s a clever girl, look after her well, the orphan. And this—your wife, isn’t she?

  Yes, your honour, Demetr Varivodjuk Ivanov’s daughter, from Magurica.

  And you are expecting a baby, I see.

  Well, if God gives, His name be praised.

  And—do you like it here in Kriva ?

  Well, yes, said Mechajl and waved his hand. If you’ll excuse me, do you think I could get to America to find work, your honour ?

  Like Juraj ?

  Yes, like Juraj, God grant him eternal peace. And farmer Mechajl accompanied the departing gentry to the gate.

  The noble court returned to town. Gee up, little horses, gee up, you bring an important load. And the village looked like Bethlehem, just like Bethlehem.

  The president leaned towards the public prosecutor. It’s not late yet, we could get it through by evening, perhaps there won’t be so many speeches as there were yesterday—

  The public prosecutor blushed faindy. I don’t know myself what came over me yesterday. I spoke as if I were in a trance, as if I were not an official but an avenger—I just wanted to preach and thunder.

  It was as if were we in church, said the president thoughtfully. You knoV those people in the court didn’t even breathe. A strange people. I felt it myself: that we were passing sentence on something graver than crime, that we were judging sin—Praise be to God, to-day the court will be empty; no sensation, it will go smoothly.

  It went smoothly. To the question if Stepan Manya was guilty of the crime of murder committed against Juraj Hordubal, eight of the jury answered yes, and four answered no.

  And to the question if Polana Hordubalova was guilty of being a party to the said murder, all twelve answered yes.

  In accordance with the verdict of the jury the court condemns Stepan Manya to penal servitude for life,

  And Polana Hordubalova, née Durkotova, to penal servitude for the period of twelve years.

  Polana stood lifeless, holding her head high; Stepan Manya sobbed violently.

  Take them away!

  The heart of Juraj Hordubal was lost somewhere, and was never buried.

  METEOR

  CHAPTER I

  THE trees in the hospital garden sway with the gusts of a strong wind. And at each gust they become more and more worked up, the wind makes them desperate, and they jostle like a crowd in a panic; now they stop, and tremble. It did make us rim; hush, can you hear anything? Yes! run, here it comes again.

  A young man in a white coat saunters round the garden, puffing a cigarette. Apparently a young doctor; the wind ruffles his young hair, and his white coat crackles like a flag flapping in the wind. Tear and toss wild wind; don’t the girls like to run their fingers through such a bristly and conceited mane? What a head, ruffled and erect! What a youth! What impudent conceit! Along the path a young nurse runs, the wind moulds her apron round her shapely thighs, with both hands she tidies her hair, looks up to the tall and fluttering figure, and hurriedly tells him something. Well, well, sister, why such glances, and why that hair— —

  The young doctor throws away his cigarette in a fine curve, and with long strides makes straight across the lawn to the ward. Ah, someone is dying, you must go with a professional step that indicates haste, but not excitement. The right thing for a doctor is to go to a call quickly, but quietly and deliberately; so look out, young man, that on the spur of the moment you don’t overhurry yourself going to the bed of a dying man. But you, little sister; you run with the light steps of haste in which charitable and official eagerness finds expression, if we take no notice of the fact that with regard to your personal appearance it is very becoming for you. A girl like a peach, they say; too good for a hospital.

  So, is that so, a man is dying; in the racket of the wind, during the flight of the terrified trees, someone is dying; they’re used to it here, but all the same- Over the white cover a feverish hand wanders. Poor, resdess hand, what do you want to clutch? What would you like to throw away? Is there no one to hold you, well I’m here, don’t be frightened, don’t grope about, there’s no dreadful solitude to frighten you. The young doctor bends down, the tufts of his hair fall over his forehead, he takes that groping hand by the wrist and mumbles: Pulse like a thread, in extremis; fetch the screen, sister.

  But no, we won’t set this long-haired, frivolous fellow by the bed of a dying man, while the organ of the tempest booms, vox celestis, vox angelica, amid the wailing of the human voice. No, no, sister, this isn’t the end, only a fit—let’s say, it’s something wrong with his heart. This deadly sweat, and feverishness, is only anxiety, he thinks he’s suffocating; we’ll inject some morphia, and he’ll go to sleep.

  The poet turned back from the window. “Doctor,” he inquired, “what ward is that one opposite?”

  “The Medical ward,” murmured the surgeon, busy watching the flame of the spirit lamp. “Why?”

  “Well, only—” said the poet, again turning to view the crowns of the trees tossing in the wind. So, after all, that nurse is from the Medical ward, and you needn’t imagine her lips trembling over the gory butchery of the operating table. Here, take it, sister, and cotton-wool! Cotton-wool!—No, it’s not like that; she stands like a log, for she doesn’t know much yet; and she only sees the ruffled mane of that fellow in the white coat. It’s like this really, it’s like this: she’s head over heels in love with him, and she has me
etings with him in his room. What a guy! How touzled and sure of himself, the braggart! Don’t be shy, little girl, nothing will happen; I’m a doctor, and I know all about it.

  The poet grew peevish. Oh, we know that; every fellow has it in him, that frenzy, that agony, when in some desirable woman he recognizes another man’s mistress. Let’s say sexual envy; let’s say jealousy. It may weU be that sexual morality is based on this displeasure felt when other people enjoy something together. The wind shows the nice shape of her thighs: that’s all. And I—fancy all this twaddle at once. I’m too personal.

  Irritable and peevish, the poet looked at the garden tossed by the wind. My God, what empty violence, how depressing the wind is!

  “What?” said the surgeon.